“On the night you saw him his condition simulated death so well that you were taken in. It resembled a similar case in Paris which I attended, in which death was so completely simulated that three physicians were taken in, and pronounced the patient dead.[[1]] Luke, little Sir Piers has never died. I weighted his coffin with iron weights wrapped in wool. I took the boy to my own lodgings. He is well now—in perfect health. My mother has the care of him, and when I tell my story I am going to produce him. Your whole case, therefore, falls to the ground. I tell you now in order that you may if you like leave the country while there is time. I give you this one last chance for the sake of the old love which I felt for you.
[1]. A fact.
“Your revenge, Luke Tarbot, has come to nothing. Had you given me any return for the love which I lavished upon you, I would have been true to you to the extent of sinning for you, and going hand in glove with you in this. As it is, I have ceased to love you. I shall be punished, but it does not matter, for my days are numbered, and I would far rather spend them in prison than have the life of a brave and gallant gentleman like Richard Pelham any further imperiled.
“You know the worst now, Luke, you know all. My ace of trumps is little Sir Piers, who is alive and well.
“Clara.”
There is such a thing as a bad man’s frenzy, and it is best to draw the veil over it. Tarbot had wild ideas at first of rushing after Clara and murdering her on the spot in order to secure her silence, but as each futile thought swept through his brain he pushed it away as hopeless and impracticable. After a couple of hours of thought which no one need envy him, he went with stealthy and quick movements to pack a few belongings into his Gladstone bag. From his house he rushed to his bank, drew what balance he possessed there, and took the morning train to the Continent.
He had the sense to see that his game was up. There was nothing whatever for him but flight.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
SIR PIERS.
It occurred to little Sir Piers that it would be a good thing if now, that he was quite well, he went home. As no one was inclined to take him, he thought he would go by himself. That would not be exactly breaking his secret, for surely if he were well he might go home to his mother and to Dick and to Barbara. He thought the matter over in the puzzled and yet wise way of seven years old. He did not wish to be unkind to his nurse or unkind to grannie, but, all the same, it seemed to him only fair that he should at least see the old place again, and behold his mother, if even at a distance, and see Barbara, the lady with the starry brown eyes, and Dick, the hero of his boyish dreams.
So when Mrs. Ives went to London Piers quickly made up his mind. He had no money, but he had a shrewd wit, a brave spirit, and a gentleman’s heart. When darkness fell he left the cottage and walked quickly up the high road. Piers was dressed by Clara’s orders just as any other peasant boy. He wore a shabby blouse, much worn knickerbockers, and socks which revealed his bare legs above them. His socks were blue, coarse homespun, his shoes were also coarse, and just what a village boy would wear.