Chapter Twenty Seven.
Claud Wilton took to the search for his cousin with the greater eagerness that he found it much more pleasant to be where he was not likely to come in contact with Pierce Leigh, for there was something about that gentleman’s manner which he did not like. He knew of his ability in mending bones, for he had become aware of what was done when one labourer fell off a haystack, and when another went to sleep when riding on the shafts of a wagon, dived under the wheels, and had both his legs broken; but all this was suggestive of his ability to break bones as well, and recalling a horse-whipping, received in the hunting field, from the brother of a young lady to whom he had been too polite, he scrupulously avoided running further risks. Consequently, after the unpleasant interruption of his meeting with Jenny Leigh, he lost no time in getting up to town, being pretty well supplied with money by his father, who was to follow next day.
“I’m short of cash, my boy,” said Wilton; “but this is a case in which we must not spare expense.”
“Go to Scotland Yard, and set the detectives to work?”
“In heaven’s name no, boy! We must be our own detectives, and hunt them out. Curse the young scoundrel. I might have known he would be after no good. An infernal poacher on our preserves, boy.”
“Yes, guv’nor; and he has got clear off with the game.”
“Then you must run him down, and when you have found out where he is, communicate with me; I must be there at the meeting.”
“What? Lose time like that! No, guv’nor; I’ll half kill him—hang me if I don’t.”
“No, no! I know you feel ready to—a villain—but that won’t do. You’ll only frighten the poor girl more, and she’ll cling to him instead of coming away with you.”
“But, guv’nor—”
“Don’t hesitate, boy; I tell you I’m right. Let’s get Kate away from him, and then you may break every bone in his skin if you like.”
“But I want to give him a lesson at once.”
“Yes, of course you do—but Kate and her fortune, my boy. Once you’re on the scent, telegraph to me. I’ll come and stay at Day’s, in Surrey Street.”
“Suppose they’re gone abroad, guv’nor?”
“Well, follow them—all round the world if it’s necessary. By the way, you’ve always been very thick with Harry; now, between men of the world, has there ever been any affair going on? You know what I mean.”
“Lots, dad.”
“Ah!—Ever married either of them?”
“Not he.”
“That’s a pity,” said Wilton, “because it would have made matters so easy. Well, there, be off. The dog-cart’s at the door.”
Claud slapped his pocket, started for the station, and went up to stay at a bigger hotel than the quiet little place affected by his father; and about twelve o’clock the next day he presented himself at Garstang’s office, where Barlow, the old clerk, was busy answering letters for his employer to sign.
“Morning, Barlow,” said Claud, “Mr Harry in his room?”
“Mr Harry, sir? No, sir. I thought he was down with you, shooting and hunting.”
“Eh? Did he say that he was going down to Northwood?”
“Well, dear me! Really, Mr Claud Wilton, sir, I can’t be sure. I think I did hear him say something about Northwood; but whether it was that he was going there or had come back from there I really am not sure. Many pheasants this season?”
“Oh, never mind the pheasants,” cried Claud, impatiently. “When was that?”
“Dear me now,” said the man, thoughtfully; “now when was that—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—?”
“Thursday, Friday, Saturday,” cried Claud, impatiently. “What a dawdling old buffer you are! Come, when was it: you must know?”
“Really, sir, I can’t be sure.”
“Was it this week?”
“I shouldn’t like to say, sir.”
“Well, last week then?”
“It might have been, sir.”
“Yah!” growled Claud. “Think he’s down at Chislehurst?”
“He may be, sir.”
“Yes, and he may be at Jericho.”
“Yes, sir; but you’ll excuse me, there was a knock.”
The clerk shuffled off his stool, and went to the door to admit a fresh visitor in the person of Wilton pere.
“Ah, Claud, my boy! You here?”
“Yes, father, I’m here; just come,” said the young man, sulkily.
“Well, found them?”
“Do I look as if I had found them, dad? No.”
“Tut-tut-tut!” ejaculated Wilton, who looked pale and worn with anxiety. “Mr Garstang in, Mr Barlow?”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk; “shall I say you are here?”
“Ye-es,” said Wilton. “Take in my card, and say that I shall be obliged if he will give me an interview.”
The old clerk bowed, and left the outer office for the inner, while Wilton turned to his son, to say hastily, “You may as well come in with me as you are here.”
“Thanks, no; much obliged. What made you come here? You don’t think he’s likely to know?”
“Yes, I do,” said Wilton, in a low voice. “I believe young Harry’s carried her off, and that he’s backing him up. You must come in with me: we must work together.”
“Mr Garstang will see you, gentlemen,” said the old clerk, entering.
“Gentlemen!” muttered Claud angrily, to his father.
“Yes, don’t leave me in the lurch, my boy,” whispered Wilton; and Claud noted a tremor in his father’s voice, and saw that he looked nervous and troubled.
Wilton made way for his son to pass in first, the young man drew back for his father, and matters were compromised by their entering together, Garstang, who looked perfectly calm, rising to motion them to seats, which they took; and then there was silence for a few moments, during which Claud sat tapping his teeth with the ivory handle of the stick he carried, keeping his eyes fixed the while upon his father, who seemed in doubt how to begin.
“May I ask why I am favoured with this visit, gentlemen?” said Garstang, at last.
This started Wilton, who coughed, pulled himself together, and looking the speaker fully in the face, said sharply,
“We came, Mr John Garstang, because we supposed that we should be expected.”
“Expected?” said Garstang, turning a little more round from his table, and passing one shapely leg over the other, so that he could grasp his ankle with both hands. “Well, I will be frank with you, James Wilton; there were moments when I did think it possible that you might come; I will not say to apologise, but to consult with me about that poor girl’s future. How is she?”
Father and son exchanged glances, the former being evidently taken a little aback.
“Well,” said Garstang, without pausing for an answer to this question; “I am glad you have come in a friendly spirit; I shall be pleased to meet you in the same way, so pray speak out. Let us have no fencing. Tell me what you propose to do.”
Wilton coughed again, and looked at his son.
“You must see,” said Garstang firmly, “that a fresh arrangement ought to be made at once. Under the circumstances she cannot stay at Northwood, and I will own that I am not prepared to suggest any relative of her father who seems suitable for the purpose. The large fortune which the poor child will inherit naturally acts as a bait, and there must be no risk of the poor girl being exposed to the pertinacious advances of every thoughtless boy who wishes to handle her money.”
“I say, look here,” cried Claud, “if you want to pick a quarrel, say so, and I’ll go.”
“I have no wish to pick a quarrel, young man,” replied Garstang, sternly; “and I should not have spoken like this if you had not sought me out. Perhaps you had better stay, sir, and hear what your father has to propose, unless he has already taken you into his confidence.”
“Well, he hasn’t,” said Claud, sulkily. “Go on, guv’nor, and get it over.”
“Yes, James Wilton, go on, please, as your son suggests, and get it over. My time is valuable, and in such a case as this, between relatives, I shall be unable to make a charge for legal services. Now then, once more, what do you propose?”
“About what?” said Wilton, bluntly.
“About the future home of your niece?”
“Ah, that’s what I’ve come about,” said Wilton, gazing at the other sternly. “Where is she?”
Garstang looked at him blankly for a few moments.
“Where is she?” he said at last. “What do you mean?”
“What I say: where is Kate Wilton?”
“Where is she?” cried Garstang, changing his manner, and speaking now with a display of eagerness very different from his calm dignified way of a few minutes before. “Why, you don’t mean to say that she has gone?”
“Yes, I do mean to say that she has gone.”
“Bravo!” cried Garstang, putting down the leg he had been nursing, and giving it a hearty slap. “The brave little thing! I should not have thought that she had it in her.”
“That won’t do, John Garstang,” said Wilton, sourly; “and it’s of no use to act. The law’s your profession—not acting. Now then, I want to know where she is.”
“How should I know, man? She was not placed in my charge.”
“You know, sir, because it was in your interest to know. This isn’t the first time I’ve known you play your cards, but you’re not playing them well: so you had better throw up your hand.”
“Look here, James Wilton,” said Garstang, looking at him curiously; “have you come here to insult me with your suspicions? If this young lady has left your roof, do you suppose I have had anything to do with it?”
“Yes, I do, and a great deal,” cried Wilton, angrily. “You can’t hoodwink me, even if you can net me and fleece me. Do you think I am blind?”
“In some things, very,” said Garstang, contemptuously—
“Then I’m not in this. I see through your plans clearly enough, but you are checked. Where is that boy of yours?”
“I have no boy,” said Garstang, contemptuously.
“Well, then, where is your stepson?”
“I do not know, James Wilton. Harry Dasent has long enough ago taken, as your son here would say, the bit in his teeth. I have not seen him since he came down to your place. But surely,” he cried, springing up excitedly, “you do not think—”
“Yes, I do think, sir,” cried Wilton, rising too; “I am sure that young scoundrel has carried her off. He has been hanging about my place all he could since she has been there, and paying all the court he could to her, and you know it as well as I do, the scoundrel has persuaded her that she was ill-used, and lured her away.”
“By Jove!” said Garstang, softly, as he stood looking thoughtfully at the carpet, and apparently hardly hearing a word in his stupefaction at this announcement,
“Do you hear what I say, sir?” cried Wilton, fiercely, for he was now thoroughly angry; “do you hear me?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Garstang, making an effort as if to rouse himself. “Well, and if it is as you suspect, what then? Reckless as he is, Harry Dasent would make her as good a husband as Claud Wilton, and a better, for he is not related to her by blood.”
“You dare to tell me that!” thundered Wilton.
“Yes, of course,” said Garstang, coolly. “Why not?”
“Then you do know of it; you are at the bottom of it all; you have helped him to carry her off.”
“I swear I have not,” said Garstang, quietly. “I would not have done such a thing, for the poor girl’s sake. It may be possible, just as likely as for your boy here, to try and win the girl and her fortune, but I swear solemnly that I have not helped him in any way.”
“Then you tell me as a man—as a gentleman, that you did not know he had got her away?”
“I tell you as a man, as a gentleman, that I did not know he had got her away. What is more, I tell you I do not believe it. Tell me more. How and when did she leave? When did you miss her?”
“Night before last—no, no, I mean the next morning after you had left. She had gone in the night.”
Garstang’s hand shot out, and he caught Wilton by the shoulder with a fierce grip, while his lip quivered and his face twitched, as he gazed at him with a face full of horror.
“James Wilton,” he said, in a husky voice, “you jump at this conclusion, but did anyone see them go?”
“No: no one.”
“You don’t think—”
“Think what, man? What has come to you?”
“She was in terrible trouble, suffering and hysterical, when she went up to her room,” continued Garstang, with his voice sinking almost to a whisper, and with as fine a piece of acting as could have been seen off the stage. “Is it possible that, in her trouble and despair, she left the house, and—”
He ceased speaking, and stood with his lips apart, staring at his visitor, who changed colour and rapidly calmed down.
“No, no,” he said, and stopped to dear his voice. “Impossible! Absurd! I know what you mean; but no, no. A young girl wouldn’t go and do that just because her cousin kissed her.”
“But she has been ill, and she was very weak and sensitive.”
“Oh, yes, and the doctor put her right. No, no. She wouldn’t do that,” said Wilton, hastily. “It’s as I say. Come, Claud, my lad, we can do no good here, it seems. Let’s be moving. Morning, John Garstang; I am going to get help. I mean to run her down.”
“You should know her best, James Wilton, and perhaps my judgment has been too hasty. Yes, I think I agree with you: so sweet, pure-minded, and well-balanced a girl would never seek refuge in so horrible a way. We may learn that she is with some distant relative after all.”
“Perhaps so,” said Wilton hastily. “Come, Claud, my lad,” and he walked straight out, without glancing to right or left, and remained silent till they were crossing Russell Square.
“I say, guv’nor,” said Claud, who passed his tongue over his lips before speaking, as if they were dry, “you don’t think that, do you? It’s what the mater said.”
“No, no, impossible. Of course not. She couldn’t. I think, though, we may as well get back,” and for the moment he forgot all about the ladder planted against the sill.
And as they walked on they were profoundly unconscious of the fact that Garstang’s grave elderly clerk was following them at a little distance, and looking in every other direction, his employer having hurried him out with the words:
“See where they go.”
John Garstang then seated himself before the good fire in his private room, and began to think of the interview he had just had, while as he thought he smiled.