A Secret of the Sea: A Novel. Vol. 3 (of 3)

by T. W. Speight

Great was the glee of Jonas Pringle when he found himself left alone once more in Spur Alley. When he saw Van Duren off in a cab for Euston Square he mentally bade him good-bye for ever.

So elated was he, so sure did he now feel that the moment of success was at hand, that he went out and bought a tin of preserved lobster, and a bottle of rum, and there and then held high festival with Bakewell and his wife in their dungeon below stairs. He calculated that, at the very soonest, Van Duren need not be expected back for three or four days; and what might not be accomplished even in that short time! He could not labour much during the day at perfecting his duplicate key; he had too many interruptions; he was wanted too frequently in the office by people who called to inquire after Van Duren. But after business hours, when the hush of evening crept over the busy city, then he could work away as long as he liked without fear of interruption. And surely, after all that had gone before, a few short hours only would now be needed to place the long-coveted prize in his grasp.

All that day he remained very restless and unsettled, and seemed unable either to stay long in any one place, or to fix his mind on anything for more than a few minutes at a time.

Van Duren had left him several important letters to write, but after getting as far as the date and "Dear Sir," or "Gentlemen," with one or other of them, his ideas became so mixed up and confused that he could no longer disentangle the subject of one letter from that of another in his thoughts; so that at last he had to fling down his pen in disgust, and rush off for a quarter of an hour to a favourite haunt round the corner. Indeed, he seemed to be running in and out all day long.

Pringle made up his mind that, if requisite, he would work away at his key all night. When Bakewell and his wife were safe in bed--and they rarely sat up after ten o'clock--he would steal downstairs without his shoes, turn on the gas, and shut himself up in the strong room; and there, file in hand, and a fresh bottle of rum by his side, he could work on in safety till five or six o'clock next morning. But perhaps before that time the stubborn lock would yield and the great door fall back on its hinges, and then!---- But such a possibility was almost too much for calm consideration.

Before beginning his work for the night, he would go down to a little water-side tavern that he knew of, where the Shipping Gazette could always be found, together with sundry lists of vessels about to sail from London and other ports. He had not yet decided on the spot to which he should direct his flight, but he could make up his mind on that important point to-night, and pick out the names and dates of sailing of some half-dozen ships, so as to be ready for starting at any minute.

As it happened, however, the evening turned out so wet and stormy that Pringle was obliged to put off his proposed visit to the river-side tavern till another day. This altered his plans a little. Instead of waiting till Bakewell and his wife were in bed, as soon as he had shut the office and hurriedly swallowed a cup of tea, he went to his own room and locked himself in, and set to work at once with his file. But he was afraid to go on working too long at a time without trying the key in the lock. At any moment his file might give the one last touch, which, Pringle felt convinced, was all that his key now needed to make him at once master of the situation. So, at intervals of half an hour or so, he stole downstairs to the strong room to try his key once more; and once more, on finding that the master-touch had not yet been given, he stole back to his own room and set to work again with a slow, quiet patience that would not know what it was to feel itself beaten.

To-night, for a wonder, it was nearly eleven before the Bakewells went to bed. As soon as he felt sure that there was no longer anything to fear from them, Pringle removed himself permanently downstairs for the night. Seating himself on a pile of books close by the iron door, he went quietly on with his work. At half-past eleven he tried the key in the lock, but, for aught he could tell to the contrary, he might have been no nearer success than he had been a month previously. He tried again as the clocks were chiming the quarter before midnight, and the wards of the lock yielded and fell back as readily and smoothly as ever they had done before Van Duren's own key. The master touch had been given at last.

Pringle, sitting on his heap of books, stared at the open door as though he could not believe the evidence of his senses. Was it, could it be possible that the golden prize for which he had laboured so long and so patiently was at last really within his grasp? His hands were all a-tremble, his head was burning, his mouth parched up. All at once it struck him that he felt very thirsty, and that it was close upon twelve o'clock. There would be time for one, or even for two last tumblers before the taverns closed. Where would he be before midnight should strike again? Not in London, he said to himself, but miles out at sea on his way to some far-off land.

With some such thoughts as these flitting fitfully through his mind, he mechanically lowered the gas, and then, leaving the safe-door still open, but closing and locking the door of the room, he crept cautiously up the stone staircase, with his shoes in his hand, and let himself out at the front door with as little noise as possible. He had made no attempt to examine the contents of the safe. A brief glance into it had satisfied him for the time being. He knew for an undoubted fact that the money he coveted was there, and he asked to know nothing more. There was no fear that it would take to itself wings while he went to have a final glass at his favourite tavern.