Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
After the Discovery.
“Fred!” cried Max, in alarm.
“Yes,” said that gentleman savagely—“if you must blab it out.”
“Tom, Tom,” whispered Jessie, “for your own sake save him,—he is your brother.”
He turned from her with a sigh, as he freed himself from her grasp and placed her hands in those of her mother.
“And this is my child!” groaned Dick.
“Oh, father!” cried Jessie, “don’t condemn me unheard. Frederick, speak out.”
“Not I,” he said cynically. “Why should I?”
“And this is my son!” exclaimed Max, who was completely taken aback.
“There, don’t cant, old man,” cried Fred, brutally. “I don’t suppose you have always been so very particular.”
“Fred!” exclaimed Tom savagely, “it is enough that you have brought this disgrace upon your uncle, without insulting the poor girl you have injured.”
“Bosh! I shall be off,” said Fred, flippantly; and, as he spoke, he made for the head of the staircase, not noticing that a movement had bee made in that direction by the private detectives, the principal speaking to the policeman, who nodded sapiently.
“Stop!” cried Max. “You shall not go without hearing a few words from me. You shall listen, as you are present, to advice that may—”
“Do him good,” cried Dick, turning upon him savagely. “Give it him, then, in your own place, and not in mine. You coward—you pitiful miscreant! To revenge yourself on me you stoop to this low, beggarly watching; and when your tools warn you of your opportunity, you are such a high-toned moral man that you come with your scoundrels to degrade and disgrace that poor child before her father. I don’t defend her—she did wrong; but I’m not a high-toned moral man, I’m not. I know what she has suffered; and I say to her, ‘Come here, my poor darling—I’m only a weak fool, and I forgive you.’”
“Father!” cried Jessie, and she sprang to his breast.
“Yes—lie there, my darling,” cried Dick, glancing round at all in turn. “Now let’s see who dare say a word against you—or touch you! You’re my gal, and always will be, come what may. I can’t cast you off and say I have no child; but—but, my darling, I’d sooner have been back, a poor man again, in Crowder’s Buildings, and bullied for my bit of rent, than this should have happened.”
“Oh, hush, father—hush!” whispered Jessie—“wait till they’re gone—wait till they’re gone.”
“No, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” cried Dick, “without it is of my brother and his sons. All the world may know that I was a poor man who made his fortune, but never lost his ignorant ways. So I forgive you, my gal.”
“Uncle,” cried Tom, “I have given you no cause to speak to me as you do.”
“Well, perhaps not, my lad—perhaps not. I’d take it kindly of you and Hopper, then, if you’d clear the house and then go.”
“I’ll soon rid you of my company,” said Fred. “Ta-ta, uncle. Good-bye, little Jess.”
Dick’s fist clenched as the young man approached him; and Tom saw that Jessie shrank from him as if with loathing, though she watched his movements with a strange, keen interest.
He laughed lightly as he passed, and then started back, for the policeman placed his hands across from the balustrade to the wall.
“One moment, please, Sir. This is your photograph, I think?”
He held up a card, but Fred struck it down and tried to leap past; but the policeman caught him in his arms and forced him back.
“Oh no, you don’t, sir,” said the constable, laughing. “E. Gilderoy, send your men down to keep the door. The fact is, Frederick Fraser, alias Captain Leroux, alias the Hon. Algernon Bracy, there’s a warrant out against you, and two-fifty reward. We only knew this afternoon that you were F. Fraser, and you were to have been took this evening; but the job has fallen to us.”
“Man, you are mad, or drunk.”
“I dare say I am,” said the constable, laughing; “but Mr Gilderoy and me means to have that two-fifty.”
“Father—uncle—Tom! this is a lie—an imposition!” cried Fred, wildly glancing round for a means of escape, but seeing none.
“No, sir,” said the constable; “it was them forged bills was lies and impositions.”
“Constable, this is all nonsense—some trumped-up case!” cried Max. “An invention, perhaps, of the poor boy’s uncle,” he added malignantly.
“Oh no, it is not, sir; the game’s been going on for close upon two years, only my gentleman here has been too clever to be caught. There’s over two thou, been discounted. It’s all tight.”
“Fred,” cried Max, “why don’t you knock this lying scoundrel down?”
“Don’t want to bruise my knuckles,” said Fred carelessly. “There, the game’s up, and I’m sick of it.”
“What?” cried Max.
“It’s all right,” said Fred callously. “I had the cake, so I must pay for it.”
“Reprobate!” cried Max furiously: “do you dare to own to my face that this is true?”
“True enough,” said Fred, taking out his cigar-case. “I can smoke, I suppose, constable?”
“Oh yes, sir, and make much of it,” said the man, grinning. “I don’t suppose you’ll get another—not just yet.”
“Good heavens, that it should come to this!” cried Max, raising his hands toward the ceiling. “Lost, depraved, reckless boy! you bring down your father’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”
“What!” shrieked Fred, with a sneering laugh.
“After the Christian home in which you have been brought up!”
“Look here!” cried Fred. “Slang me, if you like, for being an unlucky scoundrel; but, curse it, give me none of your sickly cant.”
“Away with him, constable. Out of my sight, wretch! I disown and curse you!” cried Max.
“Take your curse back,” shrieked Fred savagely. “Example!—Christian home! What of the office? What has been done there? Where is Violante’s money?”
Max stepped back with his jaw fallen.
“Where is the hundred pounds the old man in Australia sent for Uncle Dick? Example, indeed!”
“What?” shouted Dick, starting forward. “Say that again.”
“Say it again!” shrieked Fred, who was now mad with rage: “I say two two hundreds were sent by an old relative in Australia for you and him, and he kept them both.”
“It’s a lie—a base lie!” cried Max, foaming at the mouth.
“Oh, Max, Max, Max,” said Dick sadly, “and when I was close to starving!”
“It’s a lie, I say!”
“It’s the truth, you pitiful scoundrel!” said old Hopper. “But I made you disgorge some of it again, and sent it into the right channel.”
“What, you turn against me, too!” said Max, with a groan. “I say it’s a lie—a conspiracy. No money was sent: there was no uncle to send it.”
“No?” said Hopper quietly. “Well, I can prove it all; for I sent the money, for the sake of Dick here, and to try you both.”
“I tell you it’s a lie!” stammered Max, foaming at the mouth.
“You’ve got to prove it one,” said Fred carelessly. “Come along, constable—let’s be off. Here’s my last half-crown. I’ll go in a cab.”
“Stop!” cried Dick excitedly. “I won’t have it. I forgive Max. I forgive Fred here. I’ve plenty of money, constable. Can’t it be squared? I’ll—I’ll pay the reward. Cash down.”
“No, sir,” said the constable; “not if you doubled it.”
“But I will double it,” cried Dick.
“Hold hard, uncle,” said Fred, smiling. “It’s no go. But you always were a trump—always. Thank you for it! Sorry I’ve disgraced you. Tom, old man, it’s all right. Uncle, it’s all right about your little girl here. I came to-night, and she admitted me, thinking it was Tom; and as soon as I was inside I told her the police were after me, unless she could help me to escape. There’s the bag inside, with her purse and the jewels she gave me to sell, watch and chain, and the rest of it; for I was off across the herring-pond if I could get away. Fetch it out.”
Tom ran into Jessie’s room, and brought out a little travelling bag which lay beneath the open window.
“I didn’t like to jump it,” said Fred, laughing. “It was too high: but I should try if I had another chance.”
“Fred—brother!” cried Tom passionately, as he held out his hand; and Fred seized it for a moment, and then flung it away.
“No, Tom; let me be: I’ve always been a bad one. As for you, Jessie—God bless you! you were a little trump. I told her it would disgrace you all, and poor Tom, if I was taken; and she told a lie to save me. Good-bye, little woman!” he said, holding out his hand.
Jessie ran forward and took it, and he tried to speak in a light, cavalier manner; but his voice faltered, and he had to make an effort to keep from breaking down.
“Good-bye, Fred,” said Tom, stepping before him, as if to shake hands. Then, forcing the little bag into his grasp, he whispered, “Run for it, lad—the window. I’ll cover you—run.”
As he spoke, he gave his brother a push into the bedroom, and then faced round with clenched fists.
For a moment the men were paralysed, but the next they flung themselves on Tom.
Gilderoy was nearest, and a blow sent him rolling over; but the constable evaded a second blow, and closed in a fierce struggle, which, taking place at the doorway, prevented the next man from forcing his way through.
Mrs Shingle shrieked; but Jessie stood firm, gazing with dilating eyes at her lover, as he wrestled bravely with the policeman, whom he kept between himself and the second man, still covering his brother’s flight.
They were well matched, and victory might have been on Tom’s side but for the action of Dick, who, seeing the second man about to leap on him, thrust out his foot and laid him sprawling.
It was unfortunate for Tom, though. The man was so near that he tripped over him, and lay for the moment half-stunned; while now all three rushed into the room and to the open window.
“Below there!” cried Gilderoy—“have you seen him?”
“No,” was the reply. “He came down with a crash, though, into the shrubs here, and I think he’s hurt—he hasn’t moved since. Come down, and bring a light.”
Jessie’s window looked down upon a great clump of lilacs, into which it seemed that Fred must have jumped; and, running back to the landing, the three men dashed downstairs, through Dick’s study, into the conservatory, and thence to the enclosed back garden.
As they did so, Fred glided out from behind the window curtains, placed his hand to his lips, and bounded down the staircase, almost into his brother’s arms.
Tom saw the ruse, seized a coat and hat from the stand, and opened the front door.
“Cabstand at the corner,” he whispered. “Walk—don’t run.”
Fred went leisurely out, and as Tom closed the door the private inquiry man came back, and placed himself as sentinel to guard the door.
The search went on for a few moments outside, and then there was a shout.
“They’ve got him,” cried the sentry eagerly. “Got him?” he shouted.
“No,” cried the constable, running into the hall, hot and panting. “He threw a great ottoman out of the window, and didn’t jump. Keep that door; we must search the house.”
The search began, and it was not until every nook and corner had been hunted over that the men stood looking at one another in the hall.
“A pretty mess you’ve made of this, Mr Gilderoy!” cried the constable, at last.
“Two-fifty thrown into the gutter by your bad management,” groaned the other.
“P’r’aps you’d better go and search all London now,” said Hopper, with a sneer, “for he can’t be far off.”
The men turned upon him angrily.
“We haven’t done yet,” said the constable. “We must have some one for this. The law can’t be resisted for nothing.”
“I’m ready to give up,” said Tom quietly.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried Hopper, hastily pushing him away. “Here, you there! don’t be fools. Come in here. The man’s gone—off by the front door. What have you got to say to that?”
“I must have some one,” said the constable surlily.
“Hey? Have some one?” cried Hopper. “Then have me.”
They followed the old fellow into the dining-room, where a little private inquiry went on; and the result was that soon after they left the house, evidently having forgotten to call Tom’s behaviour into question; while, as for Max, he had not been seen to go, which Dick said was a blessing in disguise, as the encounter might have been painful.