CHAPTER XI.
STEPHEN WALKER DOES HIS WORST.
On the return journey from Gravesend, the Policeman could not but remark that a great change had taken place in his companion. It was not that he spoke more than he had done before, for he did not exchange a single word with him; but the whole expression of his face, and even of his figure, had changed. On his way down he had cowered in a corner, his face generally buried in his hands; when he had looked up it was with an expression of utter hopelessness, mingled with a certain anxious dread; his fingers had twitched nervously, he clasped and unclasped his hands, and rocked his body to and fro. Now, all this was changed. He was another man. He sat upright, almost stiffly so. There was a patch of colour in each cheek, his face was set and hard, his lips pressed closely together, he seemed unconscious of where he was, but looked straight in the distance. His hands no longer lay nerveless, but were tightly compressed in a fierce clench. Sometimes his lips moved, but his companion could not hear that he spoke. People got in and out at the various stations, but Stephen Walker never noticed them, and was unconscious of their presence, much less of the curiosity and comment of which he was the subject. His appearance was far too wild and strange, not to be instantly remarked, and this, coupled with the fact of the Policeman being seated opposite to him, awakened great suspicion, not to say alarm. One or two people whispered to A 56, to inquire if it was a case of murder; and one old lady expressed her opinion audibly, that “it was shameful taking such a character as that in a railway-carriage without so much as a handcuff on.” The Policeman, not being able to enter into explanations, answered only by a general nod, as much as to show he knew what he was about, and then tapped his forehead mysteriously. This had the effect he desired of inducing a belief that Stephen Walker was an escaped lunatic, and of clearing the carriage of its occupants at the next station. Complaints were evidently made to the guard of the train on the subject, for just before it moved on, he came to the window, and exchanged a few words with the Policeman. Being informed of the real state of the case, he said, “poor old gentleman!” in a tone of great sympathy, and locked the carriage-door, so that no other passenger got in until the end of the journey.
A 56's own impression for a while was that Stephen Walker's brain had given way under the crushing blow he had suffered. This demeanour was so utterly unlike the ordinary nervousness of the man that the Policeman watched with some anxiety to see that his companion made no sudden movement to open the door and leap out when the train was in full motion. After a time he abandoned this idea. There was none of the changing light of insanity in Stephen Walker's eye. There was an air of stern determination about him, which the Policeman felt boded ill for some one.
The return journey passed without a word being exchanged; and not, indeed, until they got out of the cab at New Street, was the silence broken. Then Stephen Walker turned to the Policeman—
“Thank you very much for what you have done for me. To-morrow I shall go down to the funeral of my child, for although as you advised, I declined to identify her, I have no doubt it is her. To-night I have other things to do.”
The Policeman did not turn off at the door, as Stephen Walker evidently expected and wished him to do, but followed him into the house.
“Excuse me, Mr. Walker, excuse what I am going to say, but from what I have seen of you on the way up, I am afraid you are going to do something rash. Now, don't you go to do it, sir. I ain't talking as a policeman now, I am talking as a man. Don't make matters worse by doing anything rash. I know what you are thinking of—you are thinking of him. He's a bad un, whoever he is; and hanging would be too good for him; but don't you touch him, sir. Think it over—don't do anything rash.”
“You think I am going to kill him?” Stephen Walker asked.