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'The first thing Mr. Pardon wanted me to do,' said Mr. Vinnicombe, was to trace the notes; but I said, No; the thief first, the property afterwards. If I could trace him by the property, all right; but there was no time to lose in ascertaining what road he had taken, and where he was bound to. In a very short time I discovered by what means and by what road Anthony Bullpit had left the town. That road did not lead to Liverpool, and immediately I learnt this, I decided that Liverpool was the port which he intended to reach. Why port? you ask. Well, it wasn't likely that a cunning card like this Bullpit was going to remain in England. I picked up a bit of gossip concerning him, and I found out that he had had a love affair with a young lady--I mention no names, and I only mention it professionally--and that her family, not liking his sneaking ways, had shut their doors on him; I found out also that this young lady was soon to be married to a gentleman who was more worthy of her. That was one reason why it wasn't likely he was going to remain in England; having filled his pockets with another man's money was another reason. But there were stronger reasons than these. He had peculiar marks about him, and if he wasn't found out to-day by these marks, he would be to-morrow; and he knew it. So what he had to do was to get out of the country as quick as he could. Now, there's only two ports in England from where a man as wants to go can go to all parts of the world, civilised and uncivilised. These ports are London and Liverpool.
'Bullpit wouldn't go to London. Why? Mr. Pardon was there. He'd go naturally to Liverpool, because Mr. Pardon was not there. Now, I'll tell you about these peculiar marks of his. First, he had--a knob on the top of his head. But the knob couldn't be seen, you'll say, because he had a bushy head of hair. That's right enough, but it don't do away with the knob; he had it, and that was enough for me. I don't know as ever I had any business in connection with a man as had a knob on his head, and that circumstance made the case interesting to me. I like to do with all sorts. Second, he had a peculiarity with his teeth. The two middle ones in the top jaw--I hope you don't think I'm going to swear or use bad language; but jaw's a word, and when a word's got to be used, I use it--the two middle teeth in his top jaw had a slit between 'em, a slit as you could see daylight through, if there was such a thing in his mouth. That slit ain't much, you'll say. All right. Third, he had a habit of biting his nails. Well, now, that ain't a crime, you say. I don't say it is, but he had it, and that was enough for me. These peculiarities and a general description of Bullpit--as to how tall he was (a man can't alter that), how stout (nor that), what kind of complexion, and other personal details--were all I had to go upon. I tracked him, without ever making a miss, in the contrary direction of Liverpool, and then back again by another road in the direction of Liverpool, and there I lost sight of him completely. But I knew he must be there, and that was enough for me. I had travelled faster than he had, and I reckoned I had gained a day and a half on him. According to my calculation, he hadn't had time to get away yet; he could only have been in Liverpool two days, and as Mr. Pardon wasn't expected home for a week after he left, there was no need for him to put on any show of hurry; it might look suspicious. Now, what should I do? Bullpit would be sure to disguise himself--clap on a pair of false whiskers and coloured spectacles perhaps, cut his hair short, wear a wig; he would certainly not walk about in the clothes he run away in. Thinking of these things I felt that Bullpit might prove more than a match for me. There was the knob on his head certainly; but I couldn't go up to every suspicious-looking stranger, pull off his hat, and feel for the knob; people might resent it as a liberty, and treat it accordingly. There was his habit of biting his nails; but he would be sure to restrain himself, though it is about the most difficult thing in the world for a man to keep from, when he's been accustomed to it all his life. I don't see what there is in nails except dirt to make people fond of 'em. They ain't sweet and they ain't tasty. Well, but Bullpit. He'd be cunning enough to restrain himself from biting his nails, knowing it was a mark to go by; still nails don't grow in a day, and they'd be short on his fingers naturally. But he'd wear gloves. Then the slit between his teeth. Well, that couldn't be altered; but he could keep his mouth shut. Now if I was to tell you everything I did in the first two days I was in Liverpool, it would fill a book, and that's what you don't want; what you do want is for me to come to the point, and that I'll do in a jiffy. I went down to the docks, and took up my lodgings near there; I didn't stop in any particular place, but shifted from one eating-house to another, and mixed with the customers, and talked to the waiters; no ship sailed out of the Mersey without my being on it at the last minute, with my eyes wide open; I communicated with the captains and the ship-agents; I watched every new arrival at the eating-houses, and drank with them, and did a hundred other things--and at the end of the fourth day I was as far off as ever; I hadn't picked up a link. Now, that nettled me; it did--it nettled me. I had set my heart on catching this Bullpit; he was worth catching, he was such a sly cunning customer; I looked upon it as a match between us, and I wanted to win, and here was I four days in Liverpool, with never a link in my hands for my pains. On the fifth day I met--quite by accident--a professional friend, who had come down to Liverpool to say good-bye to a relative of his who was going to America. The ship was to sail that afternoon; it was called The Prairie Bird. We had a bit of dinner together in the coffee-room, where other men were dining. Over dinner I told my friend what had brought me to Liverpool; I spoke in a low tone, so as not to be overheard, and I was not sorry when the man who was eating at the next table to ours went away in the middle of my story; he was a little too close to us. Well, we finished dinner; my friend insisted on paying the reckoning, and I moved a step or two towards the next table, where the man who went away in the middle of my story had been dining. The waiter was clearing the table, when I saw something that set me on fire. Now, what do you think it was? You can't guess. I should think you couldn't, if you tried for a week. What do you say to a piece of bread? You laugh! Well, but that piece of bread was enough for me. It wasn't a link. It was the chain itself. In what way? I'll tell you. You see, that piece of bread was partly eaten, and the man who had been dining had put it down after taking his last bite at it. The marks of his teeth were in it, but the only mark I saw was a little ridge in the centre of the bite--just such a ridge as would be left by a man who had a slit between two of his upper teeth, as Anthony Bullpit had. Would that little mark have been enough for you?
'Now I had seen this man a dozen times; a most respectable-looking man he was, with leg-of-mutton whiskers, and most respectably dressed, something like a clergyman; and I knew he was a passenger by The Prairie Bird. I had never for one moment suspected him. Anthony. Bullpit was a pale-faced man; this man had a high colour. There was nothing particular in Anthony Bullpit's walk; this man dragged one leg behind the other slightly. Anthony Bullpit's hair was black; this man's hair was sandy. Anthony Bullpit had good eyebrows; this man had no eyebrows at all to speak of. Ah, he's a cunning rascal is Anthony Bullpit, and was worth catching. I put things together very quickly in my mind, and I settled it--if it wanted settling after the first sight of that piece of bread--that this man, and no other, was the man I wanted. There was only one thing that puzzled me, and that was his nails; they were long. However, I wasn't going to let that stop me, so I laid a little plot with my professional friend, and we went aboard The Prairie Bird--not in company, because of the little plot I laid, but one a minute after the other. There was my respectable customer, standing by himself; I was puzzled even then as I looked at him, he was so well disguised; but his height was there, and his bulk was there, with a little added to it, which might be padding. Well, while I stood a little distance away, with my eye on him, but not in an open way, my professional friend walks up to him from behind, until he gets close, and this is what my professional friend whispers to him: "Don't start," whispers my professional friend, most confidentially; "don't turn your head, or it might attract notice. My name's Simpson, and I cashed the cheque for seven hundred pound for you in the Hertford Bank. I was in the bank for six years, and I've done a little bit of business on my own account, and have got clear away. Twelve hundred pounds I've got about me, and I'm a fellow passenger of yours; when The Prairie Bird gets to America, what's to hinder you and me going partners and making our fortunes? Two such heads as ours'll be sure to make a big one. I sha'n't speak another word to you till we're safely off, but I'm glad I've got a friend on board." With that, my professional friend slips quietly away. Now, if my respectable-looking customer hadn't been the man I wanted, he would have turned round on my professional friend, and hit him in the eye perhaps; at all events, he would have kicked up a row. But he listened to every word, with his eyes looking down on the deck, and the only movement he made was a kind of twitching with his fingers, and a rising of them to his lips, as if he wanted to set to work on his nails. He didn't get so far as his mouth with them; he had himself too well in hand; but I was sure of my man--his own cunning was the trap in which he was caught. I waited until the last minute, until those who weren't going to the other side of the Atlantic in The Prairie Bird were scrambling away lest they should be taken by mistake; and I saw my respectable friend give one triumphant look around, being sure then he was safe. At the same moment, as if he couldn't stand it any longer, up went his fingers to his lips; his longing to get at those nails of his must have been something dreadful. Then I stepped up to him suddenly, and before he knew where he was I had the handcuffs on him. "It's no use making a noise about it," I said; "I want you, Anthony Bullpit. Here's the warrant." And quick as lightning I passed my hand over his head, and felt the knob. He saw it was all over with him, and I could see that he turned deadly white, for all his false colour. "You sha'n't be done out of a voyage across the sea," I said; "but it'll be a longer voyage than the one to America. Botany Bay'll be the place as'll suit you best, I should think." He never spoke a word; I got his trunk, and found the money in it--all changed into gold it was, the cunning one. Well, everything was comfortably arranged, and I was about to guide him down the ladder to the boat, when he whispered to me, "There's another man on board as you'd like to have. He's a better prize than I am. If you'll make it easier for me, I'll tell you who it is." "What man?" I asked, with a quiet chuckle. "A man as has robbed the bank of twelve hundred pound." Just then my professional friend came to my side. "That's him," said Anthony Bullpit "And you and him's going partners when you get safe across," I said, with a wink at my professional friend; "he cashed that cheque for you, didn't he? Lord! you're not half as clever as I took you to be!" He was clever enough to understand it all without another word, for he only gave a scowl; and when me and him and my professional friend was in the boat, he fell-to on his nails without restraint, and before the day was out he had eaten them down to the quick. He only asked one question, and that was how I had discovered him. I pulled the piece of bread from my pocket, and pointed to the marks of his teeth in it, and to the ridge the slit in his teeth had left. I brought my man safely back, and you know what has become of him. If I live till I'm a hundred--which isn't likely--I shall never forget the feeling that came over me when I saw that piece of bread with the ridge in it that brought Anthony Bullpit to justice.'
We have only to add to Mr. Vinnicombe's statement that Anthony Bullpit, when placed in the dock, pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to twenty-one years' transportation. The sentence would have been for life, but for Mr. Pardon's intercession, who pleaded for mercy for the infamous scoundrel who had abused his trust. We have occupied more space than we otherwise should have done with the details of this case, for the purpose of pointing out how often the most trivial circumstance will lead to the detection and punishment of the most cunning criminals.
Apart from the circumstance of this Anthony Bullpit being one of my grandmother's lovers, the narrative was interesting to me from the really remarkable manner in which the forger was discovered. I refolded the printed paper carefully, and replaced it in the interior of the stone figure; and in the course of a couple of days I made a drawing of Anthony Bullpit, as I imagined him to be, a sneaking hang-dog figure of a man, with a hypocritical face, gnawing his finger-nails.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
UNCLE BRYAN COMMENCES THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
'Chris is growing quite a man,' observed my mother one evening to uncle Bryan.
Her words attracted uncle Bryan's attention, and he regarded me with more interest than he usually evinced. We three were alone. Jessie was spending the evening with some neighbours, and was not expected home before ten o'clock. The family she visited was named West. I did not know them personally, but I was curious about them, not only because Jessie's visits to their house had lately grown very frequent, but because they were a theatrical family. They were, in a certain sense, famous in the neighbourhood because of their vocation, which lifted them out of the humdrum ordinary course of common affairs. During the whole time we had lived in Paradise-row, I had made no friends among our neighbours. It was different with Jessie: before she had been with us six months, she knew and was known by nearly every person in the locality. She informed me that she was fond of company, and she accepted invitations to tea from one and another. But lately she had confined her intimacy to the Wests, and whenever I came home, and she was absent, I was told she was spending an hour at their house. Many weeks before the observation which commences this chapter was made, Jessie and I had had a conversation about the Wests. She introduced their name, and after informing me that she was going to have tea with them on the following evening, asked me if I would come for her at nine o'clock and bring her home. But I demurred to this, as being likely to be considered an intrusion.