CHAPTER LXXXII.
Learmont’s Sneers.—The Spy.—The Amateur Constable.
Sir Francis Hartleton paused a moment in doubt whether he should speak to the gloomy squire, whom he so much suspected of many crimes, or pass on his way without meeting him. Before, however, he could decide upon any course of action, Learmont settled the question by walking up to Hartleton, and saying,—
“Good morning, Sir Magistrate—you are early afoot.”
“I own Sir Squire,” said Hartleton, rather amazed at the confident tone and manner of Learmont, “my duties take up as much of my time as other people’s crimes do theirs.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said Learmont; “Yours is an onerous position. ’Tis well criminality is not contagious, for otherwise, coming in contact with so many troublesome thieves, and disagreeable characters, London would lose her fine-spirited, upright, and noble magistrate.”
“You are right,” said Hartleton, determined not to take offence, “I can even speak to worse than thieves, and yet, thank Heaven, escape contamination from them.”
Sir Francis Hartleton’s words were barbed, but Learmont was quite as resolved as his opponent not to understand any insinuations, and he merely replied,—
“You are a judge of human nature, sir.”
“As far as my opportunities go, I am,” replied Sir Francis.
“I trust,” added Learmont, “that, notwithstanding I am but a poor squire, you will do me the honour of visiting me in my London abode.”
“That I am willing to do,” said Hartleton, “forgetting all disagreements, Squire Learmont of course.”
“Disagreements, sir,—I really am not aware of any. You were at one time, if I remember rightly, subject to bad dreams, from which I hope you have now quite recovered—I should think it a most grievous and affecting malady.”
Sir Francis felt that Learmont had rather the better of him in the dialogue, and with a smile he bowed and passed on.
The squire looked after him with a smile of bitterness mingled with contempt.
“You have entered, most-sapient magistrate,” he said, “into a war with me. You shall abide the issue, and pay the penalty of defeat—I swear by all the powers of heaven and hell, that you shall have my life, or I will have yours. He who thrusts his hand into a fire, cannot be expected to withdraw them unburnt. Beware, Sir Magistrate,—I will have vengeance upon you when I am safe in some important matters—but first as to Jacob Gray—ay, there is the great—difficulty—Jacob Grey.”
He sauntered among the then ancient trees that adorned the park, and continued muttering to himself for more than an hour before he came to any firm resolve, and then he suddenly quickened his pace, and proceeded homewards.
When Sir Francis Hartleton reached his office, his first act was to summon the man named Stephy, and to tell him to prepare to accompany him, at a short notice, some distance in the country, for he resolved to take him with him to Learmont village, whether or not he should upon mature consideration think it desirable that Ada should accompany him there.
This matter being settled, he received a report from a man whom he had set to watch the house of Learmont, who deposed to the effect that a man who he was sure was Jacob Gray, by the description given of him by the magistrate, had visited the squire. He then detailed the whole of Gray’s proceeding during the night, concluding by saying, that when his watch was relieved, Gray had been left at the Old Chequers, and that his further progress would be reported by the man who had taken his place.
“That will do,” said Hartleton; “he must not be lost sight of for a moment, unless fairly housed, and then the house must be carefully watched, and above all things, do not let him suspect he is in any danger.”
“The greatest trouble, sir, during the night,” said the spy, “has arisen from a shoemaker in Westminster, who is smitten with the notion of his cleverness in apprehending criminals. He has been following Gray about, and but for his cowardice would have apprehended him.”
“And so spoil all,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “It is of the greatest importance that this Gray should remain at large for some time. He is in possession of information which, I fear, would never be got from him after his capture, for no kind of promise could possibly be held out to him of mercy in this world. If once taken, his trial and execution for the murder of Vaughan must ensue. And then too,” added Sir Francis, in a low tone to himself, “Ada would be dragged from her present retirement forward as a witness against him, and so seal his lips for ever against any disclosure for her benefit.”
A knock at the door announced some one near, and when Sir Francis cried “Come in”—one of his officers appeared, saying—“that a man of the name of Bruggles wished to see him, on very particular business.”
“Bruggles, I don’t know him.”
“Your worship,” said the spy upon Gray, “it is the troublesome-shoemaker.”
“Oh, admit him.”
The amateur constable was ushered into the presence of Sir Francis, who said,—
“Well, sir, your business?”
“My business is private, confidential, and most important.”
“Will it take long in the telling?”
“Why, no, not very long.”
“Then leave us,” said Sir Francis to his officer, “and mind that I have regular reports about the man. Of course your former instructions hold good. On any attempt to leave by boat or vessel, an immediate arrestment takes place.”
The spy bowed and retired.
“Now, sir, if you please,” said Sir Francis to the shoemaker, “my time is precious; pray tell me in as few words as you can what you want.”
The manner of the magistrate rather damped the ardour of the shoemaker, and he replied—
“Your worship, I thought it but right to call upon you to say that I have seen—”
Here he looked about him mysteriously, to assure himself that they were alone.
“What have you seen, sir?” cried the other.
“The murderer of Mr. Vaughan.”
The shoemaker, as he said this, leaned forward in a confident manner, and then threw his head back with a jerk, to see what effect it had upon the magistrate, who, to his surprise, merely said, “Have you?” and did not seem at all put out of the way by such an astounding piece of information.
“I—I have spoken to him, sir—your worship, I mean.”
“Then, why didn’t you say so at once? You have got him outside, I suppose?”
“Got him outside, your worship?”
“Of course.”
“Why—why—I—haven’t exactly got him at all.”
“What!—Saw him, and spoke to him, and not got him?”
“Why—why—your worship he looks a powerful villain.”
“Sir, I’m afraid you are a great coward,” said Sir Francis. “What do you mean by coming to me, and saying you have seen and spoken to a criminal? I don’t know but it’s my duty to commit you for aiding, abetting, and comforting a man accused of one of the most heinous crimes in the calendar.”
“Commit me?”
“Yes—you.”
“I come here to—to—ask your worship to—to—let me have an officer to go with me to try to find him.”
“Sir, my officers will find him themselves, only some caution is requisite, as he belongs to a gang who have bound themselves by a solemn oath to barbarously murder any person who may be at all instrumental in the capture of any of their body.”
“Eh? You—you—really—then I should have been murdered?”
“I dare say you would, but I hope when you see him again that you will take him; and when you are dead, the reward shall be paid to any one you may appoint in your will, which I think you had better make here at once in my office in case of accidents. Two of my officers shall witness it.”
“No—no—I—I—God bless me. What danger I have been in, to be sure. Gracious! If I see him again, I shall knock at some door and ask to be let in till he is gone. I—I—I’ll run into a shop—I’ll leave London till some one else has taken him.”
“What!” cried Sir Francis, hardly able to control his laughter. “Do you shrink?”
“Shrink! I should think I do. I’m all over in a cold perspiration, I am.”
“Then you’ll never do for an officer, sir. I’d advise you to stick by your last, and not interfere with other people’s affairs. Leave thief-takers to catch thieves. You’ll get all the danger, my friend, and none of the profit, in travelling from that you know to that you know nothing about.”
“I will—bless me! Make my will indeed! The very idea is dreadful, I—I wish you an uncommon good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr.—a—”
“Bruggles, your worship.”
“Bruggles—good morning.”
Sir Francis Hartleton enjoyed a hearty laugh at the shoemaker’s expense after he had left, and was shortly afterwards fully immersed in the active duties of his office.