Post Haste Part 32

Bones looked inquiringly and with some suspicion at his captor. He evidently thought there was a touch of insanity about her. This was confirmed when Miss Stivergill, seizing a carving-knife from the dresser, advanced with masculine strides towards him. He made a desperate effort to burst his bonds, but they were too scientifically arranged for that. "Don't fear," said the lady, severing the cord that bound the burglar's wrists, and putting the knife in his hands. "Now,"

she added, "you know how to cut yourself free, no doubt."

"Well, you _are_ a trump!" exclaimed Bones, rapidly touching his bonds at salient points with the keen edge.

In a few seconds he was free.

"Now, go away," said Miss Stivergill, "and don't let me see you here again."

Bones looked with admiration at his deliverer, but could only find words to repeat that she _was_ a trump, and vanished through the back-door, just as a band of men, with pitchforks, rakes, spades, and lanterns, came clamouring in at the front garden gate from the neighbouring farm.

"What is it?" exclaimed the farmer.

"Only a burglar," answered Miss Stivergill.

"Where is he?" chorussed everybody.

"That's best known to himself," replied the lady, who, in order to give the fugitive time, went into a minute and slow account of the whole affair--excepting, of course, her connivance at the escape--to the great edification of her audience, among whom the one who seemed to derive the chief enjoyment was a black boy. He endeavoured to screen himself behind the labourers, and was obviously unable to restrain his glee.

"But what's come of 'im, ma'am?" asked the farmer impatiently.

"Escaped!" answered Miss Stivergill.

"Escaped!" echoed everybody, looking furtively round, as though they supposed he had only escaped under the dresser or into the keyhole.

"Escaped!" repeated the policeman, who entered at the moment with two comrades; "impossible! I tied 'im so that no efforts of his own could avail 'im. Somebody _must_ 'ave 'elped 'im."

"The carving-knife helped him," said Miss Stivergill, with a look of dignity.--"Perhaps, instead of speculating how he escaped, policeman, it would be better to pursue him. He can't be very far off, as it is not twenty minutes since he cut himself free."

In a state of utter bewilderment the policeman rushed out of the cottage, followed by his comrades and the agriculturists. Peter Pax essayed to go with them, but was restrained by an iron grip on his collar. Pulling him back, Miss Stivergill dragged her captive into a parlour and shut the door.

"Come now, little Pax," she said, setting the boy in a chair in front of her, "you needn't try to deceive _me_. I'd know you among a thousand in any disguise. If you were to blacken your face with coal-tar an inch thick your impertinence would shine through. You know that the burglar is little Bones's father; you've a pretty good guess that I let him off.

You have come here for some purpose in connection with him. Come--out with it, and make a clean breast."

Little Pax did make a clean breast then and there, was washed white, supped and slept at The Rosebud, returned to town next day by the first train, and had soon the pleasure of informing Tottie that the intended burglary had been frustrated, and that her father wasn't "took" after all.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

SHOWS HOW ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER, AND SO ON.

It is a mere truism to state that many a chain of grave and far-reaching events is set in motion by some insignificant trifle. The touching of a trigger by a child explodes a gun which extinguishes a valuable life, and perhaps throws a whole neighbourhood into difficulties. The lighting of a match may cause a conflagration which shall "bring down"

an extensive firm, some of whose dependants, in the retail trade, will go down along with it, and cause widespreading distress, if not ruin, among a whole army of greengrocers, b.u.t.termen, and other small fry.

The howling of a bad baby was the comparatively insignificant event which set going a certain number of wheels, whose teeth worked into the cogs which revolved in connection with our tale.

The howling referred to awoke a certain contractor near Pimlico with a start, and caused him to rise off what is popularly known as the "wrong side." Being an angry man, the contractor called the baby bad names, and would have whipped it had it been his own. Going to his office before breakfast with the effects of the howl strong upon him, he met a humble labourer there with a surly "Well, what do you want?"

The labourer wanted work. The contractor had no work to give him. The labourer pleaded that his wife and children were starving. The contractor didn't care a pinch of snuff for his wife or children, and bade him be off. The labourer urged that the times were very hard, and he would be thankful for any sort of job, no matter how small. He endeavoured to work on the contractor's feelings by referring to the premature death, by starvation, of his pet parrot, which had been for years in the family, and a marvellous speaker, having been taught by his mate Bill. The said Bill was also out of work, and waiting for him outside. He too would be thankful for a job--anything would do, and they would be willing to work for next to nothing. The contractor still professed utter indifference to the labourer's woes, but the incident of the parrot had evidently touched a cord which could not be affected by human suffering. After a few minutes' consideration he said there _was_ a small job--a pump at the corner of a certain street not far off had to be taken down, to make way for contemplated alterations. It was not necessary to take it down just then, but as the labourers were so hard up for a job they were at liberty to undertake that one.

Thus two wheels were set in motion, and the result was that the old pump at the corner of Purr Street was uprooted and laid low by these labourers, one of whom looked into the lower end of the pump and said "Hallo!"

His companion Bill echoed the "Hallo!" and added "What's up?"

"W'y, if there ain't somethink queer inside of the old pump," said the labourer, going down on both knees in order to look more earnestly into it. "I do b'lieve it's letters. Some double-extra stoopids 'ave bin an' posted 'em in the pump."

He pulled out handfuls of letters as he spoke, some of which, from their appearance, must have lain there for years, while others were quite fresh!

A pa.s.sing letter-carrier took charge of these letters, and conveyed them to the Post-Office, where the machinery of the department was set in motion on them. They were examined, faced, sorted, and distributed.

Among them was the letter which George Aspel had committed to the care of Tottie Bones at the time of his first arrival in London, and thus it came to pa.s.s that the energies of Sir James Clubley, Baronet, were roused into action.

"Dear me! how strange!" said Sir James to himself, on reading the letter. "This unaccountable silence is explained at last. Poor fellow, I have judged him hastily. Come! I'll go find him out."

But this resolve was more easily made than carried into effect. At the hotel from which the letter had been dated nothing was known of the missing youth except that he had departed long long ago, leaving as his future address the name of a bird-stuffer, which name had unfortunately been mislaid--not lost. Oh no--only mislaid! On further inquiry, however, there was a certain undersized, plain-looking, and rather despised chamber-maid who retained a lively and grateful recollection of Mr Aspel, in consequence of his having given her an unexpectedly large tip at parting, coupled with a few slight but kindly made inquiries as to her welfare, which seemed to imply that he regarded her as a human being. She remembered distinctly his telling her one evening that if any one should call for him in his absence he was to be found at the residence of a lady in Cat Street, Pimlico, but for the life of her she couldn't remember the number, though she thought it must have been number nine, for she remembered having connected it in her mind with the well-known lives of a cat.

"Cat Street! Strange name--very!" said Sir James. "Are you sure it was Cat Street?"

"Well, I ain't quite sure, sir," replied the little plain one, with an inquiring frown at the chandelier, "but I know it 'ad somethink to do with cats. P'r'aps it was Mew Street; but I'm _quite_ sure it was Pimlico."

"And the lady's name?"

"Well, sir, I ain't sure of that neither. It was somethink queer, I know, but then there's a-many queer names in London--ain't, there, sir?"

Sir James admitted that there were, and advised her to reflect on a few of them.

The little plain one did reflect--with the aid of the chandelier--and came to the sudden conviction that the lady's name had to do with flowers. "Not roses--no, nor yet violets," she said, with an air of intense mental application, for the maiden's memory was largely dependent on a.s.sociation of ideas; "it might 'ave been marigolds, though it don't seem likely. Stay, was it water--?--Oh! it was lilies! Yes, I 'ave it now: Miss Lilies-somethink."

"Think again, now," said the Baronet, "everything depends on the `something,' for Miss Lilies is not so extravagantly queer as you seem to think her name was."

"That's true, sir," said the perplexed maid, with a last appealing gaze at the chandelier, and beginning with the first letter of the alphabet-- Miss Lilies A-- Lilies B-- Lilies C--, etcetera, until she came to K.

"That's it now. I 'ave it _almost_. It 'ad to do with lots of lilies, I'm quite sure--quant.i.ties, it must 'ave been."

On Sir James suggesting that quant.i.ties did not begin with a K the little plain one's feelings were slightly hurt, and she declined to go any further into the question. Sir James was therefore obliged to rest content with what he had learned, and continued his search in Pimlico.

There he spent several hours in playing, with small shopkeepers and policemen, a game somewhat a.n.a.logous to that which is usually commenced with the words "Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?" The result was that eventually he reached Number 9 Purr Street, and found himself in the presence of Miss Lillycrop.

That lady, however, damped his rising hopes by saying that she did not know where George Aspel was to be found, and that he had suddenly disappeared--to her intense regret--from the bird-warehouse in which he had held a situation. It belonged to the brothers Blurt, whose address she gave to her visitor.

Little Tottie Bones, who had heard the conversation through the open parlour door, could have told where Aspel was to be found, but the promise made to her father sealed her lips; besides, particular inquiries after any one were so suggestive to her of policemen, and being "took," that she had a double motive to silence.

Mr Enoch Blurt could throw no light on the subject, but he could, and did, add to Sir James's increasing knowledge of the youth's reported dissipation, and sympathised with him strongly in his desire to find out Aspel's whereabouts. Moreover, he directed him to the General Post-Office, where a youth named Maylands, a letter-sorter--who had formerly been a telegraph message-boy,--and an intimate friend of Aspel, was to be found, and might be able to give some information about him, though he (Mr Blurt) feared not.

Phil Maylands could only say that he had never ceased to make inquiries after his friend, but hitherto without success, and that he meant to continue his inquiries until he should find him.

Sir James Clubley therefore returned in a state of dejection to the sympathetic Miss Lillycrop, who gave him a note of introduction to a detective--the grave man in grey,--a particular friend and ally of her own, with whom she had sc.r.a.ped acquaintance during one of her many pilgrimages of love and mercy among the poor.

To the man in grey Sir James committed his case, and left him to work it out.

Now, the way of a detective is a mysterious way. Far be it from us to presume to point it out, or elucidate or expound it in any degree. We can only give a vague, incomplete, it may be even incorrect, view of what the man in grey did and achieved, nevertheless we are bound to record what we know as to this officer's proceedings, inasmuch as they have to do with the thread of our narrative.