CHAPTER XXV.
The new Earl of St. Austell was not the man to lose any opportunity of making a good bargain. Deborah Audaer had promised to ask him a favor which should put money in his pocket, and although he was puzzled by the offer, he was so desperately anxious to hear it that the news of the capture of his brother’s supposed murderer came to him only as a tiresome interruption.
“Well, well, this favor you want of me, what is it?” he repeated, impatiently. “Of course, Miss Audaer, you know I am only too happy at any time to——”
“Thank you, yes, of course,” answered Deborah, with one eye upon him and one upon the staircase, as the sounds of voices and scuffling seemed to subside a little. “I want to ask you if you will forgive any injuries you or poor Lord St. Austell may have received from two men who were merely the tools of Amos Goodhare. I can convince you that they had nothing to do with his murder; in fact, one of them has been stabbed by Amos so severely that I am afraid he may not recover. Will you promise this?” A pause, during which Charles Cenarth looked doubtfully at the candle. “I should not have had to ask your brother twice,” she added, with a touch of dry irony.
“And where is the advantage this would bring to me?” asked he, doubtfully.
“I could restore to you the lost jewels. The setting I believe, is gone beyond recovery.”
He looked at her as if he could scarcely believe his ears.
“Restore the jewels!” he repeated, hardly daring to utter the words aloud. Then he added with an abrupt change of tone: “If you know where they are you are bound to give them up.”
“Yes, so I am—to the police,” said Deborah, quietly.
He looked at her askance, with much mistrust. This was a disagreeably sharp young woman.
“Offenders against the law ought to be punished!” he said severely. “I am not the man to compound a felony.”
“Then, your lordship, I am at liberty to make known whatever I have learnt to the police.”
“And give up these people you are so anxious to shield?”
“No; persuade them to turn Queen’s evidence.”
He began to move about impatiently.
“Have it your own way, then, and for goodness sake let me know where the jewels are, and get this business over.”
“You give me your word of honor that you will not only refrain from taking proceedings against any man but the murderer, but you will help to shield the others from the effects of their own folly?”
“And wickedness,” added the earl, severely.
“And wickedness.”
“You are asking a great deal,” said the new Lord St. Austell, with a wry face. “Do you know the reputation I bear?”
Deborah did. It was that of a close-fisted and sanctimonious prig.
“Well, your lordship, you have only to say no, and I will set about getting these unfortunate men out of their scrape in another way.”
She turned away impatiently. The noise of a heavy tramp of feet was heard coming down the stairs. The new earl tapped her arm petulantly.
“I agree! I agree! I give my word of honor!” he mumbled, “And now get me the jewels as fast as you can,” he continued, in a burst of eagerness.
Deborah brought out from under her cloak the two small flat paper parcels which Sep had given her, and placed them in the earl’s hands. He tore one of them open and quickly examined the contents. By his little murmur, by his very attitude, she saw that she need have no further fear for Rees or Sep. Indeed, the recovery of the jewels meant for him, social salvation. He buttoned them up hastily under his coat, hugging as it were himself and them as he did so. He had not time to repent having got them back by a bargain instead of by cheaper strategy, when Amos Goodhare, secured at last, was forced down the stairs by his captors with no great gentleness, and brought face to face with the brother of the man he had murdered.
He had been seized by the policemen just as he was endeavoring to escape into the next house, by scrambling from window to window; he had got loose again, had squeezed through a trap-door on to the roof, and after a chase along the leads, rendered more exciting by their dangerously ruinous condition, he had been caught, dragged back, handcuffed, and finally brought down the staircase by which he had ascended.
“Who’s this?” said one of the policemen roughly, as he looked the new earl up and down without apparently, having his suspicions allayed by any dignity in the little man’s appearance.
“My brother,” said Amos promptly.
“I am Charles Cenarth. It is my brother who has been murdered.”
“Oh, ho! You don’t acknowledge your relationship to me, then,” said Goodhare in a mocking tone. “That’s ungrateful, when I’ve done for you what you’d never have dared to do for yourself,” he added, darting forward to whisper into the little man’s unwilling ear.
“This gentleman is connected with my family and I’m sure he will be able to give a perfectly satisfactory account of himself,” said his frightened kinsman nervously.
“Hope so, I’m sure,” said one of the policemen drily.
“Could you not let him go?” suggested the new earl uneasily.
“No, sir; I’m afraid we couldn’t see our way to it. Gentlemen found running away in a house where a murder has been committed isn’t let off quite so easy.”
“Murder! Who said there was a murder?”
The man pointed to the constable who had brought the doctor to Rees.
“This man and the young lady there found the body.”
“The young lady,” cried Goodhare mockingly. “The young lady’s word isn’t worth much. If you take her to the station and have her searched, you will find on her a quantity of jewels of great value, stolen from the Regalia at the Tower.”
Evidently some rumor of the theft, quiet as the matter had been kept, had reached the ears of the force. For they looked at each other, and one of them stepped quickly forward, with his hand raised, towards Deborah. To her great surprise, the decorous Charles Cenarth came to the rescue with a deliberate and roundly uttered falsehood.
“I don’t know what the prisoner hopes to gain by this ridiculous charge against a young lady,” he said, gravely. “But as I happen to be Keeper of the Regalia, no one can prove better than I that she cannot be in possession of any of the crown jewels, as none of the crown jewels have ever been stolen.”
“Ah, ah! Very good! Very good, indeed, brother Charles,” said Goodhare, mockingly.
The police officers said nothing to all this. They began to “smell a rat,” however; for if there had been nothing in the rumored theft, what should two such prodigious swells as the earl and his brother do poking about in this thieves’ den, with such disastrous results for one of them? As there was nothing to be got by contradicting the “swell’s” assertion, the man who had approached Deborah stepped back respectfully.
“Come on,” said he to his companions, “we’ll make sure of this one, anyhow.”
And he looked at Goodhare, who had subsided into silence.
“There’s another of ’em downstairs, ain’t there?” asked one of the others.
“He’s done for, I think.”
But at that moment there came up from the cellar the doctor and the fourth policeman, supporting between them the weak and almost helpless Rees Pennant, who tried feebly to walk, but was scarcely able to do more then drag his feet limply after him.
“This man had nothing to do with the murder,” said Deborah hastily, glancing in fear towards Amos Goodhare as she laid her hand on one of Rees’s helpless arms.
“No, that is right enough,” said Goodhare at once, to Deborah’s surprise. “He had nothing to do with it.”
There was a malicious expression on the old scoundrel’s face which did not accord with the words. The policemen, though not at all satisfied as to the share Rees Pennant and Deborah had taken in this mysterious affair, contented themselves with taking their names and the address at Carstow which the young lady gave them, on Charles Cenarth’s offering to go to the police-station and to become security for their appearance when they should be wanted. For it was apparent to everyone that the young man’s injuries were of a dangerous, if not fatal description.
On learning from the questions of the constables how important a factor her own evidence against Goodhare would be, poor Deborah could not suppress a little cry of horror. Strong as were her mistrust and dislike of the ex-librarian, the thought that it might be her words which would convict him was so terrible that, as he passed her on his way out, she gave him a look as if to implore his forgiveness.
Amos Goodhare, who, now that he was caught, was very quiet and subdued, stopped short with a low cry of pain as soon as the constables who had him in charge attempted to lead him forward.
“I am hurt,” he said, in a low voice. “One of you infernal ruffians must have done it when you caught me, two men against one. Let the doctor see my ankle, my right ankle—I think I have sprained it.”
With the constables’ help he limped back to the bottom stair and sat down. While the men stood back to allow the doctor to examine the limb he declared to be injured, and Deborah reluctantly held the lamp, Amos looked up malevolently into her face.
“Don’t apologise, Miss Audaer, for any injury your evidence might do me?” he said in a rapid whisper. “By giving you back your lover, Rees Pennant, now that I have done with him, I show you that I bear no malice.”
“Thank you,” said she quietly. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“I hope you may find a young scoundrel more to your taste than an old one.”
Deborah made no answer. The doctor having declared that there was no sign of a broken or displaced bone, and that the pain Amos spoke of must be the result of a slight sprain, he was helped on to his feet again, and led out of the house by his captors, followed by Charles Cenarth, who was to accompany them to the police station.
Deborah then asked the doctor if it would be safe to take Rees as far as Carstow that night. He answered with a decided negative. As she stood wondering what she should do with him, a hand was laid on her arm, and turning, she saw Lady Marion Cenarth, lean, haggard, despairing. She had crept into the house after her uncle, and remained in a distant corner, unseen in the darkness, unheard amid the general excitement.
“Bring him to my aunt’s,” she whispered imploringly. “Not Mrs. Charles Cenarth, but an aunt of my mother’s. She would take charge of him, I know. And if I could be of any use in nursing him—” she added piteously, imploringly. “Do let me. Oh! do let me,” she continued in a heart-broken tone. “Let him love you, and marry you—I don’t care. Only don’t take him quite away—until he is well.”
Deborah was touched. She took the girl’s hand and answered very gently:
“I don’t want to take him away from you. I shall be very glad if your aunt will take him in for a little while.”
So Rees was half-led, half-carried out of the house and along the little court, and lifted into a cab, in which he and Deborah and the faithful Marion were driven slowly as far as Hill street, where old Lady Susan Mortimer lived. As Lady Marion had prophesied, they were all made welcome by the little old lady, who was of a highly sentimental turn of mind, and took her grandniece’s part heartily against the girl’s more worldly-minded parents. She sent at once for her own doctor, and in the meantime had Rees carried into the best bed-room, a large and gloomy chamber, with a funereal four-post bedstead of carved wood, with hangings darkened by age.
When the young fellow had been laid carefully on this sombre couch, Deborah, who saw that he would have no lack of attention, attempted to retire from the bedside. But Rees, who had been lying with closed eyes, opened them suddenly to say:
“Where are you going, Deborah?”
“I’m going back to Carstow to tell mamma you are all right. She will be anxious.”
He half raised himself feebly.
“Very well, then, I shall come with you,” he whispered obstinately. “I’m not going to stay here without you.”
“Nonsense, Rees. You mustn’t be ungrateful. It would kill you to travel to-night.”
In the meantime, poor, meek-spirited Lady Marion had begged her great-aunt to invite Deborah to stay.
“He wants her, you see,” she added pitifully.
So little Lady Susan trotted forward and said that if Miss Audaer would stay and help to nurse Rees she should be very pleased. And Deborah, with some reluctance, had to yield.