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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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FROM a cloudless sky, in colour like a sheet of "blued" steel, the sun beat down, blistering everything above ground that its fierce rays could reach.
It was reflected back from the iron roofs of the engine-house, the pumping-shed, and the offices near by, in a dazzle of quivering light unendurable to the eye.
The thin, dry air palpitated with heat, and the earth to the foot felt like the roof of a lime-kiln.
For the Estrella copper-mine is in Spain — Southern Spain, and there the sun, even in quite early summer, has a power that is almost tropical.
The workers above ground — Spaniards though they were, and to the manner. born—sweated and groaned under it, envying their fellows at work in the cool depths of the mine below.
There were risks below, no doubt. A blast that fired a trifle too soon, a fall of rock that gave neither grace nor warning, a sudden inrush of water—there were these things, no doubt, but there was not the heat, this accursed heat!
They were Spaniards, and it being noon—the hour of siesta—the thought of shady corners behind the buildings, of closed lids and relaxed limbs, would come. But it had to be driven away because of the overseer, the English overseer.
"Caramba! What a brute is this big pig of an English overseer!
"It is little Spanish he knows, but he can swear in that language, and he knows every word of abuse it contains, with many more in English, which they cannot understand and therefore feel most.
And then his fist!—he is so ready with his fist, this great ruffian of an Englishman!
It is a word and a blow—often no word at all!
And so they kept at work, breathing in puffs maledictions on the heat—and the English overseer.
But there was one, new to the mine and to the man, who forgot the English overseer and remembered only the heat. This was a boy—a slim and rather undersized boy— who had charge of a truck drawn by a mule, which his business was to conduct along a narrow track of rails to the chute at the edge of the cliff, where the waste ballast from the mine was dumped into the sea below.
Returning with an empty truck, he halted the mule as he reached the only bit of shade on the journey—that cast by the back of the pumping-shed.
The mule was nothing loath, and instantly fell to cropping the scanty wire-grass which grew between the rails. The boy mopped his brow with the sleeve of his ragged shirt, and breathed an exhausted sigh. He looked around; there was no one in sight. He dropped down upon, the soft, bluish-grey dust, and in half a minute was sleeping soundly.
He was still sleeping when, ten minutes later, that very overseer came along.
Jan Cullet—a Cornishman above the average in height and bulk even for that county of big men—was not alone. Danson, who acted as foreman under him, walked at his side. Cullet looked the bully that he was, his bearded face being coarse and brutal in expression.
Danson was a bully and tyrant, too, but in a smaller way. There was much of the sneak in his composition, and little, if any, of the other's brute courage.
These two were the only Britishers employed at the Estrella. The two brothers—themselves Englishmen—who rented the mine and managed it had brought them from England on account of their technical skill.
This skill they certainly possessed; but beyond that there was little to recommend them. Outside of their craft they were ignorant and brutal—Britishers, it is true, but of the worst type. To them all foreigners were scum—mere dogs; and to be treated as such—especially Spaniards, The pair, who had much in common—Danson acting as toady and jackal to his bigger mate—were talking together as they came along beside the track of rails.
Cullet first sighted the stationary mule and truck, and the boy lying near—asleep!
Asleep! He could hardly believe his eyes. He stopped, pointing to the boy. An oath broke from his lips.
"Look at him!" he exclaimed. "Asleep! Asleep, as if it was night, and him at home in bed. And the truck standin' idle! But I'll wake him. Oh, yes; I'll wake him! Gently, oh yes!"
Danson grinned. He knew what "gently" meant. But it was only a Spanish boy.
The overseer took a little run, a flying kick. His heavy, iron-shod boot fairly lifted the slight lad from the ground. He uttered a piercing scream of pain, and staggered to his feet. The cry brought the engineer—a Spaniard—to the door of the pump-shed. A gang of men—all Spaniards—at work clearing away a bank not far off, stopped pick and shovel to turn and look.
"Sleepin', were you?" growled Cullet. "Now I'm goin' to learn you what it is to sleep in working hours! Hold him, Danson!! I'm goin' to lick the sleep out of him for one day, anyhow!"
Danson glanced round nervously.
"The men are looking on," he said.
"All the better," said Cullet. "It'll learn 'em a lesson, too! Hold the cub, I tell yer!"
Danson was afraid of the demeanour of the Spaniards, who had left their work, and were drawing nearer, not without their picks and shovels. But he was still more afraid of Jan Cullet.
He advanced towards the boy, who, lamed by the kick, was unable to run away, but backed, limping painfully, against the side of the truck.
"Turn him round, and hold him tight!" ordered Cullet, taking off his heavy belt. "That's it—so!"
As Danson held the wretched victim firmly against the side of the truck, he brought the belt down, buckle-end, upon-the lad's thinly clad back in a merciless blow. Another and another quickly followed, each drawing a shrill scream of pain.
"That'll do—that'll do, Cullet!" whispered Danson. "Look at the men!"
For they had drawn still nearer, and were gripping pick or shovel with angry glances and fierce mutterings. But Cullet did not even look round.
"Curse the men!' he growled. "I've hardly begun yet!" And he delivered another cruel blow.
The Spanish engineer stepped up and laid his hand on Cullet's shoulder.
"Stop that, señor!" he said. "It is cruel! We will not have it!"
Cullet's response was to swing round and drive his fist in the man's face, felling him to the earth. Then he turned again, and rained a shower of blows upon the wretched boy.
A chorus of fierce outcries from the group of Spaniards. Many a hand flew to hip for the familiar knife. But the carrying of knives was prohibited in the Estrella mine. Still, each had pick or shovel, and with these homely but sufficient weapons they prepared to make a rush.
There were ten or twelve of them at the least, and Cullet, even armed with the heavy locking bar which he snatched from the side of the truck, and with Danson's doubtful support, would have fared badly but for an intervention which was timely or otherwise, as the reader may choose to view it. For it certainly saved the ruffian's life.
A thud of hoofs upon the dusty earth, and a loud, authoritative voice called upon the men, in their own tongue, to keep back.
They obeyed instinctively.
A horseman dashed up, reined in, and dismounted between Cullet and the men. It was David Stretton, the elder of the two brothers who owned the mine, a man rather past middle age, but still active and vigorous, with a "dour," determined look about him, proclaiming a masterful spirit and the habit of command.
"What is this, an outbreak—mutiny?" he demanded of the overseer.
"Something like it, Mr. David," answered Cullet, slipping the belt into his pocket, and concealing with his bulky frame the boy, who had fainted, and fallen to the ground. "But I'd 'a' settled it in another minute, trust me! I'm equal to a score of these rats!"
The Spaniards began to speak excitedly and all at once. But the engineer, now upon his feet again, silenced them by a motion of his hand. Then, with much energy of language and gesture, told the whole story, pointing behind Cullet.
"Stand aside!" ordered David Stretton, approaching, and pushing the overseer away.
An exclamation of amazement and horror broke from his lips when he saw the helpless victim of Cullet's brutality. The boy looked indeed a pitiable sight!
He lay face downwards, and the poor, threadbare shirt hung in ribbons from his back, showing the livid weals upon the flesh beneath.
Gently Stretton turned the lad over, and saw, with relief, that he had only swooned. For the moment he had feared him to be dead. Then he rose up, his face set and stern. He spoke to the men in Spanish.
"Two of you carry him into yonder shed—carefully, mind! Give him water; pour it between his lips. Bathe his back—very gently, and his head and face. If he does not recover speedily the surgeon must be fetched. The rest of you return to your work."
The men obeyed, moving off at once—all but the engineer and another, who between them lifted the lad, and carried him into the shed adjoining the pump-house, where there was a rude bed prepared for those accidents which are of frequent occurrence in a mine.
When all were gone David Stretton swung round upon the overseer, his grey eyes ablaze with wrath.
"Cullet," he said, "you are an unspeakable brute! Had those men slain you-and they were near it, as I saw—you would have richly deserved your fate!"
"It was only discipline," growled Cullet—"keeping up discipline, which is my dooty. I found that young skulker asleep—asleep in workin' hours!"
"Which offence should have been reported to me, or to my brother, and met with a small fine," said Stretton. "Instead of which, you take the law into your own hands and nearly murder the poor lad! And you an Englishman!"
Cullet's answer was given with an insolent laugh:
"It's the only way with these furrin vermin! Talk nor fines ain't no good with them, specially when they're gettin' out of hand like they are lately, through seein' your brother more'n three parts drunk most nights, down the town yonder. And him—an Englishman and a gent—goin' arter one of their own half-gipsy wenches! That's all agen discipline, I say!"
A flush, followed by a spasm, as of pain, swept over the face of David Stretton. The ruffian had struck cunningly at his very heart. But a tidal-wave of anger drowned all other emotions within him. Even Jan Cullet shrank back a little, as he strode one step towards him and exclaimed, in a voice of thunder:
"Another word against my brother, you insolent scoundrel, and I will hide you with my whipstock!"
"That's a game two can play at," growled Cullet, under his breath. But he backed a little farther, nevertheless. And Danson—longing to go, but afraid to attract attention by moving—turned decidedly pale.
"But enough of this!" said Stretton. "I have warned you, Cullet, again and again, that I would not permit your brutality to the men and boys. It must lead to murder in time, and I will have no more of it. You are discharged! And you, too, Danson. For, instead of saving the poor boy, you actually abetted this ruffian in his infamous cruelty."
Danson began to mutter some sort of protest, but David Stretton cut it short by saying:
"You are both discharged, from this moment! Leave the mine within an hour, or I will order the men to drive you out of it—and assist myself!"
"All very well, Mister David Stretton," said Cullet insolently; "but there's the contrac'. A month's notice or a month's pay—it's down in writin' for me and Danson. If we're to go, we want our month's pay. And we mean to have it."
Danson, plucking up courage, murmured his support.
"You have broken the contract by breaking the law," said Stretton—"my law, which forbade any violence in the treatment of the men, and the law of this land. For here, as in every civilised country, a brutal assault, such as you have just committed is a crime. You were paid last Saturday; this is Monday afternoon. I will allow you half a day's" pay, but not a penny more. Take it, and quit the place!"
He drew out his purse, selected certain coins, and flung them upon the ground. Then, leading his horse, he walked towards the shed to which the boy had been taken.
Cullet shook his clenched hand after him.
"All very fine, Mister David Stretton!" he growled out of his big, dark beard. "But we means to have that month's pay—eh, Danson, eh?"
And he turned such a look upon his mate and toady that the latter shifted his own gaze uneasily. It was such an evil look—so full of dark meaning.
"Shall we go?" asked Danson timidly.
"Oh, yes, we'll go!" was the answer. "But we won't go fur—and maybe we'll come back—eh?"
And again that sinister grin.
ALL day long the heat, the glare, and the noise of labour; but at nightfall a magical change. At sunset work ceased—there was no night-shift at the Estrella mine. The men came up from below, and, with those who worked above ground, trailed off, like an army of ants on the march, up the long road—ankle-deep in dust—to the town over behind the hills.
Then darkness and quiet, and usually peace, settled down upon the place.
That evening the men took with them the unfortunate boy; much recovered, but destined to bear for many a day the marks of Jan Cullet's brutality.
The darkness on that memorable night—for it became memorable—was deep and peculiar; a soft, velvety blackness that seemed to have the effect of deadening sound, as fog will do. Yet there was no fog, nor even the slightest mist. The night was perfectly clear, but dark, intensely dark. The shapes of things were lost. The cluster of buildings at the mine-head blended into the hill at whose foot they stood, and the whole became one mass of vague, black shadow.
There was no moon that night, but a few stars hung, like lamps against a violet curtain, in the sky above; and below, a light in the engine-house, and another gleaming from the window of the office at some distance from it, looked like the reflections of these in an invisible pool.
In the engine-house there was the watchman, who came on duty when the engineer left in the evening. It was his business to see that the banked fires under the boilers did not fall too low—an easy job, that left him ample leisure for sleep or meditation. Mostly he slept.
In the office David Stretton was at work upon the books. This labour—done chiefly in the evening hours when the place was quiet—was supposed to be shared with his brother and fellow-partner. But Warwick Stretton was somewhat irregular in this, as in many other matters, and his evenings were more often spent elsewhere, and in different fashion.
Tonight it had grown late, and he had not appeared. David ceased to expect him. Therefore, he was rather surprised when the door opened—after some noisy fumbling with the latch—and his brother entered.
"So there you are, at it already, old mole!" was Warwick's opening remark.
His voice was thick and his face flushed. Moreover, he brought with him the odour of rank native brandy.
David turned and glanced at him, frowning. He had seen these signs before—often of late.
With the light of the lamp full upon them the contrast between these two brothers was very apparent.
David, the senior by five years only, already looked old—he took life as a stern fight, not a game. Warwick looked still quite a young man, a handsome young man, too. But his face was a smooth, weak face. That of David was rugged, but strong.
"At it already!' repeated Warwick. And he laughed, a stupid laugh.
"Already! I have been at work nearly three hours," said his brother caustically. "While you were drinking up in the town, toasting your peasant-girl sweetheart, perhaps."
A deeper flush flew to Warwick's face.
"Ha! Who told you of that?" he asked, in a startled tone.
"It seems to be common gossip," said the elder. "At all events, I had it—that and your drinking—flung at me as a taunt by one of our own workmen this very afternoon!"
"Who, who?"
"Cullet."
"Cullet! Big as he is, I will thrash him like a dog for his insolence!" cried Warwick, sobered by anger.
"You will have no opportunity, for I discharged him this afternoon, and Danson as well, for an act of gross brutality," said David. "Both have been gone from the mine some hours."
"A good thing—in Cullet's case—for I might have killed him!" cried Warwick noisily and boastfully. "The insolent blackguard! He had no right to speak of my private affairs!"
"No; but I have—as your brother," said David sternly. "Warwick, have you thought of this? You, an English gentleman—for such you are by birth—pursuing a low amour with a Spanish peasant-girl! No good can come of it. You cannot marry her!"
"You're wrong; you're wrong!" Warwick declared; bringing his fist down upon the desk. "I not only could, but I did!"
"Married her?"
"Ay! And as square and sound a marriage as I could make it! First in her own Church, and according to her own faith—for my Anita is a Catholic; then I had it gone through again before the British Consul. There's his certificate, with his signature. All square and sound, eh?"
Flushed with a wild sort of exultation, Warwick took out of a pocket-wallet a slip of paper, which he flung down upon the desk before his brother. David barely glanced at it, flicking it to the back of the desk.
He was angry.
"Married!" he said bitterly. "And yet giving way to drink—playing the part of a fool! Look you, Warwick—you know why I am here! I am married, too. I have a wife and child. I live to toil for them! I sunk every penny of my capital in this mine, and to get the most out of it by personal supervision, I exiled myself to this place—for their sake!"
Warwick made a gesture of impatience; but his brother went on:
"I brought you with me because I thought that a brother would back my efforts better than a stranger. I made you my manager, and gave you substantial shares in the concern, so that, apart from brotherly love, you might have a strong incentive to work, and work hard."
"And I have, I have!" protested Warwick.
"At first you did, I admit," said David. "But not lately. Of late you have been no help—rather otherwise. And you forget-that the mine is not yet ours. One year's payment of the purchase-money in arrears, and the vendors can foreclose; and all that we have paid so far would be lost to the last shilling."
"I know all that!" exclaimed Warwick, with the testy impatience of a half-drunken man. "What's all this to do with me and my Anita?"
David looked at him very sternly, as he said:
"Everything! If we lose this mine we lose all—or you do, at least, for I have some savings, and my dear ones would not actually come to want. But you have probably not saved a farthing. Your habits are not of the saving kind."
"You're wrong again," chuckled the other, with a grin of half-tipsy cunning and exultation.
"Bah! Old wiseacre and saint, do you think me altogether a fool and a sinner?" he exclaimed, speaking with some heat, but in a tone more rational than before.
"Do you imagine that I cannot love my wife as dearly as you your own, because she is but a peasant-girl? I can, and I do, for Anita is worthy of the love of any man, whatever his nation and however high his place. And with all this fine talk about providing for your loved ones in the event of your death, aren't you a bit of a Pharisee to take it for granted that I should forget my duty in that way? I have so provided to the best of my power. My wife would not come to want were I to die tonight."
"Glad to hear it," said David coldly and rather doubtfully. "But I rather wonder how you managed it."
"Ah, you think me a fool! But I'll tell you how, and then perhaps you'll think better of my head for business," said Warwick, with a return to his former somewhat boastful manner.
"Those shares you spoke of—they were mine, weren't they? Well, I wrote to our brother, Carnaby—steady old file like yourself is our brother Carnaby! I instructed him to sell those shares." David gave a start of surprise and anger. But the other did not heed-it, and went on. "They fetched a good price, for the Estrella stands well, it seems, in the London market. I told him to invest the proceeds, with the savings I sent him—for I, too, had some savings, ha, ha!—in the best manner he could. He sunk it all in London house property—good, solid investments! I instructed him to draw up my will—lucky we have a lawyer for a brother—in which I leave everything, in the event of my death, to my wife, then to any child or children of ours that may survive us. Carnaby keeps that will, but Anita has an attested copy in Spanish, for, as yet, she knows hardly a word of English. And I wished her to be able to read for herself all that I had done for her. And it's good, David? Confess that much."
But the elder brother did not respond. He was frowning heavily, his face averted.
"If you doubt my word," added Warwick, in a tone of triumph, "here is Carnaby's letter, describing how he has carried out all my instructions. Look at it yourself!"
From the same pocket-book he took out a folded letter, opened it, and laid it before his brother with a flourish. But David flicked it away angrily. And if was in anger that he spoke.
"And so you have sold out your shares?"
"They were my own."
"Shaking the credit of the Estrella at a most critical time! Warwick, I thought you only a fool, but in this you have acted like a selfish villain!"
"A villain! That's a bitter word, David!" cried the other fiercely. "Had I not a right to do as I liked with my own?"
"No!" thundered David as fiercely. "The shares were only nominally yours. You held them in trust for me, and by their sale at this day you have ruined me. I repeat, it was less the act of a fool than of a scheming rogue, for you must have known the consequences well!"
"I never thought of any such consequences, nor do I believe in them now!" retorted the younger, with flashing eyes.
"Bah!"
"Villain! Rogue! David, you shall take back those words, or—"
Warwick leant towards his brother, raising a clenched hand, his face distorted with anger, for which the drink he had taken was partly responsible.
But David's slower blood had risen, too, and his temper blazed fierce and fiery. That threat was the spark to the train. His raised his own clenched fist, and struck his brother in the breast. It was a blow of some weight. Warwick staggered back against the wall.
He recovered his balance without falling, and with a hoarse cry of rage flew at his brother's throat. The other was ready and met him, flinging him once more heavily against the wall.
Warwick fell this time, striking his head. But he sprang up again almost instantly—a madman now, with drink and fury and the pain of the blow.
"I'll kill you! By all the powers I'll kill you!" he shouted.
He had snatched from the floor a pick-handle—a sample which chanced to be lying there—and with this uplifted rushed at his brother again.
"Señors! Señors!"
The horrified exclamation came from the doorway, where the night-watchman stood, staring aghast. Warwick lowered the arm with the pick-handle, and laughed, an awkward, gasping laugh. David turned quickly, and said:
"What is it, Juan?"
"I thought I heard angry cries from here, señor. I feared there was evil going, that you were attacked by thieves, perhaps!" the old Spaniard faltered. His eyes were wide and staring, chiefly at Warwick, who let the pick-handle fall to the floor, and turned away, as carelessly as he could manage the action.
"No, no!" said David, making an effort to smile as he spoke. "It is nothing, Juan—nothing. Señor Warwick was relating a tale, an adventure, and acting it. That is all."
"It is well. Pardon, señor!"
The old man spread his hands, and bowed, and went away as if completely satisfied. But he shook his head, and muttered as he went.
He had heard, he had seen—and he remembered!
THESE two brothers loved each other well enough. And when the old watchman had gone each slowly turned his eyes upon the other's face, in a look out of which all the bale-fire of rage and menace had died away.
Being of English blood they did not embrace and mingle tears. They did not even speak one word of sorrow or remorse. But deep in the heart of each was a silent prayer of thankfulness for that old man's timely coming.
"I'll take the account-book to my den, and get on with it," said Warwick, after a gulp to clear a lump from his throat.
"All right," said David, his own voice being rather husky.
Warwick took the book from the rack at the back of the desk, and, passing out of the office by another door, made his way through a covered passage to a second room, distant from the first by perhaps a hundred yards.
Entering, he closed the door.
This was his own "den," and contained, besides the plain office furniture; a sort of rude couch, with a rug or two as cover. For he sometimes slept here when, having a fit of remorseful industry, he stayed far into the night to pull up arrears of neglected work, and did not care to face a late ride or tramp over the lonely hill road to the town where he and his brother lodged.
Left to himself, David Stretton; although much agitated by the recent scene, turned to his work again, drowning his regret and sorrow in the depths of calculation.
Not so Warwick. Less master of himself, the late quarrel had shaken him, body, soul, and brain. He felt the horror of it. How he had stood upon the brink of— Ah, Heaven, he could not frame the awful word even in thought! He threw the account-book upon the desk. But he did not open it. He could not work.
His brain was chaos. He was distraught, unnerved. And he flew to a fatal remedy.
From a locked cupboard—he kept it locked from very shame—he drew out a wicker-covered bottle of fiery Spanish brandy. He took a long, deep draught, a reckless draught. The potent fumes flew instantly to his head, making confusion worse confounded. The rest followed rapidly.
He drank and drank again, until the flask was empty, and he threw it aside.
By this time—and it all took but a few minutes—he had just enough wit and power of limb remaining to stagger to the rough couch, and drop down upon it.
He fell asleep instantly, and for a time his sleep was mere oblivion. Then into his vapour-oppressed brain came fearful dreams, visions of horror, that contorted his face with ghastly spasms, brought the sweat to his brow, and made his crooked fingers close convulsively upon the empty air.
Dreams—oh, frightful dreams!
And whilst he dreamed them a thing was passing in his brother's office, not a hundred yards away, more frightful than any dream, because it was real, and could never be undone by any awakening in this world!
A FEW minutes before Warwick Stretton arrived at the mine that night, and went to his brother's office, two men, who had been lurking in the wooded fells on the hill behind since sunset, made their way down by a goat-track, and approached the mine-head also, and that very office.
These were the two discharged men—Cullet and Danson.
Jan Cullet, who led, walked with caution, yet without any sign of irresolution. But Danson came on with a dragging, timid step. It was evident that only fear of his masterful companion kept him to the enterprise at all.
They almost blundered into Warwick, their arrival being so nearly at the same moment. But Cullet saw young Stretton in time, and drew Danson into the shadow of a pile of pit-props near by.
"It's young Warwick!" hissed the ex-overseer. "Hang him! He's half drunk. See how he stumbles in his walk. Why couldn't he have finished it, and stayed away altogether? Why must he turn up tonight?"
"Let's give it up for tonight," whispered Danson, seizing eagerly the excuse. "There might be a fight, and—and—"
"Stow that sort of talk, unless you want to taste the rough side of my tongue, mate!' growled the other. "I'm not the sort of man that gives a thing up when he's set his head to it! Wait, you fool! Our chance will come presently, or we'll make one!"
"Hark! Sounds as if they were 'aving a row, them two!" whispered Danson, a few minutes later.
"Sounds like it," agreed Cullet. "If so, Warwick won't stay long, and then we'll get our look-in. Come and let's hear what's going on, if we can. There may be a bit of luck in this for us."
The pair crept out, and went to the back of the office. The place, little more than a shanty, was built of pine-slabs, in which the fierce sun had made more than one fissure, convenient for hearing, and, as there was a light inside, for seeing, too.
The two rogues outside each found such a spyhole, and could both see and hear much of what passed within.
They heard the quarrel, at least, for the brothers' voices were then raised much above the normal pitch. They saw the struggle, saw Warwick flung down, saw him spring up again with the pick-handle in his hand. They saw it uplifted, and heard the mad threat, "I will kill you—I will kill you!"
Danson shrank from his spyhole then, and shut his eyes, dreading to see bloodshed. He might have cried aloud, and then run away altogether, but Cullet gripped him, and bade him, with an oath, keep still and make no sound.
When they looked again the old watchman had entered, and the threatened blow was not struck.
Cullet cursed the old Spaniard. He seemed to think his coming most inopportune. From the man who had killed his brother what couldn't they have demanded as the price of silence?
But the chance was gone. They saw the watchman go away, and then witnessed that silent reconciliation between the two Strettons. After that Warwick went away with the book, going, as they guessed, to his own office.
"Let's be off! Give it up for tonight!" said Danson. "We can't bully old David out of the brass with his brother working so near and that watchman so handy. A shout would fetch both. Let's give it up!"
"Blow me for a fool if I do!" vociferated the hardier villain. "It's tonight or never. We can't hang about this place another day. And we've got our chance still. Warwick won't work. He will drink after this. I know the man, and I know he keeps booze in his office. He will swill to steady his nerves. Then he'll sleep, and once off he might a be a post driven into the ground for any help he'd be to his brother. But we'll go and have a look at him to make sure."
There was no difficulty about that. Warwick's office, built like the other of timber, offered similar facilities for a peep within. There was a lamp burning here also, and they were able easily to watch young Stretton's degraded method of "soothing" his shattered nerves. They saw the whole of it, and when he had fallen upon the couch, inert and senseless, Cullet chuckled. His forecast was so complete!
"All right now!' he said, with a low, hoarse laugh. "A bag of rail-spikes could as soon stir at a shout as him! Now's our time!"
"But the watchman?" faltered Danson.
"Hang him?' responded Cullet. "He is farther off, and most likely asleep himself by now. At any rate, he's an old man!" he added grimly.
BUT by way of precaution Cullet made his unwilling ally come with him to the engine-house—he did not trust Danson out of arm's length for an instant.
A glance through the grimy little window proved that he was right again.
The old Spaniard had closed the door—the night air, by contrast with the burning day, was sharp and nipping—and was now lying upon a pile of sacks before the open furnace, obviously sound asleep.
"Good! The luck's all our way!" muttered Cullet. "Now, come on. The sooner it's over and we're away the better!"
They stole to the door of David Stretton's office, the ex-overseer's powerful arm being a wonderful aid to Danson's leaden limbs.
"Hadn't you better go in alone while I keep watch outside?" whispered the latter.
"No," responded Cullet, in a tone which closed further discussion of the point. "If we both go into the mud the other can't say 'Look at my clean clothes,' can he? No; we're in this together—all through!"
In harmony with these views he made Danson open the office door and gently urged him in, entering at his back and carefully closing the door again.
David Stretton looked up from his columns of figures. He started, seeing these two.
"Why have you come back? For what have you come here at this hour?" he demanded, rising from his stool with the instinct already upon him that their visit meant mischief.
But he was a brave man. His face grew set and determined; it showed never a trace of fear.
"We've come for our money," said Cullet—Danson never spoke once throughout it all. "A month's pay or a month's notice was in the contract. We want the month's pay, and we mean havin' it, too!"
It was a threat. But it did not frighten David Stretton out of his resolution and firmness.
"I will not pay you a penny,' he said. "You forfeited your rights under the contract by your brutal crime to-day, for which you should properly be now in gaol. If you doubt it, apply to the law, and I will bring that wretched boy into court. His wounds will serve me better than a host of witnesses. And you would then get a taste of Spanish justice—which is somewhat stern with such brutes as you!"
Jan Cullet's forbidding face grew black with rage.
"Stow that sort of jaw, Stretton!' he fiercely growled. "I'm not the sort to trouble a law-court when I'm arter my rights. I've got a shorter and surer way. We're man to man—or, rather, we're two men to one. And you've got no help within hail but a brother dead drunk and asleep, and a watchman so old that I could lay him out with a back swipe of my hand. But we don't want to come to blows. Pay up, man, and don't be a fool!"
David measured his chances mentally.
With a bitter pang he felt that what the villain said was probably true; he could look for no help from his brother. A shout might bring the old watchman, but bring him to meet his death. No; he was alone with these two. But the thought could not shake his dogged courage, or cause his resolution to waver in the least.
"I never in my life yielded to a threat, nor will I now," he said. "Get you gone!"
"Not without our money!" growled Cullet. And he crept in nearer by a quick, stealthy movement.
Danson did not move. But he turned very white.
Not an inch did David Stretton retreat from where he stood. But he caught up a weighty ebony ruler from the back of the desk. It was some sort of weapon at least, and without one he stood no sort of chance against the burly Jan Cullet—he gave no thought to Danson.
"Put that thing down!" growled Cullet.
"Keep back!" cried Stretton, poising the heavy ruler.
Another quick, stealthy rush, and the giant had Stretton's wrist in his grasp—a grasp that rendered his arm powerless, A violent wrench, and the ruler had changed hands.
"Murder! Oh, help!"
A wild cry from the doomed man as the first pitiless blow came down. The second plunged him into everlasting silence.
"Cry out, make a sound, and I'll serve you the same!" growled Cullet, swinging round with the weapon—now hideously red—upon Danson, who cowered, sick and trembling, against the boards.
"Oh, oh, let me get out of this! I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" gasped the shivering wretch.
"Pull yourself together, you whining cur!" hissed Cullet. "I've done the rough work, now your fancy job comes in. Take this!" He thrust the ruler into Danson's shaking hand. "Watch the door. If that old man comes—I've shown you how to use it!"
Shuddering, but not daring to refuse, Danson took the horrid thing and posted himself at the door. But it is doubtful if any intruder, however feeble, would have come to much harm at his hands, for sickly horror had rendered him quite incapable.
Not so, however, with Jan Cullet.
He had done many an act of violence in his time—deeds that hovered on the verge of crime—but this was his first actual murder. Yet he set about his further proceedings with the coolness and deliberate methods of one in whom natural gifts made up for lack of experience.
He was not in the least flurried. The hero of a hundred crimes might have envied him his businesslike sangfroid.
First he turned his attention to the safe. Had this been closed and locked he must have searched the dead man's pockets for the keys.
But the door stood ajar, the key in the lock, with a little bunch of others hanging from it. For some of the account-books were kept in the safe, and David Stretton had required to refer to these.
There was some money in Spanish currency in the cashbox. It was not a great sum—rather less than he and Danson would have gained had Stretton yielded to their demands. Jan Cullet cursed his want of better luck, but he transferred to his pocket all of it except a piece or two of gold and the silver. It was not his object to suggest the theory of murder for robbery; he had a better idea than that.
The few cheques and Spanish notes he left would require negotiation, and he was taking no needless risks.
Leaving the safe as he had found it—the door ajar and the key in the lock—he next opened the desk at which his victim had been working, and, leaning over the body to do so, lightly turned its contents with his fingers. There was nothing in it of apparent value to him; no money, or anything that could be converted into money.
He grunted, and shut the lid down.
As he did so two papers that had been lying at the back of the desk fluttered to the ground. He stooped and picked them up, looking at them curiously. They were the certificate of marriage and the letter from Carnaby Stretton, which Warwick had so vauntingly flung down before his brother.
Jan Cullet was not only a violent brute, but a rogue of deep cunning.
"He had heard, and he remembered, all of Warwick's wild end boastful investments. His crafty eyes glinted. He had an idea that these papers might be of some use to him in the future; they meant a lot if cleverly used—and things went as he hoped they would. It was only a vague project—a shadowy scheme dependent largely upon chance; yet Jan Cullet thought it worth while to stow away the two papers carefully in an inner pocket.
He had nothing more now to do, except to take the ruler from. Danson and lay it upon the floor—the tool near the piece of work that had been done with it.
"We've finished here, mate!" he said curtly. "We can go now."
And they went out, Cullet slowly and noiselessly shutting the door of the office upon the horror it contained.
WARWICK STRETTON slept throughout it all, and dreamed a succession-of wild, vivid, and dreadful dreams—the last most vivid, most dreadful of visions! He dreamed that he quarrelled with his brother David again—and this time slew him!
The dream had all the colour of life. It was circumstantial—it was real. The quarrel was fierce in tone from the very beginning. For David not only reproached him bitterly, as before, about his drinking habits, his slackness with work, and his treachery, as he called it, in selling those shares, but he taunted him with his low marriage, and spoke slightingly of his peasant-girl wife.
And that maddened him!
He struck at David with some weapon which came to his hand—he knew not how. David cried out. But he was pitiless in his fury, and struck again.
His brother fell. It was a fatal blow!
He awoke at last, with perspiration streaming from every pore and that cry still ringing in his ears. But this was mere hectic illusion. The place was quite silent. It was that stillest hour of all—the first of daybreak. The wan dawnlight already streamed in through the window, and made every chink in the wall of boards seem like an eye staring at him.
His head throbbed, his body trembled, his nerves were wrecked. The horror of that dream was still upon him.
He got up from the couch, crossed to the door and opened it. Then—he had to guide himself by the wall, his limbs would tremble so—he went down the covered passage to the door of the other office. Here he hesitated long, but at length turned the handle, slowly pushed the door open and entered.
He gave a great cry then, and, tottering towards it, dropped on his knees. He raised the poor beaten head. He called upon his brother by name:
"David! Oh; David!"
The white lips never moved to answer him. The glazed eyes blankly met his own.
He had drunk to the verge of madness last night, and the influence of drink was still upon him; he was not sane. His distraught brain had no power to combat the fearful evidence before his eyes; no power to recall the fact that he had left his brother alive. He could only remember the words of his threat, and the feel of a weapon in his hand as he spoke them. He could only see—this!
"It was not a dream," he said. "I did kill him!"
He got up from his knees, and, staggering across the office, dropped into a chair. And he sat there for a long while; not thinking—he had no power of thought. He may even have slept again, or fallen into a state of torpor born of physical exhaustion—he had taken no food for many hours—combined with the great mental shock.
He was still huddled in the chair when the sun streamed into the window, and it was broad day. He did not move when someone came and tried the handle of the outer door. He did not seem to hear the sound.
It was the night watchman, making a round of the place to see if all was well before he went off duty.
The door, which he had expected to find locked, yielded and opened. The office was small, and now brilliantly lit by the sun. He could not fail to see that dreadful object under the desk, for it faced him as he peered in. From that to the huddled figure in the chair was the natural transition of his terror-stricken glance.
The old man shut the door himself. In another moment he was hastening, with blanched face and shaking legs, to meet the men, then coming in to begin the day's work.
The new foreman—a Spaniard, appointed yesterday in Cullet's place—was in the first batch of men he met at the gates.
He poured out his story. The two señores had fought, and one had killed the other! Perhaps both were dead. Yes, he thought that both were dead!
All this, and in a breath, what he had heard and seen last night—the quarrel, and Señor Warwick about to strike his brother with a pick-handle, crying out that he would kill him!
The new overseer was a cool man, a practical man. He was horror-stricken, but he did not lose his head.
There were horses in the stable. He at once despatched a lad who could ride back to the town to fetch the police, and then went to the office. The men followed him, and crowded in a group about the door as he entered, whispering in awestruck tones, and pointing to the body, then to the figure in the chair.
The foreman went up to Warwick, touched his shoulder, and spoke to him, indicating the body with his hand.
"Yes," said Warwick, "he is dead. I killed him! We quarrelled, and I killed him! Could you get me some water? My throat burns!"
Whatever his faults, the men liked Warwick Stretton. Whatever he had done, that piteous appeal for water touched their hearts. They had their breakfast cans with them. A dozen were at once held out to the overseer, with hunches of bread. Warwick drank eagerly and long of the cold coffee offered him by the overseer, but he shook his head, and pushed away the food.
"He is mad, the poor señor!" said the overseer, as he came out and shut the door.
They remained outside as a sort of guard. But it was not needed. Warwick Stretton made no attempt to escape. He did not move from that chair.
Presently the police arrived. There were four men and a sergeant, very imposing fellows in military uniform, and with swords at their sides. But when, after hearing what the overseer had to say, and listening to the old watchman's excited account of the quarrel, the sergeant and one of the men entered the office, whilst the others remained at the doorway, their appearance produced no effect upon Warwick Stretton.
He watched in listless apathy whilst the sergeant examined the body, only staring a little harder at the ruler, with its gruesome evidence of misuse, when the officer found it, and held it up to the light. A puzzled look came into his eyes then, and he was seen to close his right hand, as if endeavouring to recall how such a thing would feel in his grasp.
The sergeant then spoke to him, pointing to the body, and asking him point-blank if he had done the killing.
Warwick gave the same simple answer he had given the overseer, speaking in low, hoarse tones, but without any trace of frenzy or even excitement.
"Yes," he said; "we quarrelled, and I killed him!"
He got up wearily when the sergeant ordered him to rise, and submitted very quietly when they pinioned his arms.
This they did because they thought him mad, and likely to attempt violence against himself. His manner was unnatural.
Then they led him away. He marched with two officers on either side and the sergeant a little in advance. The overseer and the watchman, who had been commanded to come, followed in the rear. The other men remained behind. But little work was likely to be done at the Estrella that forenoon!
They tramped up the long, dusty road, over the hill, and then began the descent upon the other side, towards the town.
Thus far Warwick Stretton's strange mood showed no change whatever. With bowed head he walked between his guards. His step might have grown a little firmer as they reached the hilltop; perhaps the reviving effect of the clear, sweet, morning air. But that was all. He never once spoke, or seemed to be conscious of things around him.
The change, then, was very sudden when it came.
The little party had reached a point where the road passed by a bridge of a high-pitched single arch over a river, a mountain river, narrow, deep, and turbulent.
They were upon this bridge when, without any cry or previous sign to warn them, the prisoner suddenly broke through his guards, leapt upon the narrow parapet, and threw himself off!
All was outcry and confusion then. But nothing could be done. The bridge was lofty and its walls ran far on either hand. They could not reach the river bank in time. Rushing to the other side of the bridge, they saw the pinioned man, helpless as a chip in a millstream, whirled out of the arch on the impetuous torrent.
Powerless, they watched the dark form, the white face glancing now and again in the sunlight, as it was borne swiftly away, until the torrent swung it round a wooded headland, and they saw it no more.
"HAYLES Park—Hayles Par-ark!"
A porter, with a-mildewed appearance, as though kept in a damp place when not on duty, wailed the above words from the platform, where he was the only official; indeed, the only living individual to be seen.
Hayles Park was Tinker's destination, so he got out.
Tinker was in a cheerful mood. It took a lot to depress him, or Hayles Park Station would have done it.
He had been through Hayles Park several times before in the train, on his way to other, and it must be admitted, brighter and better places. But this was his first actual visit to the spot, and he didn't think much of it.
Hayles Park is a bygone.
Once it was almost "the country," a favourite suburban residential locality. But the speculative builder laid his blighting hand upon it. The "country" began to die a lingering death, and the well-to-do resident fled farther afield.
But relics of both were to be seen.
Some few of the once handsome and substantial villas still remained, but these were now used as small factories or laundries. Fields were visible yet. But they were scrubby fields, much liable to bald places. Some were open, and they banged carpets there on week-days, and held ratting matches on Sundays. Some were enclosed, and these were the drying-grounds of the laundries.
"There are many laundries at Hayles Park, so many that Tinker began to wonder how he was to pick out the one he wanted.
For he had come there in search of a laundry.
He pulled up a little way from the station, took a scrap of paper out of his pocket, and once again read the address upon it. It simply said, "Meadowsweet Laundry, Hayles Park, S.W." Nothing more. No road, street, avenue, or lane was mentioned as a further guide.
"All right! I'll find it somehow," said Tinker cheerfully. "I won't ask. I'll find it for myself. It'll be like a bit of scout work, though B.P. doesn't say anything in his book about tracking down a steam laundry."
But it proved to be no easy task. The Meadowsweet Laundry seemed to elude him.
He passed several laundries before he had gone half a mile from the station, They all had names, noble and inspiring names like "The Central European Steam Laundry " or gentle and poetic names like, "The Homestead Hand Laundry." But the Meadowsweet was not among them, and he wandered on.
Then the laundries seemed to give out, and he came to some building sites, with lots of unfinished houses, and a row of ten raw-new shops, staggering under the title of "Imperial Parade," and facing a swampy meadow, where a lame horse was grazing. Beyond this promising centre of commerce there were more building sites, and then the road joined another road, and at the corner stood a large tavern which called itself the "Hayles Park Hotel."
Tinker was fated to have much to do with that tavern later on. But, of course, he could have no idea of this just then. And he passed it with no more than a casual glance.
It was a new tavern, or had been recently built, and though it called itself an hotel, it kept up something of the appearance of a country inn, having a horse-trough outside, and one or two sloppy tables and forms.
Although it was a workday, and not yet noon, several frowsy men, who had the look of having slept in their clothes, were seated there, drinking beer; whilst others, who were not worth the price of a drink that morning, hung about, hungrily waiting on chance.
Tinker thought of inquiring of them about Meadowsweet Laundry. But he guessed by their looks that he would be expected to pay for the information in beer, so he changed his mind, and passed on.
He had gone but a few yards, when a man's voice, raised in a loud, bullying tone, made him turn, and look back, then retrace his steps a pace or so.
The men at the tables had risen to their feet, and with the other loungers gathered to a common centre before the tavern door.
It was the main entrance, and a short flight of broad steps led up to it. Upon the topmost of these stood—or, rather, straddled, with his massive legs wide apart—a very big man, a giant almost in build. He was bald, except for a close-cropped fringe of iron-grey hair above his large red ears and around the back of his short bull neck. His face—clean-shaven—was florid and coarse. Bully and brute were written clearly upon it, chiefly in the glitter of the flinty, greenish eyes and in the set of the great, thick-lipped mouth.
He looked to be about fifty years of age, but still in the very prime of strength and vigour. And the strength of a man with such a frame must be immense, thought Tinker.
His dress was splendid—of its kind. He was in his shirt-sleeves, displaying in its full glories a fancy waistcoat of red-and-black check, across which ample surface hung a double chain, massive enough to tether a bulldog.
Tinker took him to be the landlord of the tavern. And Tinker proved to be right.
It was his voice Tinker had heard. In size and volume it fully matched his mighty figure, and its tone, hectoring and coarse, exactly suited his face.
His remarks seemed to be addressed particularly—though all the world might hear them—to a young man who stood half-way down the steps, a slightly-built, rather handsome young man, who looked exactly what the landlord did not—a gentleman.
The big man spoke again as Tinker drew near, prefacing his remarks with a coarse laugh.
"Thought you had a green 'un to deal with—eh, my friend? Fancied I wouldn't remember that the account was squared a month ago—eh?. You picked a hot 'un when you tried that game on with me, let me tell yer!"
He ended with another coarse laugh, and several of the group of wasters joined in, particularly a long, bony man; with a dirty face and a red nose, and a carroty-headed youth, who, although only of about Tinker's own age—sixteen—had been drinking with the men, and was excited in consequence.
The young man on the steps was evidently known to the little crowd of loungers, and plainly no favourite in their eyes; whilst the landlord, emperor of flowing founts of beer, was a man to die for!
"That's young Graham from the laundry—him that sacked me larst Sat'day!" said the carroty lad, pointing to the young man on the steps. "Sacked me for not bein' honest. And now hark at wot he's been tryin' on here hisself!"
The long man with the red nose sniffed.
The landlord took his immense hands out of his trousers pockets, clenched them, and then carelessly folded his brawny arms on his chest. He also ceased his sneering laugh and scowled.
All this was clearly meant as menace. But it did not frighten Graham. He answered with spirit, though without raising his voice.
"There is no need to insult me, Mr. Bullman," he said. "Probably this is some mistake. If the account has been previously collected, it has certainly not been marked off our books!"
Bullman laughed again; then said with a sneer—and loudly enough to be heard by all::
"No: you bet it hasn't! Because the money—ten pound odd—went into your own pocket, young man, where it 'ud go again if I'd been mug enough to hand it over instead of making inquiries. No, no; it's a smart try-on, but it won't work with Jack Bullman!"
The red-nosed man led a laugh of applause. Graham flushed fiery-red with indignation.
"That is a deliberate lie, and I'll not endure it!" he cried.
His eyes flashed, his own hands now clenched.
"Oh, you threaten me, do you?' howled Bullman. "You want to kick up a row because you couldn't make ten quid by a bit of bunkum, and clear off with it nice and easy. But that sort of bounce won't go down here! Get off my premises! Get out!"
He flipped his hand in Graham's face. The latter backed to avoid being struck, and almost fell down the remaining steps, whereat the knot of wasters laughed again.
Recovering his balance, the young man turned to Bullman and said hotly:
"I will go, because I know what must come of a quarrel in such a place as this; but you have not heard the last of this foul insult, sir, nor seen the last of me!"
"Here, clear out!" roared Bullman, coming half-way down the steps. "Any more talk from you, and I'll souse you in that 'oss-trough!"
Graham's eyes blazed, but he bit his lip and turned to walk away. He had gone but a yard or two when the carroty youth stepped right into his path.
"'Ere, mister," he said loudly, "who are you to go giving the chuck-out to a poor, honest boy, when you're arter making money on the crook yourself all the while?"
This fresh insult, and from such a source, was too much for Graham's already sorely-tried temper. He struck the boy.
"Worst thing he could have done!" muttered Tinker. "Just what they wanted! Now the whole lot will mob him!"
sTHE blow was not at all a heavy one—just a cuff on the side of the head. The boy could not have been much hurt, but he made the most of it.
He pressed his hands to his head, and danced about, howling as though in frightful agony.
"Brute!"
"Coward!"
"Spiteful beast! To hit a pore boy a crool blow like that!"
"Might 'a' killed him!"
These, and sundry heated remarks from the group of men, were followed by the whole lot closing up and forming a ring around Graham and the boy, who continued to howl and to writhe, holding his head as if it were in two pieces, and he had to keep them together.
Jerry Slymes, the red-nosed cobbler, was in front.
"Why do you men interfere?" said Graham. "Stand aside, please, and let me go!"
But some of them laughed, and others grunted at that, and all of them hedged him in a little closer, so that he could not have got away without some sort of violence. All the while Bullman stood at the top of the steps, his thumbs in the armholes of his gorgeous waistcoat, a grin upon his forbidding face.
He guessed what was coming, and the prospect seemed to please him mightily.
"You it 'im back, Alf!" suggested Mr. Slymes. "We'll see that he don't 'urt yer!"
This gentle hint was not wasted. Alf left off howling, took his hands from his head, and suddenly let drive a vicious blow at Graham's ribs. The young ruffian had no lack of strength, and he put it all into that blow. Graham, who was quite taken unawares, turned white with the acute pain. He staggered; his hat fell off, and was instantly smashed under foot by one of the men.
Graham, when he recovered, did not strike the boy again. He rushed at the ring of men, and, driving his elbows right and left, tried to force his way through.
He did not succeed, for they were six to one—to say nothing of the boy, but he hurt some of them in the process, and they began to hustle him in ugly fashion. He was struck several times, and so closely hemmed in that he had no room for defence.
With most of the men it was only a sort of rough sport. They did not hit to hurt, but only to annoy. But with Jerry Slymes and the carroty-headed boy it was different. Each had, or fancied he had, a grudge against the young manager, and they were not going to lose such a chance of taking something off the score.
Slymes, whenever he got a chance, struck at Graham over the shoulders of those around him, so that anyone might seemed to have given the blow. The boy Alf—not quite tall enough for this—kicked at the young man's legs when he saw a convenient opening.
Tinker saw him give one particularly vicious kick in this way, and Tinker's blood boiled over.
He rushed in, caught the young ruffian by the collar, and jerked him violently out of the struggling knot.
"You rotten young cur!" he cried. "I saw that kick! And you big enough to fight it out yourself, square, with your fists, and without all this gang of mangy cowards to help you!"
And Tinker shook him violently, then flung him away. Tinker, though only a lad himself, was strong in the arm, and he was angry. Alf staggered back half a dozen yards, and finished by sitting down with great suddenness in the puddle under the horse-trough.
The men left off hustling Graham, to turn and scowl at Tinker. He had expressed his opinion freely about them, and they didn't like it.
"Bit 'andy with yer names, ain't yer?" growled Jerry Slymes, making himself spokesman as usual. "Who're you callin' mangy cowards?"
"Wants learning to keep his names to hisself!" said another man, scowling darkly.
"Who's he? Where's he come from?" demanded another. "Give him a couple o' swipes side of the head to learn him to mind his own business!"
And they moved towards Tinker, headed by Jerry Slymes. Graham could now have walked away, for he was just then forgotten. But he was not the sort of man to desert the plucky lad who had come to his assistance, when it looked as though he, in turn, might soon need help himself.
Tinker saw this, too; but the scowling faces did not scare him.
"So you are," he cried, "six men on to one, and that red-nobbed lout as well!"—pointing to Alf as he crawled out from under the horse-trough covered with mud. "I never saw such a gang of measly skunks in my life!"
It was rash, perhaps; but, then, Tinker's blood was heated with indignation. He loved fair play, and he had no fear to make him cautious.
"'Ere, we ain't goin' to stand that sort o' thing from a boy!" growled Jerry Slymes. "That'll learn yer!"
He aimed a cuff at Tinker's head, but it did not reach its mark. Tinker dodged the blow easily, and backed, with a taunting grin.
This enraged Jerry Slymes, who followed him up, trying again and again to hit him, but each time smiting the empty air as Tinker ducked cleverly, backing, meanwhile, step by step.
Of course, not being able to see behind him, he may not have known that he was backing on to the horse-trough.
But the onlookers noticed this. The men grinned, and Alf chuckled with malicious delight. Jerry Slymes would have him and—
He promised himself a kick at the strange boy's shins whilst Slymes had hold of him.
Graham thought of calling out to warn the boy that he was backing against an obstacle and would be caught. But he happened to meet a glance of Tinker's eye, and something in it told him that the lad knew what he was about.
The dodging game went on, Tinker steadily backing, Slymes following him up, and the others closing in behind to see the boy captured and properly handled for his cheek.
So far, Bullman, the landlord, had merely looked on. But there had been trouble about the renewal of his licence last time, owing to some riotous scenes outside the tavern, and he was rather afraid of the police turning up while the present disturbance was going on and stalked down to put an end to it.
So he left the doorway.
He meant to do this in summary fashion by getting hold of the strange boy and kicking him out into the road.
With this benevolent intention, he gave no warning shout, but pushed through the knot of men, and was just going to shove Jerry Slymes aside and collar the boy when—when things happened that he hadn't expected!
Tinker was now hard back against the horse-trough, and Jerry Slymes, with an exultant snort, reached out to grab him—he had given up all hope of hitting that vanishing head. But as his long body craned forward, and his long arm stretched out, Tinker suddenly ducked under it, and, wheeling round with the speed of lightning, butted him in the ribs with his head.
Jerry's balance was not good, and that drive took him on the wobble, so to speak.
He spun half round, threw up his arms in a wild clutch at nothing, then fell sideways into the trough, which was just long enough to take him, legs and all!
The trough was full, but he displaced the water to the last pailful, sending it up in a mighty wave on each side.
Tinker escaped the deluge by a nimble leap. But every man near got sprayed, and Bullman, who was quite close, came in for the bulk of the water.
It broke on his bald head in crystal jets; it ran down his neck, and poured out over his patent-leather boots; it turned his beautiful white shirt to a sodden rag, and made his lovely fancy vest look like a dishcloth.
He was drenched to the skin, but his language was fiery. He glared fiercely around, and, catching sight of Tinker, bore down upon him with a sudden rush.
For such a bulky man, Bullman was remarkably active; but Tinker would have got away easily if it hadn't been for the red-headed Alf, who made a quick dash, put out a foot, and brought Tinker heavily to the ground.
Before he could scramble up, Bullman had him by the collar, and, grinding a row of iron-hard knuckles into the back of his neck, jerked him to his feet.
"You young blackguard!" he roared. "I'll give you a lesson you won't forget, coming here and stirring up a row outside a respectable house. Anybody got a belt? I'll put some marks on his back that won't rub out easy, I'll lay!"
Tinker struggled. But his strength was as nothing in those giant hands.
Graham moved forward to interfere, but a firmer and quicker step anticipated his own, and a clear, authoritative voice rang out:
"You shall not ill-treat that boy! Release him instantly!"
The words were accompanied by a magical grip upon Bullman's wrist; a grip that seemed to numb the muscles of his arm and cause his fingers to open of themselves. Feeling the grasp upon his collar to relax, Tinker sprang free.
"Gee-whizz! It's the guv'nor!" he ejaculated.
By which he meant that the new-comer was his famous master—Sexton Blake, detective!
BEING so busy among themselves, no one in that little crowd—not even Tinker—had noticed the London taxi pull up a yard or so from the front of the tavern, and that athletic figure jump lightly from it.
It was the sight of Tinker among the noisy little throng that had caught Blake's eye, and caused him to stop the vehicle in which he had driven down from-town.
As a matter of fact, he had watched the affair from his seat in the taxi for some minutes without feeling called upon to interfere on Tinker's behalf, knowing by experience that his young assistant was quite capable of taking care of himself in any ordinary street-row.
He watched the long, red-nosed man's attempts to capture the lad without any anxiety as to the result, and the finish—not altogether unexpected—made him smile.
But it was different, very different, when Bullman, his face inflamed with rage, made that rush, and violently seized the boy. The man's looks bespoke a brutal intent. The smile vanished from Blake's face; his jaw set grimly; he was out of the vehicle in an instant, striding to the scene of action.
Then came those stern, sharply-spoken words and that magic grip upon the landlord's wrist.
Bullman turned on him fiercely.
"Who the dickens are you?" he demanded, with a bellow of rage. "I'm going to thrash that cub for kicking up a row outside my place, and you nor a dozen like yer won't stop me!"
He made another rush at Tinker, who had not attempted to run away; but Sexton Blake got in his path.
"You shall not touch him!" said the detective. "The boy is not to blame. He merely acted as any decent British lad, who loves fair play, was bound to do when he saw a pack of six contemptible cowards attacking one man—and another looking on!"
He spoke loudly enough for all to hear.
The men—three of whom, with young Alf, were helping to get Jerry Slymes out of the trough in which he had become jammed—turned to glare at the speaker and mutter threats. But he looked a tough sort of customer to tackle, and they contented themselves with threats.
Not so Jonathan Bullman!
"Clear out, you!" he roared at Blake. "Clear out, or you'll get hurt! I'm an ugly man when I start hitting!"
The detective ignored him.
"Go, lad," he said to Tinker, "I rather think none of these heroic gentlemen will venture to molest you again, for here comes a policeman."
That quiet announcement had a magical effect. The men turned quickly, and locked up the road. A policeman was certainly approaching; without haste, it is true, for he as yet knew nothing of the row outside the tavern. But the mere sight of the familiar helmet was sufficient.
The men got Jerry Slymes out of the trough by a final wrench, and the whole lot slunk off by the opposite way. Bullman swore, but he remembered his licence and, shaking his fist at Blake, retired quickly into the tavern.
Tinker grinned, and sauntered off, to pursue his search for the Meadowsweet Laundry, and carry out the errand which had brought him to Hayles Park.
Not a word or sign of recognition had passed between him and his great master. Both were there as strangers; each for a purpose which will presently be made clear.
Sexton Blake and Graham were thus left standing alone.
"You have been rather roughly handled, I fear," said Blake, with a glance at the young manager's bare head and dusty, rumpled. attire. "May I give you a lift? My taxi is waiting here."
Graham laughed ruefully.
"Thanks," he said. "I can't refuse such an offer. I should return to my office, but if you will kindly drop me at my lodging—it is quite near—a brush-up and a change will rather improve my appearance."
They got into the taxi-cab, and a brief run brought them to the neat little cottage where Graham had apartments. Here they parted—Graham, at least, with no idea of how soon they were to meet again.
Blake gave fresh directions to the driver, and soon arrived at his own destination, which happened to be the same as Tinker's, the oft-mentioned Meadowsweet Laundry.
It was rather a large establishment, newly-built, by the look of it, and stood by itself quite outside the town—if "town" the place could be called—of Hayles Park.
The fact that it was situated at the lower end of an avenue off the main road explains Tinker's difficulty in finding the laundry. But he had discovered it at last, and Blake saw him turning into the main entrance as his taxi drove down the avenue.
The taxi passed farther on, to a neat little villa adjoining the laundry grounds.
Here Blake alighted, and; having dismissed the vehicle, walked up the trim, front garden path, and knocked at the door.
"Yes, Mrs. Coombes is in," said the maid who opened the door in answer to his inquiry. "What name shall I say, sir?"
"Blake—Mr. Blake, of Baker Street," said the detective. "I have no doubt that your mistress will know the name."
Evidently her mistress did, for after a very brief absence the maid returned, and ushered Blake into a nicely-furnished sitting room, where a rosy-faced little old lady, who had been seated near the window with some fancy-work, arose, all in a flutter, and greeted him with a queer, old-fashioned bob of her white lace cap.
"Mrs. Coombes, I believe?" said Blake, bowing as if to a duchess.
"Yes, sir. You're Mr. Blake—Mrs. Bardell's gentleman, aren't you, sir?"
Blake smiled. It was an odd way of putting it, and seemed to imply that he was courting Mrs. Bardell, the fact being that she is merely his housekeeper at his chambers in Baker Street West.
Mrs. Bardell and Mrs. Coombes were old friends, so that it is probable that the latter was very familiar with the great detective's name, though until now she had never beheld him in the flesh.
There was wonder, and even awe, in her tone and in her eyes as she spoke.
"Yes, that is right," said Blake; "and Mrs. Bardell has been telling me something of the bit of trouble you are in, and how you rather badly needed a little advice, and, perhaps, help."
The old lady started and looked a trifle scared.
"It is quite true, sir," she said. "I am troubled—badly troubled! And goodness knows I need help—a man's help! But I've been a widow these five-and-twenty years, and I've no son, nor any man I could turn to for advice or aid. And this needs a man's head, and I may say a man's strong will."
"Then let me help you," said Blake, in his kindly, genial way. "What Mrs. Bardell told me interested me greatly, and I came here to make the offer."
"Oh, but, sir?" stammered the little old lady, "I'm—I'm not at all rich. I am afraid that I could not afford—"
"To pay Sexton Blake's thumping big fees," he laughed. "My dear madame. I haven't begun the work yet. Time enough to talk of payment when it is finished. I'll warrant my little account shall not frighten you. But I must make my terms, nevertheless. And these are—that you tell me everything, without reserve. What Mrs. Bardell told me is not enough for my purpose."
"Ah; but I did not tell her all," said Mrs. Coombes. "I have never told the whole story to anyone—except once, years ago; and I've often regretted that, for I sometimes think all this trouble may have come of it. But that may be only an old woman's foolish notion. You will be able to judge, sir, when you've heard all that I have to tell, because I am going to tell you every bit. I will keep nothing back."
"That is right," said the detective. "That is the only way if I am to be of any aid to you."
He took a chair. The old lady resumed her own seat, and, folding her hands in her lap, began the following little story from real life—
But that must have a fresh chapter, and a rather important one it will be found.
"I SAID just now that I was not very well off; but that is not quite true," Mrs. Coombes commenced by saying, "because, compared with the poverty I knew when I was left, a young widow, to fight the world all by myself, I am quite rich.
"My husband was only a working-man, and having bad health, he never prospered. When he died—five-and-twenty years ago—he left me quite destitute. A hard case, sir, mine was."
"But unfortunately all too common," said the detective.
"Ah, yes!" sighed the old lady. "But I was never afraid of work, so I set to and got some washing and ironing to do. I had often mourned that I never had chick or child to call my own, but I was thankful for it then, for at first I was hard put to keep myself, and there were days when I went hungry, I can tell you, sir!
"But things grew better after a bit. I suppose I did the work well, for I began to get plenty of it. I was able to take a little house and by-and-by I had quite a tiny laundry. With one or two girls to help me. And I let rooms, too, which was a help with the rent."
"Were you living at Hayles Park then?" inquired Blake.
"Oh, no, sir; much nearer London—up Knightsbridge way. I should never have dreamt of a great place like this, I expect, if I'd been left to myself. But that will all come out in the story, and I'm really going to begin if now:
"I was still very poor then, and did most of the work myself, especially taking home the things when they were done. Well, I was coming back home from such an errand one night—a most dreadful winter night of wind and icy rain. I was not far from my own door, when I heard a groan. It frightened me dreadfully, I can tell you, for the street was dark just there, and I couldn't tell where the groan came from.
"But I heard it again, and then I knew it was a woman's voice, moaning in pain, and it seemed to come from the dark doorway of an empty house I had just passed. I was still rather frightened, but I went back, and, sure enough, I found a woman crouching, all huddled up, on the doorstep."
"A young woman?" Blake asked.
"Little more than a girl, sir; and oh, so ill, it made my heart ache to see her! I spoke to her, and she answered me in a faint voice. But there was only a word or two of
English; the rest was all foreign, and I couldn't make it out."
"Spanish, perhaps?" said the detective quietly.
"Yes, it was Spanish, sir—though I only found that out afterwards," said Mrs. Coombes. "But how did you know, sir?"
"Lucky guess," smiled Blake. "But please go on."
"I found that she was too ill and weak to stand up or move by herself, poor thing!" continued the old lady. "But I helped her to her feet, and, half carrying her, got her to my own house. Ah, that's nearly twenty years ago! I wasn't a weak old woman then. There was no one to help me. I hadn't even a lodger then, and my girls had gone home, for it was late. But though she had fainted right off by the time I got her up to my room, I managed to take her sopping wet clothes off and get her comfortably into my bed."
"You had a light? You could see her face, then?" queried Blake. "What was she like?"
Mrs. Coombes arose, and, taking up an album from a little table near by, opened it and pointed to a photograph of a tall and very handsome girl, of a dark, almost gipsy type of beauty.
"Look at that face, and you see the poor young woman I brought to my home that night," said Mrs. Coombes; "only she, poor thing, was frightfully ill. There's that difference, of course."
"But this is not a portrait of the woman you found!" said Blake. "The dress is of to-day!"
"No; that's Bella," said the old lady, putting the album away and resuming her chair.
"Her daughter?" Blake hinted.
"Yes; her daughter. But I'm coming to that, sir—I'm coming to that. Well, after I had got her to bed I hurried out again to fetch a doctor. I hastened back, and the doctor followed me quickly. But we were too late—too late for any real help! Ah, it's a sad story, sir! That night a life was given and a life was taken away, A child was born, but the mother did not live to hear its first cry."
"And you never discovered the poor woman's identity!" said Blake. "Was there nothing about her, no scrap of paper in her pocket, to give a clue? No marks upon her clothing?"
"There was no paper-at least, none that I could find then," answered Mrs. Coombes. "What I found afterwards—years afterwards—is another matter, and must wait its turn; but at the time of the poor creature's death I could find nothing. She had not even a purse upon her, or a farthing in money. I think she had been robbed. Yet she had a wedding-ring upon her hand. And as for marks on her clothing, I thought of that, naturally, being in the laundry line; but I found none."
"Was anything done in the way of making inquiries?" asked the detective.
"The doctor informed the police," said Mrs. Coombes, "and I believe they did make some effort to trace her. But I never heard that anything came of it, so I suppose it was dropped after a time."
"Very likely," Blake remarked. "But you thought it was Spanish she spoke. Why?"
"The doctor said so, The poor thing spoke just a few words before she died, and the doctor said it was Spanish, and meant 'Back to home—back to home!'"
Mrs. Coombes had to wipe her spectacles again, and turned away to pick a leaf off the geranium on the window-ledge.
"And you kept the child?" said Blake, after a pause.
"Yes. They wanted me to send the little mite to the workhouse, me being but a poor person, hard put to keep myself at times; but I couldn't, sir—I couldn't! That first cry it gave had gone straight to my heart—it was music I had longed for many a time! I decided then that I would keep the child if no one with a better right came to claim her."
"It was a noble resolve," said Blake.
"I haven't had cause to regret it, sir. No child really and truly my own could have been a better daughter to me than my Bella! I named her Isabella, but it's Bella we call her."
"And does she know the strange story of her birth—the mystery surrounding her mother's wretched fate?" asked the detective.
Mrs. Coombes coloured, and answered with hesitation:
"No, sir; she believes herself to be the orphan child of a distant relative of mine. I don't love deceit—it was never much in my line, Mr. Blake—but I thought it best in this case. For-just think what a torment for the poor girl it would be, to know the miserable facts about her birth, and spend her life wondering and wondering whom her parents might have been!"
"I think your way was the kindest," said Blake. "The half-truth would have been a torment, as you say. And perhaps she would be none the happier if the whole truth came to light," he added to himself. Then he said aloud: "And your adopted daughter assists you in the business, I presume?"
"Assists me! Oh, my goodness gracious!" laughed the old lady. "Why, it's Bella's own business now! She made it what it is. As soon as she left school—I managed to give her a decent bit of education—as soon as she left school she set to work like a grown woman to help me. And she was so clever, and worked so hard, that we got on amazingly. The business grew and grew, and nothing would satisfy Bella but that we must build a proper laundry right out of London, and go in for business in the large way."
"An enterprising young woman!" said Blake.
"You may say that, sir. Well, I didn't oppose her, it wouldn't have been much good if I had tried to, for Bella is a headstrong girl, Mr. Blake; a good girl, but dreadfully headstrong and self-willed. So with our savings, and some money she borrowed at interest, this place was built and fitted up. We have been here some years now, and were doing well until—until the troubles began."
The old lady sighed.
"And these troubles—what do they consist of?" asked the detective. "Why, sir, matters go wrong with the accounts, so that customers complain of being charged for the same things twice. And things are stolen or lost. Some of our best people have complained about missing things from the goods sent home. We can't trace them, and its bad, very bad for the business."
"Naturally," said Blake. "By seeing an advertisement for a new manager, I suppose Mr. Graham is to be dismissed? Is he to blame for these losses and other difficulties, do you think?"
"I don't think so," exclaimed the old lady, with energy. "I believe that Mr. Graham is as honest a young man as ever breathed, and that he has done his best for the business. But Bella thinks otherwise, or says she does. But I'm afraid there's a bit of personal feeling in it, sir. You see, Mr. Graham and she were—well, almost engaged once. Only they quarrelled—or rather she quarrelled with him—and it was broken off."
"Jealousy?" hinted Blake.
"Well, sir—yes; that is about it," said Mrs. Coombes. "We won't go into that just now; it would only waste your time. I believe Bella was quite in the wrong. But she is so headstrong, and perhaps it's her Spanish blood makes her so jealous."
"May be so," said the detective, smiling. Then, more seriously: "My plan is to apply for the post of manager here. I think I shall be able to secure it, especially with a good word from you, Mrs. Coombes."
"Oh, yes, of course; I've got plenty of influence with Bella in matters like that," said the old lady. "You have only to say that I recommend you, and Bella would not think of refusing you the position. But you, as a laundry-manager at two pounds a week! You cannot mean it seriously, Mr. Blake!"
The detective laughed.
"I do, I assure you, madam!" he said. "If I am to help you at all, this is the best plan. And further, as a boy was also advertised for, I have sent Tinker to secure the post. You may have heard of him from Mrs. Bardell?"
"Tinker! Oh, yes, sir!"
"I've no doubt he will get the berth," said Blake; "and with both of us here upon the spot, we ought to be able to get at the mystery of the missing goods and 'cooked' accounts. And, perchance, solve the greater mystery that lies behind all this," he added, entirely to himself.
"I'm sure it's very good of you, Mr. Blake," murmured the old lady. "To think of a great man like you! Why, Mrs. Bardell says you have kings and emperors among your custom—clients, I mean! And now you're going to—"
"Help you, if I possibly can," Blake cut in quickly. "Only I make one stern condition, Mrs. Coombes. The identity of Tinker and myself must remain a secret. That is of vital importance if we are to succeed."
"You may trust me, sir; I am no gossip!" said the old lady proudly. "Not a word of that secret shall pass my lips."
"That is well," said Blake. "I feel very sure that you will keep your word. And now, just one thing more, and I need not bother you with any further questions—for the present, at least: When saying that you could find no clue to this poor woman's identity at the time of her death, you hinted at a discovery made some years later. What was its nature? It is very important that I should know."
Mrs. Coombes looked rather confused, and gave her answer after a hesitating "hem!" or two.
"Ah, I'm afraid you will think I acted very foolishly in that matter, sir, I have regretted it many a time since. But, you see, I was quite alone then, and hadn't anyone to advise me. It is about ten years ago now, and Bella was then a growing girl of nine or so. The way she outgrew her clothes was something amazing! It was the trouble of my life to keep her decently dressed, for, as I told you, it was hard times for me in those days.
"Little that's new could I afford to buy her, poor child! I used to contrive her clothes out of such things of my own as I could spare. But that wasn't much, as you may guess, and that winter I was at my wits' end to think how I could make her a warm coat to wear outdoors.
"Now, it happened that I had kept the clothes her mother was wearing. I had them put away in a box in my room. And a very small box was big enough to hold them all, Mr. Blake, for it was a very poor outfit she had. But the chief thing among them was a cloak. It was a queer sort of cloak, I suppose a foreign kind of thing, for I never saw the like of it before. But the cloth was good, though a bit stained, as if with travel; but there was plenty of the best parts to make a fine coat for little Bella. So I set to work to take it to pieces. But no sooner had I got the lining undone than I came upon that packet of papers!"
"A packet of papers?" ejaculated the detective quickly. "Yes! Go on, please!"
"They were in an envelope, and that was wrapped in a bit of some waterproof stuff, which was stitched into the lining. I cut it loose and opened the envelope—I felt that I had a right to do so, for Bella's sake. But the papers—there were two of them—were written in some foreign language, and I could not make out one word of what they were about. But, naturally, I was very curious, and that led to my great mistake. Oh, if I had only known of you then, sir, and brought those papers to you!"
"That cannot be helped now," said Blake. "Tell me—what did you do with them?"
"At that time I had a lodger—James Daniels he called himself—a man of about forty-five, or so. There was something about him I didn't quite like. But he seemed to be a quiet, reserved sort of man, who wouldn't gossip, and—anyhow, I knew of nobody else I could trust better, so I showed the papers to him."
"Did he know anything of the story of Bella's mother?" asked Blake.
"Not a word, sir. He had only been lodging with me a week or two when I found those papers. But somehow—though I hadn't meant to tell him—he got the whole story out of me that night. That was my folly," sighed Mrs. Coombes.
"But the papers—what did he say about them? I suppose he could not understand them?"
"He seemed to, for he said they were in Spanish," answered the old lady.
"Ah—Spanish!" ejaculated Blake. "Was he a foreigner himself, or an educated man, that he should recognise the language?"
"No, sir; he was an Englishman, and a common, rather rough sort of man. But he said he had been a sailor, and had knocked about the world a great deal—especially in Spanish ports, where he had picked up the language. He said he couldn't read the 'lingo' very easily, but if I would leave the papers with him he would try to make them out and let me know. I thought he seemed very eager and excited about it. But then, so was I! It was such a strange business."
"And you left the papers with him?" said Blake.
"Yes, sir—like the poor, foolish woman I was. But I suspected nothing—how should I? I left the papers with him, and went to my own room, and to bed, for it was late. And in the morning, sir, I found that my lodger was gone— with those papers! I have never set eyes upon him since, and I don't suppose I ever shall. I don't know why he took them, unless they contained some information, out of which he could make money."
"You might make a worse guess than that," remarked the detective.
"Ah, well! Thanks to my folly, he took with him the only clue to poor Bella's parentage!" sighed Mrs. Coombes. "That mystery will never be solved now."
"Who knows?" said Sexton Blake, as he rose from his chair and prepared to go. "Time buries a secret deep beneath the weight of years; then some events, with earthquake suddenness, heaves it up into the light."
SEXTON BLAKE came away from that lengthy interview with a very thoughtful look upon his face, and as he left the little villa a smile, a quiet smile of satisfaction, played about the corners of his firm, resolute lips. It was evident that he felt his time had not been wasted.
"A dark problem!" he muttered. "A web of mystery that has been twenty years in the weaving. But I have tackled riddles as deep before, and never yet failed to solve the hardest in the end! Ah, Tinker—what luck?"
He met his young assistant outside the entrance to the laundry, which the lad was just leaving.
"OK, guv'nor!" responded Tinker, with a cheerful grin.
"I'm made for life. Got the job. Seven bob a week—start on Monday."
"Good!" said Blake. "Whom did you see?"
"Why, Bella, guv'nor—Miss Bella!" exclaimed 'Tinker, with sparkling eyes. "And, oh my optic nerve, she's worth seeing, guv'nor. "Tall, dark, and splendid—like a queen! Just the sort of girl I'm going to have when I've saved enough to buy the sticks."
And Tinker drew a deep breath, and felt if there was any promise on his upper-lip yet.
"Well, that won't be for quite a while," laughed Blake. "And, meantime, you will have plenty to occupy your mind—for the next week or so, at least. And now, get back to Baker Street, lad. You may be needed there, I suppose I shall find the young lady in yonder office?"
"That's her room," said Tinker. "Here's wishing you luck!" And he strolled off back to London and the great detective's chambers in Baker Street.
Sexton Blake turned in at the arched entrance, and crossed a yard to a small building with the word "Office" painted upon its windows. The door stood open and he entered. Behind the counter and a piled rampart of tissue-paper parcels sat a young lady, busy with a book and a style. She rose as he entered, revealing a tall and graceful figure, and a face that would have been perfect in its rare, dark loveliness had it been softer in expression. But the stamp of pride and of an imperious will was visible in every feature. It was a beautiful face, but hard.
Blake bowed as he said:
"Miss Coombes, I presume?"—he had learnt that Bella went under her foster-mother's name.
"Yes?"
This was in the form of an inquiry, made with a slight lift of her finely-arched black eyebrows.
"You advertise for a manager," continued the detective. "I venture to offer my services in that capacity. I have just had a little interview with Mrs. Coombes, to whom I am known by reputation, and who is good enough to give me her kind recommendation."
"Yes—perhaps I may have heard her mention your name?" said Bella.
"I think not," said Blake, quite prepared with his reply; for he had already arranged with Mrs. Coombes that he was to have an assumed name for his present purpose. "My name is Meston—John Meston."
"I think you ought to understand that we only require a business manager," said the young lady; "one to control the few men and boys we employ, and keep the accounts. That is all. As to the actual laundry work, I see to that, and I require no assistance."
This was said with an air of pride that made Blake feel inclined to smile. But he wisely refrained, and said gravely:
"That is well, for I confess that I have no special knowledge of laundry work. But I understand business methods, and am quite certain that I shall give satisfaction, if that is what you need."
Miss Bella appeared to think so, too, for there was something about this man with the quiet voice, yet clear, decided manner of speaking, that impressed her favourably at once. Perhaps also the well-knit, athletic figure and firm, strong face influenced her opinion. Anyhow, she quickly made up her mind that "John Meston" was the man she was looking for.
In short, within five minutes of his arrival in the office, Sexton Blake, the premier detective of his day, was graciously given the position as manager of a laundry—salary, fifty shillings a week.
This agreement arrived at, Miss Bella said:
"Mr. Graham; our present manager, is in the inner-office. You had better see him and get some idea of the nature of the work required."
She indicated the door of an adjoining room by a queenly wave of her hand. Sexton Blake bowed and passed in. Sidney Graham, who was seated at a desk, staring glumly at an open ledger, and biting the end of his pen, received him with a start of surprise. He had not expected that they were so soon to meet again.
Blake briefly explained what he was there for; then remarked in genial, yet sympathetic manner:
"I can't say that I like cutting the ground from under your feet, as it were, Mr. Graham. But it's all in the way of business, you know. If you are leaving, someone else must have your position, so why not I?"
"Oh, that's all right, of course—just business, as you say," Graham said. "Besides," he added, "I'm not going to leave. I am disgraced, not dismissed." Here he gave a short, rueful laugh. "I am to stay on and work under the new manager."
"I am glad of that," said Blake.
"I suppose that if I had consulted my dignity, shown proper self-respect, etc., I should have thrown up the whole thing and left, when I was told that a new man was to be placed over me," said Graham, with a touch of bitterness in his tone. "But I couldn't screw up enough pride, for I wanted to stay on here. I—I have the strongest reasons. Perhaps I'll tell you some day. Because somehow I feel that we are going to be friends, you and I."
"I am sure of it!' Blake declared heartily.
He held out his hand. Graham met it with his own, and the two men exchanged a cordial grip.
"The man who can handle a big ruffian like Jonathan Bullman, as you did this morning, is the sort of man I like!" continued Graham warmly. "For Bullman is a ruffian of a bad sort! I feel sure that he would have half murdered the poor boy if you hadn't rescued him. Of course, I was going to interfere myself, but I'm lots under his weight. He could make mincemeat of me!"
"Hark!" said Blake. "Isn't that his voice?"
"By jingo," yes! ejaculated Graham. "He does sometimes come here—too often! But it's mischief that brings him now, I'll wager—mischief for me!"
And the young fellow turned pale. Blake wondered why, for he had not shown himself a coward in that ugly scene outside the tavern. Graham seemed to read his thoughts, for he said quickly, in an undertone:
"No, I'm not afraid of him personally. I'm afraid for Bella—for Miss Coombes!" He flushed like a boy, "She is a splendid girl, a grand girl! But she is proud and headstrong, and will not take a warning. And Bullman is after her—or her business. He wants to get me out of the way, so that she shall not have a friend near her to see through, and baulk his plans!"
"She shall have one at least whilst I am here!" muttered Blake to himself. The door was closed, but it had a glass panel, with the lower part painted over and a few inches of clear space left at the top. Peering through this, Blake could see into the outer office very well.
Bella stood behind the little counter, and at the other side was Bullman, leaning his immense arms upon it in an attitude of easy familiarity. He had a coat on now, a resplendent coat, with a couple immense roses in the buttonhole.
"One of these he drew out and offered to Bella. She took it, but laid it aside carelessly.
"You should wear it, my dear," he said, with a coarse grin. "Though those blooming cheeks of yours 'ud put it in the shade! Never saw you lookin' so tip-top!"
And with an oily leer, he leant over the counter, trying to seize her hand. Graham, who now stood beside Blake, and was also peering through the glass, muttered fiercely under his breath. His hand sought the knob of the door. But Blake gripped his arm.
"Wait!" he said.
Bella drew back. They could see her dark eyes flash as she coldly said: "I presume you have come here upon business, Mr. Bullman?"
The publican frowned at the repulse, but quickly got back to his former smirk.
"Business? Yes, you may say that!" he responded loudly. "And precious nasty business it is to trouble a lovely young lady about! But then, you ought to have a man beside you, my dear, to see that you and your customers ain't swindled. Now, if I was boss of this place I'd jolly soon-"
"Kindly explain what you have come for, Mr. Bullman," said the girl.
"Well, it's this then,"' said the publican. "It's to tell you that your precious manager is doing you and your customers right and left! Came to me cool as they make 'em, only this morning, and demanded settlement of a ten—pound account; him knowing all the while that it had been paid already, a month ago—though I'll bet you've got never
a penny o' the money, my dear, 'cos it wasn't marked off the books—he said so!"
Graham pushed Blake's arm aside, tore open the door and strode into the outer office.
"Because the money was never paid—or at least never passed through my hands!" he cried.
Bullman laughed in his face.
"No, I bet it didn't—it stayed there!" he said. "Never paid, eh? Just cast your eye on these two bits o' paper, Miss Bella."
He took from his pocket and spread upon the counter two account forms with the laundry heading.
"Now, look here, my dear; here's the bill your precious manager shoved under my nose this morning, thinking I'd pay it out of hand—which I didn't! And here's the bill I did pay a month ago. Same account you see, item for item. Same total, ten pounds five and fourpence. Only this one, the old 'un, is marked 'Paid. S. Graham.' Now then, young man, what have you got to say to that?"
He poked a huge red forefinger down upon the signed bill, then threw his head back and grinned a grin of triumph.
Bella took up the bill and examined it closely, her red lips setting in a firm, hard line. She turned to Graham, and his gaze seemed to falter as it met her own. He had been flushed, but the colour now left his face.
That is your signature, is it not?' she said.
Graham looked at the paper she held out.
"It would appear so," he answered slowly and with hesitation. "Yet I am prepared to swear that paper was never signed by me!"
"What!" bellowed the publican. "Do you mean to say it's a fake—a forgery?"
"I do!" cried Graham.
"By thunder! I'm not going to take that from you, swindler!" shouted Bullman.
He suddenly reached over the counter and struck Graham in the face a blow with the flat of his huge hand that sounded like the crack of a teamster's whip. Bella uttered a sharp cry of alarm and shrank back, deathly pale in a moment.
Graham leapt the counter and flew at Bullman. They closed and struggled—if such an unequal contest could be a called a struggle, for the young man stood no sort of chance against such giant strength. It is probable that Bullman—a brute at all times, and now a mad brute with fury—would have done him a mortal injury, but for Sexton Blake.
The detective's dash from the inner office, and his flying leap over the counter, made one movement—it was so swiftly done. Then hand and arm played their part with more of science than mere brute strength. He forced the two men asunder, and sent Bullman reeling against the wall.
"Are you both mad," he said sternly, "to shock a young girl with this display of violence?"
Graham bit his lip and turned away, anger yielding to shame. Bullman glared at Blake, and muttered under his breath:
"Same man! Second time to-day—eh? I'll not forget him! It won't pay him to run across me again!"
Then he corrected the set of his top-hat, which had been knocked awry, forced an awkward laugh, and said:
"Sorry, Miss Coombes! But I'm one of the rough-and-ready sort, I am. I can't take an insult meek from a chap who's tried to swindle me. I'm sorry if I frightened you. Good-day!"
He spoke quite humbly, as if with sincere regret, lifting his hat and bowing as he turned to go. But as he passed Graham on his way to the door, he stopped to whisper, in a tone of concentrated malice:
"As for you, my bantam gaolbird, you ain't seen and heard the last of Jonathan Bullman!"
With that he strode out. Sexton Blake went to the door and stood there, as if to watch him go, but in reality so that he might not seem to observe too closely the painful scene between Graham and Bella which, he felt sure, was about to follow.
He was not mistaken. Graham turned to the girl and said:
"I am sorry for this—sorry that I lost my temper and was guilty of such violence in your presence. Yet I sha'n't regret it if only it served to open your eyes to the true character of that man and his real object. Can't you see what that object is, Bella? He wants to drive me away from here, so that you shall have no one near you to protect your interests—to protect you!"
The girl's beautiful face set hard as marble.
"You have no right to address me by my Christian name, Mr. Graham," she said coldly. "And as for your 'protection,' I do not need it. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, And I think that Mr. Bullman was justified in his anger if he has been asked again for money already paid."
Graham stared at her blankly, as though he could not believe he had heard her aright. Then he broke out with:
"But Bella—Miss Coombes! You cannot think—you cannot really believe that I received that money and never accounted for it to you!"
"I can believe my eyes," she said icily, laying a slender white finger on the signed bill.
Her answer seemed to stun Graham. His lips moved, but no words came from them. Amazement and bitter pain tied his tongue. Then he turned quickly and went into the other office, returning with his hat in his hand.
Then he faced the girl, speaking in low tones, yet each word marked with intense feeling:
"When I knew that you were seeking for a stranger to take my place, as though you thought I was no longer capable of my work, I crushed down my pride and almost begged—ay, almost begged!—to be allowed to remain here, even in a lower position. I did this because I knew your peril, the part to which you in your pride and wilfulness were blind. But now that you believe me a thief, I cannot stay another hour. That man—your enemy and mine—has gained his object. I am going. Heaven send you another and a better friend when I am gone!"
He passed out.
Bella did not speak, or even glance towards him, but stood looking straight before her, a fixed and stony gaze, till he was gone. Then she turned to Blake, and said:
"When can you commence your duties, Mr. Meston?"
"At once," was the detective's ready answer.
WHEN Tinker received. orders from the guv'nor to apply for that berth at the laundry, he felt a bit nervous about it. He had done many things in his time, but he had never worked in a laundry, and he didn't like the prospect.
An order to get a job as night nurse to a young tiger with brain trouble would have worried him less.
He knew nothing about laundry work, but he had all the average male creature's horror of washing-day, and he pictured himself having to stand in a sloppy stone den with a steamy copper, making his knuckles raw rubbing clothes, or having to hang wet garments—some that he blushed even to think of—out on a line, with his mouth full of clothes-pegs, and a big damp apron flopping around his legs.
It was a great relief to find that he wasn't expected to wash clothes, but to collect and deliver them in the van.
This had been Carroty Alf's job until he got discharged for dishonesty.
Tinker was fond of driving, and he went to work on the Monday morning with a light heart. The van, a light covered one, stood under a bed in the laundry yard, but no horse was visible. Tinker inquired of the man who helped him run the van out of the shed if they had a horse, or if he was expected to pull the van himself.
"Oh, yes, we've got a horse!" said the man, who was stoker in the laundry, and filled in his time with odd jobs. "But he was took with pains in his innards on Sat'day night, and he's sent away to the vet's. It's my belief young Alf give him somethin' before he went, out o' spite."
"Well, what are we going to do?" asked Tinker. "They don't fancy I'm going to pull that blessed van about all day, do they?"
"Not as I knows on," said the stoker. "No; we're jobbing a hoss from Snaffle's yard till our'n gets well again. This is him a-coming now."
Tinker looked round. Coming through the arched entrance was a red-faced man in a sleeved waistcoat, and dirty cords, who led behind him a strange four-legged creature of a dull mulberry colour, like a bruise "going off." It was certainly a horse, but of a variety Tinker thought he had never seen before. It was a very large animal, with an immense claw-hammer head, which it carried sideways, as though regarding with interest a bald place on its offside hock.
"'Ere we are now!" said the red-faced man cheerfully. "I've brought 'im!"
"Yes; what is it?' asked Tinker.
"That's a 'orse, that is," said the ostler, looking at him suspiciously. "Ain't yer never seen a 'orse before?"
"Never one like that," said Tinker emphatically. "If it's a horse, is it all right? Because I've got to drive him."
"Wot, you 'ave?" said the ostler. "Werry well, then; you be careful o' this 'ere. 'orse, young man! Them was Mr. Snaffle's werry words. 'Tell 'em to be werry careful with 'im,' he says. 'Go easy with the whip, 'cos he's a 'igh-minded 'orse with feelings of his own. He thinks for hisself, that 'orse!"
"Oh," he does, does he!" muttered Tinker. "Well, he's got to think the same way as me, or I'll lick the rest of his mouldy hide off him!"
The ostler backed the high-minded animal into the shafts, and assisted the stoker to harness him, which was not an easy job, because he would keep looking over his shoulder all the time, and they couldn't get the collar on until the red-faced man pulled his neck straight by sheer physical strength.
Tinker meanwhile went into the office to get the list of places he was to call at. When he came out he mounted the van, shook the reins, and said "Come up!"
The result was remarkable. The horse gave a slow heave of his great bony shoulders, put his head farther over to one side, as though he wanted to look into the back of the van, and then began to lumber round in a circle, turning the van on one wheel like a pivot.
"Here—stop it, you beast!" shouted Tinker. "Go straight, can't you?"
He shook the reins and gave a gentle touch-up with the whip. The horse went a trifle faster, but still round in a circle.
"What's the brute doing this for?" Tinker demanded, when the circular progress brought him opposite the red-faced man, who was grinning. "Stop him, can't you? The beast is making me giddy!"
"Is only 'is high spirit!" said the ostler, "He's a 'igh-minded bit o' blood, he is! 'Ere, kim up, Punch!"
He seized the animal by a curious tuft of hair under his lower lip, like a goat's beard, and by this led, or, rather, pulled, him across the yard and out into the road. Out there Punch began to make a roundabout of the van again, but the ostler, still holding him by that handy tuft of hair, forced him round the other way several times rapidly, and then brought him to a standstill, wobbling between the shafts with giddiness.
"There. that'll do 'im!" he remarked, with an air of immense satisfaction. "Now yer know wot to do when he comes that 'ere bit o' playfulness agen. Just screw 'im back'ards, same as wot I did and he'll go straight as a railway injin arter that!"
"What do you mean by giving me a dotty old beast of a thing like this?" demanded Tinker wrathfully.
"Screw 'im back'ards if he comes it agen. That's the ticket—screw 'im back'ards!" said the ostler. And he walked off, grinning.
"C-k-k-k-k! Get along, you brute!" cried Tinker. And aided by a touch of the whip on his mulberry hide, Punch began to move down the road at a lumbering trot, his head well to starboard the whole time, as though he was leaving a well-loved spot and wanted to keep it in sight as long as possible.
People who passed stared and grinned, but Tinker tried not to mind that. As long as the high-minded horse went at all he pretended to feel happy, and whistled as though his heart was free of care.
The "screwing back'ards" process seemed to be lasting in its effects, for Punch jogged steadily on. His pace was never wild and thrilling, but he kept up a steady three-miles-and-a-bit per hour, and there was no trouble about getting him to stand still and wait outside houses while - Tinker called to collect the linen. He would have stood still for hours and hours if Tinker had let him.
In this manner Tinker got over most of his round; all going well, if, with dreamy slowness.
"I suppose it'll do all right if we get back before they forget me who knew me in my youth!" groaned Tinker. "Ah, get on a bit faster, you mouldy old hornless cow! Ah, would you?"
The high-minded one had done pretty well so long as they were on the roads with houses or fences or hedgerows on each side. But they now came to a place where four roads met, with a space in the middle. One of these roads was the main road to Kingston and Hampton Court. There were electric trams upon it, and a good deal of mixed traffic besides.
Punch chose this place for a fresh attack of his playfulness. He stopped suddenly in the middle of the round space where the roads met, as if some recollection of a forgotten duty entered his lofty mind. Then he starboarded his head, and, in spite of Tinker's shout and a cut of the whip, began to circle round and round, with the van on one wheel as in his previous performance.
"Oh, you beast yelled Tinker. "Leave off, will you?"
He jerked the reins and plied the whip. In vain! Punch ignored his very existence, and calmly continued to make a roundabout of himself and the van, blocking the traffic on all four roads like a giant turnstile that had gone wrong in the works.
Two trams were coming, one each way. Both drivers put the brakes down with a suddenness that shook all the passengers up into one end. They were going pretty fast and not expecting an obstruction just there.
Then they set their bells going, and two other trams behind them also pulled up, and their bells began to clang. And more trams fell into line behind them, until there were ten of them each way, and the air was full of bell-music, like the City on a Royal birthday.
Then a motor-car came down the road on the right, pulled up, and "honk-honked" at the rotating obstruction fiercely. Inside of two minutes three more motor-cars stopped behind the others, all swearing at the van with their brass trumpets, whilst the drivers helped with their natural voices to the best of their gifts that way.
All this Punch seemed to take as gentle encouragement, and went round faster, till the tyre smoked on the cobble-stones, and Tinker began to feel seasick.
He would have jumped off, but he was too giddy to risk it. He could only cling to the side of the van and pray that Punch would fall down and die.
Then down the road on the left came a brake full of young ladies out of an East End box factory, on their annual "beano," with a driver full of beer and forcible language. He pulled up the brake so abruptly that the man with the cornet nearly swallowed his instrument and fell backwards among the young ladies behind, whilst the boy on the steps in the rear fell off in the road on his back.
"Now, then; wot's this 'ere?" asked the driver. "Who's a-workin' that 'ere game? Who's driving that bloomin' tee-to-tum?"
"I see 'im!" shrilled one young lady, as Tinker came opposite her line of sight for a moment on his circular tour. It's a boy, an' he's drunk! Look at 'im 'olding on like anythink!"
"Yus; an' he's driving the 'orse round an' round like that 'cos he can't see straight," said another.
They all hung over the sides of the brake, and fired personal remarks in shrill, far-reaching voices at Tinker every time he came round their way. The tram-drivers got down, so did the conductors; most of the male passengers got out, and they all came along—with sundry passers-by—and stood around, at a safe distance, shouting at Tinker all kinds of senseless suggestions, mixed with severe remarks about what ought to be done with him.
But none of them offered to try to catch hold of Punch and stop his amazing gyrations, although everybody said that somebody ought to.
It didn't look easy. For that noble animal, perhaps feeling that he ought to do his best before such a large company, or excited by the noise, broke into an elephantine gallop, and spun the van round like a gigantic peg-top, throwing out his big hoofs on each side of him, so that any rash person who approached him ran the risk of being kicked beyond hope of repairs.
How long Punch could have kept it up, or Tinker clung on, there is no saying. But a policeman came.
Of course a British policeman is expected not to be afraid of anything, and he seldom is! This one proved himself no exception to the high standard of pluck looked for in the Force.
He pushed his way through the crowd, surveyed the strange whirligig in the middle with a calm official eye, then—escaping Punch's shoes by a miracle—got hold of his head-gear somewhere.
The policeman was a heavy man, but Punch took him round three times; then, perhaps feeling tired, stopped suddenly, and would have gone to sleep with his head on the constable's shoulder, only he shook it off, and dragged him and the van to the side of the road, where half a dozen brave men went to hold him while he took a nap between the shafts.
Tinker got down, feeling like a bilious person after a shillingsworth of boat-sailing on a rough day.
The tram men took his name, the policeman took his name, and wanted to take him for wilfully obstructing the traffic, only that a man who had been driving a waggon loaded with cabbages, which was hung up with the rest of the traffic, now pushed his way into the throng.
He took a long look at the high-minded horse—now slumbering peacefully—then slapped himself on his leggings and burst out laughing.
"That the 'orse as was doin' it? Ho, ho!" he roared. "Well, if that don't beat every bloomin' thing I ever heard on! He, he! Oh, lor!"
And he laughed himself to the verge of apoplexy. The crowd—what was left of it, for the trams and the rest of the delayed vehicles had now gone on—laughed also, though nobody knew why. Tinker felt mad.
"Funny, isn't it?" he said, with biting sarcasm.
"Funny ain't the word for it!" roared the cabbage man. "Why, that 'ere 'orse is ole Punch! Him wot turns the chaff-cutting an' turnip mill in Snaffles' yard at Hayles Park! He ain't bin out of the yard, an' ain't done nothink but turn that 'ere mill for comin' on ten year! Fancy ole Jim Snaffles a-letting 'im out for van-work in 'is old age. Ho, ho! He, he! It'll be the death o' me!" And he laughed himself a dark purple.
"You'll be summoned for this," said the policeman, addressing Tinker. "Now get away home with that horse, sharp. And let's have no more of this sort of thing, young man, or you'll get into trouble!"
"Blow it! Do you think I was doing it?" snapped Tinker, "It was the horse—that beast of a horse!"
"Don't let it happen again!" warned the policeman; and he strode off, dispersing the remnant of the crowd as he went.
"Get him back! How am I going to get him back?" groaned Tinker. "The brute's bound to try the same game again when he thinks of it!"
The cabbage man, who was preparing to mount his waggon and drive on, grinned and said:
"O' course he will. It's bin 'is work for nigh on ten year, an' comes like nat'ur to 'im! Tell yer wot, young 'un: I'm a-goin' into Hayles Park, right past the laundry wot you comes from. You hitch ole Punch to the tail o' my waggin an' I'll tow yer in! I dessay the price of a pint won't make no words atween us?"
"Right-ho!" Tinker agreed, with gloomy resignation.
The idea did not seem lovely to him, but it was better than risking another display of Punch's playfulness!
And in that manner they went back to the laundry. Sexton Blake happened to be emerging from the entrance as they arrived. He stood, watching with gathering brows, as Tinker unhitched the tow-rope and paid off the tug-master who had brought them there. Then, as the cabbage-waggon lumbered off, he stepped up to his young assistant and said, in cold, severe tones:
"What piece of folly is this? I am here, and brought you here for a stern purpose, and yet, knowing that, you cannot resist your love of senseless pranks!"
"Oh, my blighted youth!" groaned Tinker. "If this isn't the last, last straw!"
He explained. Blake's features relaxed, and his eyes twinkled.
"Very well," he said. "It is unfortunate, but it cannot be helped. Take the van and that, that amazing horse into the yard. I will go and see Snaffles!"
Which he did at once. Mr. Snaffles was inclined to take the high-hand at first, but after Sexton Blake had put in his views of the matter the job-master climbed down.
He explained that there had been a run on his stud that week, and old Punch was the only horse left. He agreed to pay any fine if Tinker was summoned, and to supply another horse, which, if less high-minded, was more reliable in its habits on the road.
THE new manager at the Meadowsweet Laundry, before he had been there many days, contrived to make his presence felt in one way and another. He showed that if he wasn't well up in laundry work he knew all about how to manage the workers.
Things had got a bit lax of late. The hands had seen that there was friction between the young mistress and her manager, and they were not slow to take advantage of the fact, or try to.
In the first few days after Graham was dismissed affairs got rather worse. For Bella, true to her idea that she could work the department alone, governed, or tried to govern, like a Sultana of the East, with the power of life and death.
Naturally the hands—all free-born Britons—didn't like it; especially the half-dozen men whom the Meadowsweet employed. They strongly resented being ordered about by a girl, though they were not above taking her wages.
Chronic slackness broke out among them all, and when Bella rated them—which she did with a sharp tongue—the women "answered her back," and the men grinned, or were openly insolent.
Sexton Blake saw all this, but he would not interfere until asked; and Bella, although growing rather frightened, was too proud to seek his aid.
But the climax came, and she had to.
One morning, about noon, she paid a surprise visit to the workrooms, and got a surprise herself. The steam washing and wringing machines were still and silent. The lady "finishers" were also still. But they were not silent, for they were sitting around enjoying a restful gossip, whilst the ironing girls were having a waltz at the other end of the room, to music provided by the youngest on a back-comb and a bit of wrapping-paper.
Bella's entry put an end to the dance, but the girls did not appear very scared. Some giggled, and all looked defiant; so did the elder ladies of the rinsing-tub and scrubbing-board. They left off their chat, but none made any pretence of resuming work.
Bella surveyed them with eyes that flashed forked lightnings.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, in the tone of an island queen, with the royal bodyguard at her back, and the domestic headsman within call. "Why are you not at work?"
"Because the steam's off, and we haven't anythin' to go on with!" answered a self-appointed spokeswoman pertly.
"The steam off—why?"
"Dunno! That's not our business, miss," was the answer. "Steam injins ain't in our line, so you can't say nothin' to us!"
Bella looked as though she could say a great deal if she began to speak her mind. But she pursed her lips and swept from the room in majestic silence, and went direct to the
engine-house. She found the engine in a state of Sunday repose. She had prepared something to say to the engineer, but he was not visible.
It afterwards transpired that he had been there that morning, but had left again—taking with him a supply of the laundry wrapping twine—to string his scarlet-runners, which were leaping up after a nice drop of rain overnight, and required that attention immediately. He was thoughtful enough to start the engine before he went, and left it in charge of the stoker.
Not finding the engineer, Bella gathered her skirts tightly around her, and went into the stoke-hole.
There another surprise awaited her.
The fire had gone out, but the stoker hadn't. He was there, lying on a couple of sacks of shavings, soundly slumbering.
By his side was a quart beer-can, blazoned with the name: "Hayles Park Hotel." It was empty, but had not been long so, for a lace of froth still clung to its brim.
Bella shudderingly prodded him with the toe of her shoe.
The stoker woke up, sat up and looked at her with a leaden eye. Bella explained her views of his conduct in scathing terms.
The man had woke up with a headache, and was in an aggressive mood. He rose to his feet unsteadily and-ordered Bella out of the place!
"You ain't got no right ter come pokin' yer nose in 'ere," he said thickly. "Me an' the engineer don't want any lookin' arter by you. Go and look arter yer wimmin an' girls. That's your place. You didn't ought ever to come in 'ere!"
He waved his grimy hand towards the door.
Bella stared at him in indignant amazement. He repeated his order in coarser language, and actually made a threatening movement towards her. She told him he was discharged, and was to leave the place instantly—instantly! He laughed in her face, and again ordered her to clear out—this time with an oath!
Bella's pluck was about equal to her pride; that is to say, she had plenty of both. But her pride had received a shock, and her pluck began to wobble. Her single-handed command didn't seem to work as it should.
She left the place and went across to the office. With reddened cheeks and blazing eyes she told the new manager all about it.
"You wish me to deal with this man, Miss Coombes?" asked Sexton Blake.
"Yes!"
"And have I your full authority to deal with him, and with the other men if necessary—with all the hands, in fact—exactly after my own fashion?"
Bella thought for a moment, pride struggling with defeat.
"Er—yes," she said.
"Very good!" said Blake, taking off his coat and placing it neatly on the back of his chair. "May I suggest that you retire home for, say, an hour? I anticipate no great difficulty in arranging this little matter, but there might be some roughness unpleasant for a lady to witness."
Bella looked at him curiously. What a calm sort of a man he was!
"Yes, I think I will," she said. "But—but—you might be hurt, Mr. Meston. The other men may interfere. Had we not better send for the police?"
"Quite unnecessary,' said Blake, smiling. "Allow me."
He opened the office door and bowed her out. He watched her until she had left the laundry, then walked across the yard to the engine-house. Tinker, who had come back from a round, and was unloading his van, looked at him with an inquiring eye.
The shirt-sleeves, and a certain square set of the detective's jaw, indicated a lot to Tinker. It meant business when Sexton Blake looked like that!
"Something's up! Guv'nor's out for scalps!" he murmured, with the bright, warm hope that there was going to be a fight, and that the guv'nor would give him the tip to come and help. For Tinker had done nothing but drive a van for three whole days, and he felt himself running to seed and stiffness.
But without giving him any sign Blake passed on to the engine-house door.
Quite a little crowd had gathered there. The engineer had come back, having finished his bit of gardening. He brought with him Mr. Jerry Slymes, who came to borrow a few tools—his own being in pawn—in case he had an attack of work come on suddenly. Also the few men who should have been at work out in the drying-grounds at the back of the laundry, where they had business, were gathered just inside the engine-house, where they hadn't any business at all.
A knot of the women and girls stood near, and others were grouped in the doorways of their workrooms, or hung half out of the windows, listening.
The stoker had the floor of the house, so to speak, and he was making the most of it.
"'You clear out,' I says. 'This ain't no place for girls and wimmin to come pokin' their noses in,' I says. 'You clear out!' And out she goes, meek as a lamb! That's the only way. Take the 'igh-'and with 'em!"
Some applause—from the men—greeted this speech, and
"Didn't think you'd got it in yer, mate, seein' the way yer ole woman keeps yer under at home," said the engineer. "But you done right, Bill! You done proper!"
"He acted like a blackguard, and in consequence will leave this place at once!"
Sexton Blake backed his words by seizing the stoker's shoulder and pulling him out of the group. Startled, the men stared at the athletic gentleman in shirt-sleeves who thus suddenly dropped in upon them. Then they glared— especially the engineer, who was a big fellow of the truculent sort.
"'Ere, don't yer lay yer 'ands on me!" cried the stoker, frightened at first, then remembering that he had five others to back him, to say nothing of Jerry Slymes.
"Look 'ere, mister, you can't sack a man that way. He's got to 'ave doo notice," said the engineer.
"Yes: that's the law! He's got to have fair an' doo notice, or compensation in cash, That's the law, and yer can't get around it!" announced Jerry Slymes, who couldn't for the life of him resist having his say, being a friend of the working-man—although no friend of work—and great on all labour questions.
"Here!" The new manager swung round upon him suddenly. "You do not belong to this laundry. Clear out!"
"Stop where you are, Jerry!" said the engineer. "You came 'ere as a friend o' mine, an' yer needn't go till I tells yer. What this 'ere noo party out of the offis says don't go for anythin' this side o' the yard. I'm master 'ere!"
He looked round for approval, and got it.
The men nodded their agreement with these views. One of the girls cried: "Bravo, Jim Spanner!" and some of the women cheered also. Jerry Slymes smirked, and began to think up a speech on the Rights of Labour.
It was a critical moment for the new manager. The least show of weakness, and he was a beaten man!
BUT Sexton Blake was not in the way of showing weakness or indecision at any time, His methods were of the prompt, sharp, and strong order—the kind that generally pays when things look critical.
"Open that gate, my lad!" he called out to Tinker, who promptly obeyed him, grinning.
"Now, then, you are not wanted here! Clear out!" Blake addressed Jerry Slymes, and pointed to the gate.
"Stay where yer are, mate. He ain't got any rights ter order yer about!" said the engineer.
"'Ere I am, and 'ere I stay!" cried Jerry, smiting his breast with one dirty hand while he waved the other in the air "I'd rather perish on this spot than yield a hinch—Oh!"
He broke off with a yell of alarm.
Blake, by a sudden movement, got him firmly by the slack of his garments at the back. Then he ran him across the yard at a quicker rate than his long, bony legs had probably moved for years, and finished up by firing him through the gate out into the road.
The men, when they got over their surprise at the quickness of the thing, scowled; but the girls and women, who had been thinking of cheering Jerry's speech, laughed instead. Something about this new manager rather took their fancy. He seemed to be a man, a real live man. And he was such lots better looking than old Jerry Slymes!
After this little exertion Blake came back to deal with the stoker, who still remained there a bit frightened, perhaps, but looking defiant.
Blake hoped that he would go without needing Jerry Blymes' treatment, for he was a smallish, weedy-looking sort of man, and the detective shrank from handling him roughly. Tinker may have guessed this, for he drew a little nearer, having quietly shed his jacket and dropped it in the van.
"I told you to leave this place," said Blake, addressing the man sharply. "Are you going, or—"
"No, I ain't goin'!" declared the stoker, with an eye on his mates for support, if needed.
"That's right! Don't be a trodden worm!" shouted Jerry Slymes, sticking his head and half his long body through the gateway, but not venturing farther in. "Don't stir! First perish where you stand!"
"I ain't goin'!" declared the stoker again, with noble defiance.
"Your mistake, Cinders. We can't let you do any perishing in our front yard," murmured Tinker. "This way for the swings!"
He made a sudden dart into the crowd, caught the stoker round the middle, slung him over his shoulder, and trotted across the yard with him, like a porter at the meat market with a side of beef, only quicker. In fact, he made such a sharp run of it that Jerry Slymes, still in the gateway, hadn't time to dodge back, and the stoker's head, which was foremost, took him in the face, seriously damaging the beauty of his long, classic nose, and bowling him over into the roadway.
Out of kindness to the stoker, Tinker dropped him on top of Jerry, and then went back, closing the gate.
The big engineer was facing Sexton Blake with a menacing glare. The other men stood by, also scowling. The women and girls looked on in silence. Jim Spanner was a noted "tough," a hard nut to crack, and they were rather curious to see how the new manager would deal with him.
If they had betted, the odds would have been heavy against "Mr. Meston" coming out top dog.
"Comin' the 'igh-'and pretty well for yer fust week at yer, job, ain't yer, Mr. blinkin' noo manager?" said the engineer, thrusting his heavy, square jaw close into Blake's face. "Any more of us you'd like to sack whilst you're got yer 'and in?"
"One more—you!" was Blake's prompt reply. "But for you this trouble would not have come about. You left your work without permission, and you shall not return to it in your own fancy time. We don't want men of your sort here. You are discharged. Go at once."
The engineer laughed.
"Ho, so I'm sacked, too, am I? Very good, mister. An' wot about these men 'ere? Make a clean sweep of the whole lot-of us whilst yer at it!"
"The other men may stay, provided they return to their work at once," said Blake.
"Then don't!" shouted Jerry Slymes, who had picked himself up, and was now at the gate again, with the stoker.
"Now's yer hopportunity!" he shouted, climbing up, and showing his swollen nose over the top of the gate. "Combine, an' show yer power. Come out on strike, all of yer as one man, including the females! Demand that these two men is took back afore you'll touch another stroke o' work! That'll bring this hupstart jack-in-office to his knees; that'll bring him to terms. 'Cos he can't do without 'ands, an' he dare not let the work stand still for more'n 'alf a day. It's 'im as would get the sack, then! Strike, my brothers, strike!"
He had lots more to say, but his speech finished abruptly, because, with a flourish of his long arm, he hit the stoker, who had climbed up beside him, in the eye, and the stoker, losing his balance, grabbed Jerry, and they both fell off the gate together.
But he had said enough to produce an effect.
"You hear wot he says?" cried the engineer. "An' now yer know yer dooty. Two of us 'ave been sacked for nothin', just so as this noo manager can show off before Miss Coombes. Are yer goin' to stand it, or are yer goin' to strike, an' learn 'im a lesson once for all?"
There was a pause. The few men talked together. Then one of them turned to Blake, and said: "Will you take these two men back?"
"Not on any terms,"' was Blake's reply.
"Then we'll strike!" declared the spokesman. "Take them two men back, or out we go, the whole lot of us! Eh, mates?"
The three other men nodded their approval. Jerry Slymes shouted "Brav-vo!" from the gate, and would have got up again, and begun another speech, only he had to stay down, and try to convince the stoker, who had turned nasty about that bang in the eye, that it was all an accident. Some of the younger women cheered the last speaker, and a girl shrilly called out:
"Let's back the men! Let's all strike!"
Some cheering greeted the proposal, and then they broke up into groups, and began to discuss it noisily. The girls were all in favour of the idea; it looked like a holiday to them. But the elder women were not so keen upon it. Some of them had been through strike times when their men-folk had turned out, and they remembered what sort of a "holiday" it was.
Sexton Blake's reply was addressed to the man who had last spoken, but it could be heard all over the yard.
"As you choose," he said; "but remember—those who leave work now of their own choice shall never return here again while I am manager."
The engineer burst into a loud guffaw.
"Come on, mates!" he cried. "He'll be glad enough to fetch us back afore the week's out!"
And the five of them marched towards the gate; but on reaching it they stopped, and the engineer said something to the others in a low tone. After some hesitation they seemed to nod their approval, and he came back towards the engine-house. But Sexton Blake got there first with a few quick strides, and stood in the doorway.
"What do you want in here?' he asked, as the man came up.
"Left my tea-can in there," said the engineer, with a grin.
Blake felt pretty sure this was a lie, and that the fellow's intention was to put the engine out of gear before he left, so that it could not be restarted without long delay. He did not mean to give him the chance.
"You are not going in there," he said. "Get outside the gate! If your can is here it shall be passed out to you."
"That won't do for me, my buck," said the engineer. "I'm goin' to get it myself. Just clear out of the way, will you?"
He attempted to push past, giving Blake a violent shove with his shoulder. By way of response the detective's arm shot out, and down went the fellow all of a heap three yards away.
"O-oh!" in shrill cries from the women.
There was a stir among the men at the gate, and Tinker got ready to go to the "guv'nor's" aid in case of a rush; but they thought better of it, and remained where they were. Not one of them seemed to care about trying his luck with the man in the doorway after they had seen how big Jim Spanner had fared, and they were a bit too British for a combined attack, four to one.
The engineer picked himself up, and walked unsteadily to the gate. He turned there, and shook his fist at Blake across the yard.
"I'll remember this!" he shouted hoarsely. "Oh, yes! An' so will you!"
With this parting threat he followed the others through the gate, and, joined by Jerry Slymes and the stoker, they all went down the road to the Hayles Park Hotel, to seek refreshment and discuss their wrongs.
The women looked towards the gate, but seemed to hesitate, although all had come out the building, and many had put on their hats and jackets.
Blake turned their way as if about to address them, but Tinker, who was at his side, hurriedly whispered:
"No, guv'nor, let me say a word to 'em! They'll listen to me, because I can talk to 'em—being only a boy—in a chippy way, which wouldn't be dignified for you. Just let me try, sir!"
"Very well," said Blake. And he walked a little way off, concealing a smile.
"Tinker picked up an empty bucket, and strolled across the yard to where the women and girls were grouped together, till debating whether they should declare a general strike and follow the men.
They left off talking, to watch him curiously. Tinker had winning ways, and had made himself a bit of a favourite with most of them already, even in the short time he had been at the laundry.
He put the bucket upside down upon the ground. Then he mounted on it, and, removing his cap, made a sweeping bow to right and left.
"Dears, one and all," he said, "listen to a word of wisdom from your old family friend."
The girls laughed, and the younger ones made faces at him. One of the youngest threw a bit of wet marzipan at him, and hit him on the nose.
But it took a lot more than trifles like these to put Tinker off his stroke. He grinned, and went on calmly:
"Women of England—and girls, for I mean to embrace every one of you! You were thinking of doing a silly thing. Give it another think, and I know you won't do it. Why should you strike because a couple of wasters who shirked their job and lost you half a day's work and half a day's money got the sack? Think about pay-time coming round on Saturday, and no pay to draw! There's Mrs: Parker at the back. She doesn't look very gay about it, and I don't wonder. A strike wouldn't be any kind of lark to her. She's a widow with four youngsters to feed, and you bet they'll get just as hungry three times a day, strike or no strike, and it won't fill their little tummies to tell 'em it's all for honour and glory and Jim Spanner!
"And Mrs. Parker isn't the only one among you elder ladies who's more afraid of an empty cupboard for others than for herself!"
A silence showed that Tinker had scored a point. He paused to let it take effect, then went on in lighter vein:
"And then you girls! Some say that good looks and sound sense seldom go together. I never believed it. But if the Meadowsweet girls go out on strike, I shall have to in future. For although I've knocked about the world more than a bit for a young man of my age, and seen heaps and heaps of lovely girls, I never saw so many bunched together till I came here—honest!"
"Oh, can't he come the blarney!" said one girl. "He's looking straight at you, Liz!" This to one of the plainest a red-headed girl, whose face might have been her fortune if she had let it out on hire to comic artists.
But Tinker saw he had scored another hit, and hurried on to a finish.
"But you won't strike! he cried. "You may be good-looking—you can't help that—but you're not downright silly! It might be fun to walk about with nothing to do all the week; but what about when Saturday night comes? Not the price of a yard of four-three ribbon or a threepenny seat at the pictures among the lot of you!" He dropped into a plaintive key. "Ah, where will the fun be then? When I think of it I could weep—weep this pail full of salt, sad tears!"
He descended, picked up the bucket, and walked solemnly away.
It was a curious sort of speech, but it did what the most flowery oration might have failed to do—it went home. A few of the girls laughed, but not many, and none of the elder women. They talked together for some minutes, then one who acted as spokeswoman came up to Sexton Blake, and said:
"If we're willing' to go back to work, what about the machinery, sir?"
"It shall be going in twenty minutes," was Blake's reply.
And it was. For Tinker acted as stoker, and Blake—not for the first time—as engineer. The machinery once started, Tinker was able to manage it for the rest of that day, and by the next, six fresh men—got by wiring a labour agency in town—arrived to replace those who had gone.
Thus an awkward corner was rounded, and the Meadowsweet Laundry went on smoothly again.
THINGS went a bit too smoothly to please Tinker, who was not partial to a quiet life if it lasted more than a day or two. He did his work, and did it well; but he did not love it. It was too humdrum for him.
He cherished a secret hope that the engineer and the stoker who had been discharged, and the four men who had struck, when they got wind that the new manager had replaced the lot of them, would come down, and try to make trouble, perhaps, with luck, it might lead to a general fight between the new men and the old, with solo parts for the guv'nor and himself.
But this hope was blighted.
The men came, it is true. On the second day after the strike, they all turned up—the engineer, the stoker, and the four strikers, with Jerry Slymes as leader and spokesman—and they hung about outside the gate, and tried to picket the new hands as they came out at the dinner-hour.
But to Tinker's disgust, it all ended in a sort of fizzle, because Sexton Blake, who had foreseen trouble, and did not mean to have his new men roughly handled, 'phoned for the police. And when Jim Spanner, finding "peaceful picketing" no good, became violent, and struck one of the new hands, Blake gave him in charge.
The others then made off, and so the affair ended. In fact, to drop into figurative language, the good ship Meadowsweet had, under the new pilot—Sexton Blake—come safely through a dangerous bit of shoal water in rough weather, and after that all was plain sailing and fair wind—for a time, at least.
But Miss Bella, if she felt any gratitude, kept it well concealed. Her attitude towards the new manager was cold and distant. She might have been jealous of the calm, strong man, who gave his orders in a quiet, pleasant tone, and always got them carried out exactly, which was seldom the case with her own imperious commands.
But if "Mr. Meston" could not win his way into Bella's good books—and perhaps he didn't try very hard—it was entirely different with Mrs. Coombes.
The old lady took a strong liking to Blake from the very first. She was a bright, intelligent woman, who felt herself rather shut off from life in that dull corner, and the coming of a man like Sexton Blake was a rare treat to her. She loved to get him to drop in of an evening, and talk about the great world, of which he had seen so much, and she so little.
Blake was surprised to find that Jonathan Bullman often visited the house.
He spoke of this to Mrs. Coombes one evening, when he and the old lady were alone together in the parlour. For Bullman had just come, and was with Bella in the garden.
"Yes," said the old lady, with a sigh; "he is often here now. He invited himself; at least, I never ask him, for I do not like the man!"
"Miss Bella does not appear to share your dislike," remarked Blake, who, through the open window, could see the ill-assorted couple pacing the little lawn side by side, and seemingly on the very best of terms. "I confess I am rather surprised, for Mr. Bullman, to say the least of him, is not a pleasant sort of man—rough and coarse, and inclined to be brutal. And he must be more than twice her age. She cannot really like the man."
"Not a bit, I believe," said Mrs. Coombes. "It is only her perverseness. She does it just to spite poor Sidney Graham, who warned her against the man."
"But why should she wish to spite Mr. Graham? Does she dislike him?" asked the detective. "It struck me that he was decidedly in love with her!" he added, with a smile.
"He is, poor fellow!' said Mrs. Coombes. "And I am certain that she cares for him. But Bella's so frightfully jealous! That's the cause of it all—jealousy! But I will tell you.
"It is all about a young girl who used to work at the laundry. She was certainly very pretty, but I don't think that Sidney Graham ever noticed her looks. If he did he probably thought her quite plain when compared with Bella. And I don't believe he ever said a word to the girl which was more than civil and pleasant.
"But the girl had a lovely voice—I never heard a sweeter. She used to sing at her work. The girls and women often asked her to, and I think they worked all the better for it. And I think Bella didn't dislike it, until one day she saw Sidney standing at the door of his office, listening, and he remarked to her afterwards how beautifully the girl sang.
"Next time Bella heard the girl singing she went into the workroom and told her to stop. She would not allow that noise! But the girl forgot, or the others persuaded her, for a day or two later she sang again. Bella went straight in, and dismissed her at a moment's notice!"
"Rather harsh!" commented Blake.
"It was jealousy, nothing else. Well, sir, the girl—who was a very good girl indeed—went to Mr. Graham, crying, and begged him to ask Miss Bella to let her stay on, because she had an invalid mother to keep out of her earnings, which was true. Sidney saw Bella, and pleaded for the girl. But Bella only grew harder for that, and sent the girl off at once. Then Sidney spoke his mind, and said that he thought she was harsh and unjust to the girl. And it was that that did the mischief. Bella's jealousy made her believe that he only championed the girl because she was pretty. But that had nothing to do with it, I'm sure."
"Probably not," said Blake. "So that was the cause of her coolness towards Graham?"
"Nothing but that, sir," said Mrs. Coombes. "But I think 'coolness' is hardly the right word. Bella seemed to turn round and almost hate Sidney from that day. Her way towards him must have made him so wretched that it's a wonder he stayed on as long. Then the accounts went wrong, as you know, and there was a lot of mischief over that. Though I don't believe he ever tampered with the money!"
"Nor do I,"' agreed Blake. "Perhaps some day we shall set at the truth of that, for I am certain Bullman's charge against him was false!"
"I am glad to hear you say that," cried the old lady, "because I've known Sidney Graham since he was a boy, and I know him to be honest and good. Ah me!" she sighed. "I wish he had not been driven away from here! What will become of him? I wonder where he is now?" Sexton Blake could have enlightened her, but the time for that had not yet come.
His coming to the Meadowsweet Laundry was part of a deep-laid plot, and that plan he pushed forward, in his own secret but certain manner, bit by bit, day by day.
In that plan he had a use for Sidney Graham. He had not lost touch with him, nor did he mean to.
His scheme might succeed, or it might fail in the end utterly, though Sexton Blake had never known failure yet. Time alone could show, and, meanwhile, he was content to do the drudgery of a laundry office—he, the greatest detective in Europe, as though he had no other ambition in life than to earn the small salary, and keep his job.
But if Blake was content, Tinker wasn't. He felt himself slowly rusting in that humdrum life, and longed for something to happen—anything, so long as it was exciting!
Then one day, or, rather, one evening, something did happen, and he got all the excitement he wanted, and perhaps a bit more than he really cared for!
For it was an adventure that brought him near to death!
TINKER had forgotten all about Carroty Alf, who, as perhaps the reader may remember, was the red-headed youth discharged from the laundry for dishonesty, and whose place Tinker now filled. But Carroty Alf had by no means forgotten him.
Alf was a vindictive young ruffian, and he chose to think that the new boy had done him out of his job, which, of course, was false and absurd. For that, and being dumped into the mud under the horse-trough by Tinker, he cherished a bitter spite, and swore revenge.
But he had no intention of tackling the new boy single-handed. He was too cowardly to try it, although the bigger of the two.
He had a safer plan, and called in the aid of three other lads of much the same stamp as himself—young hooligans, game for any sort of lark, however brutal, so long as there was no great risk of getting hurt themselves.
A council of these choice spirits was held upon it, and the favourite idea was to waylay the new boy one dark night, and "bash" him till he bought them off with all the money he might have about him.
The suggestion was sweetly simple, but it was rejected by Carroty Alf.
"No. It ain't safe!" he said. "If he was 'urt bad we might get lagged for it. An' I've got a better plan! You know I was potboy at Bullman's pub afore I worked at the laundry?"
The others nodded.
"Well, down the side of the pub there's a trap into the cellar wot we used to pass the empties out of. It ain't kep' fastened, because there's nothin' down there worth takin' care of. But we can fasten it on the outside when—"
"When what?" asked one of the others, as Alf left off to indulge in a chuckle.
"When we've nabbed our man, an' shoved him down there," resumed the country youth, grinning at his own clever idea. "That's the game, see? We wait for him when he's goin' 'ome up Elm Lane one night when it's dark. Two of us drop a sack over his head, whilst the others hold his legs an' bind 'em!"
"Well, an' wot then? Ain't we to bash him a bit for luck?"
"No; it ain't safe, I tell yer. We just trot him along, an' drop him through that trap, an' fasten-him in. He's sure to kick up a row arter he's worked the sack off an' when he finds he can't get out of the place. An' Bullman'll hear him, an' come an' find him there. An' he'll give the chap a worse bashin' than ever we dare. 'Cos he's got a spite agin the chap for saucin' him in the row t'other day outside his place. Bullman won't mind 'urting him—oh, no! Bully wheeze, ain't it, mates?"
The other young ruffians agreed that the plan looked promising, and then the details were arranged.
But they had to wait a night or two before their chance came, because the long summer evenings were light, and Tinker usually went home before it was dark. He had a room at a cottage up at the far end of Elm Lane, which opened from the main road at the side of the Hayles Park Hotel.
The lane had but a few scattered houses in it, and was, for the most part, arched over with big elm trees, and was very dark, an ideal place for Carroty Alf's little ambuscade.
A spy or two belonging to the gang kept a watch on Tinker's movements, and on the third night luck favoured them. Tinker was detained late at the laundry, and it was quite dark, a lowering, cloudy night, when he started for home.
A spy brought in the report, and the gang, who kept themselves ready, hurried to the lane, and took up a snug position behind a large elm trunk, which their victim was bound to pass. They were four in number, big, hulking fellows, each of them a match for Tinker, in weight at least. But they were taking no chances of a fight. Carroty Alf had everything ready—the sack, a large strong one of the thick, woolly variety, and a length of clothes-line.
Tinker was taken like a bird in the fowler's net.
It could not be otherwise, for he had no warning of the plot, and was suspecting no danger on his homeward walk. He came along with his hands in his jacket pockets, whistling cheerily as he went, and the thing was done before he had the least chance to resist.
The thick sack, skilfully thrown over his head and drawn down nearly to his knees, effectually stifled his startled cry, not that there was anyone likely to hear and come to his aid. Then the rope was quickly wound around him and securely knotted, making him a mere helpless bundle.
It was a very neat bit of work, and Carroty Alf was naturally proud of it. But the gang kept silent, not wishing to be afterwards identified by their voices.
They lifted the helpless lad between them, and carried him down the lane towards the rear of the tavern.
All their work was easy, and they ran very little risk of being seen. They had no need to go near the main road, for the cellar-trap Alf had spoken of was in that wall of the tavern, which abutted on to the lane. The trap was a small affair in the wall itself, at the bottom, level with the ground. It had a heavy wooden shutter, which opened upwards. As Alf asserted, it was not fastened, but there were two staples in the brickwork, and a stout iron bar, that could be put across it when open, to save the unwary from falling in.
Two of the young hooligans raised the trap and held it open, whilst the others slid Tinker in, feet foremost, and then let him drop into the darkness below. Then Alf shut the trap and fixed the bar across it.
"He won't get out that way, even if he can get the sack off!" chuckled the young ruffian. "An' then he'll git 'ollering and banging at the cellar-door, an' old Bullman'll hear him, an' come an' find him. An' then— Ho my heye! I wouldn't be him for a quart-pot full o' quids!"
And they sneaked off, to separate and go their several ways. Excepting Carroty Alf, not one of them had any spite against the strange boy; they did not even know him by sight. They merely joined Alf by way of a lark. It was their idea of "fun."
But it was a cruel sort of fun for the victim!
The thick, dirty sack almost suffocated Tinker. He soon gave up trying to shout, for every time he opened his mouth he drew in a quantity of choking dust—the sack was an old cement bag. The many turns of rope about his body and limbs made useless any attempt to struggle free. His fighting soul raged within him, but he was powerless.
Who were his assailants he could not even guess, nor whither they were taking him. He felt himself borne helplessly along, then came the drop into the cellar—a shock that jarred every bone in his body, for it was no slight depth, and the stone floor was cruelly hard.
But it had one good effect. The shock of his fall burst a seam of the sack, and he could breath again.
He managed to get his head through the rent, but he could see nothing, for all was dark. The caution of long habit and training kept him silent. He would not call out, or make any noise until he had some idea of where he was. He might be still in the hands of his enemies.
A damp, musty odour told him that he was in some sort of vault or cellar.
Having his head free was a great help. He began to wriggle, and by keeping at it managed to work the turns of rope down, bit by bit, until he released his arms.
The rest was easy. He rapidly untied the knots about his ankles, threw off the sack and rose to his feet; rather stiff, but otherwise not much the worse for his rough handling.
Fortunately he had a box of matches in his pocket, and was not long in striking one to have a look about him.
He was in a brick cellar, with a vaulted roof. It was only a small place, but an arched opening on one side appeared to lead into another of greater size.
Some crates of empty beer-bottles and sundry casks made him guess headily that he was in the cellar of a tavern, and the words "Hayles Park Hotel," branded on the wooden crates, told him with unpleasant distinctness what tavern it was.
It was Bullman, then, who had caused him to be captured and brought there.
Why, and for what purpose, he could not guess. It seemed strange lengths for a man to carry his spite against a boy.
Anyhow, he knew now that he was in very dangerous quarters, and the sooner he got out the better.
TINKER'S first match burnt out, but a second one showed him the trap in the wall, and he guessed at ones that he had been pushed into the cellar through it—hence the heavy fall.
"And that's the way I'll get out again," he swiftly decided; "for the other way, through the arch over there, most likely leads up into the house. And that means running into Bullman's arms, which I don't fancy, if I can help it."
There was a short wooden ladder under the trap. He mounted this and pushed at the heavy shutter, only to find that it resisted his utmost strength, although he could discover no sort of bolt or fastening on the inner side. But he had passed that trap often in his daily journeys up and down the lane, and had seen the heavy bar on the outside. If that was fixed in its staples, as he guessed it was, he knew that no effort of his could shift that shutter.
He gave it up and descended to the floor.
"Barred in that way," he muttered. "And a pound, to a penny I shall find the door of that outer cellar locked, too. I'm a prisoner, that's about the truth of it. Though what Bullman has done it for licks me."
For he still believed that the publican had brought about his capture.
He knew nothing as yet of Blake's real purpose in coming to Hayles Park, for the great detective had not yet taken him into his confidence. Perhaps because his secret was a dangerous one for the boy to share too soon, as if might imperil his safety.
But Tinker had soon guessed that his great master had some far deeper object in view than just to get the affairs of the laundry out of a tangle.
By a sort of instinct Tinker connected Blake's real motive with Bullman, the publican. Bullman was the enemy.
Had the man got some clue to his and Blake's real identity? Had he captured him with the hope of wresting some secret from him? Or perhaps to get him out of the way whilst he carried out some plot against Blake himself?
These thoughts flashed through the boy's brain in rapid succession, and the last—that Sexton Blake might be in peril—roused him to instant longing to escape, and be by his side when that peril came.
But how, how?
There was no other exit from the place in which he stood but through that arch. He made his way towards it, and passed—as he had expected—into a larger cellar; evidently the main vault of the tavern, for round it were ranged great barrels of beer, with a complicated tangle of pipes leading up through the floor above.
But these did not interest Tinker.
What did was a glimpse he caught, before another cautiously struck match burnt out, of a flight of wooden steps leading up to a trapdoor at the farther side of the vault.
He was about to move towards the steps when certain sounds above made him pause, listening.
He heard various voices shouting "Good-nights!" noisily, with the shuffling of feet, soon dying away in the distance.
Then came a heavy tread passing to and fro over the boards above his head; then the banging of doors and the rattle of bolts.
This startled him at first, until he recalled how late it had been when his capture took place—nearly eleven o'clock. The tavern, of course, was closing, and the heavy tread was that of Bullman himself, going round and barring up for the night.
"And now that the place is clear he will come down to interview me," muttered the boy. "Nice, lively look-out! Caught like a rat in a trap, and at the mercy of that big brute."
Expecting every moment to hear Bullman's tread approaching the trapdoor, the plucky boy struck another match and looked around for something that might serve as a weapon. For his intention was to show fight, and try a dash for liberty.
He guessed that Bullman would be alone.
By Blake's orders he had found out something of the internal economy of the tavern soon after his arrival at Hayles Park. 'The "Hotel" was such in name only, for no guests were even accommodated there. It was nothing more than a common public-house, and Bullman—perhaps for reasons best known to himself—lived there alone, his one barman and the potboy having lodgings elsewhere.
After some searching Tinker found a heavy mallet, such as is used for broaching casks. With this in hand he crouched under the flight of steps, waiting.
But all sounds of movement above died away. He heard the heavy footsteps no longer.
"Perhaps he's gone to have his supper before he comes to amuse himself with me," thought Tinker. "Reckons I'm quite secure, and he needn't hurry. But we'll see, we'll see!"
He mounted the steps and cautiously tried the trapdoor. Much to his surprise—for he fully expected to find it fastened on the upper side—it yielded with no greater resistance than its own weight. He carefully raised it high enough to peer through and saw, by the light of the night sky through a skylight above, that it opened into a small room, the walls of which were lined with bins of bottles, and crates of the same stood about the floor.
It struck Tinker as rather odd that Bullman, after taking the trouble to make him prisoner, should have left the, trapdoor unfastened; but he was in no mood to linger and bother his brains about that. He was free so far. The next thing was to get out of the house.
He rose through the trapdoor and then gently lowered it back into its place.
The skylight offered no chance at all—it was far beyond his reach. But the door of the room was merely latched, and, Tinker, opening it with a cautious hand, looked out. It opened into a narrow passage, which he guessed at once to be the private way into the house. A single gas-jet, turned very low, showed several doors on either side, and at one end, what he took to be the door leading into the street. The other end of the passage was in shadow, and he could not tell what might be there.
But there was no sign of anyone about, and by the absence of sound the house might have been deserted.
"Another bit of luck!" he ejaculated softly. "I'll have that door open in a jiff, and then if Bullman can catch me again he can have me for keeps!"
With noiseless tread he crept down the passage to the street door.
It had a chain across it, and the lower bolt was shot. Avoiding with gentle touch even the rattle of a single link, he removed the heavy chain; then knelt down and began to work at the bolt.
This was a delicate operation, for the bolt was rusty, and—afraid that it might give out a screech, or slip back suddenly with a loud clang—he went about it very cautiously, working it up and down and slowly backwards. He had got the bolt about half-way out of its socket when the crunch of a footstep outside that very door, followed quickly by a loud "rat-tat" upon it, made him start to his feet—his heart giving a sudden leap!
"Oh, hang! Who'd have expected that?" he breathed. "Dash it all! Now I'm bunkered!"
A sound of movement from the regions beyond the dark end of the passage showed that the knock had been heard. Then came a muttered growl in Bullman's deep, hoarse voice:
"Who the deuce is that, coming at this time o' night? Ay, knock away, knock away! I'll knock your head off when I come to yer!"
His heavy tread creaked on the boards at the end of the passage. He swore as the knocker was plied again louder than before. Tinker was in a desperate fix. He had a moment in which to act, but no more.
His first hasty notion was to tear the door open, butt the party outside off the step, and get away by a rush.
But there was no time even for that. The bolt had to be got out, and then the door might be locked.
He quickly dropped the idea as too risky, and, keeping close to the wall on the side deepest in shadow, slipped down the passage; hoping to regain the room he had come from. He might remain there, with luck, till Bullman had disposed of his late caller, and the coast was clear again.
His hand touched the knob of the door. It yielded at a light pressure, and he slid in, drawing the door to. An instant later Bullman strode past!
Tinker drew a deep breath, then looked around him with a start. He had struck the wrong room!
IT was a sort of sitting-room he had dropped into. On a slovenly-set table in the middle were the remains of a meal. It looked like Bullman's own particular den, which he had just left a few minutes before the knocking began—probably to fetch something from the kitchen in the rear. For a pipe lying upon the cloth, with smoke still curling from its bowl, showed that he had not been gone long.
"And he'll come back again directly he has got rid of the party at the door," thought Tinker. "Gee-whizz—I must cut my lucky before then!"
"He threw a swift glance round the room. There was a window—the lower part covered with a dingy curtain. But it was a basement window, protected on the outside by iron bars, closely set.
"No chance that way!" muttered the desperate boy. "But if I'm cornered I'll make a fight for it before I go under!"
He thought regretfully of the heavy mallet, which he had left on the cellar stairs while he lifted the trapdoor. There was a poker lying in the fender, and he was about to cross the room and take it, but stayed by the door, listening, as he heard Bullman mutter:
"Could have sworn I put-the chain up and shot the bolt right in."
The bolt shot back with a clang and the street-door creaked open. Then came Bullman's voice in a fierce growl:
"Now, then! What d'yer mean by coming banging at my door at midnight, eh? What d'yer want, eh? Speak out sharp, or I'll kick you off the step and shut the door again!"
Then came the response, in a voice as hoarse, but lower pitched, and full of cunning:
"Well, now, blow me if that ain't a nice way to receive an old pal! But you always was like that, 'ot and 'asty, Jan Cullet!"
"Ha! Speak that name again, and I'll choke the breath out of you!" growled Bullman, with an oath. "So it is you, Jim Danson. Come back—eh? What do you want here?"
"Yes, it's me," said the other. "Beg pardon. I orter remembered I was addressing Jonathan Bullman, hesquire. What do I want? Am I to go into that on this doorstep? It's such private an' pertic'ler business that I thought you might ask me to step inside."
"Come in," grunted Bullman.
A fresh step sounded in the passage, and the door closed.
"He will bring him in here—sure to!" gasped Tinker.
There was no possibility of slipping from the room. He looked round. A cupboard next the fireplace offered the sole chance of concealment. He darted across the floor with swift, noiseless tread, and tore open the cupboard door.
To his dismay it was only a shallow place with shelves—a sort of larder; the shelves packed with a jumble of jars and bottles, and dishes containing scraps of food. But luckily there was just space enough under the lower shelf for him to crawl in, and crouch on his hands and knees amid a lumber of old boots, scraps of paper and empty bottles.
This he did, holding the door to with his finger-nails embedded in the woodwork, Fortunately the door was not a tight fit; there was a gap between the edge and the frame wide enough to admit air, and also to let him have a peep into the room. He had hardly settled himself in this cramped position when Bullman came into the room, followed by his midnight visitor. The latter was like Bullman himself, a man of middle-age; but unlike the burly landlord, he was slight of build; a foxy-looking man, with iron-grey hair, and a stubble of the same over the lower part of his face.
"What's in that?" he asked, pointing to a black bottle on the table.
"Whisky," answered Bullman, in a rather more friendly tone. "But gin used to be your tipple. I'll get you some from the bar."
"Don't bother about that, mate," said Danson, with a curious grin. "I know this is all right, 'cos you've been drinkin' it yerself, But somethin' might 'appen to that gin!"
Bullman frowned. But the other merely grinned again, and, reaching out for the bottle, took a long drink of the neat spirit. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You 'aven't asked me, but I'll take a chair, mate," he said. And he sat down.
"Oh, make yourself at home," grunted Bullman. "Now, out with it! What have you come for?"
"Money," was the cool reply.
"You'll not get another penny out of me!" declared Bullman, "You made your own bargain, and I paid you every penny you asked!"
"Right 'nuff, mate," said Danson. "But when I named my share I didn't know what them papers was going to be worth to you! I found 'em, an' brought 'em to you 'cos we'd allus been pals."
"Because you hadn't the brains to make use of them yourself, you mean," said Bullman. "You made your own deal, and I tell you I'll not part with another farthing!"
"You'll part all I ask, Jan Cullet," said the other. "'Cos why? You know I can hang you if you don't! I may get ten year for my part, but they'll hang you! 'Cos there ain't no statoo of limitation for murder! Twenty minutes or twenty years—it's all one for killing a man!"
"Murder!" breathed Tinker, in his hiding-place. "So that is the secret of Bullman's past! That's why the guv'nor is on his track!"
Bullman glared, then burst into a hoarse laugh.
"Do you think I'm: going to be blackmailed meekly when ever you choose to make a fresh demand?" he said grimly. "You forgot when you came in here alone what kind of man I am!"
"You bet I didn't!" grinned Danson. "I know half a dozen o' me wouldn't be a match for you in a 'and-to-'and fight; but here's somethin' that'll level us up if it comes to trouble!"
He suddenly produced a large and effectively-looking revolver.
Bullman started, and scowled. Then he forced a short laugh, and said, waving his hand:
"Put that thing away! You know I was only bluffing. How much do you want? I'm a square man, and if it's reasonable you shall have it."
"I want a 'undred pound now!" said Danson. "If I want more later on, I'll be sure an' let yer know; but the 'undred will do for me now. An' I'd like it in gold."
"Don't be a fool! Do you suppose that I always keep a hundred pounds in gold about the house? I can give you a ten-pound note and a cheque for the rest— Ha, what the deuce is that?"
It was Tinker. His luck had given out with a snap.
He had stood his wretched doubled-up position for ten minutes without making the slightest movement, then a sharp attack of cramp seized his right leg. The pain was sudden and agonising.
He could not help a violent start that made the bottles and dishes on the shelf above his back dance and clatter. His finger-nails slipped from their hold in the door; it flew open, and out he rolled upon the floor!
He got up again instantly, and, as Bullman rushed towards him, caught up one of the bottles that had fallen out with him and flung it at his head.
It missed its mark! Bullman sprang in and felled him with his fist!
A cruel blow! Down dropped Tinker to the floor again— this time badly stunned.
But helpless though the poor lad was, Bullman held him down to the floor, as though afraid he might spring up and escape. Danson had risen, and, leaning over the table—his face whiter than the dirty cloth—asked in a gasp:
"You ain't killed him?"
Bullman's reply came in deep, hoarse tones:
"No; he's only stunned—more's the pity! I know the boy. He's been sent here to spy. And he has heard too much! He must never get away from here! Quick! Hand me that knife off the table!"
But Danson took up the knife and held it behind him, shuddering.
"No, mate," he said thickly. "Not another job of that sort! I couldn't bear it! I ain't slept proper since that night at the Estrella, though it's twenty years back, No— no! We'll have no more o' that sort o' thing! I won't stand it!"
'Curse you! That knife, quick! Fool! Don't you see that if he gets away from here he can hang the pair of us at a word!"
Danson shook his head; then, striking the worn, sharp table-knife against the wall, snapped the blade from the handle and threw both away.
"I tell yer I won't have it!" he repeated. "And it's you that's the fool to think of it! S'pose you kill him, what are you goin' to do with the—the body in this place? If he's a spy, as you say—an' I reckon you're right—them that sent him will come to look for him here. Then where'd you be? No; I've got a better plan than that, mate."
That last argument seemed to appeal to Bullman. He saw the risk of such a piece of work on his own premises.
"Out with it, then—quick!" he growled. "The cub is stirring, and I'll have to use my hands on his throat in another moment! What's your plan?"
"Bind him 'and an' foot an' gag him," was the prompt answer. "You've got a 'orse an' cart here. I know of a place where I can take him, an' keep him snug till we think what to do with him—or, till he rots, for that matter—an' no one any the wiser, for he'd never be traced. It wants 9 hours to daylight yet, an' 'arf that time will be enough for us.
"Quick, then!" said Bullman.
He agreed to the plan for want of a better, although he would have preferred his own swifter method. But this humane substitute for downright murder appealed to Danson, because, although a villain, he was also a coward, and dreaded the sight of blood.
Between the two scoundrels the thing was soon done.
Bullman kept a horse and a dogcart in the yard behind the tavern. The animal was speedily put to and harnessed. Twenty minutes later Danson drove away out of the side entrance in the lane. In the bottom of the cart—bound and gagged, and effectually concealed with some sacks and a truss of straw—lay Tinker.
TINKER'S capture by Carroty Alf and his gang came about that night because he was late in going home, and the circumstance which caused him to be late is worth explaining, as it had sensational results in several ways.
That afternoon Tinker had reported to Blake a significant rumour which he had picked up during his round that morning.
This was nothing less than a dark hint, casually overheard, that the engineer and the stoker Blake had discharged meant to "Get a bit of their own back that night."
This might, of course, have meant an intended personal attack on the new manager, but Blake did not think so. He thought it far more likely that an attempt to break into the laundry and injure the machinery was the plan contemplated.
"I'm quite sure of it, Tinker!" he said. "That kind of revenge is just the sort of thing to appeal to men of their stamp. It would be far more satisfactory than just attacking me, which they might find risky."
"I'll bet they would!" grinned Tinker. "Well, what are we going to do about it, guv'nor? Inform the police?"
"Not exactly!" laughed Blake. "I fancy we can prevent this ourselves without any public fuss, which wouldn't suit my plans. We will keep watch at the laundry, you and I, throughout the night and the small hours beyond. And we will have a third sentinel—worth, perhaps, the pair of us together in an affair like this."
"Meaning Pedro, guv'nor?"
"Yes. Run up to town this evening and fetch him down," answered Blake.
Pedro, as readers of Sexton Blake's adventures are well aware, is the famous trained bloodhound which the great detective regards as, next to Tinker, his most valuable assistant.
In the evening, after the laundry was closed, Tinker made a run up to London to Blake's chambers in Baker Street, and returned with the splendid bloodhound, taking him to the laundry, where he was given outpost duty in the yard while his two masters watched from the office.
Towards eleven o'clock Blake insisted that Tinker—who didn't want to go—should leave him for a while and go to his lodgings, to get his supper and have a couple of hours' sleep, then return and relieve him while he took a nap in the office. For the detective had no intention of leaving the laundry himself until broad daylight arrived, and there was no further risk of a surprise visit.
Tinker went very reluctantly, for he believed that if the two sacked men came at all they would bring a gang with them, and he wanted to be by Blake's side if that happened.
But an order from the "guv'nor" had to be obeyed. He went, but fully intended to return long before the two hours were up. When he made that resolve he little foresaw what was to happen before he and the guv'nor met again.
Blake knew Tinker well, and quite expected to see him back within an hour. Therefore, when the full two hours went by, then half of another, and the boy had not returned, he guessed that something amiss had happened to him, for Tinker never failed to keep his word.
Uneasy forebodings began to trouble Blake at once, the foremost being that Tinker had fallen into the hands of Spanner and his mate, in which case he was sure of a rough handling, if not worse.
Blake stood it for another fifteen minutes, then—Tinker being more to him than all the laundries in the world—he resolved to go and search for the boy, leaving the laundry to take its chance.
He took Pedro with him. He would not risk the dog he loved and valued there alone, although the great bloodhound was well able to give a good account of himself if attacked in defence of his post. Besides, he might want his aid to find Tinker, if—as he feared—the boy was not at his lodgings.
It was well past midnight, but still dark when he left the laundry, for the morning threatened to be gloomy and over-cast, and the coming of daylight was likely to be long delayed.
Elm Lane, where Tinker lodged at a cottage up at the far end, branched off from the main road by the side of the Hayles Park Hotel.
On reaching the tavern, Pedro began to show signs of excitement. This increased as they turned into the lane. He dragged Blake, who had him on a leash, to the cellar-flap in the tavern wall, sniffing at it eagerly, and whimpering, only kept from baying outright by Blake's stern command to be silent.
This startled and puzzled the detective. He guessed the truth, but in part only, for he thought that Bullman had captured Tinker, and that the boy was still imprisoned in the tavern cellars. But while he was debating what best to do, Pedro began to move away muzzle to ground, towards a pair of gates leading into the yard behind the tavern.
Then he sniffed at the ground eagerly.
Blake stooped. There was just light enough to show the marks of a horse's hoofs and the track of wheels upon the earth—soft from an evening shower.
"Quite recent—vehicle not been gone half an hour," muttered Blake. "And Tinker was in it—Pedro knows that. What does it mean? Steady, boy! Not a sound!"
He gave the bloodhound free play, and Pedro, sniffing once at the air, led off down the lane with an assured stride that showed he had got the scent and held it well.
Blake followed, with the leash slack, but firmly held.
The hound passed the cottages where Tinker had lodged, and ran on without a pause, until the end of the lane was reached. After that they entered upon quite a network of by-roads and cross-country lanes. But through them all Pedro held on steadily, and seemed never once at fault. A glance at the ground now and then showed Blake that they were still upon the track of the horse and cart.
In this manner they covered some six or seven miles, getting quite into the open country.
It was a singularly bare and desolate district the trail led them into, considering that the great metropolis lay less than twenty miles away. The route taken by the horse and cart passed through no town or village after leaving Hayles Park. There were at first some clusters of houses, but these became more rare and wider apart; then only isolated cottages of the meaner sort appeared at wide intervals.
Finally, they passed even the last of these, and their road—now but a mere cart-track—led through a deserted brick-field to a large track of scrubby waste, where some mis-guided optimist had tried to grow vegetables, but long since given it up as a bad job.
At the farther side of this land of promise a miry lane, with trees, branched from the cart-track, and into this Pedro turned with quickened pace.
At the far end of this they came, quite suddenly, upon a house—a house of large size, but with a forlorn, abandoned and dilapidated air. A garden rank with weeds, and choked with a wild growth of bushes and giant nettles, hemmed it round; whilst tall trees so completely shut it in that but little of the house itself was visible from the outside of the shattered fence which enclosed the entire place.
"Quiet, Pedro! Steady, boy!" ordered Blake, shortening the leash and keeping a firm grip upon it, for the hound showed very great excitement, and had to be held back from leaping the fence.
The tardy dawn was breaking now, and by its wan light Blake surveyed the house carefully.
The lower windows were closed with shutters, or boarded up. One, in an upper room, had a dingy curtain, or a piece of sacking, drawn across its panes. This was the only sign of occupancy the place displayed.
There was a gateway in the fence—the gate had vanished— and through this led the tracks of the horse and cart Blake had so long been following. But there were two distinct sets of tracks here, the second and more recent leading outwards. Plainly, the vehicle had been driven away again after a very brief stay.
Had Tinker gone with it? Blake left Pedro to decide that question.
He put the dog to the outward track, as if he meant him to follow it. But Pedro turned back towards the house very resolutely, and with every sign of anger or excitement.
"That settles it!" muttered the detective. "Tinker is in that house alive, or—or dead!"
His heart grew chill as he breathed that last word. Keeping a firm hold upon Pedro's leash, he passed through the gate and approached the house. The possibility of finding enemies within the place did not trouble him—he thought only of Tinker.
The front entrance, with its cracked and paintless door, seemed to have been long disused, for a board was nailed across it, and ancient cobwebs draped it from post to post.
Blake passed round to the back of the house.
There was another door here which had evidently seen recent use. It was fastened, but, with the aid of a broken spade he found near by, Blake speedily forced it open.
Then, holding Pedro back by sheer strength—for the dog was wild with excitement—he stood intently listening.
But there was no sound within the house, only silence followed the crash of the burst door. Blake entered, taking with him the broken spade in case he found a further use for it, and letting Pedro go ahead on shortened leash.
The dog literally dragged him along a dirty, stone-flagged passage, and down a flight of steps—pitchy dark—into the basement, to the door of a cellar, against which he bounded, barking frantically.
Blake called the boy's name aloud:
"Tinker, Tinker!"
There was no response.
The door was fastened, but Blake's spade, applied with his powerful arm, soon sent it flying open.
Pedro-set free while he forced the door—bounded in with a joyous bark.
Blake paused only to take out the small electric pocket-lamp he invariably carried, and, having switched on the light, followed with a stride almost as eager.
The light revealed a damp and noisome cellar but a few yards square. Upon a little of mouldy straw, bound and gagged, and further secured by a stable chain to a ring in the wall, lay Tinker.
Pedro stood over him, whimpering, and licking his pallid cheeks.
With fast-beating heart, Blake drew the dog away, and, kneeling down, speedily removed the boy's bonds from his limbs and the gag from his mouth, smashing the padlock that secured the chain by a blow of the spade.
Then he carried the lad out into the open air, sprinkling his face with some drops from the dew-drenched foliage.
To Blake's intense relief the boy heaved a deep sigh and opened his eyes.
"Where am I?" he feebly gasped. Then—
"Hallo, you guv'nor; and old Pedro! What—what's it all mean?"
Pedro's boisterous demonstration of joy had to be forcibly suppressed by Blake while he briefly explained things to Tinker.
After that Tinker, who began to pick up wonderfully in the pure morning air, gave a rapid and concise account of what had befallen him since he left Blake that evening.
The detective heard him with intent interest, but made no comment—at which Tinker rather wondered. When he had finished Blake said:
"Remain here. I will take a look through the house. Leaving Pedro with Tinker, he went back into the deserted dwelling—for such it seemed to be, no living occupant having yet appeared. Returning after a brief absence, he said:
"This man, Danson, has evidently lived here, or used the place as an occasional haunt. For one of the rooms has been used, and there is some property of his still in it. He has gone—perhaps to take back Bullmen's horse and cart and secure the money that he bargained for. But he will return, and I shall take care that someone is here to receive him. I de not intend Mr. Danson to escape me after chance—or Providence—has thrown him in my way?"
"If you are going to wait here for him, I'll stay with you, guv'nor," said Tinker.
Blake shook his head.
"Am I to go back to Hayles Park, then?" asked the boy, rather ruefully.
"No; that would not suit my plans at all," answered the detective. "I have a little surprise in store for the gentle man who calls himself Jonathan Bullman, and the knowledge that you had escaped would spoil all by putting him on his guard. You will return to Baker Street from here at once—taking Pedro with you; and there you will lie low until you hear from me."
"And you, guv'nor?"
'When I have finished my business here." replied Blake, smiling rather grimly. "I shall return to Hayles Park. I must resume as manager of the laundry for a few days at least, until my plans are ripe."
The two then parted, Tinker leaving Blake, very reluctantly, alone at that strange, deserted house, and setting off with Pedro for a tramp across country—avoiding Hayles Park—in search of a railway-station and a train to London.
LATER that morning—his "business" at the lonely house being finished quite to his satisfaction—Sexton Blake returned to Hayles Park. But he never resumed his work as manager of the Meadowsweet Laundry, for the simple fact that the laundry was no longer there to manage.
The Meadowsweet Laundry was no more!
A fire had broken out in the night—less than an hour after he had left the place with Pedro, as he afterwards learnt. It appeared to have started in the engine-house, but rapidly spread to the main buildings, and before the first engine, which had to come from Kingston, could arrive, the work of destruction was complete. A smouldering ruin alone remained when Sexton Blake returned.
Either a grim mischance had occurred, or enemies had made good use of his absence.
THE Meadowsweet Laundry was not insured and all was a total loss; the nearly new buildings, the costly plant, and a large quantity of customers goods—all were destroyed. And, moreover, much of the money Bella had raised as extra capital when starting the enterprise still remained unpaid.
All the old lady's life-long savings were put into the venture, and had gone up with the rest in smoke and flame.
Ruin, and even want; seemed to threaten her in the evening of life.
But she bore it very bravely, and was even cheerful; not perhaps at first, but after a certain long and private talk with Sexton Blake on the night following that of the fire. What the great detective told her during that interview was strange and thrilling. and she breathed not a word of it to anyone—not even to her adopted daughter. But she parted from Blake filled with renewed hope.
Great was the old lady's faith in Sexton Blake.
Fortunately her little house, although so near the burning laundry, had not suffered any damage beyond a few panes of glass cracked by the heat.
It was here that a small party assembled, at the dusk of a late summer evening, about a week or so after the fire. Each member of that party was there to appear in turn in the final act of a grim drama that had been twenty years upon life's stage.
They gathered in the little back parlour, which was divided from the larger room in front by an archway draped with heavy curtains.
Sexton Blake was with them, and Tinker near at hand. They waited in complete silence, not exchanging a word.
Mrs. Coombes, who had been alone in the house—for Bella was out—had admitted these visitors herself, as they arrived one by one, and well knew for what purpose they had come. She now sat in the front room, near the window, with a piece of fancy-work in her lap; to which, however, she paid no heed. She, too, was waiting, perhaps with a fast-beating heart!
She was looking through the window, and presently saw Bella approaching by the path through the little front garden. The girl noticed her at the window, and came directly into the room on entering the house.
No lamp had yet been lit, but there was still the waning daylight, and this was enough to show a great change in Bella's face. Though still beautiful, she looked pale and even haggard. The fire had gone from her once brilliant eyes: they were dull and lustreless, as though she had lately wept often, if in secret.
Her proud bearing was gone. In its place was an air of settled misery, and firm but gloomy resolve.
She came over and stood by the old lady's chair.
"Mother," she said—it was always her way to call Mrs. Coombes "mother"—I have taken your advice. I have had a long, long walk, and I feel ever so much better now, for I have come to a decision. My mind is quite made up now."
"About what, dear?' asked Mrs. Coombes; although, alas! she quite well knew.
"Mother, it is my ambition that has brought you to ruin, for you were content to go on in the old humble, but safer way. Mere duty, if not love—and Heaven knows I love you dearly, mother—bids me undo the evil so far as I can. There is only one way.
The girl checked a sigh; then when on, in a dull, even tone:
"Mr. Bullman has asked me to be his wife, and has promised that if I consent your future shall be provided for in ease and comfort. He is coming here this very evening for my answer. And that answer must be yes.
"No, no!" cried the old lady. "I cannot; I will not have you make this dreadful sacrifice!"
"My resolve is final!" declared Bella. "And here Mr. Bullman comes," she added, in a lower tone.
A few moments later Bullman strutted into the room. He was dressed in showy style, and on his coarse face was the smug look of one who felt that in the game of life he held a winning hand.
After the formal greetings, which, on Mrs. Coombes' part at least, met with but a cold response, he turned to Bella, and said, with a smirk:
Now, my dear, you know what I've come for. I'm roasting on slow fires till I know my fate. Don't keep me in suspense!"
"I will not," said Bella. "You know—for I have told you so plainly—that there is no love or even liking upon my side. You are fully aware of the sole motive that makes me yield. If, knowing this, you still ask me to be your wife, my answer is—"
"Stay! You must not, shall not, give your answer yet—not until you know the true character of this man!"
It was Sexton Blake who spoke, appearing suddenly between the curtains from the other room.
Bella turned upon him a startled but haughty look. She was about to speak, but Bullman burst out fiercely:
"Ha! What the dickens is this? So it is you, is it? You meddled with me and my affairs once or twice before. Look out, my friend! Jonathan Bullman's an ugly man to buck up against, let me tell yer!"
"I am prepared to take the risk," said the detective, with a grim smile. "Miss Coombes, you must hear what I have to tell you about this man!"
"Yes, dear—yes! Hear what this gentleman has to say!" urged Mrs. Coombes. For Bella showed signs of rising anger. She could not understand how her late manager dared to presume so far.
"Oh, hear him, my dear!" laughed Bullman. "Maybe someone—young Graham perhaps—has given him a price to tell a string of lies about me, to turn you against me. Let him tell 'em; then leave me to deal with the insolent beggar, my dear!"
He laughed again, and flung his bulky form into an easy chair.
Already a nameless dread of this strange "Mr. Meston" was stealing over him. What did the man know of him? But he was a bold villain; and never doubted that he could bluff it out, whatever it might be.
Bella remained standing by Mrs. Coombes' chair. She turned to Blake and coldly said:
"All this is very strange, sir. But since my mother wishes it, I will hear what you have to say.
The detective bowed.
"You will not regret doing so," he said. "I will begin with a matter which—grave enough in itself—will seem almost trivial later, as I proceed. I allude to the charge of embezzlement brought against Sidney Graham. That charge was false. The account in question was never paid at all. Graham's signature on both bills was forged. All that was necessary to do this was to trace the signature from a former receipted account. This was done."
"Lie number one!" exclaimed Bullman. "I couldn't have done it if I'd wanted to, for I can't handle a pen!"
"No; so a man named Slymes—Jerry Slymes, did it for you," said Blake. "No doubt very willingly, as he, too, had a grudge against Mr. Graham. Slymes confessed this to me when arrested—with several others—last night."
"Slymes arrested!" exclaimed Bullman. "What—on a trumpery charge like that?"
"No; on one much graver," answered Blake. "But we shall come to that in due course."
He turned again to Bella.
"This was done, as you must now perceive, to drive Sidney Graham—the truest friend you ever had—from your side. The plot succeeded, for your pride helped. You drove Graham from you in scorn, playing into the hands of this man."
Bella coloured deeply: then went pale again.
"Go on, go on!" cried Bullman. "Let's have the next lie. The sooner you finish, the sooner my turn comes!"
"I said that Slymes was arrested on a graver charge," continued Blake. "Two others—the engineer and the stoker, lately discharged from the laundry—were taken at the same time, and are now in custody. All three will be charged with arson; with entering, and setting fire to, certain premises known as the Meadowsweet Laundry."
Bella started. Bullman gave a strange sort of gasp.
"That charge can be fully proved," continued Blake, "and although they only intended to destroy the engine-house, their punishment will be severe. The plot, it seems, was hatched at the Hayles Park Hotel, and these men assert that the landlord of that place ought to stand in the dock with them. For he, they declare, suggested the whole thing in covert hints, if not openly, and even hinted at a reward if it was neatly done."
Bullman forced a boisterous laugh.
"Ha, ha! You're getting silly in your lying my friend! Why should I want the laundry burnt down when I was longing to marry the daughter of the lady who owned it?"
"It does sound absurd," said Blake, "until we remember that this young lady would have scorned marriage with such a man as you, but that the foster-mother she loved was ruined by this fire, and it seemed the one way of saving her from destitution!"
"Can this be true?" murmured Bella, in low, strained tones.
"No—it's a lie! A cursed lie!" thundered Bullman. "And you'll pay for it, my friend, presently!"
"It is quite true," said Blake, addressing the girl. "So strong was this man's desire to win you in marriage that he was prepared to enter a criminal plot to gain his ends. It was not your beauty that attracted him. The object with him was purely sordid. By marriage with you he would become a fairly rich man."
Bella stared at the detective blankly, Blake gave her no time to frame a question, but spoke again quickly:
"That needs explaining, of course. But you shall have the explanation from other lips than mine. Tinker!"
The boy, who had been standing unseen in the shadows near the curtained doorway, stepped to the detective's side. Bullman stared at the lad with bulging eyes.
One risen from the very grave itself could not have startled him more violently.
That sense of dread deepened upon him.. A thought of flying from the place crossed his mind. But his fierce hardiness rejected it. Fight, not flight, was the game that always paid.
No! He would face it out and triumph yet!
BLAKE gave Tinker a whispered order. He disappeared for a moment; then came back, and resumed his place in the shadowed background.
After a brief interval, the curtains were again parted, and a man appeared. He was elderly; his scanty hair was white and his face deeply lined. Yet a keen observer might have detected in his features some remote resemblance to those of the girl who stood yonder, gazing at him with wondering eyes.
He made a few halting steps into the room; then paused, looking—almost timidly at Bella. Then his head drooped as though he could not bear to meet her gaze. Yet he seemed to speak to her only.
There was a short pause, during which the man in the easy-chair—who had again started violently when he appeared—could be heard breathing short and fast.
"My name," said the old man, in a low end tremulous voice, "is Stretton—Carnaby Stretton. That name means nothing to you yet; but presently it will mean much. I am the second in point of age of three brothers. The eldest, whose name was David, bought or rented a copper-mine in Spain some twenty-five years ago. He went thither to take control of the mine himself, and he took with him the third and youngest brother, Warwick, to whom he gave shares in the mine and made his assistant-manager.
"Neither ever returned to England. Both died in Spain, and the end of each was tragic!"
A kind of smothered gasp, or oath, from Bullman. He was now gripping the arms of his chair. Neither Blake or Tinker took their eyes off him for a single moment.
The old man continued:
"David the elder was a grave, austere man, who lived only for hard work. Warwick was gayer by nature. He was by no means a bad fellow, but he loved pleasure better than toil, and he had one fatal weakness—he sometimes yielded to drink. David constantly reproached him with this, and they had many bitter quarrels. Then David had another cause for anger, for Warwick fell in love with, and married, a Spanish peasant-girl."
"I must interrupt you for a few moments," said Sexton Blake. "I was anxious to prove beyond any shadow of doubt that this marriage was perfectly valid, both in Spain and in this country. For that purpose I sent an agent to Spain to make all inquiries. And because I knew that, well aware for whose sake this was to be done, he would do it thoroughly, I sent Mr. Sidney Graham."
As if at the signal of his name, Graham appeared from the other room.
"I did it thoroughly, because, indeed, my heart was in my work," he said. "And I found that every necessary step had been taken to make the marriage of Warwick Stretton and Anita Zarza perfectly legal, both in Spain and in England. There was a religious ceremony, and also a civil contract before the British Consul. I have secured documents to prove both."
He would have then retired, but he glanced at Bella. Their eyes met, and he seemed to read in hers a signal, for he crossed to her side.
"I have wronged you. Can you forgive me?" she said, flushing deeply as she held out her hand.
"I can and do, for you were cruelly misled by a designing villain," he said, adding, in a whisper: "I could forgive, I think, anything in you, because—because I love you!"
She glanced at him, and her eyes plainly admitted her own love, which only pride had crushed back hitherto. He stayed by her side throughout all the strange scene that followed. Bullman watched them with a bitter scowl, almost forgetting his grave peril in the spectacle of his hated rival's happiness.
In truth, he did not realise even then the full extent of his peril.
He saw only that some of his later plotting had been discovered, and that his plans threatened to crumble into dust. He saw that certain facts of the buried past were being dragged to light. But there was one grim fact he felt certain could not be known—could never be known!
"There's only one man who knows it," he said confidently to himself, "and he—even if they could find him—daren't speak for his own sake. And as for this old fool, Carnaby Stretton—how was he dragged here of all places, I wonder?— he can't tell anything bad of me without telling worse of himself, and he dare not do it. No, it's a tight fix; but I'll hold on and fight through it yet!"
"Yet he listened with fevered anxiety as the old man began to speak again.
"I probably knew of Warwick's marriage before David did, although he was on the spot, and I so far away," he said, "for Warwick wrote to me at once; a letter full of glowing praises of his bride, her noble character—although she was but a peasant-girl—her goodness and her beauty, For she was very beautiful, Warwick said, and I can quite believe that now."
Again he glanced at Bella; then again lowered his eyes and resumed his story:
"But the real object of his letter was deeper than this. Life, he truly said, is uncertain; and he wished that, should he meet with an untimely death, his young wife might find herself provided against want. I am a lawyer, and he asked me to arrange this matter for him. I was his brother, and he fully trusted me. Heaven forgive me! It was a misplaced trust!"
He paused, sighing deeply.
"Warwick had, he wrote, little faith in the future of the Spanish mine. He asked me to sell out the shares he held in it, and to invest the proceeds, together with the savings he sent me—a substantial sum-in some sound English property. Also he asked me to draw up his will in proper legal form from the rough draft he sent. From this, he said, he intended to have an attested copy drawn up in the Spanish language to present to his wife—who could not read a word of English—that she might see with her own eyes what he had done to make her future secure. For the will bequeathed all his earthly possessions to her, to pass, in the event of her death, to any offspring of the marriage who survived her."
Bullman affected to yawn loudly.
"Cut all that dry stuff and give us something spicy," he bellowed out coarsely, "or let t'other chap take the floor again! He's a smarter sort of liar than you are, and I know he's bursting to begin again!"
"Have patience," said Blake grimly. "You shall have no dullness to complain of presently!"
"I carried out my brother's wishes fully," continued the lawyer. "I drew up the will, sent it to him, and received it back in due course, properly signed and witnessed. I have it in my keeping now. It is as valid to-day as when signed, twenty odd years ago. Lastly, I sent a letter to my brother Warwick, in which I gave a full account of how I had invested his money. The documents relating to these investments I kept, as he had directed me to do so.
"I received no acknowledgment of that letter, because, as I afterwards knew, the dreadful tragedy; by which I lost both brothers, occurred shortly after its arrival in Spain.
"Of that fearful event I happily need not speak. The awful story will be told by another. I pass on to tell the tale of my own temptation and shameful fall.
"I expected, of course, that Warwick's wife, when the first horror of the tragedy had passed, would come to me for protection and advice, for that had been my brother's wish. But time passed and she never came; nor did I hear from her, or of her.
"I began to believe her to be dead, and, to my shame, took no steps to trace her, or to ascertain the truth. The story of my crime—for such it was—begins here.
"I had invested Warwick's money in house property. It yielded a handsome income, and gradually I appropriated this to my own use. My conscience, troublesome at first, became dulled by custom; I came to regard the money as my own. Then, like a thunderbolt, fell the first stroke of grim retribution.
"A man came to me one day with a story that filled me with amazement and dire dismay. He told how, some years before, a Spanish girl—sick unto death—had been found in a mean London street at nightfall, by a good and kindly woman, who took the poor creature to her house near by and sought medical aid. But that aid came too late! The nameless wanderer died in giving birth to a child. The child survived, and this good woman—though poor enough herself—adopted the little one and reared it as her own."
Bella gave a little gasp. She was beginning to understand! One hand was still in Sidney's clasp; she dropped her other arm around Mrs. Coombes' neck.
The old lawyer continued:
"But no clue to the poor mother's identity was obtained until many years had passed. Then some papers were found sewn into the lining of a garment she had worn. One was the Spanish copy of Warwick Stretton's will; the other was a letter, written by my brother, directing his wife how to find me and seek my protection in the event of his death.
"My alarming visitor was plainly an ignorant sort of man, but he appeared to possess an almost satanic cunning! He fully knew the meaning and the value of those papers. He did not explain how they had come into his hands, but he seemed to understand the grim significance of their production at such a time to me. Clearly he had discovered—how, I cannot possibly guess—that I had betrayed my trust. He had me in his power, and he named his price—the price of silence.
"It was a heavy price, but I paid it. I had no choice. It was that or a public exposure—perhaps the felon's cell! I was a coward in my guilt, and I preferred even deeper guilt to that!
"The first price was not the last; for years I have submitted to the persistent blackmailing of this man. But the end has come. His power for evil is past! Happily, I can still make full restitution, and I will, though it leaves me but a bare pittance!"
He lifted his eyes, and again looked timidly at the wondering Bella.
"I see that you already guess the truth; that you are the daughter of Warwick Stretton, and I the unnatural brother who betrayed a sacred trust, and who has long deprived you of your rights! I have to ask pardon of Heaven, and of you. Can you forgive me?"
The old man took a few tottering steps towards her, and would have fallen at her feet upon his knees. But Bella quickly caught his hands, raising him up.
"I do forgive—most freely, uncle!" she said. "There-let this be a sign!"
And she kissed him.
"GOD bless you, my dear!" murmured the old lawyer, in broken tones. "You have given me a peace that for years I have not known!"
He drew his spare figure more erect, and with a firmer step returned to his former position near the curtained doorway.
"A few more words and my task here is done," he said. "The man who first made me aware of your existence, and used the power his knowledge gave him to plunge me deeper into crime, and to deprive you years longer of your rights, always meant in the end to expose me and establish your claim. But first he intended to make you his wife. He had two motives—both equally vile. The first was to share your fortune—you would be comparatively a rich woman! His second motive was deeper; he hoped to silence your voice against him should a certain dreadful fact of his past life ever come to light.
"But Fate has forced his hand!" concluded the old man impressively. "All his infamous plotting has failed him—his plans are crumbled into dust! See him! He sits yonder—a villain exposed!"
He passed through the curtains and was gone.
"It's a tissue of lies!" thundered Bullman, smiting the arm of his chair a mighty blow with his huge fist. "It's an infernal plot got up against me! But I'm not the man to take it lying down, or back out and run away, if that's what they think! No! I see that other liar"—he pointed to Blake—"has got something more to say. Let him say it. Let's hear it all! Then I'll show 'em how a man—a real live man—deals with his enemies!"
He knew now that the net was around him, it's fatal meshes fast closing in. Yet even now his fierce brute courage—like that of the wild boar at bay—would not let him cower or yield. He was full of fight yet, and would be to the last!
Besides, he could still bluff it all out. There was nothing really worth fearing, unless that last fatal fact was known; and he did not believe it was known, or could be. Danson, if found, would not dare not split!
Yet still; in his heart of hearts, was that rising dread of this mysterious "Mr. Meston," and he watched the man with fear and fiery hatred in his glaring eyes.
Taking a position near the centre of the room, the detective began to speak again.
"To me," he said, "falls the task of completing the strange story which you have heard in part. It is a painful story; rest assured that I will make it as brief as I can."
Then, clearly and concisely, touching as lightly as he could upon the horrors of the thing, he told the story of the tragedy at the Estrella Mine that summer midnight twenty years ago. Bella heard him with heaving bosom and wide, wild eyes. Sobs broke from her lips as he told how Warwick Stretton—led away a prisoner, charged with the awful crime of murdering his brother—broke from his guards and plunged into the river, to be taken from it some hours later.
"Whether his object was merely escape or suicide can never be known now," said Blake. "But if the latter it was his sole crime. He did not kill his brother, though all believed him guilty then, and for twenty years the shadow of guilt has rested upon his name. But he was innocent. David Stretton fell by another hand!"
Again that strange, snarling gulp came from Bullman's throat. He buried his strong fingers in the leather of the chair, as though into the flesh of an enemy!
Sexton Blake, his eye ever upon the man, continued his grim story.
He told now the story of the actual crime, and the man in the armchair saw it all again, but in a new and awful aspect it had not worn at the time of its doing, nor ever since, till now!
"Both these men were Englishmen, I regret to say,"' said Blake. "The base coward who looked on and saw the cruel deed done without an effort to prevent it was named Dawson; the wretch who did the actual killing was then known as Jan Cullet. He now calls himself Jonathan Bullman!"
Bella looked at the man in shuddering horror.
"It's false!" he shouted hoarsely. "I was never in Spain in my life, and I can prove it!"
"That falsehood will not avail you now," was the detective's grim response. "For Danson is in custody, and has confessed. He will turn King's evidence against you, and his word will, with other evidence I have collected, be quite sufficient to convict. As a mere passive accomplice he may escape with a long term of imprisonment. But your fate is certain. The scaffold will end a misspent life!"
Cullet sprang up.
"Then, by fury, I'll do another bit of killing to earn it better!" he shouted. "Curse you! This is all your doing!"
He leapt upon Blake, and the two closed.
Mrs. Coombes screamed aloud in terror. Sidney Graham would have flown to Blake's aid, but that Bella fell fainting into his arms.
But Sexton Blake needed no aid!
Cullet was possessed of strength almost gigantic, which the desperate fury now upon him served only to increase. But the athletic detective—each trained muscle in his lissom frame a flexible bond of steel—was his match, and something more.
As the man made that leap at Blake Tinker blew a call upon a whistle, loud and shrill. But even before the two police-officers—in waiting in the hall outside—rushed into the room, that desperate but brief struggle was over. Blake had his opponent down upon the floor, and he held him there until the handcuffs were on his wrists, and he was secured.
His fate may as well be told at once.
The murder having been committed in Spain, he and his accomplice—Danson—were surrendered to the Spanish authorities under the Treaty of Extradition. At the trial Danson was admitted as chief witness, and escaped himself with a heavy term of imprisonment. But Cullet expiated his crime upon the gallows.
THEIR work completed, Sexton Blake and Tinker retired from the laundry business, and shook the dust of Hayles Park from their feet.
He got to know, for one of the gang "peached" Carroty Alf was responsible for his capture that night and his incarceration in the tavern cellar. He took an early opportunity of meeting that amiable youth, and generously offered him the choice of being handed over to the police or putting up a fight.
Carroty Alf was not on good terms with the police, so he chose the latter.
Although the bigger of the two, he was not up to Tinker's class as a fighting man, and he got a fearful hiding. But it must have done him good, for he reformed from that hour. And, curiously enough, it was Tinker who got him a new job, and gave him another and better start in life.
"BELLA," otherwise Isabella Stretton, no sooner found that she had a real surname of her own than she consented to change it for another, and is now Mrs. Sidney Graham.
The happy young couple have a beautiful new home, but not at Hayles Park, and good old Mrs. Coombes lives with them.
Sexton Blake and Tinker were both at the wedding. Blake gave the bride away, or, as he playfully put it at the breakfast afterwards, "handed her over to another new manager."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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