CHAPTER XLIX.
M. BORDIER JOINS THE HUNT
On the twelfth day I said:
"Bob, I think I shall run up to London."
"By all means," said Bob, cheerfully, a sign that my society was not indispensable to him, and that he was not wearying of his task. "Should anything occur I will telegraph to you. To which address, though?"
"Repeat your telegrams," I said, "to my chambers and my mother's house. I shall be back in two days, and if by that time things are still in the same position I think you should pay a visit to Sophy, and contrive somehow to speak to her. This inaction is intolerable."
"You have no patience," said Bob. "The train is laid. What more do you want?"
"Movement, Bob, movement." I looked at my watch. "Mustn't lose the train. I'm off."
And off I was, and in a few minutes whirling toward London. It was destined, however, that I should not reach there as early as I expected. We were midway when the train slackened, crawled along a few hundred yards, then came to a standstill.
"What's the matter?" I called to the guard, thrusting my head out of the window.
"Engine broke down, sir," was the answer. "Can't get on."
"Confound it!" I cried. "How long shall we have to wait?"
"There's no knowing, sir. Not till to-morrow morning, perhaps."
"But it is impossible for me to remain here all night."
"Very sorry, sir. It doesn't depend upon me. Accidents will happen."
Fretting and fuming would not mend matters, and I was compelled to submit. It turned out as the guard had indicated. Something else had occurred on the line which rendered it out of the question that another engine could be sent to our aid, and we did not arrive in London till the afternoon of the following day. I hastened at once to my chambers, then visited the office of the Evening Moon, and then proceeded to my mother's house, which I did not reach till six o'clock in the evening. The moment the street door was opened Emilia ran into the passage to greet me.
"You have seen him," she cried, "and he has explained all."
"Seen whom?" I asked, very much astonished, "and what is there to explain?"
"You have not met M. Bordier, then," she said, falling back.
"No," I replied. "I left the country suddenly yesterday, and an accident happened to the train. I was detained all night."
"I sent you a letter also," said Emilia, "it was posted yesterday morning."
"That accounts for my not receiving it. It must have arrived after my departure."
I saw that she was agitated, and I led her to the sitting-room, where, after exchanging a few words with my mother, we were left alone. Then I learnt what had taken place.
M. Bordier, it appears, had visited Emilia every day during my absence, and had observed in her signs of suppressed excitement which had caused him deep concern. At first he made no comment upon this change in her, but at length he questioned her, and, receiving no satisfaction, told her with delicate pointedness that he deemed it her duty to confide in him if she were in any trouble. Still she evaded his inquiries, and this with marks of such extreme distress that he became more pressing in his desire that she should be candid and straightforward with him. I will give what afterward transpired in Emilia's own words.
"He came the night before last," she said, "and asked to speak privately with me. I could not refuse him; it appeared to me as if my refusal to appease his natural curiosity had aroused suspicions which might be fatal to my daughter's happiness. He spoke very kindly, but very firmly. Considering the relations in which we stood to each other, he had come to a decision which it was right should be communicated to me. Before doing so he would ask me a question or two to which he expected frank answers. He asked me how long I had known your family. I replied, about two weeks. Had I any previous knowledge of them? I said no. Through whom had I become acquainted with them? I said, through you. He then asked who and what you were; I told him, trembling all the time, because his questions were leading straight to the secret I was hiding from him. Had I any previous knowledge of you, he asked; were you related to me in any way? I answered that you were not related to me, and that I had made your acquaintance only since my arrival in London. Were you acquainted with the cause of my trouble, he asked. I said yes, you were, and that you were endeavoring to befriend me. He reflected a little before he continued, and when he spoke it was in the same kind and gentle voice, but more firmly than before. 'It amounts to this,' he said, 'that you have a secret which has brought grief upon you, and that you confide this secret to a stranger and deny it to me. I draw from this a reasonable inference-that you have a trouble of a private nature which you are deliberately concealing from those who have a right, if anyone has the right, to share it with you. Is it a pecuniary trouble?' I answered that it was not, and he said that he regretted it, as then it might be easily got over. He then referred to the conversation we had in Geneva, when he came to speak to me about Julian's attachment to my dear child, and to a remark he had made that the time would arrive when it would be necessary that he should become acquainted with certain particulars of my past life. My heart fainted within me when he bluntly inquired whether my secret was in any way connected with my past history. I could make but one reply, yes. 'Do you not see,' he said, 'that you are creating suspicions in my mind, and that I am beginning to ask myself whether I should be doing my duty as a father if I allowed the engagement between our children to continue? Be advised for your own sake, for theirs. Tell me everything; accord to me at least the privileges you have accorded to a stranger. I have the reputation of being a just man, and I know that I have none but kindly feelings toward you. There are difficulties, I admit, in many human lives which need the skill of a strong man to surmount. I place my knowledge of the world and my goodwill at your service, and if you refuse to avail yourself of them your conduct will inspire me with very grave doubts.' Thus driven, what could I do? It seemed to me that it would be the wisest course to confide implicitly in him, and I did so. I laid bare the story of my life, from my earliest remembrance to the hour the disclosure was made. The errand upon which I came to England, my adventures here, my meeting with you, my interview with Gerald's brother-nothing was concealed; I even searched my mind to be sure that not a detail was omitted. And then I threw myself upon his mercy. I swore solemnly to the truth of my story, and to my belief that the marriage ceremony was genuine. 'To part from your son now,' I said, 'will break my daughter's heart. In mercy to her, have pity!' 'From my inmost soul I pity you,' he said. 'I believe your story; I believe you to be honestly married; but it must be proved; we must be able to hold up our heads in the face of the world. You say there is a chance of the copy of your marriage certificate being hidden in the secret drawer of the writing-desk you have described, and that a scheme is in operation which holds out a hope that the desk may be found. Julian loves your daughter; his happiness is bound up in her; and because I am his father and love him most sincerely I will do all that lies in my power to set this crooked matter straight. I will go down to your friend Mr. Agnold as your representative and champion. Give me a letter to him which will confer upon me the right to act for you. There are means in my hands which Mr. Agnold may not possess, or would not naturally be willing to employ, by which we can attain our object. I can go myself to this Dr. Peterssen, and offer to purchase the desk from him, supposing it to be in his possession. To such a man a large sum of money would be a temptation; I would not stop short of five thousand pounds; and this, with a guarantee that he shall not be molested, and time afforded him to reach another country, may be the crowning inducement. Even if he has not the desk, he is pretty sure to have learnt from Mr. Gerald Paget the name of the place in which the marriage ceremony was performed, and would be willing to sell the information for the sum I have named. The proof then would be easy. Write a letter at once; I will start to-morrow.' His words, his voice, gave me hope. I wrote the letter, and yesterday he left London to present it to you."
This was the story which Emilia narrated to me, and I could not blame her for acting as she had done. Only I was angry with myself for leaving Bob; had I remained I should have seen M. Bordier, and we might have discussed matters and brought them to a head. In view of what Bob had said of his impression that Dr. Peterssen was very hard up, the temptation which M. Bordier was ready to offer would be too strong for him. Five thousand pounds was a grand bait, and Dr. Peterssen would have accepted it and fled the country.
"You have done right," I said to Emilia.
"How thankful I am that you approve!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me ungrateful that I should take a step so important without consulting you."
"You had no choice," I said, "and M. Bordier is a gentleman. Did his son accompany him?"
"Poor Julian! I do not know. I fear he is scarcely in a fit state."
I inferred from this that Julian Bordier was ill, but before I had time to make an inquiry my mother entered the room.
"A telegram for you," she said, and handed it to me.
I tore it open and read it. "I have strange and important news for you. Sophy is with me. Come down at once. Bob."
There was an A B C in the house, and I turned over the pages feverishly. I had just twenty-two minutes to catch a train, the last of the day, which would enable me to get to Bob at about eleven o'clock. Late as it would be I knew that he would expect me. I rapidly explained to Emilia the necessity of my immediate departure, and ran out of the house. Fortunately a cab was passing. "Drive as if Old Nick was at your heels," I said to the cabby, jumping in. "Treble fare." The driver cracked his whip, and away we rattled.
CHAPTER L.
CLEVER SOPHY
Bob was waiting for me on the platform. He was smoking a cigar, and did not appear the least flurried. His calm demeanor, being somewhat antagonistic to the tone of his telegram, annoyed me.
"Well, Bob?" I said.
"Well, old man?" said he. "Knew you would come down by this train."
"Of course you did," I said irritably. "Now for your news."
"No hurry," he said, phlegmatically. "Plenty of time before us."
"Don't trifle, there's a good fellow. Have you seen M. Bordier?"
"I have seen a gentleman of that name. Introduced himself to me. Showed me a letter from your lady friend. It was addressed to you, but he made free with it. He had a right to do so perhaps, as it was in an unsealed envelope. Who is the gentleman? Has he anything to do with this affair?"
"He is an important person in our inquiry, Bob," I replied, "and is intimately connected with it."
"Ah," said Bob, dryly. "If I'd been in your place I should have mentioned him earlier. He came like a bombshell upon me, and vanished, so to speak, like a flash of lightning. Any better, Sophy?"
Then for the first time I noticed the girl. She was crouched up on a bench, with her cloak over her head. The words Bob and I had exchanged were uttered at a little distance from her, and she had not heard my voice. I stepped close to her and removed the cloak from her head.
"Sophy," I said, "are you ill?"
She jumped up and took the hand I held out to her, but did not answer. Her face was very white, and there was a look of fear in her eyes.
"Good God!" I cried, with a pang. "Have they been ill-treating her? What's the matter with you, Sophy?"
"Not afore 'im," she said. Her throat seemed to be parched, her voice was so choked.
"No, they have not ill-treated her," said Bob; "I can answer for that. When she came with the desk-"
"You've got the desk!" I cried. Notwithstanding my anxiety for Sophy the news excited me, and my attention was diverted from her for a moment.
"Yes," said Bob, with a laugh in which I detected a shade of bitterness, "we've got the desk. For all the good it's worth. When she hopped into my room with it she was as bright as a cricket. Later on sent her to bed. Supposed her to be asleep, when she tumbled into the room again with a face like-well, look at it. Thought she'd have a fit. She'd had a nightmare."
"I hadn't," gasped Sophy.
"I'll take your word for it," said Bob. "Anyway, she wouldn't open her lips to me. Very mysterious. She will to you, most likely."
"Yes, I will," said Sophy, still clinging to me; she was trembling all over.
"Thought as much," said Bob, who seemed to feel this lack of confidence in him very acutely. "There are things to tell. My proposition-if I may be allowed to make one-is that we begin at the beginning, else we shall get muddled."
"It's the properest way," said Sophy.
"Thank you. Even this slight mark of approval appreciated by yours truly. Do I gather that we are friends, Sophy, no longer Maria?"
"In course we are; but I ain't 'ad no nightmare, I've 'ad a scare." She offered him her hand, and it really put life into him. He spoke more briskly.
"Let us get back to the hotel," he said. "Everything down there in black and white-except Sophy's scare-the reason for which I shall be glad to hear, if permitted."
"If he likes," said Sophy, "he can tell yer everythink when he 'ears it 'isself. It's best it should be led up to." She addressed these last words to me.
"For which purpose," said Bob; "march."
I listened to all this in amazement, but I fell in with their humor to have Sophy's scare properly led up to, and we walked to the inn in comparative silence.
"When did you have your last meal, Sophy?" I asked.
"Two o'clock. Biled beef and cabbage."
"You oaf," I said good-humoredly to Bob, "that's the reason of her being so white. She has been ten hours without food."
Bob clapped his hand to his forehead. "I am an ass," he said.
"You ain't," said Sophy, promptly, "and it ain't what made me white. But I shouldn't turn my back on a bit of grub."
"And a bit of grub you shall have," said Bob, "the moment we are in our room. I've got the right side of the landlady. Cold meat and pickles always on tap for Bob Tucker."
In the room Bob was as good as his word. A cold supper was spread before Sophy, and a glass of weak brandy and water mixed for her. She ate with avidity, and while she was thus employed Bob turned his attention to me.
"My diary comes in handy here," he said, and he pushed the book toward me. "You will find everything entered, saves a world of talk."
I skimmed through the pages till I reached yesterday's date, under which I found my departure for London duly recorded, the brief entry being:
"Agnold restless. Gone to London. For no particular reason-but gone."
Further on the record of the present day:
"Six P.M. Just returned from Tylney House. A surprising number of stones thrown by Sophy, otherwise Maria. She usually throws three or four, never more than five, including pellet in white paper, denoting happiness and safety. But this afternoon, quite a shower, including four pellets in white paper. Counted altogether eighteen. Does it mean anything? Wait till to-morrow. Logical interpretation, that things going on more satisfactorily than ever. Something discovered, perhaps. A thousand pities Sophy, otherwise Maria, cannot read or write. If the latter, could obtain positive information. When this particularly clever girl comes out she must begin to learn immediately. Talents must have a fair chance. Cruel they should be wasted. See to it. Singular no letter from Agnold. But did not promise to write."
Following this was a revelation:
"Sent telegram to Agnold, advising him to come down at once. This is putting cart before horse-in this instance allowable. Begin now at the beginning of exciting chapter.
"At half-past seven was sitting alone, smoking and ruminating. Door suddenly burst open, and Sophy, no longer Maria, rushes in. I cry-'What, Sophy!' 'Yes,' she says, out of breath, 'it's me. I've got it; I've got it. Where's the other?' (meaning Agnold). I briefly explain that he has gone to London, but will return the moment telegraphed for. 'Do you mean to tell me,' 'I said,' as excited as herself, 'that you've brought the desk?' 'It's 'ere,' she says, and she plumps it on the table, also a large door-key. She had carried the desk wrapped in her cloak. There is no doubt about the article; it exactly answers description given by Agnold. Remarkable girl, Sophy.
"This is her tale-and glad she was to set her tongue going after the lock it has had on it for so many days. At Tylney House one day is so like another that a lengthy experience of it must be perfectly appalling. Sophy says it is like a long funeral. As a friendly patient Sophy had the run of the house, and she knows every room in it except one-Dr. Peterssen's private apartment, which he occupies when he is in evidence. He is seldom in evidence. Absent six days out of seven. As there was no sign of desk in any other part of the house, Sophy decides that it is in Peterssen's room, if in the house at all. She was right.
"Peterssen only been at home two days during Sophy's residence as friendly patient. The first time last week. The second time, this. In point of fact, this very day. Last week Peterssen stopped about two hours in private room. Sophy passed door, through passage, while he was within. Couldn't get a peep. Consequently knew nothing of desk. Peterssen came out of room, locked door, went away. Most girls would have been discouraged at the prospect of such small chance of success. Not Sophy. She had made up her mind that the desk was there. There's nothing like moral conviction. To-day at one o'clock Peterssen puts in an appearance. After dinner, Sophy, on her way into the grounds, passes private room. Door ajar. She gets a peep. On the table sees desk, cedar-wood, inlaid with silver. Heart beats. Time not wasted. Discovery made, but not yet utilized. Watches like a cat. Hears keeper say Peterssen going to stop all night. Heart beats faster. Now or never. But how is this to be accomplished. This explains meaning of such a number of stones thrown over wall. Symbolical, but at the time undecipherable to present writer. Quite clear now.
"At ten minutes past five by Sophy's silver watch (her own property now), letter arrives for Peterssen. Delivered to him by keeper. Evidently unexpected. Evidently of an exciting nature. He reads it, and hurries out of house. What has he done with the key of the private room? Sophy hears a bunch rattle in his pocket as he rushes past her. Almost despairs, but not quite.
"Sophy creeps into passage again. The door is closed. She tries to peep through keyhole, but it is blocked. By what? A key. The key being inside, Peterssen in haste must have forgotten to lock the door. It proves to be so. Sophy has only to put her hand on handle, to turn it softly round, and presto! she is in the room. But the desk is not on table. Where, then? Under the bed. Before you can say Jack Robinson Sophy seizes it, creeps out of room. But first a stroke of genius. She removes key of door from inside to outside, turns it in lock, removes it from keyhole and retains it. Sublime! When Peterssen returns he will find door locked. Will naturally think he has locked it himself. Will feel in his pocket for key, without finding it. Will spend time in searching for it. All in Sophy's favor. Bravo, little one!
"Sophy reconnoitres. Keeper in grounds. Presently enters house, goes up to his bedroom-for private nap, of course. Coast clear. Like a shot Sophy is in the grounds. Like a shot she is over the wall, where there is no broken glass. How she did it she does not remember.. She does not know. Neither do I. But it is done. There she is, over the wall, outside Tylney House, instead of inside, with the key of the door in her hand, and the precious desk under her arm. It takes my breath away.
"Getting here to me takes hers away, She makes mistakes in the roads, and comes seven miles instead of four. But she runs the distance, and here she is.
"'Sophy,' I say, 'you are a treasure.'
"'I done it all right, didn't I?' she says.
"'You did, my girl, and you deserve a medal.'
"I formally make over the silver watch to her, and promise her a silver chain to match. She is in ecstasies, but not quite happy because Agnold is not here. I tell her he will be here to-morrow, and then I examine the desk. An intense desire seizes me to open it. Right or wrong, I determine to do so. I'll chance what Agnold may say when he comes back. He should have remained. What made him go to London? He had no immediate business there. His immediate business was here.
"Not one of my keys will open the desk. But I can pick a lock, and I have some delicate tools with me. For an ambitious man, in the line to which I have devoted myself, they are necessary and invaluable.
"I set to work, and very soon, without injuring the lock in the least, the desk is open. There are papers in it, but no copy of a marriage certificate. Agnold said it would be most likely in a secret drawer, but no secret drawer could I discover.
"I was so much engrossed in the examination I was making that I did not hear the door opened. But open it was, and the shadow of a man fell upon me. Sophy's eyes were closed. She was tired. I looked up. A stranger stood before me."