Whereupon Lucy was sent for and told of Crage’s iniquitous proposal, of which Thatcher very properly urged her not to think, but to refuse there and then.
“Oh, ah!” Crage had grinned. “The young cockney has enough for you all and won’t grudge it, I dare say. He’s gone to Monte Carlo, ain’t he?”
Yes, said Lucy, Mr. Blacker had, and had promised her not to gamble.
“Gamble or not,” sneered Crage, “I know what he is up to. The police are already on his track. Why, I shouldn’t be the least surprised to hear he’s already in their hands, and condemned to penal servitude for life.”
On hearing that, poor Lucy said she thought she should have dropped on the floor, like water. But she has the courage of her race, and, telling the old man in so many words he was mad, turned to leave the room.
Now, it’s an odd thing that the old wretch, though he never minded being called a liar, never could bear any reflection on his sanity—it was the fusty remains, I suppose, of his old professional Clement’s Inn pride; so he lost his temper at once, and with many shrieks and gesticulations told them the whole story.
That—as I have written—Bailey Thompson was a detective, frequently in the “Victoria” smoking-room in the course of his duty; and that Brentin had actually confided in him—as we know—all that we were going to do, that he was an old friend of Crage’s, dating from the Clement’s Inn days, and on Christmas night had divulged the whole scheme just as he had received it from us, telling him with much glee, being a season of jollity and good-will, how he was going to follow us to Monte Carlo and make every disposition to catch us in the act. Crage added that Bailey Thompson had rather doubted at first whether we weren’t humbugging him; but having since heard from his sister, Mrs. Wingham, that she believed we were really in earnest, was already somewhere on his way out to superintend our capture in person.
“I didn’t know what to do,” cried Lucy, piteously; “I could only laugh in his face and tell him he was the victim of a practical joke.”
“Practical joke!” Crage had screamed; “you wait till they’re all in prison; perhaps they’ll call that a practical joke, too. Now, look here, Thatcher, you’re a sensible man; you break off this engagement before the scandal overtakes you all, and I’ll treat you and your daughter handsomely. You shall stay on in the inn, or not, just as you please, and the day we’re married I’ll settle Wharton on dear Lucy here. I sha’n’t live so very much longer, I dare say,” he whined—“I’m eighty-two next month—and then she can marry the young cockney, if she wants to, when he’s done his time. Don’t decide now; send me up a note in the course of the next few days. Hang it! I won’t be hard on you; I’ll give you both a fortnight.”
And with that and no more the wicked old man had stumped out of the bar parlor.