"She has left the doctor's house—has run away," I answered. "She doesn't know where to find me, and I don't know where to find her. She may be wandering about London friendless and without money. Can you help me to find her?"
"Do yer mean it?" he asked incredulously.
I nodded. "Under ordinary circumstances you are the last man in the world that I would select for such work, but I must use the tools ready to my hand," I said. "If you play tricks with me, you'll know what to expect, because our friend here"—I indicated Andrew—"will be only too ready to speak and to tell what he knows, without bringing me into the matter at all. But I think, for your own sake, you'll play the game fairly."
In his eagerness he began to take all manner of strange oaths as to what he meant to do, and as to the absolute dependence that was to be placed upon his word. I interrupted him sharply by telling him that I looked for deeds, and not words, and quite humbly and gratefully he promised to do all in his power. I gave him an address at which I could be found, and presently saw him go lurching away, with his head turned every now and then to look back at me. I seemed to picture him going through life like that, remembering always the dead thing he had left lying on certain stairs in a dismal old house.
And now I come to that point in my story when my own helplessness was, for a time at least, borne in upon me more strongly than ever. I had no very great hopes that where I had failed George Rabbit would succeed, and I blamed myself for having placed any reliance on him. I wandered about London restlessly for a day or two, as I had done before, hoping always that any slight girlish figure going on before me might in a moment turn its head and show me the face of Debora; but that never happened. What did happen was that I had an unexpected meeting with Bardolph Just.
The newspapers had, of course, given my address, as an important witness at the inquest on Uncle Zabdiel, so that I was not altogether surprised to find, one evening when I went back to my little lodging, tired out, and weary, and dispirited, that Bardolph Just was waiting for me. I was aware of his presence in my room before ever I got to the house, for as I came up the street I happened to raise my eyes to the window, and there he was, lounging half out of it, smoking a cigar and surveying me. I wondered what his visit might portend. I hoped that he might have discovered something about Debora, and that I might get the information from him.
On opening the door of the room and going in I saw that he was not alone; Harvey Scoffold sat there, quite as though he had come, in a sense, as a protector for his patron. I put my back against the closed door, and looked from one man to the other, and waited for what they had to say. Harvey Scoffold smiled a little weakly, and waved a hand to me; Bardolph Just said nothing, but looked me up and down with a fine air of contempt. I judged that he had news for me, and that, for the moment at least, he felt that he had triumphed. Almost I seemed to read into his mind, and to know what that news was. But though I thought I knew the man well, I was not prepared for the vindictiveness he now displayed.
"You must excuse this intrusion," he said quietly, "but I felt sure that you would be anxious concerning my ward, and I thought it best to let you know at once that she is quite safe. I did you an injustice in suggesting that she was with you; for that I apologise most humbly."
"Where is she?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Is it likely that I shall tell you?" he asked. "I won't tell you where she is; for your satisfaction, however, you may understand that you have been the cause of her passing several miserable nights and days penniless in London——"