Dangerous Ground Part 59

Suddenly the manner of the Prodigal, which has presented thus far a mixture of incredulity and indifference, changes to fierce anger. Again he comes down upon his feet, this time with a quick spring that causes Papa to start and tremble once more.

"Now, you listen," he says sharply. "The quicker yer stop this fool business, the better it'll be fer yer plans. Who's that gal, I say? How did she git inter yer clutches? What's this fortin', and where's it comin' from? When ye've answered these 'ere questions, ye kin talk ter _me_; not afore."

"Jest trust us fer that, Franzy," says Papa softly.

"Not any! Then here's another thing: how are ye goin' ter git that gal's consent?"

"Trust us fer that, too," says Mamma, in a tone betokening rising anger.

"We know how ter manage her."

"An' that means that ye've got her young un! Now look here, both on ye.

Do you take me fer a stool-pigeon, to go into such a deal with my eyes blinded? Satisfy me about the gal, an' her right to a fortin', an' let me in to the young un deal, an' I'm with ye. I don't go it blind."

And now it is Mamma's turn. She bounds up, confronting her Prodigal, with wrath blazing in her wicked eyes.

Papa turns away and groans dismally: "Oh, Lord, they're goin' to quarrel!"

"Look here, Franz Francoise," begins Mamma, in a shrill half whisper, "ye don't want ter go too fur! I ain't a-goin' ter put all the power inter _yer_ hands. If this business ain't worth somethin' to me, it shan't be to you. I kin soon satisfy ye on one pint: the gal ain't my gal, but she came honest into my hands. I'm willin' ter tell ye all about the gal, an' her fortune, but ye kin let out the young-un business. That's my affair, and I'll attend to it in my own way. Now, then, if I'll tell ye about the gal, prove that there's money in it, and git her consent, will ye marry her an'--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Look here, Franz Francoise, ye don't want to go too far!"--page 316.]

"Whack up with ye afterwards?" drawls Franz, all trace of anger having disappeared from his face and manner. "Old woman, I'll put it in my pipe an' smoke it. Ye kin consider this confab ended."

Turning upon his heel he goes back to the couch, drops down upon it with a yawn, and composes himself to sleep.

CHAPTER XLIV.

MR. FOLLINGSBEE'S VICTORY.

When Alan Warburton reached the residence of Mr. Follingsbee, he found that legal gentleman sitting alone in his cosy library, very much, so Alan thought, as if expecting him. And the first words that the lawyer uttered confirmed this opinion.

Rising quickly, Mr. Follingsbee came forward to meet his guest, saying briskly:

"Ah, Warburton, good evening. I've been expecting you; sit down, sit down."

As Alan placed his hat upon the table beside him, and took the seat indicated, he said, with a well-bred stare of surprise:

"You expected me, Mr. Follingsbee? Then possibly you know my errand?"

"Well, yes; in part, at least." The lawyer took up a folded note, and pa.s.sed it across the table to his visitor, saying: "It was left in my care about two hours ago."

Alan glanced up at him quickly, and then turned his attention to the perusal of the note. It ran thus:

ALAN WARBURTON:

The time has come, or will soon come, when Mrs. W--will find it necessary to confide her troubles to Mr. Follingsbee. The time is also near when you will have to fight Van Vernet face to face.

You will do well to trust your case to Mr. Follingsbee, relying upon him in every particular. You will have to meet strategy with strategy, if you would outwit Vernet.

A FRIEND.

Alan perused this slowly, noting that the handwriting was identical with that of the sc.r.a.p left by the "organ-grinder," and then he refolded it, saying:

"I am the bearer of a missive for you, Mr. Follingsbee; but first, let me ask if I may know who sent me this message?"

"It was left in my hands," replied the lawyer, smiling slightly, "by--by a person with ragged garments, and a dirty face. He appeared to be a deaf mute, and looked like--"

"Like an organ-grinder minus his organ?" finished Alan.

"Just so."

"I trust that _this_ will explain itself," said Alan, drawing forth from an inner pocket Leslie's letter, and giving it into the lawyer's hand.

"Read it, Mr. Follingsbee. This day has been steeped in mystery; let us clear away such clouds as we can."

"From Leslie!" Mr. Follingsbee said, elevating his eyebrows. "This is an unexpected part of the programme."

"Indeed? And yet this,--" and Alan tapped the note he had just received, with one long, white forefinger,--"this foretells it."

"Ah!" Only this monosyllable; then Mr. Follingsbee broke the seal of Leslie's letter and began its perusal, his face growing graver and more troubled as he read.

It was a long letter, and he read it slowly, turning back a page sometimes to re-read a certain pa.s.sage. Finally he laid the letter upon his knee, and sat quite still, with his hands working together nervously and his brow wrinkled in thought. At last he lifted his eyes toward Alan.

"Do you know what this letter contains?" he asked slowly.

"I know that my sister-in-law has left her home," Alan replied gravely; "nothing more."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing; really. She left three letters: one for Mrs. French, another for Miss French, and the third for yourself."

"And you.... She left you some message?"

"Not a word, verbal or written."

"Strange," mused the lawyer, taking up his letter and again glancing through its pages. "I can't understand it. Mr. Warburton--pardon the question--was there any difference, any misunderstanding, between you and Leslie?"

"Does not the letter itself explain?"

"That is what puzzles me. The letter tells her own story--a story that I knew before, in part at least; a sad story, proving to me that the girl has been made to suffer bitterly; but it does not, from first to last, mention your name."

Alan sat silent for a moment. Then he turned his face toward the lawyer, as if acting upon some resolve.

"Yesterday," he began quietly, "I held an interview with my sister-in-law. It was not an amicable interview; we have been on unfriendly terms since--since the night of the masquerade."

"Since the masquerade?"