Roger Ingleton, Minor Part 57

"Do you still hold to your theory that Ratman is your brother?"

"I have no theory. I must find my brother, even if he is a--a murderer," said the boy with a groan. "But, I say, has nothing been heard of him?"

"The police have traced him to London; there the scent ends for the present. He is probably in hiding there, and one may have to wait weeks or months till he gets off his guard and is caught."

About ten days later they started, by slow stages, on the homeward journey. Whether Madame received all she expected for her hospitality is doubtful. Mr Armstrong undertook the duties of cashier, and used his eye-gla.s.s considerably in scrutinising the figures. He craved an interview with Madame in her parlour to discuss her arithmetic, and although he appeared eventually to arrive at a satisfactory understanding with the good lady (so much so, that she shed tears at his departure), he did not complain that her charges were extortionate, as French hotels go.

The home-coming of the heir of Maxfield created a welcome flutter of excitement among the desolate occupants of the manor-house and their neighbours. But the flutter in their hearts was nothing compared with that in the heart of the heir himself as he walked across the park on the day after his return to call at the Vicarage and invite Rosalind to accompany him in a ride. What pa.s.sed--whether the flutter was contagious, what brought back the deserted colour to Miss Rosalind's cheeks, why they rode so slow and left so much of their course to the decision of their steeds,--all this and many other matters for wonder, history recordeth not, as is quite proper. But it does record that when, on their return, Mr Armstrong chanced to come out on to the door- step, where the two stood unmounted, Roger said--

"Armstrong, Rosalind has promised to be my wife."

The tutor flushed a little at this not unexpected announcement; then taking his pupil's arm, he said--

"It means great happiness for you both. I am glad--very glad."

But why, if he was so glad, did he slink off to his study forthwith and play a dirge on his piano, and there sit listlessly in his chair for the rest of the morning staring out of the window through his gla.s.s, till Jill tripped in and fetched him down to lunch, saying--

"Dear Mr Armstrong, try not to be too awfully sorry. _I_ think no one is as nice as you."

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE HEIR OF MAXFIELD COMES OF AGE.

It wanted but a month to Roger's majority, that important day on which the fate of so many persons was to be decided, when a letter was delivered to the heir of Maxfield as he sat at breakfast.

The weeks that had pa.s.sed since Captain Oliphant's sudden death had been uneventful. To Rosalind and Roger the discovery that they loved one another went far to lighten the sorrow which had befallen both--one in the death of a father, the other in what appeared to be the hopeless loss of a brother.

Roger had by no means yet abandoned his search. Twice already had he and Armstrong been up to London to make inquiries, but without avail.

The billiard-marker of "L'Hotel Soult" had vanished as completely as-- well, as Mr Ratman.

"You know, of course," said the tutor once, with the rather unsympathetic drawl in which he was wont to allude to the lost Ingleton--"you know, of course, that if the man you want is Ratman, you are having the a.s.sistance of the police in your search. A warrant is out against him, and heaven and earth is being moved to capture him."

Roger sighed.

"I am looking for no one but my brother," said he, "Even if he turns out to be this miscreant, I cannot help it."

"Quite so. Only it is right to remember that to find Ratman means to hang him. That at least is the object the police have in view. But you need not disturb yourself on that score. Roger Ingleton, major, if we find him, may be a villain, but he won't be the murderer of Miss Oliphant's father."

They returned presently, baffled, to Maxfield. No one at the depots, or recruiting head-quarters, or pension offices could tell them a word of a soldier or a sailor named Callot who might have enlisted or gone to sea about twelve years ago. How could they expect it? Nor did the most careful search among the old Squire's papers lead to the discovery of any record of the supposed report of the lad's death.

As a matter of fact, if the billiard-marker at "L'Hotel Soult" was the man, they had already traced him down to a date long subsequent to that of his rumoured death.

Together they ransacked the memories of Dr Brandram, the Vicar, old Hodder, and one or two other inhabitants who might be supposed to know something of the matter. Very few there were who had seen the boy at all. He had spent most of his time at school, and during his occasional holidays had usually found all the amus.e.m.e.nt he needed in the ample confines of the park.

No one had seen in black and white an announcement of his death. The Squire had told the Doctor that news of it had arrived from abroad; where and when and under what circ.u.mstances he never said. Old Hodder remembered the story of the quarrel between father and son, and identified the portrait as that of the missing lad. But, despite his boasted "threescore years and ten," the old man was absolutely useless in the present inquiry.

And so, thwarted at every turn, not knowing what to hope for, too proud to own himself beaten, Roger abandoned the search, and awaited his majority very much as a debtor awaits his bankruptcy.

Mr Armstrong, who chanced to look up at the moment when Raffles delivered the letter, concluded at once from the startled look on the lad's face that it was a missive of no common importance.

It was from Ratman, and bore on its envelope the London post-mark:--

"Dear Brother,--For the last time I claim your help. I know quite well that I am being hunted to death by you and those you employ.

Without a shred of evidence you are willing to believe me a murderer.

I suppose I have no right to complain. It would be convenient to you to have me out of the way, and the best way of getting rid of me is to get up this cry against me. A nice brotherly act, and worthy of an Ingleton! It is no use my telling you that I am innocent--that till I had been two days here I never so much as heard of Oliphant's death.

You would not believe it. Nor, I fancy, is it much use telling you that the scoundrel owed me money, that I was shielding him from the consequences of an old felony for which he might have had penal servitude, and that the little he did pay me was stolen from your property. Of course you wouldn't believe it. It is only about your brother, who has been a slung stone all his life, who never had a friend, never knew a kind look from any one, that you are ready to believe evil. I am nearly at the end of my tether here. In a day or two you will probably hear that I am arrested, and then you will have your revenge on me for daring to be your flesh and blood; and you will have no difficulty in convincing a judge and jury that I have committed any crime you and your saintly tutor choose to concoct between you. Pleasant to be rich and influential! I could escape if I had money. Fifty pounds would rid you of me almost as effectively as the gallows. But it would cost you something; therefore it is absurd to imagine it possible. When, three days hence, I make my last call at the General Post Office, and hear once more that there is nothing for me, not even a message of brotherly pity (which costs nothing), I shall know my last hope is gone. And you, in the lap of luxury, counting your thousands, and monarch of all you survey, will be able to breathe again. Either you will hear of my arrest, or, if my courage befriends me, you may read in an obscure corner of the paper of a wretch, hounded to death, who escaped his pursuers after all, and preferred to die by his own hand rather than that of his brother. Good-bye till then.

"Your brother,--

"Roger Ingleton.

"_P.S_.--The Post Office know me, or my messenger, as 'Richard Redfern.' No doubt you will show this letter to your tutor, who should have no difficulty in using the information I am obliged to give as to my whereabouts to run me down."

The flush on Roger's face had died down into pallor by the time he reached the end of this savage yet dismal letter. Till he came to the postscript he had reckoned on demanding Armstrong's advice as to its contents. Now, somehow, his hands seemed tied. Here was a man, claiming to be his brother, practically placing his life in his hands.

Whether the story were true or false, the writer had calculated astutely on the quixotic temper of his correspondent. The appeal, insultingly as it was made, was one which Roger Ingleton, minor, could not resist.

"I have had a letter from Ratman," said he when the two friends were alone together.

"I am not surprised," said the tutor. "He wants money, of course?"

"I can't show you the letter, simply because it contains a vague clue as to his whereabouts, which you would feel bound to follow up."

"I undoubtedly should," said Mr Armstrong. "Shall not you?"

"No. He gives it in confidence, in the hope I shall send him money. I don't intend to do that, but it would hardly be fair to use this letter against him."

"He is Captain Oliphant's murderer."

"He denies it, and once more calls himself my brother."

The tutor shrugged his shoulders.

"As you please. Burn the letter. It probably does not tell more than the police know already."

Roger dismally obeyed. Had he felt sure that this man was his brother, he would have, at all risk and in spite of all, tried to help him. Even so, to help him with one hand would mean to ruin him with the other. If he found him, it would be to hand him over to the police. If he procured his escape, it would be to oust him irrevocably from his inheritance.

There seemed nothing for it but to do nothing and wait.

In other quarters the policy of inaction found little favour. Mr Headland called up the same evening at Maxfield and demanded an interview with the tutor.

"Wal, young man," said he, "I calculate those two hundred-pound notes of mine didn't travel so far astray after all."

"You have traced them, then?"

"I've been three weeks doing it, but I have so."

"And with what conclusion?"