A wet winter’s night in London.
Heedless of the heavy rain and biting east wind that swept in violent gusts along the dismal, deserted Strand, Hugh Trethowen, with bent head, plodded doggedly on towards Westminster. His scanty clothes, or rather the patched and ragged remains of what once were garments, were saturated and clung to him, while the icy wind blew through him, chilling him to the bone. Although unprotected by either umbrella or overcoat, he neither hesitated nor sought shelter, but, apparently quite unconscious of the inclement weather, continued to walk as briskly as his tired limbs would allow. Trudging onward, without glancing either to right or left, he splashed with heavy, careless steps through the muddy street, absorbed in his own sad thoughts.
Weary, hungry, and penniless, he nevertheless experienced a feeling of satisfaction, not unmingled with surprise, at finding himself again treading the well-remembered London streets, after escaping death so narrowly.
The two years’ absence had aged him considerably. The hard lines on his still handsome features told of the privations and sufferings he had undergone, and he no longer carried himself erect, but with a stoop which was now habitual, the result of hard toil in the mine.
His rescue had been almost providential.
The shock at finding both his companions dead, combined with the agony of mind caused by the revelations made by Bérard, overwhelmed him. In despair he felt that his end was near, and as a natural consequence soon lapsed into unconsciousness. For hours, days, he may have remained in that condition, for aught he knew. When he recovered his senses he was astonished at finding himself lying in a berth in a clean, cool cabin. A man was bending over him—a big, bearded, kindly-looking seaman, who smoothed his pillow, and uttered some words in an unfamiliar language. By using French, however, both men were able to converse, and it was then he learnt that he had been picked up by the Norwegian steamer Naes, which was on a voyage from Sydney to San Francisco. The utmost kindness was shown to him by the captain, to whom he told the story of his imprisonment and escape, and after an uneventful voyage he landed at the American port. Utterly destitute, with only two dollars in his pocket, which had been given to him by a passenger for rendering some little services, he at once sought work, intending to earn enough to enable him to cross America and return to England.
Bérard’s allegations against Valérie and Egerton were mysterious and incomprehensible, and, with the sole object of getting to London and seeking a full explanation, he toiled diligently at various menial occupations, always moving from town to town in the direction of the Atlantic. Successively he pursued the vocations of cattle drover, watchman, farm labourer, and railway stoker, until at length, after many months of anxious work, he arrived at New York, and shipped on board a steamer bound for London, giving his services as fireman in return for the passage home.
Thus he had reached the Metropolis that evening without possessing a single penny, and was therefore compelled to tramp the whole distance from the docks through the steadily-falling rain.
Had he written to Egerton for money to pay his passage he knew he should have obtained it, but he was determined to make his reappearance in London unexpectedly. He intended to descend suddenly upon both his friend and Valérie, to ascertain how much truth was contained in the dying confession of the convict. If he sent for money, he told himself that he might be asking a favour of his wife’s lover, hence he decided to work his own way towards his goal, if slowly, nevertheless with effect.
Once only he raised his head. He was passing the entrance of Terry’s Theatre, where upon the step there stood two young men in evening dress, who were smoking during the entr’acte. Looking up he recognised them as bachelor acquaintances, but desirous of being unobserved in that plight, he quickly bent his head again, and continued his dreary walk. The keen wind blew through his scanty garments, causing him to shiver, yet the atmospheric change from the hot, stifling stokehold to the midwinter blast troubled him not. He merely drew his wet jacket closer around him, quickened his pace, and strode across Trafalgar Square, turning in the direction of Victoria Street.