ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS
A few minutes after his encounter with Jim Sanders, to which interview Mrs. Chattaway and Nora had been unseen witnesses, Farmer Apperley met Policeman Dumps, to whom, you may remember, the superintendent had referred as having been sent after Jim. He came up from the direction of Barbrook.
"I can't find him nowhere," was his salutation to Mr. Apperley. "I have been a'most all over Mr. Ryle's land, and in every hole and corner of Barbrook, and he ain't nowhere. I'm going on now to his own home, just for form's sake; but that's about the last place he'd hide in."
"Are you speaking of Rupert Trevlyn?" asked Mr. Apperley, who knew nothing of the man's search for Jim.
"No, sir; Jim Sanders."
"Oh, you need not look after him," replied the farmer. "I have just met him. Jim's all right. It was not he who did the mischief. He has been after all the fire-engines on foot, and is just come back, dead-beat. He was going on to the Hold to help put out the fire, but I told him it was out, and he could go home. There's not the least necessity to look after Jim."
Mr. Dumps—whose clearness of vision was certainly not sufficient to set the Thames on fire—received the news without any doubt. "I thought it an odd thing for Jim Sanders to do. He haven't daring enough," he remarked. "That kitchenmaid was right, I'll be bound, as to its being Mr. Rupert in his passion. Gone in home, did you say, sir?"
"In bed by this time, I should say," replied the farmer. "They have got Mr. Rupert, Dumps."
"Have they?" returned Dumps. "It's a nasty charge, sir. I shouldn't be sorry that he got off it."
The farmer continued his road towards Barbrook; the policeman went the other way. As he came to the cottage inhabited by the Sanders family, it occurred to him that he might as well ascertain the fact of Jim's safety, and he went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Sanders opened it instantly, believing it to be the wanderer. When she saw policeman Dumps standing there, she thought she should have died with fright.
"Your son has just come in all right, I hear, Madge Sanders. Farmer Apperley have told me."
"Yes, sir," replied she, dropping a curtsey. The untruthful reply was spoken in her terror, almost unconsciously; but there may have been some latent thought in her heart to mislead the policeman.
"Is he gone to bed? I don't want to disturb him if he is."
"Yes, sir," replied she again.
"Well, they have got Mr. Rupert Trevlyn, so the examination will take place to-morrow morning. Your son had better go right over to Barmester the first thing after breakfast; tell him to make for the police-station, and stop there till he sees me. He'll have to give evidence, you know."
"Very well, sir," repeated the woman, in an agony of fear lest Jim should make his appearance. "Jim ain't guilty, sir: he wouldn't harm a fly."
"No, he ain't guilty; but somebody else is, I suppose; and Jim must tell what he knows. Mind he sets off in time. Or—stop. Perhaps he had better come to the little station at Barbrook, and go over with us. Yes, that'll be best."
"To-night, sir?" asked she timidly.
"To-night?—no. What should we do with him to-night? He must be there at eight o'clock in the morning; or a little before it. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
She watched him off, quite unable to understand the case, for she had seen nothing of Jim, and Nora Dickson had not long gone. Mr. Dumps made his way to the headquarters at Barbrook; and when, later on, Bowen came in with Rupert Trevlyn, Dumps informed him that Jim Sanders was all right, and would be there by eight o'clock.
"Have you got him—all safe?"
"I haven't got him," replied Dumps. "There wasn't no need for that. He was a-bed and asleep," he added, improving upon his information. "It was him that went for all the injines, and he was dead tired."
"Your orders were to take him," curtly returned Bowen, who believed in Jim's innocence as much as Dumps did, but would not tolerate disobedience to orders. "He was seen with a lighted torch in the rick-yard, and that's enough."
Rupert Trevlyn looked round quickly. This conversation had occurred as Bowen was going through the room with his prisoner to consign the latter to a more secure one. "Jim Saunders did no harm with the torch, Bowen. He lighted it to show me a little puppy of his; nothing more. There is no need to accuse Jim——"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Trevlyn, but I'd rather not hear anything from you one way or the other," interrupted Bowen. "Don't as much as open your mouth about it, sir, unless you're obliged; and I speak in your interest when I give you this advice. Many a prisoner has brought the guilt home to himself through his own tongue."
Rupert took the hint, and subsided into silence. He was consigned to his quarters for the night, and no doubt passed it as agreeably as was consistent with the circumstances.
The fire had not spread beyond a rick or two. It was quite out before midnight; and the engines, which had done effectual service, were on their way home again. At eight o'clock the following morning a fly was at the door to convey Rupert Trevlyn to Barmester. Bowen, a cautious man, deemed it well that the chief witness—it may be said, the only witness to any purpose—should be transported there by the same conveyance. But that witness, Mr. Jim Sanders, delayed his appearance unwarrantably, and Dumps, in much wrath, started in search of him. Back he came—it was not more than a quarter-of-a-mile to the mother's cottage.
"He has gone on, the stupid blunderer," cried he to Bowen; "Mrs. Sanders says he's at Barmester by this time. He'll be at the station there, no doubt."
So the party started in state: Bowen, Dumps, and Rupert Trevlyn inside; and Chigwell, who had been sent to capture him, on the box. There was just as much necessity for the presence of the two men as for yours or mine; but they would not have missed the day's excitement for the world: and Bowen did not interpose his veto.
The noise and bustle at the fire had been great, but it was scarcely greater than that which prevailed that morning at Barmester. As a matter of course, various contradictory versions were afloat; it is invariably the case. All that was certainly known were the bare facts; Mr. Chattaway had horsewhipped Rupert Trevlyn; a fire had almost immediately broken out in the rick-yard; and Rupert was in custody on the charge of causing it.
Belief in Rupert's guilt was accorded a very limited degree. People could not forget the ill-feeling supposed to exist towards him in the breast of Mr. Chattaway; and the flying reports that it was Jim Sanders who had been the culprit, accidentally, if not wilfully, obtained far more credence than the other. The curious populace would have subscribed a good round sum to be allowed to question Jim to their hearts' content.
But a growing rumour, freezing the very marrow in the bones of their curiosity, had come abroad. It was said that Jim had disappeared: was not to be found under the local skies; and it was this caused the chief portion of the public excitement. For in point of fact, when Bowen and the rest arrived at Barmester, Jim Sanders could not be seen or heard of. Dumps was despatched back to Barbrook in search of him.
The hearing was fixed for ten o'clock; and before that hour struck, the magistrates—a full bench of them—had taken their places. Many familiar faces were to be seen in the crowded court—familiar to you, my readers; for the local world was astir with interest and curiosity. In one part of the crowd might be seen the face of George Ryle, grave and subdued; in another, the dark flashing eyes of Nora Dickson; yonder the red cheeks of Mr. Apperley; nearer, the pale concerned countenance of Mr. Freeman. Just before the commencement of the proceedings, the carriage from Trevlyn Hold drove up, and there descended from it Mr. and Madam Chattaway, and Miss Diana Trevlyn. A strange proceeding, you will say, that the ladies should appear; but it was not deemed strange in the locality. Miss Diana had asserted her determination to be present in tones quite beyond the power of Mr. Chattaway to contradict, even had he wished to do so; and thus he had no plea for refusing his wife. How ill she looked! Scarcely a heart but ached for her. The two ladies sat in a retired spot, and Mr. Chattaway—who was in the commission of the peace, but did not exercise the privilege once in a dozen years—took his place on the bench.
Then the prisoner was brought in, civilly conducted by Superintendent Bowen. He looked pale, subdued, gentlemanly—not in the least like one who would set fire to a hay-rick.
"Have you all your witnesses, Bowen?" inquired the presiding magistrate.
"All but one, sir, and I expect him here directly; I have sent after him," was the reply. "In fact, I'm not sure but he is here," added the man, standing on tiptoe, and stretching his neck upwards; "the crowd's so great one can't see who's here and who isn't. If he can be heard first, his evidence may be conclusive, and save the trouble of examining the others."
"You can call him," observed the magistrate. "If he is here, he will answer. What's the name?"
"James Sanders, your worship."
"Call James Sanders," returned his worship, exalting his voice.
The call was made in obedience, and "James Sanders!" went ringing through the court; and walls and roof echoed the cry.
But there was no other answer.