The girl from nowhere

by Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

Now, Doggett had known that they were fugitives, though he saw no reason to disbelieve the story that Rona was his sister. Felix asked him straight out not to give him away. He told him a detective was hanging about on the wharf pretending to be out of work; and that if he asked what became of the boy who came from London with him, he was to say that he was tramping towards Plymouth, in order to leave the country, and had taken his sister with him.

Felix impressed this with some urgency upon the Old Man, and added that his best course would be to be so abusive and disagreeable that the man would not stay to question. This was an accomplishment in which the Old Man excelled; and it was pretty certain to flare forth in him when accosted by loafers in search of a job. Felix went on to say that he was now earning good money, and that he was thinking that some slight return for the service Mr. Doggett had rendered him, and was now further about to render him, would not be out of place. He proposed to have a chat, later on, respecting the form this should take. Mr. Doggett was pleased. He had done well that trip. He had paid Felix not more than half what he had to pay to his boy ordinarily. He had got his barge minded at nights for nothing—not to mention Miss Rawson's munificent tip—and it was being suggested that he should be still further rewarded, for services of a kind so attenuated that even he hardly recognized them to be worth paying for.

"Clawss they are; I thought it from the fust," he said to his wife, after Felix was gone. "And if you helps anyone as is real clawss, somehow, you never lose by it. I'm a match for a 'tec, don't you worry, mother. A match for any blooming 'tec in Scotland Yard or out of it."

One wishes, for the sake of fidelity to nature, that the exact conversation, which did actually take place between these two worthies later, when the Old Man went loafing down to his Sarah, could be recorded. But it must be in some other and less blameless chronicle than this.

The detective was put into a bad temper to start with, by being savagely warned to be off and not to put his adjective soles in Mr. Doggett's beautiful clean barge. They never got within measurable distance of any point at which the inquirer after truth could pump the bargee, or ask any intimate question. He was completely routed, and there was nothing for it but to stand by, glean what gossip he could in the town, and attack Felix when he appeared that night. He was furiously angry with himself that he had yielded to the breakfast invitation of the night-watchman, so that the young man had got away before he was aware. He was convinced that the Old Man had been warned, and this to excellent effect. He made inquiries all about as to whether a girl had been on board the barge, and was told as many different stories as the persons he questioned. As, first, that this was true; that she was taken to the smallpox hospital on the other side of the county; secondly, that it was not true, but that the individual then speaking could and would introduce the detective to as good, or better, than ever old Doggett had aboard; thirdly, that if Mrs. Doggett had a hint, she'd make it her duty to find out; and fourthly, that there were two girls who paid their passage home that way, but it was a year ago come next June.

It had certainly been a hard fate which took him, at Dunhythe, to inquire of one of the few natives who had been out of the way when the Sarah Dawkes went by, but who cheerfully informed him that the barge had gone straight through without stopping at the wharf.

The detective was misled by the extreme probability that this was true. Persons escaping would not tarry all night at Dunhythe. He had been surprised that they stopped, as they undoubtedly had done, at Sunbury. The moon had been bright—why not go on as fast as they could? He could get no definite assurance of a sick girl on board at Sunbury, and for a week had been under the impression that it was at this point that she had been removed from the barge. His pursuit of this idea delayed him long, and brought him to Dunhythe when the scent was stale, and the small incident beginning to fade from the foreground of people's minds owing to the scarlet-fever scare.

His only trustworthy clew, so far, was the report of the George Barnes men; and in the absence of any confirmation of it he was inclined to look upon the clew as worthless, except for the slipping away of Felix that morning—which might, after all, have been accidental.

Felix's head swam all day long with a sense of new and complicated responsibilities. All the morning as he worked the idea was growing stronger in his mind that he would confide in his Russian friend, whose ignorance of English made him very safe. He might be able to tell him how to baffle the sort of shadowing to which he was being subjected. At least, he might come down with him to the wharf that night and prevent his being worried by the watcher.

As soon as they knocked off work at the yard he hastened away. The detective was in the High Street, idling near a tavern. He was not quick enough. Felix saw him as he went by. It was a surprise to the spy to see the young fellow, trim and neat after his day's work, go calmly and openly into the best inn in the place.