A Dead Reckoning

by T. W. Speight

So time went on till the 12th of August came round, about which date Timley had notice that in the course of the following week his master would arrive accompanied by a number of friends. At the last minute, however, Mr. Chamfrey was detained by important business, and his friends arrived without him. All was now bustle and excitement, and Gerald found quite enough to do. The first and second days' shooting passed off admirably. The weather was perfect, birds were plentiful, and everybody was in high good-humour. Gerald acted his part to perfection--at least Timley told him so. All fear of recognition by any of the visitors had passed away, and on the third morning after their arrival he caught himself humming an air from Lucia while cleaning the barrel of his gun outside the cottage door. Hearing a footstep on the garden path, he turned his head quickly, and found himself confronted by a man who had been in his own service only some eight or nine months previously. The two stood staring at each other for a few moments in silence. It was at once evident to Gerald that, despite the change in his appearance, he was recognised. Before either had spoken a word Timley came out of the cottage. Then the man delivered his message, which was from one of the visitors at the Lodge in whose service he now was. Then, after another stare at Gerald, who still went on cleaning his gun, the man turned and went.

Twelve hours later, Gerald Brooke--clean-shaven except for a small moustache which was dyed black, and with a black wig over his own closely cropped hair--was flying southward in the night express. Mr. Starkie, who had returned from the Continent by this time, and to whom he had telegraphed under an assumed name, previously agreed on, met him at the London terminus. The conference between the two friends was a long one. It resulted in Gerald coming to the decision that he would take up his abode in London itself, at least for some time to come, as being, all things considered, as safe a hiding-place as any for a man circumstanced as he was. It was, besides, becoming requisite that some decision should be arrived at with regard to matters at the Towers. Clara was still there; but although she had cut down the household expenses to the lowest possible limits, her supply of ready-money was dwindling away; and when that was gone, where was more to come from? With Gerald's disappearance his income had disappeared too. It was an impossibility for him to draw a cheque, or receive a shilling of rent from any of his tenants, while matters with him remained as they were. Then, again, Clara's long separation from her husband, and the many weeks of anxiety she had undergone, were wearing away both her health and her spirits. "Only let let us be together again, darling--that is all I crave," she wrote to her husband. "Two little rooms in some back street will seem like a palace if only you are with me."

Thus it fell out that on a certain afternoon about a week after Gerald's arrival in London, two ladies, both of them closely veiled, who had been hunting for apartments all morning, and were utterly disheartened and tired out by their want of success, stood for a few moments gazing into a pastry-cook's window in Tottenham Court Road. As she did so, the younger lady raised her veil. Next instant she was startled by hearing some one say in French: "O papa, papa, here is the beautiful lady who gave me the cakes and fruit at that grand house in the country!"

Clara dropped her veil and turned. She recognised the little speaker at once, although he no longer wore his mountebank's dress. There, too, was Picot himself, who had come to a stand a few yards away while he lighted a cigarette.

Tired and anxious though she was, Clara would not go without speaking to the boy. "So you have not forgotten me, Henri," she said, "nor the cakes either? Would you not like some more cakes to-day?"

For answer he lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it.

When Mrs. Brooke and Henri came out of the shop they found Miss Primby and M. Picot deep in conversation. The mountebank was dressed quite smartly to-day, and had a flower in his button-hole. As Miss Primby said to her niece afterwards: "Although the poor man may be nothing but a tumbler, he is the essence of gallantry and politeness."

After a few words had passed between Clara and Picot, some impulse--she could never afterwards have told whence it originated--prompted her to say to him: "My aunt and I are in London to-day on rather a peculiar errand. We are here to find apartments for--for some dear friends of ours who a little time ago were rich, but who are now very poor. We have been going about all morning, but cannot succeed in finding what we require. It is just possible, monsieur, that you with your knowledge of London may be able to assist us."

"I am entirely at madame's service," answered Picot as he raised his hat for a moment. "Is it furnished apartments that madame requires?"

"Yes--four or five furnished rooms at a moderate rent, and, if possible, not more than a mile from where we are now."