About six months after John Trevanion's disappearance, a billposter came from Truro and posted notices on the fences of the desolate grounds of the Dower House, and Petherick, as village crier, rang his bell and proclaimed the approaching sale of "all that messuage and tenement," et cetera. It was already known, through the resumption of business relations between Tonkin and Delarousse, that the latter had thrown Trevanion into prison, and lodged a claim against him for the restitution of large sums of money which he had obtained by a systematic course of fraud. When the day of the sale came, it was remarked that none of the neighbouring land-owners put in an appearance except Squire Trevanion. Sir Bevil Portharvan had, in fact, personally persuaded his friends to absent themselves, and leave the bidding to the Squire. As is generally the case with forced sales, the bids were low, and the estate was knocked down to Mr. Trevanion of the Towers, at a ridiculously small figure. The proceeds of the sale did not suffice to clear John Trevanion, who remained in prison until his death of fever a year later. The Squire told Mr. Carlyon that as soon as Dick set about seeking a wife, he would rebuild the Dower House. But Dick did not marry until after his father's death, sixteen years later, and the site of the Dower House was then a picturesque ruin.
Doubledick was never again seen in Polkerran, nor was anything directly heard of him by his former associates. The inn lost all its customers, who transferred their favours to the Three Jolly Mariners. In three months, Mrs. Doubledick was on the brink of ruin, and one day she mounted the carrier's cart, with a few bundles, and departed, no one knew whither.
Some few years afterwards, the landlord of a low public-house in the precinct of Whitefriars, London—a haunt of thieves, coiners, and other bad characters—was discovered in an alley behind the house, dead, with a bullet-wound in his temple. He went by the name of Brown, and was believed to be a West-countryman. It was rumoured that his murderer was one of a gang whom he had betrayed to the police. No one came forward to claim relationship with him, and he was buried by the parish.
For many years rare visitors to the village wondered at a dilapidated building that stood near the jetty, its windows broken, its door blistered by the sun, the fragment of a signboard creaking on a rusty pole whenever the wind blew in from the sea—a mournful symbol of neglect and decay. If any stranger was curious enough to inquire into the history of this unpicturesque ruin, he would always find a small boy ready to conduct him to the house of one of the Tonkins, who related, with the exactitude of personal knowledge, the lamentable story of Doubledick the informer.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.
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STORIES BY HERBERT STRANG
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
"The best of living writers for boys."—Manchester Guardian.
"The majority of writers of boys' books are content to provide their young friends with mere reading. Herbert Strang offers them literature."—Glasgow Herald.