"And where did he die?" asked Rainford.
"At Tidmarsh's own place in Turnmill Street, Clerkenwell," was the answer. "Poor old man! But you must have seen him only a short time before he went off, Mr. Rainford," she added, as if recollecting the fact: "for it was on that very night when he took Toby and Jacob over with him to a house in Lock's Fields, and which turned out to be where you lived. You know he stayed with you while Jacob and Toby went away. Poor old man! he's a great loss—a very great loss!"
"Were you so dependent on him, then?" asked Rainford.
"Yes, almost entirely, as I may say," was the reply. "And then there's poor Jacob, too: what in the world he'll do, I'm sure I can't say—for me and Toby can't afford to keep him now that our best friend's gone. But good night, Mr. Rainford: I must go on to my cousin's—for it's very late, and she, may be, will pop off the hooks before I get to her."
"Good night," returned Tom, slackening his pace so as to allow the woman to proceed as far a-head of him as possible ere he entered his own dwelling, which was now close at hand.
In a few moments the form of Mrs. Bunce was lost in the darkness of the night.
Rainford was now convinced that Old Death was indeed no more—that no prompt assistance had resuscitated him, even if the vital spark were not extinct at the moment when he saw him for the last time, bound to the chair, at the house in Red Lion Street. Yes—it was clear enough—too clear: Benjamin Bones was dead—and Tidmarsh had pounced upon all his property.
"Well—let him enjoy it," thought Rainford within himself. "I have enough for my purposes, and do not wish to dispute the inheritance with him—even if I had the right or the power. And yet—and yet," he mused, with a feeling like a contraction of the heart, "I would give ten years of my own life so that I had not been the instrument of abridging his! But it's too late to repent or regret. Repent, did I say? I have nothing to repent of. I did not do this deed wilfully: it was not murder. And as for any share that I had in the matter at all, that does not seem to be suspected. Oh! I can understand Master Tidmarsh's proceedings! It was no doubt he who entered the room just at the moment when I discovered that Old Death was dead. Of course he would say nothing about finding him tied in a chair, or of me having been with him that night: a word on these heads would have excited suspicions—led to inquiries—Coroner's inquest—and all that sort of thing. Then some relation might have turned up, claimed the property, and cut Tidmarsh out. Yes—yes; it is plain enough—and Tidmarsh is a prudent as well as a lucky fellow! But what could the laboratory in that house mean? what were those pickled human heads kept in the cupboard for? and why was Dr. Lascelles familiar with that den?"
Even in the midst of his musings, Rainford did not hazard a conjecture to account for the mysteries just enumerated. They indeed appeared unaccountable.
The highwayman walked some distance past the door of his lodgings, to convince himself that he was not watched by Mrs. Bunce; and having assured himself on that head,—at least so far as he could judge in the darkness of the night,—he turned back and entered his dwelling.