The Story of Charles Strange. Vol. 3 (of 3). Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ am not going yet, Charley; take my word for that; and I am as safe in London, I reckon, as I should be elsewhere. Don't say but I may have to clear out of this particular locality. If that burly policeman is going to make a permanent beat of it about here, he might drop upon me some fine evening."

      "And you must exchange your sailor's disguise, as you call it, for a better one."

      "Perhaps so. That rough old coat you have on, Charley, might not come amiss to me."

      "You can have it. Why do you fear that policeman should know you, more than any other?"

      "He was present at the trial last August. Was staring me in the face most of the day. His name's Wren."

      I sighed.

      "Well, Tom, it is getting late; we have sat here as long as is consistent with safety," I said, rising.

      He made me sit down again.

      "The later the safer, perhaps, Charley. When shall we meet again?"

      "Ay; when, and where?"

      "Come to-morrow evening, to this same spot. It is as good a one as any I know of. I shall remain indoors all day tomorrow. Of course one does not care to run needlessly into danger. Shall you find your way to it?"

      "Yes, and will be here; but I shall go now. Do be cautious, Tom. Do you want any money? I have brought some with me."

      "Many thanks, old fellow; I've enough to go on with for a day or two. How is Blanche? Did she nearly die of the disgrace?"

      "She did not know of it. Does not know it yet."

      "No!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, how can it have been kept from her? She does not live in a wood."

      "Level has managed it, somehow. She was abroad during the trial, you know. They have chiefly lived there since, Blanche seeing no English newspapers; and, of course, her acquaintances do not gratuitously speak to her about it. But I don't think it can be kept from her much longer."

      "But where does she think I am—all this time?"

      "She thinks you are in India with the regiment."

      "I suppose he was in a fine way about it!"

      "Level? Yes—naturally; and is still. He would have saved you, Tom, at any cost."

      "As you would, and one or two more good friends; but, you see, I did not know what was coming upon me in time to ask them. It fell upon my head like a thunderbolt. Level is not a bad fellow at bottom."

      "He is a downright good one—at least, that's my opinion of him."

      We stood hand locked in hand at parting. "Where are you staying?" I whispered.

      "Not far off. I've a lodging in the neighbourhood—one room."

      "Fare you well, then, until to-morrow evening."

      "Au revoir, Charley."

      CHAPTER II.

      TOM HERIOT

      I FOUND my way straight enough the next night to the little green with its trees and shrubs. Tom was there, and was humming one of our boyhood's songs taught us by Leah:

      "Young Henry was as brave a youth

      As ever graced a martial story;

      And Jane was fair as lovely truth:

      She sighed for love, and he for glory.

      "To her his faith he meant to plight,

      And told her many a gallant story:

      But war, their honest joys to blight,

      Called him away from love to glory.

      "Young Henry met the foe with pride;

      Jane followed—fought—ah! hapless story!

      In man's attire, by Henry's side,

      She died for love, and he for glory."

      He was still dressed as a sailor, but the pilot-coat was buttoned up high and tight about his throat, and the round glazed hat was worn upon the front of his head instead of the back of it.

      "I thought you meant to change these things, Tom," I said as we sat down.

      "All in good time," he answered; "don't quite know yet what costume to adopt. Could one become a negro-melody man, think you, Charley—or a Red Indian juggler with balls and sword-swallowing?"

      How light he seemed! how supremely indifferent! Was it real or only assumed? Then he turned suddenly upon me:

      "I say, what are you in black for, Charley? For my sins?"

      "For Mr. Brightman."

      "Mr. Brightman!" he repeated, his tone changing to one of concern. "Is he dead?"

      "He died the last week in February. Some weeks ago now. Died quite suddenly."

      "Well, well, well!" softly breathed Tom Heriot. "I am very sorry. I did not know it. But how am I likely to know anything of what the past months have brought forth?"

      It would serve no purpose to relate the interview of that night in detail. We spent it partly in quarrelling. That is, in differences of opinion. It was impossible to convince Tom of his danger. I told him about the Sunday incident, when Detective Arkwright passed the door of Serjeant Stillingfar, and my momentary fear that he might be looking after Tom. He only laughed. "Good old Uncle Stillingfar!" cried he; "give my love to him." And all his conversation was carried on in the same light strain.

      "But you must leave Lambeth," I urged. "You said you would do so."

      "I said I might. I will, if I see just cause for doing so. Plenty of time yet. I am not sure, you know, Charles, that Wren would know me."

      "The very fact of your having called yourself 'Strange' ought to take you away from here."

      "Well, I suppose that was a bit of a mistake," he acknowledged. "But look here, brother mine, your own fears mislead you. Until it is known that I have made my way home no one will be likely to look after me. Believing me to be at the antipodes, they won't search London for me."

      "They may suspect that you are in London, if they don't actually know it."

      "Not they. To begin with, it must be a matter of absolute uncertainty whether we got picked up at all, after escaping from the island; but the natural conclusion will be that, if we were, it was by a vessel bound for the colonies: homeward-bound ships do not take that course. Everyone at all acquainted with navigation knows that. I assure you, our being found by the whaler was the merest chance in the world. Be at ease, Charley. I can take care of myself, and I will leave Lambeth if necessary. One of these fine mornings you may get a note from me, telling you I have emigrated to the Isle of Dogs, or some such enticing quarter, and have become 'Mr. Smith.' Meanwhile, we can meet here occasionally."

      "I don't like this place, Tom. It must inevitably be attended with more or less danger. Had I not better come to your lodgings?"

      "No," he replied, after a moment's consideration. "I am quite sure that we are safe here, and there it's hot and stifling—a dozen families СКАЧАТЬ