Part 2, Chapter XIII.
An Eventful Night.
“I can’t go, and I won’t go,” said Artingale. “It’s bad enough to have to be at the church to-morrow and see that poor little lass sacrificed, with everybody looking on smiling and simpering except, the bridesmaids, who are all expected to shed six tears.
“Six tears each, and six bridesmaids; that’s thirty-six tears. I’d almost bet a fiver that those two pre-Raphaelite angels will each be provided with an antique lachrymatory designed by their dear brother, and they’ll drop their tears therein and stopper them up.
“Oh, dear! This is a funny world, and I’m very fond of my pretty Cynthy, who’s a regular little trump; but I’m getting deuced hungry. I’ll go and hunt up old Mag, and we’ll have a bit of dinner together, and then go to the play. Liven him up a bit, poor old man. Hansom!”
A two-wheeled hawk swooped down, and carried him off to the studio of James Magnus, where that gentleman was busy with a piece of crayon making a design for a large cartoonlike picture, and after a good deal of pressing he consented to go to the club and dine with his friend.
“I’m afraid you’ll find me very dull company,” said Magnus, sadly.
“Then I’ll make you lively, my boy. I’m off duty to-night, and I feel like a jolly bachelor. Champagne; coffee afterwards, and unlimited cigars.”
“What a boy you are, Harry!” said the artist, quietly. “How you do seem to enjoy life!”
“Well, why shouldn’t I? Plenty of troubles come that one must face; why make others?”
“Is—is she to be married to-morrow, Harry?” said Magnus, quietly.
“I say, hadn’t we better taboo that subject, old fellow?” said Artingale, quickly.
“No. Why should we? Do you think I am not man enough to hear it calmly?” Artingale looked at him searchingly. “Well, yes, I hope so; and since you have routed out the subject, I suppose I must answer your question. Yes, she is, and more blame to you.”
“We will not discuss that, Harry,” said the other, sadly. “I know well enough that it was not in me to stir a single pulse in Julia Mallow’s veins, and I have accepted my fate. Are you going to the wedding?”
“Yes: I feel that I must. But I hate the whole affair. I wish the brute would break his neck. Ready?”
“Yes,” was the reply; and going out to the waiting hansom, they were soon run down to the club, where the choicest little dinner Artingale could select was duly placed before them.
But somehow, nothing was nice. Artingale’s hunger seemed to have departed, and he followed his friend’s example, and ate mechanically. The dry sherry was declared to be watery, and the promised champagne, though a choice brand and from a selected cuvée, was not able to transmit its sparkle to the brains of those who partook.
Artingale talked hard and talked his best. He introduced every subject he could, but in vain, and at last, when the time had come for the claret, he altered his mind.
“No, Mag,” he exclaimed, “no claret to-night. We want nothing calm and cool, old fellow. I feel as if I had not tasted a single glass of wine, but as if you, you miserable old wet blanket, had been squeezing out your drops into a tumbler and I had been drinking them. What do you say to a foaming beaker of the best black draught?”
“My dear Harry, I’m very sorry,” said Magnus, laughing. “There, I’ll try and be a little more lively.”
“We will,” exclaimed Artingale, “and another bottle of champagne will do it.”
Magnus smiled.
“Ah, smile away, my boy, but I’m going to give you a new sensation. I’ve made a discovery of a new wine. No well-known, highly-praised brand made famous by advertisements, but a rich, pungent, powerful, sparkling champagne, from a vineyard hardly known. Here, waiter, bring me a bottle of number fifty-three.”
The wine was brought, and whether its virtues were exaggerated or no, its effects were that for the next two hours life seemed far more bearable to James Magnus, who afterwards enjoyed his coffee and cigar.
Then another cigar was partaken of, and another, after which it was found to be too late for the projected visit to one of the theatres, and Magnus proposed an adjournment to his own room.
To this, however, Artingale would not consent, and in consequence they sat till long after ten, and then parted, each to his own chambers.
Artingale’s way of going to his own chambers was to take a hansom, and tell the man to drive him to the Marble Arch, and then along the Bayswater-road until told to stop.
This last order came before Kensington Gardens were reached, when the man was dismissed, and the fare wandered down the nearest turning, and along slowly by the backs of the Parkleigh Gardens houses—or their fronts, whichever the part was termed that faced north.
Up and down here he paraded several times—not a very wise proceeding, seeing that he might have come sooner in the evening, and the doors would have flown open at his summons. But it has always been so from the beginning. A gentleman gets into a certain state, and then thinks that he derives a great deal of satisfaction in gazing at the casket which holds the jewel of his love. When the custom first came in it is of course impossible to say, but it is extremely probable that Jacob used to parade about in the sand on moonlight nights, and watch the tent that contained his Rachel, and no doubt the custom has followed right away down the corridors of time.
When Artingale had finished the front of the house he went round to the back, made his way by some mysterious means into the garden, where he fancied he saw some one watching; and concluding that it would not be pleasant to be seen, he beat a retreat, and after a glance up at Cynthia’s window, where he could see a light, he contented himself by walking slowly back, so as to get to the other side of the lofty row of houses.
“Just one walk up and down,” he said to himself, “and then home to bed.”
It was some distance round, and as he went along he made the following original observation:—“This is precious stupid!” And at the end of another fifty yards—“But somehow I seem to like it. Does one good. ’Pon my soul, I think the best thing a fellow can do is to fall in love.”
He sauntered on from gas-lamp to gas-lamp, till he was once more at the front, or back, of the great houses, with their entrance-doors on his right, and a great blank-looking wall on his left.
He went dreamily on along the pavement, past the furnished house that the agent assured the Rector he had obtained dirt cheap, which no doubt it was, but it was what a gold-miner would call wash dirt. When about midway, Artingale passed some one on the other side, close to the wall, and walking in the opposite direction.
But the presence of some one else in the street did not attract Artingale’s attention, and he sauntered along until he reached the end, and stopped.
“Now, then,” he said, “home? or one more walk to the end and back?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then turned beneath the lamp-post, with a smile at his own weakness, and walked slowly back.
“I should have made a splendid Romeo,” he said. “What a pity it is that the course of my true love should run so jolly smooth. Everything goes as easy as possible for me. Not a single jolly obstacle. Might have been married to-morrow morning if I had liked, and sometimes I wish I had been going to act as principal; but it is best as it is.”
He was nearing the Rector’s residence once again.
“Now with some people,” he continued, half aloud, “how different it is. Everything goes wrong with them. Look at poor old Magnus— The deuce! Why, Mag!”
“I thought you had gone home!”
“I thought you had gone home!”
“I thought I would have a walk first,” said Magnus, quietly.
“So did I, old fellow. But oh, I say!”
“Don’t laugh at me, Harry,” said the artist, sadly. “It is like saying good-bye. After to-morrow I shall settle down.”
“I don’t laugh at you, old fellow,” said Artingale, taking the other’s arm. “It’s all right. I might just as well ask you not to laugh at me. Have a cigar?”
Magnus nodded, the case was produced, and they both lit up, and instead of going straight back east, continued to promenade up and down, and then right round the great block of houses over and over again, for quite an hour, saying very little, but seeming as it were attracted to the place, till coming to the front, for what Artingale vowed should be the last time, he saw a couple of figures apparently leave one of the doors, and go right on towards the other end.
“Somebody late,” he said, feeling a kind of interest in the couple that he could not account for.
“Yes,” said Magnus, quickly, “very late. Come along.”
Artingale involuntarily quickened his steps, and they followed the two figures without a word, seeing them sometimes more, sometimes less, distinctly, according to the position they occupied relative to the lamps.
Why they took so much interest in them was more than they could have explained, for a couple of figures going late at night along a London street is no such very great novelty; but still, they quickened their steps, feeling ready at the slightest hint to have increased the pace to a run.
There seemed no sufficient reason though for such a step, and they continued to walk on fast, till they came to the end of the row of houses; and turning sharply they were just in time to hear the jangling noise of the door of a four-wheeled cab slammed to, then what sounded like a faint wailing cry.
“There’s something wrong, I think,” said Artingale; but as he spoke the glass was dragged up, the horse started off at a rapid trot, the cab turned into the road by the Park railings, and was gone.
The two friends stood hesitating, and had they been alone, either would have run after the cab. But as they hesitated from a feeling that such a proceeding would have been absurd, the vehicle was driven rapidly away.
“What made you say there was something wrong?” said Magnus at last, in a hoarse voice.
“I don’t know, I can’t tell: where did those people come from? I hope no one’s ill.”
“From one of the houses near Mr Mallow’s,” said Magnus.
“I think so; I couldn’t be sure. Let’s walk back.”
They hurried back past the series of blank doors, till they were about half way along, when as they reached the Rector’s they found that a policeman had just come up, and he made them start by flashing his lantern in their faces.
“Oh, it’s you, sir,” he said to Artingale. “Were you coming back here?”
“No. Why?”
“Because you left the door open.”
“Then there is something wrong, Magnus. Here, let’s run after the cab.”
“It’s half a mile away by now,” said the other hoarsely. “You’d better see, constable.”
“It’s a crack,” said the policeman, excitedly, “and the chaps must be in here. Will you gents keep watch while I get help, and put some one on at the other side in the Gardens?”
“Yes—no—yes,” exclaimed Artingale. “I’m afraid some one’s ill. We saw two people come away hurriedly and take a cab at the end.”
“They wouldn’t have took a cab,” said the constable. “There’s a doctor at the end there close by. We’re too late, for a suverin. Or no; stop. There’s something else up. Look here, sir, I’ve had you hanging about here and on the other side ever since the family has been in town. Now then, who are you?”
“There is my card, constable,” said Artingale, shortly. “You know why I came.”
“Yes, sir—my lord, I mean. But why did that big hulking rough chap, like a country gamekeeper, come? He’s been hanging about—”
“Stop!” cried Artingale. “Was it a big black-bearded fellow above six feet high?”
“That’s the man, sir. I set him down as from the country house, and after one of the maids.”
“When—when did you see him last?” cried Magnus.
“To-night, sir.”
“To-night?”
“Yes, m’lord. But while I’m stopping here they may be getting out at the other side and be off.”
“I’ll watch here,” said Artingale.
“Right, sir. I’ll soon have some one on at the other side. You, sir, watch at the area,”—to Magnus. “If any one comes out and tries to run, you lay hold and stick to ’im. I’ll soon be back.”
“Quick, then; for heaven’s sake, quick!” cried Artingale; and the man went off at a run.
“Let’s go after the cab, Harry,” cried Magnus, excitedly.
“Let’s run after the moon, man. It would be madness. If anything is wrong they are far away by now. But we don’t know yet that anything is wrong. Wait a few minutes. We shall soon find out.”
“And meantime?” panted Magnus.
“We can do nothing but act like men, and remain calm. Go to your post,” exclaimed Artingale; and he spoke in a sharp, decisive way, that showed that the service had missed a good officer.
Five minutes—ten minutes—a quarter of an hour of torture, during which all inside was as still as death. Then as Artingale stood in the open doorway he fancied he heard a slight sound, and as he stood upon the qui vive, ready to seize the first man who presented himself, he heard steps outside, and saw that a policeman was coming.
Steps inside, too, and then from the hall a bull’s-eye lantern flashed upon him.
“All right, sir,” said a familiar voice; and he saw that it was the first policeman. “The dining-room window was open facing the Park. I come in there. I’ve got a man watching. That you, sergeant?”
“Yes. You stop here with this gentleman; get out your truncheon, and don’t miss ’em, whatever you do. Roberts will be along here directly.”
“What are you going to do first?” said Artingale.
“Rout up the butler and one or two more, sir, directly,” said the sergeant, opening his lantern; and as they entered the hall he made the light play about the perfectly orderly place, before going softly into the great dining-room.
“Don’t quite understand it yet, sir,” he said. “The dining-room shutters here had been opened from the inside. Window was open. Seen anything?” he said to some one in the shadow. “No.”
“There’s plate enough on that sideboard,” continued the sergeant, “to have made a pretty good swag, if it ain’t ’lectrer.”
“No, no, those are all silver. It is a presentation set.”
“Then we’re in time,” whispered the sergeant. “I expect the servants are in it.”
A terrible dread was oppressing Artingale, but he did not speak, only followed the sergeant as he tried the breakfast-room door, to find it fast and the key outside; the library the same.
“All right there,” he said softly. “Joe, here. Stand inside and keep your eye on the staircase; we’re going below.”
The constable at the entrance obeyed his orders, and softly opening a glass door, the sergeant, who seemed quite at home in the geography of the place, led the way down a flight of well-whitened stone steps to the basement, the bright light of his lantern playing upon a long row of bells, and then upon a broad stone passage and several doors.
“Butler’s pantry,” he whispered, after a good look round. “You stop here, sir.”
Artingale stopped short, guarding the foot of the steps, and the sergeant tried the door, to find it fast, but as the handle rattled a man’s voice exclaimed, “Who’s there?”
“Police! Open quickly.”
There was a scuffling noise, then the striking of a match, and a light shone out from three panes of glass above the door. The hurried sound of some one putting on some clothes, and then a peculiar monitory click-click!
“Mind what you’re at with that pistol,” said the sergeant gruffly. “I tell you it’s the police. Open the door.”
“How do I know it’s the police?” said the butler firmly.
“Come and see then, stupid.”
“Open the door, Thompson,” said Artingale. “I’m here too.”
“Oh, is it you, my lord?” said the butler, and he unlocked the door, to be seen in his shirt and trousers, with a cocked pistol in his hand. “I’ve got the plate here, my lord, and I did not know but what it was a trick. For God’s sake, my lord, what’s the matter?”
“Don’t know yet,” said the sergeant. “But the plate’s right, you say?”
“Yes; all but the things in the dining-room.”
“They’re safe too. We found the front door open. Now then, who sleeps down here?”
“Under-butler, footman, and page,” said the butler quickly; and taking a chamber candlestick, he led the way to a smaller pantry where the light showed a red-faced boy fast asleep with his mouth open.
“Where are the men?” said the sergeant laconically; and the butler led the way to a closed door, which opened into a long stone-paved hall, in the two recesses of which were a couple of turned-up bedsteads, in each of which was a sleeping man, one of whom jumped up, however, as the light fell upon his eyes.
“Get up, James,” said the butler. “Have either of you fellows been up to any games?”
“No, sir. We came to bed before you,” was the reply.
“You’d better get up,” said the butler.
Then following the sergeant the basement was searched, and they reascended to the hall.
“I’ve been all about here,” said the sergeant quietly. “They must have meant the jewels and things up-stairs. Next thing is to go up and wake your guv’ner.”
“What, alone?” said the butler blankly.
“Come along, then, and I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll come too, sergeant,” said Artingale. “Don’t alarm the ladies if you can help it.”
And together they mounted the thickly-carpeted stairs.