An hour later than the time
at which he had been expected,
Richard Turlington appeared at
his office in the city.
He met beforehand all the inquiries
which the marked change in him
must otherwise have provoked,
by announcing that he was ill.
Before he proceeded to business,
he asked if anybody was waiting
to see him. One of the servants
from Muswell Hill was waiting
with another parcel for Miss
Lavinia, ordered by telegram
from the country that morning.
Turlington (after ascertaining
the servant's name) received
the man in his private room.
He there heard, for the first
time, that Launcelot Linzie had
been lurking in the grounds (exactly
as he had supposed) on the day
when the lawyer took his instructions
for the Settlement and the Will.
In two hours more Turlington's
work was completed. On leaving
the office--as soon as he was
out of sight of the door--he
turned eastward, instead of taking
the way that led to his own house
in town. Pursuing his course,
he entered the labyrinth of streets
which led, in that quarter of
East London, to the unsavory
neighborhood of the river-side.
By this time his mind was made
up. The forecast shadow of meditated
crime traveled before him already,
as he threaded his way among
his fellow-men.
He had been
to the vestry of St. Columb
Major, and had satisfied
himself that he was misled by
no false report. There was the
entry in the Marriage Register.
The one unexplained mystery was
the mystery of Launce's conduct
in permitting his wife to return
to her father's house. Utterly
unable to account for this proceeding,
Turlington could only accept
facts as they were, and determine
to make the most of his time,
while the woman who had deceived
him was still under his roof.
A hideous expression crossed
his face as he realized the idea
that he had got her (unprotected
by her husband) in his house. "When
Launcelot Linzie _does_ come
to claim her," he said to himself, "he
shall find I have been even with
him." He looked at his watch.
Was it possible to save the last
train and get back that night?
No--the last train had gone.
Would she take advantage of his
absence to escape? He had little
fear of it. She would never have
allowed her aunt to send him
to Lord Winwood's house, if she
had felt the slightest suspicion
of his discovering the truth
in that quarter. Returning by
the first train the next morning,
he might feel sure of getting
back in time. Meanwhile he had
the hours of the night before
him. He could give his mind to
the serious question that must
be settled before he left London--the
question of repaying the forty
thousand pounds. There was but
one way of getting the money
now. Sir Joseph had executed
his Will; Sir Joseph's death
would leave his sole executor
and trustee (the lawyer had said
it!) master of his fortune. Turlington
determined to be master of it
in four-and-twenty hours--striking
the blow, without risk to himself,
by means of another hand. In
the face of the probabilities,
in the face of the facts, he
had now firmly persuaded himself
that Sir Joseph was privy to
the fraud that had been practiced
on him. The Marriage-Settlement,
the Will, the presence of the
family at his country house--all
these he believed to be so many
stratagems invented to keep him
deceived until the last moment.
The truth was in those words
which he had overheard between
Sir Joseph and Launce--and in
Launce's presence (privately
encouraged, no doubt) at Muswell
Hill. "Her father shall pay me
for it doubly: with his purse
and with his life." With that
thought in his heart, Richard
Turlington wound his way through
the streets by the river-side,
and stopped at a blind alley
called Green Anchor Lane, infamous
to this day as the chosen resort
of the most abandoned wretches
whom London can produce.
The policeman
at the corner cautioned him
as he turned into
the alley. "They won't hurt _me!_" he
answered, and walked on to a
public-house at the bottom of
the lane.
The landlord
at the door silently recognized
him, and led the way
in. They crossed a room filled
with sailors of all nations drinking;
ascended a staircase at the back
of the house, and stopped at
the door of the room on the second
floor. There the landlord spoke
for the first time. "He has outrun
his allowance, sir, as usual.
You will find him with hardly
a rag on his back. I doubt if
he will last much longer. He
had another fit of the horrors
last night, and the doctor thinks
badly of him." With that introduction
he opened the door, and Turlington
entered the room.
On the miserable bed lay a
gray-headed old man of gigantic
stature, with nothing on him
but a ragged shirt and a pair
of patched, filthy trousers.
At the side of the bed, with
a bottle of gin on the rickety
table between them, sat two hideous
leering, painted monsters, wearing
the dress of women. The smell
of opium was in the room, as
well as the smell of spirits.
At Turlington's appearance, the
old man rose on the bed and welcomed
him with greedy eyes and outstretched
hand.
"Money, master!" he called
out hoarsely. "A crown piece
in advance, for the sake of old
times!"
Turlington turned to the women
without answering, purse in hand.
"His clothes
are at the pawnbroker's, of
course. How much?"
"Thirty shillings."
"Bring them
here, and be quick about it.
You will find it worth
your while when you come back."
The women took the pawnbroker's
tickets from the pockets of the
man's trousers and hurried out.
Turlington closed the door,
and seated himself by the bedside.
He laid his hand familiarly on
the giant's mighty shoulder,
looked him full in the face,
and said, in a whisper,
"Thomas Wildfang!"
The man started,
and drew his huge hairy hand
across his eyes,
as if in doubt whether he was
waking or sleeping. "It's better
than ten years, master, since
you called me by my name. If
I am Thomas Wildfang, what are
you?"
"Your captain,
once more."
Thomas Wildfang sat up on the
side of the bed, and spoke his
next words cautiously in Turlington's
ear.
"Another man
in the way?"
"Yes."
The giant shook
his bald, bestial head dolefully. "Too
late. I'm past the job. Look
here."
He held up
his hand, and showed it trembling
incessantly. "I'm
an old man," he said, and let
his hand drop heavily again on
the bed beside him.
Turlington looked at the door,
and whispered back,
"The man is
as old as you are. And the
money is worth having."
"How much?"
"A hundred
pounds."
The eyes of
Thomas Wildfang fastened greedily
on Turlington's
face. "Let's hear," he said. "Softly,
captain. Let's hear."
* * * * * * * * *
When the women came back with
the clothes, Turlington had left
the room. Their promised reward
lay waiting for them on the table,
and Thomas Wildfang was eager
to dress himself and be gone.
They could get but one answer
from him to every question they
put. He had business in hand,
which was not to be delayed.
They would see him again in a
day or two, with money in his
purse. With that assurance he
took his cudgel from the corner
of the room, and stalked out
swiftly by the back door of the
house into the night.
|