Witness to the Deed

by George Manville Fenn

“You cannot go now. I have managed him so long, and I can manage him still.”

“We shall miss the train,” said Stratton quietly; and taking the man’s arm he drew it quietly through his, and after pausing to secure the door, walked with him down to the cab, Brettison following with the little valise.

They reached the station within five minutes of the time, and soon after were rattling down to Southampton, Stratton throwing himself back in a corner to draw a deep breath of relief as they left the busy town behind, and taking out his letter, but only to glance at the handwriting, and thrust it back.

Their prisoner sank back to sleep heavily, and he was still in a drowsy state as they went on board, lying down quietly enough in his berth, where they left him and went on deck as soon as they were well out of the dock.

“Safe!” said Stratton exultingly. “Now, Brettison, that man must never see England again.”

They reached Jersey in due time, and next morning were in Saint Malo, where they stayed two days, making inquiries which resulted in their taking boat and being landed twenty miles along the coast at a picturesque, old-world fishing village—Saint Garven’s—where, lodgings being found, they both drew breath more freely, feeling at ease now—their companion having settled down into a calm, apathetic state, apparently oblivious of all that went on around him.

It was hard to believe that the dull, vacant-looking man was the same being as the one with whom Stratton had had his late terrible encounter; for in spite of the light, indifferent way in which he had treated it to his friend, none knew better than he that he had been within an inch of losing his life. It was hard even to Stratton, and as the days glided by in the peaceful calm of the tiny bay, with its groups of fishermen and women on the soft white sands, or wading into the clear blue water to reach their boats, the surroundings made the place a pleasant oasis in the desert of his life. The rest was sweet and languorous, and he passed his time now strolling out on the dry, warm sands, thinking, now high up on the grassy top of the cliff, where he could look down on people enjoying their seaside life.

At times he would go out with some of the fishermen, who readily welcomed the English stranger, and talked to him in a formal, grave way, and in French that he found it hard to follow.

Meanwhile Brettison had hunted out a brawny pleasant-faced fisherman’s wife, who had been pointed out to him as an able nurse, and placed their charge in her care—the ex-convict obeying her lightest sign and giving little trouble, suffering himself to be led to some nook or other at the foot of the high cliffs, where he would sit down, watched by his attendant—the Breton woman—while Brettison busied himself on the cliffs collecting.

There was no trouble; the man grew more apathetic day by day, and Brettison took care that his companion should not come in contact with him, for fear of reviving some memory of the past and causing a scene.