The girl from nowhere

by Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

Then all the horns were blown in town;
And to the ramparts clanging down,
All the giants leaped to horse,
And charged behind us, through the gorse.
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Every faculty in Felix was sharpened to its highest pitch as he lay down that night upon his comfortless bed aboard the Sarah Dawkes. The man on the wharf was a detective, and he was looking for Veronica. His source of information was doubtless some one of the men aboard the George Barnes. He was in the employment of the two wolves, and he had that invaluable clew which the police lacked. He knew that he had to hunt two runaways. There were sure to be persons who had seen them limping along towards the docks that night of terror, of lurid excitement and breathless escape. So long as you knew what you were looking for, they were not hard to trace.

"But what beats me," said Felix to himself, "is how it is he did not find out that she was put ashore at Dunhythe. If he has followed up our trail, how could he have missed that? The whole village saw her go."

A spasm of fear shook him, lest the shelter of the Cottage Hospital should be inadequate. If her uncle came to fetch her, they would have to hand her over. He raged in his heart, rolling over and over sleepless, wondering whether the detective was "pulling his leg," whether he knew, all the time, where Rona was—whether she was no longer where he left her, but gone, taken away, out of his reach. He yearned to know. But how? The idea crossed his mind that he might steal out, borrow the bicycle of a fellow-workman at the timber-yard, and ride over, before morning, to ascertain that she was safe. But that would be to reveal his secret, were the detective still on the watch.

The question was: What would the detective do? Would he go off on that false clew and follow up David Smith to Plymouth? Or had he known all along that Felix was he, in spite of lying? Would he stay in Basingstoke or leave the town? Was he out there watching on the wharf, or had he departed?

After a time the suspense grew intolerable. It was a mild night, and David sweated as he lay. After bearing it as long as he could he noiselessly rolled out of bed, and crawled snake-wise along the deck, which was in deep black shadow, took up a post of vantage behind a pile of the timber with which the barge was being gradually loaded, and peeped forth. He saw no man, but he did see from among the bales and trucks that encumbered the wharf a faint glimmer, which meant the bowl of a pipe. He saw it move, as the smoker took it from his mouth, rammed it down with his thumb, and replaced it.

It was just out of sight of the night-watchman, whose cabin was clearly to be seen from the deck of the Sarah Dawkes. It was the detective, and he was keeping an eye upon the barge. Felix wondered whether he was alone or had a confederate. He did not think it would be hard to give him the slip, if that were all.

But, on further reflection, he decided that his proper course was to take no notice at all. He must behave as if the man and his movements were absolutely nothing to him. The weak spot was Doggett. If the detective got on to him, the Old Man was bound to give away the fact that Felix was the chap who had traveled from London with him. How could he warn him, without exciting suspicion? He bitterly blamed himself for sleeping upon the barge. He might have had the common intelligence to reflect that, if inquiries were made, it was likely the barge would be traced, and that the place to which anybody in need of information would come would be that precise spot.

What would happen in the morning? Doggett usually appeared when Felix had done breakfast, and was starting for the wood-yard at half-past six. To reach his barge, he must pass the man on the wharf, and he would be questioned. On the other hand, if Felix pushed matters forward and hurried off in time to intercept Doggett, the man on the wharf might join him, and insist on walking beside him. He thought over this, long and carefully, and a brilliant idea suggested itself.

Rising in the gray dawn, he washed and dressed carefully. He put on a collar and tie, a height of elegance which the wood-yard had hitherto never dreamt of. No matter, it was easily removed when he got there. The suit he had purchased with the money earned by his secretarial labors was tidy and quiet, and gave him the appearance of a very respectable young clerk. He was not at all like the gaunt, starved scarecrow in his grimy jersey and greasy trousers. His hair and beard were trim, though he had not shaved. He cooked his bloater, made his tea, and set all ready for breakfast. But before beginning it he slipped out upon the wharf, and approached the cabin of the night-watchman, whose habit was to breakfast at six before leaving his post for home and bed.