Dead Man's Love

by Tom Gallon

"Yes—you," he said. "I've got my story ready when the time comes, I assure you. All I've had to do with it has been the covering up of your traces; that was only pity for a forlorn wretch, hunted almost to death. The changing of the clothes was your business. I don't see how it affects me."

We had come to a point where he was turning off in one direction and I going in another. I gave him my final shot at parting. "Not if Gregory Pennington really committed suicide," I said.

I looked back when I had gone a little way, and saw Bardolph Just in the same attitude in which I had left him, looking after me. It was as though I had stricken him dumb and motionless with what I had said, and I was now more than ever convinced that Debora had been right in her conjecture. I had done one good thing, at least; he would scarcely dare to carry out his threat of exposing me; he might think that I had some inside knowledge of which he was ignorant.

Meanwhile I was seriously troubled about Debora. It was impossible for me to know what had become of her, or where she was; my only hope was that there might be an accidental meeting between us. The various places known to us both were known also to our enemies; if Debora had gone to the house of Uncle Zabdiel she would in all probability have been seen there by Bardolph Just, or by some one in his pay. Similarly, she would, of course, keep as far away as possible from his house and from the cottage where once I had left her with Harvey Scoffold. I roamed the streets, looking into every face that passed me, yet never seeing the face for which I longed.

An inquest on Uncle Zabdiel took place in the ordinary course, and a certain John New gave evidence of his slight acquaintance with the murdered gentleman, and of what he had seen on the night of the murder. The astounding fact that Andrew Ferkoe had slept through the whole business came out in court, and was the immediate cause of some extraordinary newspaper headlines, in which more than one reporter developed a hitherto undiscovered talent for wit at Andrew's expense. It may be wondered at, perhaps, that I should have persuaded the boy to stick to his original story, but, apart from anything else, I had strong reasons for preventing any suspicion falling upon the man Capper, and, above all, I did not for a moment believe that Andrew Ferkoe's real story would be believed. I had grown to believe it myself, but I thought that for many reasons it might be well if Ferkoe left it to be imagined that he had really slept, and had seen nothing.

So the matter remained a mystery, with only one curious element in it, for me at least, and that was a little point that came out in the evidence. It seemed that no finger prints had been discovered anywhere, although many things in the house had been handled. It was obvious that the murderer had worn gloves. That seemed to point to a more professional hand than that of poor Capper, and served a little to upset my theory, but on the whole I believed it still.

I was to be undeceived, nevertheless, and that within a little time. On the very day of the inquest, when Andrew Ferkoe and myself were walking away, we turned, with almost a natural impulse, towards the house which had been the scene of the tragedy—perhaps you may call that a morbid impulse. It was a place that would always have a curious attraction for me, by reason of the fact that the greater part of my life had been spent there, and that I had seen many curious things occur there, and that once poor Debora had taken refuge in it. It was all ended now with the death of the man who had worked so much harm to me; I was thinking about it all as I stood outside the place, when I felt my arm clutched convulsively, and looked round, to see that Andrew Ferkoe, with a dropping jaw, was staring at a man who was standing at a little distance from us, also watching the house—a man dressed as a labourer.

"What's the matter?" I whispered. I could not see the man's face from where I stood; his cap was drawn down at one side, so as partially to conceal it.

"That's the man!" whispered Andrew, in a shaking voice. "I know the clothes, and I saw his face for a moment when he turned this way."

"Pull yourself together, and don't look as if you'd seen a ghost," I whispered sharply. "We'll follow the man, and see where he goes. As he hasn't seen you, go on ahead a bit, and then turn so that you can see his face; then come back to me."