CHAPTER XXII.
A BUSINESS CALL.
It was grey dawn when Stanhope left the hospital and turned his face homeward, and then it was not to sleep, but to pass the two hours that preceded his breakfast-time in profound meditation.
Seated in a lounging-chair, with a fragrant cigar between his lips, he looked the most care-free fellow in the world. But his active brain was absorbed in the study of a profound problem, and he was quite oblivious to all save that problem’s solution.
Whatever the result of his meditation, he ate his breakfast with a keen relish, and a countenance of serene content, and then set off for a morning call upon Mr. Follingsbee.
He found that legal gentleman preparing to walk down to his office; and after an interchange of salutations, the two turned their faces townward together.
“Well, Stanhope,” said the lawyer, linking his arm in that of the detective with friendly familiarity, “how do you prosper?”
“Very well; but I must have an interview with Mrs. Warburton this morning.”
“Phew! and you want me to manage it?”
“Yes.”
The lawyer considered a moment.
“You know that the Warburtons are overwhelmed with calamity?” he said.
Stanhope glanced sharply from under his lashes, and then asked carelessly:
“Of what nature?”
“Archibald Warburton lies dying; his little daughter has been stolen.”
“What!” The detective started, then mastering his surprise, said quietly: “Tell me about it.”
Briefly the lawyer related the story as he knew it, and then utter silence fell between them, while Richard Stanhope lost himself in meditation. At last he said:
“It’s a strange state of affairs, but it makes an immediate interview with the lady doubly necessary. Will you arrange it at once?”
“You are clever at a disguise: can you make yourself look like a gentleman of my cloth?”
“Easily,” replied Stanhope, with a laugh.
“Then I’ll send Leslie—Mrs. Warburton, a note at once, and announce the coming of myself and a friend, on a matter of business.”
An hour later, a carriage stopped before the Warburton doorway, and two gentlemen alighted.
The first was Mr. Follingsbee, who carried in his hand a packet of legal-looking papers. The other was a trim, prim, middle-aged gentleman, tightly buttoned-up in a spotless frock coat, and looking preternaturally grave and severe.
They entered the house together, and the servant took up to Leslie the cards of Mr. Follingsbee and “S. Richards, attorney.”
With pale, anxious face, heavy eyes, and slow, dragging steps, Leslie appeared before them, and extended her hand to Mr. Follingsbee, while she cast a glance of anxious inquiry toward the seeming stranger.
“How is Archibald?” asked the lawyer, briskly.
“Sinking; failing every moment,” replied Leslie, sadly.
“And there is no news of the little one?”
“Not a word.”
There was a sob in her throat, and Mr. Follingsbee, who hated a scene, turned abruptly toward his companion, saying:
“Ours is a business call, Leslie, and as the business is Mr. Stanhope’s not mine, I will retire to the library while it is being transacted.”
And without regarding her stare of surprise, he walked coolly from the room, leaving Leslie and the disguised detective face to face.
“Is it possible!” she said, after a moment’s silence; “is this Mr. Stanhope!”
The middle-aged gentleman smiled and came toward her.
“It is I, Mrs. Warburton. An interview with you seemed to me quite necessary, and I considered this the safest disguise, and Mr. Follingsbee’s company the surest protection.”
She bowed her head and looked inquiringly into his face.
“Mrs. Warburton, are you still desirous to discover the identity of the person who has been a spy upon you?” he asked gravely.
“I know—” she checked herself and turned a shade paler. “I mean I—” again she paused. What should she say to this man whose eyes seemed looking into her very soul? What did he know?
“Let me speak for you, madam,” he said, coming close to her side, his look and manner full of respect, his voice low and gentle. “You do not need my information; you have, yourself, discovered the man.”
Then, seeing the look of distress and indecision upon her face, he continued:
“On the night of our first interview, I pledged my word to respect any secret of yours which I might discover. At the same time I warned you that such discovery was more than possible. If, in saying what it becomes my duty to say, I touch upon a subject offensive to you, or upon which you are sensitive, pardon me. Under other circumstances I might have said: Mrs. Warburton, it is your brother-in-law who has constituted himself your shadow. But the events that followed that masquerade have made what would have been a simple discovery, a most complicated affair. Can we be sure of no interruption while you listen?”
She sank into a chair, with a weary sigh.
“There will be no interruption. Miss French and my brother-in-law are watching in the sick-room; the servants are all at their posts. Be seated, Mr. Stanhope.”
He drew a chair near that which she occupied, and plunged at once into his unpleasant narrative, talking fast, and in low, guarded tones.
Beginning with a description of the Raid as it was planned, he told how he had been detained at the masquerade—how he had discovered the presence of Vernet, and suspected his agency in the matter—how, without any thought other than to be present at the Raid, to note Vernet’s generalship, and satisfy himself, if possible, as to the exact meaning of his unfriendly conduct, he, Stanhope, had assumed the disguise of “Silly Charlie”, had encountered Vernet and been seized upon by that gentleman as a suitable guide,—and how, while convoying his false friend through the dark alleys, they were startled by a cry for help.
As she listened, Leslie’s face took on a look of terror, and she buried it in her hands.
“I need not dwell upon what followed,” concluded Stanhope. “Not knowing what was occurring, I managed to enter first at the door. I heard Alan Warburton bid you fly for your husband’s sake. I saw your face as he forced you through the door, and then I contrived to throw Vernet off his feet before he, too, should catch a glimpse of you.”
Leslie shuddered, and as he paused, she asked, from behind her hands:
“And then—oh, tell me what happened after that!”
“Your brother-in-law closed and barred the door, and turned upon us like a lion at bay, risking his own safety to insure your retreat. What! has he not told you?”
“He has told me nothing.”
“There is little more to tell. I knew him for your brother-in-law, because, here at the masquerade, I was a witness to a little scene in which he threw off his mask and domino. It was when he met and frightened the little girl, and then reproved the servant.”
“I remember.”
“I recognized him at once, and fearing lest, by arresting him, we might do harm to you, or bring to light the secret I had promised to help you keep, I connived at his escape.”
She lifted her head suddenly.
“Arrest!” she exclaimed; “why should you arrest him?”
Stanhope fixed his eyes upon her face; then sinking his voice still lower, he said:
“Something had occurred before we came upon the scene; what that something was, you probably know. What we found in that room, after your flitting, was Alan Warburton, standing against the door with a table before him as a breast-work, in his hand a blood-stained bar of iron, and almost at his feet, a dead body.”
“What!”
“It was the body of a dead rag-picker. Before you left that room, a fatal blow was struck.”
“Yes—I—I don’t know—I can’t tell—it was all confused.”
She sank back in her chair, her face fairly livid, her eyes looking unutterable horror.
“Some one had committed a murder,” went on Stanhope, keeping his eyes fixed upon her pallid face; “and the instrument that dealt the blow was in your brother-in-law’s hand. To arrest him would have been to compromise you, and I had promised you safety and protection.”
She bent forward, looking eagerly into his face.
“And you rescued him?” she said, eagerly.
“You could scarcely call it that. He resisted grandly, and was brave enough to effect his own rescue. I guided him away from that unsafe locality, and warned him of the danger which menaced him.”
“And is that danger now past?”
“Is it past!” He took from his pocket a folded placard, opened it, and put it into her hands.
It was the handbill containing the description of the escaped Sailor, and offering a reward for his capture.
With a cry of remorse and terror, Leslie Warburton flung it from her, and rose to her feet.
“My God!” she cried, wringing her hands wildly, “my cowardice, my folly, has brought this upon him, upon us all!”
Then turning toward the detective, a sudden resolve replacing the terror in her eye, a resolute ring in her voice, she said:
“Listen; you have proved yourself worthy of all confidence; you shall hear all I have to tell; you shall judge between my enemies and me.”
“But, madam—”
“Wait; I want your advice, too, your aid, perhaps. Mr. Follingsbee also shall hear me.”
She started toward the library, but the detective put out a detaining hand.
“Stop!” he said, firmly. “If what you are about to say includes anything concerning Alan Warburton, or the story of that night, we must have no confidants while his liberty and life are menaced. His identity with that missing Sailor must never be known, even by Mr. Follingsbee.”
She breathed a shuddering sigh, and returned to her seat.
“You are right,” she said hurriedly; “and until you shall advise me otherwise, I will tell my story to none but you.”