"I am quite sure."
"Ha! Ring the bell, Simpson." Before any one had spoken again, a footman was in the room. "Bring the major-domo here instantly," said Lord Saltire.
"You know what you have done, Ascot," said Lord Saltire. "You see what you have done. I am going to send for my solicitor, and alter my will."
"Of course you are," said Lord Ascot. "Do you dream I did not know that before I came here?"
"And yet you came?"
"Yes; with all the devils out of hell dragging me back."
"As a matter of curiosity, why?" said Lord Saltire.
"Oh, I couldn't do it, you know. I've done a good many dirty things; but I couldn't do that, particularly to that man. There are some things a fellow can't do, you know."
"Where did you see him?"
"At the Groom's Arms, Belgrave Mews; he was there not three hours ago.
Find a man called Sloane, a horse-dealer; he will tell you all about him; for he was sitting with his hand on his shoulder. His address is twenty-seven, New Road."
At this time the major-domo appeared. "Take a cab at once, and _fetch_ me--you understand when I say _fetch_--Mr. Brogden, my solicitor. Mr.
Compton lives out of town, but he lives over the office in Lincoln's Inn. If you can get hold of the senior partner, he will do as well. Put either of them in a cab, and pack them off here. Then go to Scotland Yard; give my compliments to inspector Field; tell him a horrible murder has been committed, accompanied by arson, forgery, and regrating, with a strong suspicion of sorning, and that he must come at once."
That venerable gentleman disappeared, and then Lord Saltire said--
"Do you repent, Ascot?"
"No," said he. "D---- it all, you know, I could not do it when I came to think of it. The money would never have stayed with me, I take it.
Good-night."
"Good-night," said Lord Saltire; "come the first thing in the morning."
And so they parted. Simpson said, "Are you going to alter your will to-night, my lord? Won't it be a little too much for you?"
"It would be if I was going to do so, Simpson; but I am not going to touch a line of it. I am not sure that half a million of money was ever, in the history of the world, given up with better grace or with less reason. He is a noble fellow; I never guessed it; he shall have it--by Jove, he shall have it! I am going to sleep. Apologise to Brogden, and give the information to Field; tell him I expect Charles Ravenshoe here to-morrow morning. Good-night."
Simpson came in to open the shutters next morning; but those shutters were not opened for ten days, for Lord Saltire was dead.
Dead. The delicate waxen right hand, covered with rings, was lying outside on the snow-white sheet, which was unwrinkled by any death agony; and on the pillow was a face, beautiful always, but now more beautiful, more calm, more majestic than ever. If his first love, dead so many years, had met him in the streets but yesterday, she would not have known him; but if she could have looked one moment on the face which lay on that pillow, she would have seen once more the gallant young nobleman who came a-wooing under the lime-trees sixty years agone.
The inspector was rapid and dexterous in his work. He was on Charles Ravenshoe's trail like a bloodhound, eager to redeem the credit which his coadjutor, Yard, had lost over the same case. But his instructions came to him three hours too late.
CHAPTER LX.
THE BRIDGE AT LAST.
The group which Lord Ascot had seen through the glass doors consisted of Charles, the coachman's son, the coachman, and Mr. Sloane. Charles and the coachman's son had got hold of a plan of the battle of Balaclava, from the _Illustrated London News_, and were explaining the whole thing to the two older men, to their great delight. The four got enthusiastic and prolonged the talk for some time; and, when it began to flag, Sloane said he must go home, and so they came down into the bar.
Here a discussion arose about the feeding of cavalry horses, in which all four were perfectly competent to take part. The two young men were opposed in argument to the two elder ones, and they were having a right pleasant chatter about the corn or hay question in the bar, when the swing doors were pushed open, and a girl entered and looked round with that bold, insolent expression one only sees among a certain class.
A tawdry draggled-looking girl, finely-enough dressed, but with everything awry and dirty. Her face was still almost beautiful; but the cheekbones were terribly prominent, and the hectic patch of red on her cheeks, and the parched cracked lips, told of pneumonia developing into consumption.
Such a figure had probably never appeared in that decent aristocratic public-house, called the Groom's Arms, since it had got its licence. The four men ceased their argument and turned to look at her; and the coachman, a family man with daughters, said, "Poor thing!"
With a brazen, defiant look she advanced to the bar. The barmaid, a very beautiful, quiet-looking, London-bred girl, advanced towards her, frightened at such a wild, tawdry apparition, and asked her mechanically what she would please to take.
"I don't want nothing to drink, miss," said the girl; "least-ways, I've got no money; but I want to ask a question. I say, miss, you couldn't give a poor girl one of them sandwiches, could you? You would never miss it, you know."
The barmaid's father, the jolly landlord, eighteen stone of good humour, was behind his daughter now. "Give her a porkpie, Jane, and a glass of ale, my girl."
"God Almighty bless you, sir, and keep her from the dark places where the devil lies a-waiting. I didn't come here to beg--it was only when I see them sandwiches that it came over me--I come here to ask a question.
I know it ain't no use. But you can't see him--can't see him--can't see him," she continued, sobbing wildly, "rattling his poor soul away, and not do as he asked you. I didn't come to get out for a walk. I sat there patient three days, and would have sat there till the end, but he would have me come. And so I came; and I must get back--get back."
The landlord's daughter brought her some food, and as her eyes gleamed with wolfish hunger, she stopped speaking. It was a strange group. She in the centre, tearing at her food in a way terrible to see. Behind, the calm face of the landlord, looking on her with pity and wonder; and his pretty daughter, with her arm round his waist, and her head on his bosom, with tears in her eyes. Our four friends stood to the right, silent and curious--a remarkable group enough; for neither the duke's coachman, nor Mr. Sloane, who formed the background, were exactly ordinary-looking men; and in front of them were Charles and the coachman's son, who had put his hand on Charles's right shoulder, and was peering over his left at the poor girl, so that the two faces were close together--the one handsome and pale, with the mouth hidden by a moustache; the other, Charles's, wan and wild, with the lips parted in eager curiosity, and the chin thrust slightly forward.
In a few minutes the girl looked round on them. "I said I'd come here to ask a question; and I must ask it and get back. There was a gentleman's groom used to use this house, and I want him. His name was Charles Horton. If you, sir, or if any of these gentlemen, know where I can find him, in God Almighty's name tell me this miserable night."
Charles was pale before, but he grew more deadly pale now; his heart told him something was coming. His comrade, the coachman's son, held his hand tighter still on his shoulder, and looked in his face. Sloane and the coachman made an exclamation.
Charles said quietly, "My poor girl, I am the man you are looking for.
What, in God's name, do you want with me?" and, while he waited for her to answer, he felt all the blood in his body going towards his heart.
"Little enough," she said. "Do you mind a little shoeblack boy as used to stand by St. Peter's Church?"
"Do I?" said Charles, coming towards her. "Yes, I do. My poor little lad. You don't mean to say that you know anything about him?"
"I am his sister, sir; and he is dying; and he says he won't die not till you come. And I come off to see if I could find you. Will you come with me and see him?"
"Will I come?" said Charles. "Let us go at once. My poor little monkey.
Dying, too!"
"Poor little man," said the coachman. "A many times, I've heard you speak of him. Let's all go."
Mr. Sloane and his son seconded this motion.
"You mustn't come," said the girl. "There's a awful row in the court to-night; that's the truth. He's safe enough with me; but if you come, they'll think a mob's being raised. Now, don't talk of coming."
"You had better let me go alone," said Charles. "I feel sure that it would not be right for more of us to follow this poor girl than she chooses. I am ready."
And so he followed the girl out into the darkness; and, as soon as they were outside, she turned and said to him--
"You'd best follow me from a distance. I'll tell you why; I expect the police wants me, and you might get into trouble from being with me.
Remember, if I am took, it's Marquis Court, Little Marjoram Street, and it's the end house, exactly opposite you as you go in. If you stands at the archway, and sings out for Miss Ophelia Flanigan, she'll come to you. But if the row ain't over, you wait till they're quiet. Whatever you do, don't venture in by yourself, however quiet it may look; sing out for her."