Chapter Twenty Three.
In Mr Coppinger’s Counting-House.
Mr Stephen Coppinger had been for some time in town, leaving his family at Lynderton. It was not a time when a mercantile man could neglect his business. There was a great deal to do, for confidence had been restored in the mercantile world after the mutiny of the fleet had been completely put down.
Silas Sleech was at his desk, and, like the rest of his companions, busily employed.
Mr Kyffin did his best to attend to business, but his mind was greatly disturbed. He could gain no tidings of his ward. All he could learn was that he had left the ship in which he had returned to England, and had gone on board another man-of-war. Too probably she was one of the mutinous fleet. Mr Kyffin heard of many men losing their lives in the scuffles which ensued on board the ships when the loyal part of the crew were struggling to restore the power into the hands of their officers. Too probably Harry, on one side or the other—he hoped on the loyal side—might have lost his life in one of these scuffles. He was sure otherwise that the lad would have written to him. One letter might possibly have miscarried, but he would not have gone so long without writing a second or a third time. He was instituting, in the meantime, all the inquiries in his power, but he could not hear the name of Harry Tryon on board any of the ships. He was not aware, of course, that Harry had changed his name, nor that it was a common custom with seamen in those days to do so, for various reasons. Had he known of the existence of Jacob Tuttle he might have applied to him, and he therefore had not the same means of learning about him which Mabel possessed.
On the arrival of the post one morning at Idol Lane Mr Sleech received a letter from his “respected father.” The ordinary observer would have discovered nothing in the countenance of Silas to indicate its contents. He, however, folding it up, put it in his pocket, and forthwith betook himself to the door of Mr Coppinger’s private room, at which he humbly knocked. On being admitted, he explained to his principal that he had received notice of the illness of his father and one of his sisters, and that his presence, as the eldest son of the family, would be greatly required. He therefore entreated that Mr Coppinger would allow him to set forth without delay for Stanmore.
Mr Coppinger was a kind-hearted man, and would on no account detain him if Mr Kyffin could manage to have his duties performed during his absence.
Silas, thanking his principal, withdrew, and in a humble tone of voice entreated Mr Kyffin to make the necessary arrangements. The head clerk looked hard at Silas, who, though not easily abashed, let his eyes drop before him.
“Yes; if Mr Coppinger gives you leave, I will certainly not detain you,” answered Mr Kyffin.
Silas was in a great hurry to be off. Quickly putting the books at which he had been working in their places, he closed his desk and hurried out of the office. Mr Kyffin looked after him.
“So great a villain never darkened that door before,” he said to himself. “May it be the last time he ever passes through it!”
Under where Silas Sleech’s hat and cloak had hung Mr Kyffin saw a bunch of keys. He had evidently dropped them in his hurry to leave the house.
“I am the fittest person to take charge of these,” said Mr Kyffin to himself, and he forthwith retired with them into Mr Coppinger’s room. He there held a consultation of some length; then once more entering the office, he waited till the hour of closing. The clerks were dismissed. He and Mr Coppinger alone remained in the office. Mr Sleech’s desk was opened with one of the keys. Within was a strange assortment of articles, and among others a small iron box, with Mr Silas Sleech’s name painted outside. There were lottery tickets, and pawnbrokers’ duplicates, and packs of cards—some curiously marked—and dice which had a suspicious tendency to fall with the higher numbers uppermost, and letters from dames of scarcely doubtful character.
“I have suspected as much for long,” said Mr Kyffin, “but I could not well bring the proof home. This, however, will convince you that Silas Sleech is not a trustworthy person.”
“Indeed it does,” exclaimed Mr Coppinger; “but see what this strong box contains. Probably if he leaves such articles as this scattered about, without thinking it necessary to conceal them, the contents of that box are of a more damaging character.”
The box was opened by one of the keys of the bunch.
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr Kyffin, “here is a letter directed to me. It is the one I have long missed from my unfortunate young ward, Harry Tryon. Excuse me, sir, while I read its contents.”
Mr Kyffin ran his eye over the letter.
“The poor lad here gives an explanation of his conduct, and his reasons for quitting London. He weakly yielded to the temptation thrown in his way by Silas Sleech, that is very evident, but in no other respect do I believe that he was criminal. However, we will look over the remainder of these papers, and I trust then we shall have the means of exonerating him still further. What do you think of these papers?” asked Mr Kyffin, holding a sheet up to Mr Coppinger.
On it was written over and over again the name of the firm, as signed by Mr Coppinger himself. Evidently the writer had been endeavouring to imitate Mr Coppinger’s signature. He had done so very successfully. Indeed, another paper was found containing a signature which Mr Coppinger declared to be genuine. It was clearly the copy for the others.
“Now I feel sure,” said Mr Kyffin, “that Silas Sleech forged that paper which he wished it to be supposed Harry had forged, while it’s very possible that he may also have forged Harry’s signature to some of the bills which he showed us when he endeavoured to prove Harry’s guilt.”
“I indeed think your account very likely to be true,” said Mr Coppinger. “I am ashamed at having allowed such a scoundrel as Mr Sleech undoubtedly is, to have remained so long in my office undetected; yet so plausible are his manners, that had this evidence against him not been discovered, I should have been unwilling to believe him guilty.”
“You will not let him escape, surely, sir,” said Mr Kyffin; “justice demands that he should be brought to trial, so that the character of your nephew may be vindicated.”
The two gentlemen examined all the papers thoroughly, making notes of their contents, and then locked them carefully up in the safe in Mr Coppinger’s room. Mr Kyffin having accompanied Mr Coppinger to Broad Street, and supped with him, returned at night to the office, where he occasionally occupied a bedroom. He had been in bed for some time, though not asleep, thinking over Harry’s affairs, when he was aroused by a knocking at the door. He heard the porter go out of his room and admit some one. It immediately struck him that it was Silas Sleech; for as the porter knew nothing of his proceedings, he would naturally, without hesitation, admit him. Rapidly dressing, therefore, he struck a light, and putting the pistol, which he usually carried to and from Hampstead, in his pocket, he proceeded down-stairs. The person who had come in did not go to Mr Sleech’s room; but after a few minutes’ conversation entered the counting-house. Mr Kyffin heard him wish the porter good-night, and say that he should not be long.
“Call me at an early hour, there’s a good fellow, for I have to be off betimes,” he added.
Mr Kyffin waited a minute, and then proceeded down-stairs into the office. A light was burning on the desk. By it he saw Mr Sleech hunting about in all directions, evidently looking for his keys. The search was, of course, in vain. He seemed to think so, for producing a cold iron from his pocket, with as little noise as possible he wrenched open the desk. He seized the light and looked in. Dismay was depicted on his countenance. At that instant Mr Kyffin entered the room.
“Wretched scoundrel, confess your villainies!” he exclaimed. “Was it to betray an honest youth, and to blast his character through a miserable feeling of jealousy and revenge, that you pretended to be his friend? Confess what you have done, or prepare to be given over into the hands of justice.”
On hearing Mr Kyffin’s voice Silas dropped the lid of the desk, and slipping off his stool, went down on his knees, holding up his hands with a look of the most abject terror. “I did not intend to injure him, indeed I did not!” he exclaimed, in a whining voice.
“Oh! Mr Kyffin, you know how long I have toiled for the house, and how our employer’s interests were as dear to me as my own; then how can you accuse me of doing such things as you say I have done?”
“Don’t kneel to me,” answered Mr Kyffin, sternly; “don’t add additional falsehood to your other villainies. Expect no leniency from me. Of all bad characters, I hate a hypocrite the most. I will make no promise, but if you will confess in a court of justice what you have done, I may possibly endeavour to have your punishment mitigated, and no other promise can I make.”
“I will do all you ask, indeed I will,” answered Silas, “only don’t look so fierce; don’t shoot me,” he exclaimed, looking at the pistol which, unconsciously, Mr Kyffin had taken from his pocket.
“I have no intention of shooting you, but again say I will make no promises. Mr Coppinger will decide what is to be done with the man who has robbed him, and so cruelly treated his nephew.”
Saying this, Mr Kyffin returned the pistol to his pocket. The round eyes of Silas had been watching him all the time. He now hung down his head as if ashamed to meet Mr Kyffin’s glance. His eye, however, was glancing upward all the time. Suddenly he made a spring, and rushed towards Mr Kyffin.
“I will have my revenge!” he exclaimed, grappling with him.
Mr Kyffin, though advanced in life, was as active as ever. His muscles and nerves had never been unstrung by dissipation, as were those of Silas, who found that he had met almost his match. The young man, however, struggled desperately, as a fierce desire seized him to destroy his opponent. He felt for the pistol in his pocket. With insane satisfaction he grasped it, and was drawing it forth, with a determination of shooting the owner, when he found his arm seized, and directly afterwards he lay on the ground with the sturdy porter and Mr Kyffin standing over him.