"Yes, me and Bart have saved one 'undred between us. Rent and furniture and taxes can come out of it, sure. And my washin's what I call washin'," said Deborah, emphatically; "no lost b.u.t.tings and tored sheets and ragged collars. I'd wash ag'in the queen 'erself, tho' I ses it as shouldn't. Give me a tub, and you'll see if the money don't come in."

"Well, then, Deborah, as I am too poor to marry Sylvia now, I want her to stop with you till I can make a home for her."

"An' where else should she stop but with her own silly, foolish Debby, I'd like to know? My flower, you come an' be queen of the laundry."

"I'll keep the accounts, Debby," said Sylvia, now all smiling.

"You'll keep nothin' but your color an' your dear 'eart up," retorted Debby, sniffing; "me an' Bart 'ull do all. An' this blessed day we'll go to Jubileetown with our belongings. And you, Mr. Beecot?"

"I'll come and see you settled, Deborah, and then I return to earn an income for Sylvia. I won't let you keep her long."

"She'll stop as long as she have the will," shouted Debby, hugging Sylvia; "as to that Krill cat--"

"She can take possession as soon as she likes. And, Deborah," added Paul, significantly, "for all that has happened, I don't intend to drop the search for your late master's murderer."

"It's the Krill cat as done it," said Debby, "though I ain't got no reason for a-sayin' of such a think."

CHAPTER XIII

THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS

As Paul expected, the next letter from his father contained a revocation of all that had pleased him in the former one. Beecot senior wrote many pages of abuse--he always did babble like a complaining woman when angered. He declined to sanction the marriage and ordered his son at once--underlined--to give up all thought of making Sylvia Norman his wife. It would have been hard enough, wrote Beecot, to have received her as a daughter-in-law even with money, seeing that she had no position and was the daughter of a murdered tradesman, but seeing also that she was a pauper, and worse, a girl without a cognomen, he forbade Paul to bestow on her the worthy name of Beecot, so n.o.bly worn by himself. There was much more to the same effect, which Paul did not read, and the letter ended grandiloquently in a command that Paul was to repair at once to the Manor and there grovel at the feet of his injured father.

To this despotic epistle the young man answered in a few lines. He said that he intended to marry Sylvia, and that nothing would make him give her up, and that he would not meet his father again until that father remembered that his son was an Englishman and not a slave. Paul signed his letter without the usual "your affectionate son," for he felt that he had small love for this imperious old man who declined to control his pa.s.sions. So he now, knew the worst. The breach between himself and his father was wider than ever, and he had only his youth and his brains to depend upon, in making a living for himself and a home for Sylvia.

Strange to say, Paul's spirits rose, and he braced himself bravely to do battle with fortune for his beloved.

Sylvia, under the charge of Deborah, and escorted by Bart Tawsey, had duly left Gwynne Street, bag and baggage, and she was now established in Rose Cottage, Jubileetown. The house was a small one, and there was not a single rose in the garden around it. Indeed, as the cottage had been newly erected, there was not even a garden, and it stood amidst a bare acre with a large drying-ground at the back. But the cottage, on the outskirts of the new suburb, was, to all intents and purposes, in the country, and Sylvia's weary eyes were so gladdened by green fields and glorious trees that she forgot the nakedness of her immediate surroundings. She was a.s.signed the best room in the small abode, and one of the first things she did was to write a letter to Paul asking him to repair to Rose Cottage to witness the marriage of Deborah and Bart. The handmaiden thought this was necessary, so that she could make full use of her intended husband.

"If he wasn't here allays," said the bride-elect, "he'd be gadding about idling. I know him. An' me getting a business together won't be easy unless I've got him at 'and, as you may say, to take round the bills, let alone that he ought to sleep in the 'ouse in case burgulars gits in.

And sleep in the 'ouse without the blessin' of matrimony he can't, my pretty, so that's all about it."

Deborah, as an American would say, was a "hustler," and having made up her mind, she did not let gra.s.s grow under her feet. She called on the vicar of the parish and explained herself at great length, but suppressed the fact that she had formerly lived in Gwynne Street. She did not want the shadow of the murder to cast a gloom over her new home, and therefore said nothing about the matter. All the vicar, good, easy soul, knew, was that Deborah had been a servant in a respectable family (whereabouts not mentioned); that the father and mother had died, and that she had brought the only daughter of the house to live with her and be treated like a lady. Then Deborah demanded that the banns should be put up, and arranged that Bart should take up his abode in the parish for the necessary time. This was done, and for three Sundays Deborah had the pleasure of hearing the banns announced which foretold that Bart Tawsey and herself would soon be man and wife. Then the marriage took place.

The future Mrs. Tawsey had no relatives, but Bart produced a snuffy old grandmother from some London slum who drank gin during the wedding-feast, much to the scandal of the bride. Paul acted as best man to Bart, and Sylvia, in her plain black dress, was bridesmaid. Mrs.

Purr, the grandmother, objected to the presence of black at a wedding, saying it was unlucky, and told of many fearful incidents which had afterwards occurred to those who had tolerated such a funeral garb. But Deborah swept away all opposition.

"What!" she shouted in her usual style, "not 'ave my own sweet pretty to arsk a blessing on my marriage, and she not able to git out of 'er blacks? I'm astonished at you, Mrs. Purr, and you an old woman as oughter know better. I doubt if you're Bart's granny. I've married into an ijit race. Don't talk to me, Mrs. Purr, if you please. Live clean an'

work 'ard, and there's no trouble with them 'usbands. As 'as to love, honor and obey you."--And she sniffed.

"Them words you 'ave t' saiy," mumbled Mrs. Purr.

"Ho," said Deborah, scornfully, "I'd like to see me say 'em to sich a scrub as Bart."

But say them she did at the altar, being compelled to do so by the vicar. But when the ceremony was over, the newly-made Mrs. Tawsey took Bart by the arm and shook him. He was small and lean and of a nervous nature, so he quivered like a jelly in his wife's tremendous grip.

Deborah was really ignorant of her own strength.

"You 'ark to me, Bart," said she, while the best man and bridesmaid walked on ahead talking lovingly. "I said them words, which you oughter 'ave said, 'cause you ain't got no memory t' speak of. But they ain't my beliefs, but yours, or I'll know the reason why. Jes' you say them now.

Swear, without Billingsgate, as you'll allays love, honor an' obey your lovin' wife."

Bart, still being shaken, gasped out the words, and then gave his arm to the lady who was to rule his life. Deborah kissed him in a loud, hearty way, and led him in triumph to the cottage. Here Mrs. Purr had prepared a simple meal, and the health of the happy pair was proposed by Paul.

Mrs. Purr toasted them in gin, and wept as she did so. A dismal, tearful old woman was Mrs. Purr, and she was about to open her mouth, in order to explain what she thought would come of the marriage, when Mrs. Tawsey stopped her.

"None of them groans," cried Deborah, with vigor. "I won't have my weddings made funerals. 'Old your tongue, Mrs. Purr, and you, Bart, jes'

swear to love, honor an' obey my pretty as you would your own lawful wife, and the ceremonies is hoff."

Bart performed the request, and then Paul, laughing at the oddity of it all, took his leave. On walking to the gate, he was overtaken by Mrs.

Purr, who winked mysteriously. "Whatever you do, sir," said the lean old creature, with many contortions of her withered face, "don't have nothin' to do with Tray."

"Tray," echoed Paul in surprise. "Mr. Pash's office boy?"

"Him and none other. I knows his grandmother, as 'as bin up for drunk two hundred times, and is proud of it. Stretchers is as common to her, sir, as kissings is to a handsome young gent like you. An' the boy takes arter her. A deep young cuss," whispered Granny Purr, significantly.

"But why should I beware of him?" asked Beecot, puzzled.

"A nod's a wink to a blind 'un," croaked Mrs. Purr, condensing the proverb, and turning away. "Jus' leave that brat, Tray, to his own wickedness. They'll bring him to the gallers some day."

"But I want to know--"

"Ah, well, then, you won't, sir. I ses what I ses, and I ses no more nor I oughter say. So good-night, sir," and Mrs. Purr toddled up the newly-gravelled path, and entered the cottage, leaving an odor of gin behind her.

Beecot had half a mind to follow, so strange was the hint she had given him. Apparently, she knew something which connected him with Tray, and Paul wondered for the fiftieth time, if the boy had picked up the opal brooch. However, he decided to leave the matter alone for the present.

Mrs. Purr, whom Deborah had engaged to iron, was always available, and Paul decided, that should anything point to Tray's being implicated in the finding of the opal serpent, that he would hand him over to Hurd, who would be better able to deal with such a keen young imp of the gutter. Thus making up his mind, Paul dismissed all thought of Mrs.

Purr's mysterious utterance, and walked briskly to the nearest bus-stand, where he took a blue vehicle to the Bloomsbury district. All the way to his garret he dreamed of Sylvia, and poor though was the home he had left her in, he was thankful that she was there in the safe shelter of Mrs. Deborah Tawsey's arms.

It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door of the stairs leading to his attic, and here he was touched on the shoulder by no less a person than Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul recognize him by his voice, for the gentleman who stood before him was not the brown individual he knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening dress, with the neatest of patent boots and the tightest of white gloves. He wore a brilliantly-polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane. Also he had donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with a velvet collar and cuffs.

But though his voice was the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite a different person. His hair was dark and worn rather long, his moustache black and large, and brushed out _a la Kaiser_, and he affected an eye-gla.s.s as immovable as that of Hay's. Altogether a wonderfully changed individual.

"Hurd," said Paul, starting with surprise.

"It's my voice told you. But now--" he spoke a tone higher in a shrill sort of way and with a foreign accent--"vould you me discover, mon ami?"

he inquired, with a genuine Parisian shrug.

"No. Why are you masquerading as a Frenchman, Hurd?"

"Not Hurd in this skin, Mr. Beecot. Comte de la Tour, a votre service,"

and he presented a thin glazed card with a coronet engraved on it.

"Well, Count," said Beecot, laughing, "what can I do for you?"

"Come up to your room," said the pseudo count, mounting the stairs; "there's something to be talked over between us."

"No bad news, I hope?"

"Ah, my poor friend," said the detective, in his usual genial voice, "you have had enough bad news, I am aware. To lose a lovely wife and a fine fortune at once. Eh, what a pity!"