He reached the street a few minutes before the time; but the police were at their post, and he found that six powerful men were in readiness to back his exertions. Walter Harrison, however, had not appeared, and a quarter of an hour elapsed without any sign of his keeping the appointment he had made. The chief of the French police hinted broadly, that beyond doubt he had deceived the English gentleman; and Beauchamp himself began to suspect that the young culprit had repented of his promise.
Before another minute had elapsed, however, the tall athletic form of the widow's son was seen coming quickly along on the other side of the street, and Beauchamp instantly crossed over and spoke to him.
"All is right, sir," said the sailor. "They are both at home, and are even now engaged in pigeoning a young greenhorn, whom they have inveigled to play with them. If they do not get his money that way, I should not wonder if they cut his throat--so, come along, and let us make haste."
"I am ready," said Beauchamp; "but you promised to write down"----
"Ay, ay! there it is," said the young man, putting a paper into his hand. "Give it to one of those fellows who are of the police, I suppose--but make haste, and come along; for if they do not get the poor lad's money by fair means, they will by foul. I heard them talk about throwing something into the Seine, and getting a sack ready--and I do not like such words from such folks"----
"Nor I!" replied Beauchamp, "Nor I! You walk on, and we will follow;" and, crossing over to the other party, he gave the paper he had received to the commissary who headed them, and then followed as fast as possible upon the steps of the young sailor. Walter Harrison advanced rapidly; and, passing up one of the short streets that lead from the Rue de Rivoli into the Rue St. Honorè, he turned to the right in the latter, and then made his way to one of the smaller streets in the neighbourhood of the Rue St. Anne. At length he stopped; and, pointing forward to a house of respectable size and appearance, "That is the house," he said; "if these fellows halt in the passage, they are sure not to lose their game, for there is no back entrance."
Beauchamp explained to the leader of the party the words of the young sailor; and they now drew near the house in a body, keeping profound silence. The men were then carefully stationed round the door; and Beauchamp, with one pistol in his hand, and the other thrust into his bosom between his coat and waistcoat, followed his guide into the house, the door of which, as is frequent in Paris, stood open as a common entrance to all the different floors.
It were in vain to say that Beauchamp felt no sort of anxiety. The very excitement of the whole business made his heart beat with a quicker pulse than usual; and he listened eagerly as they ascended the stairs for any sound that might announce their proximity to the chamber of the murderers. He was not long kept in expectation. At the first door they reached, after passing the entresol the young sailor paused, and rang the bell twice.
As soon as ever he had done so, he whispered to Beauchamp, "I will take this one, whoever it is that opens the door. You run on, and secure the other in the room beyond--I will follow in a minute."
Almost as he spoke, the door was thrown open, and the coarse face of Tony Smithson, the man who had gone down with him in the stage-coach to Emberton, was exposed to Beauchamp's sight. He had a light in his hand, and the moment he saw that there were two men on the stairs, he would have started back, and retreated; but the young sailor sprang upon him at once, grappled with him tight, and in an instant both rolled together on the floor of the little anteroom. Beauchamp rushed forward to a door which was standing a-jar on the other side of the chamber, and whence there issued forth an intolerable smell of brandy-punch, together with the sounds of laughter. He reached it in a moment, but not before the noise of the struggle without, had caught the ears of the tenants of the room; for when Beauchamp flung wide the door, he found the murderer Harding, already, with a pistol in each hand, retreating into one corner of the room, from a table covered with bottles, glasses, and bowls, cards, dice, and markers; while the unfortunate wretch, whom we have already seen as the dirty maid of the old miser at Ryebury, now tricked out in all the gay smartness of Parisian costume, stood by the table, with sudden terror and agony in her countenance. The moment her eyes rested on Beauchamp's face, she saw that her fate was sealed, and with a loud scream, she fell, fainting, by the table. Harding, however, with scowling determination in his brow, placed his back in the corner, and pointed the pistol he held directly towards his former master.