Roger Ingleton, Minor Part 58

"Just this, that Captain E. Oliphant fell over that cliff just about the right time, sir. Yes, sir, my notes are lying snug at the English Bank at this present moment, and I know their pedigree. Number 90,356 came there from a bank in Fleet Street. The bank in Fleet Street received it from a hotel. The hotel received it from a gentleman who slept in bedroom Number 36, and that gentleman's name was Ratman.

Number 90,357 came to the bank later from Amsterdam. Amsterdam had it from an English diamond merchant, the diamond merchant had it from a stock jobber, and the stock jobber had it from a sporting club, who had it from a temporary member in December last in payment of a gambling debt, and that temporary member's name was Ratman. That's not all, sir.

My letter was posted in America, November 9. On November 17 the post- master at Yeld, an intelligent man, sir, received a letter with an American stamp, sir, addressed to Roger Ingleton, senior, at Maxfield.

A Yankee stamp was a novelty to your intelligent post-master, and he took a note of date, and sent it up here for delivery. It was delivered here November 17, and your footman remembers giving it to your colleague. Three days after, Mr Ratman visited his friend Captain E.

Oliphant here. Two days later he reached the hotel in London with a Yeld label on his trunk. A week after that he pa.s.sed note Number 90,356 to settle his bill. There, sir; the Americans are born explorers. I flatter myself there's not much more to know about my two notes."

"Quite so," said the tutor. "You have done a great deal in three weeks.

What reparation can be made you?"

"Sir, you are an honest young man. You believe in shielding the memory of a dead enemy. You are right. Continue on that tack and you'll do yourself credit. As executor of my late kinsman, I will trouble you to place this cheque for 200 to the credit of the estate, and never to say a word about the sum that was lost. Notes get lost every day; at least they do in America."

Mr Armstrong's grat.i.tude was beyond words. He had set his heart, for the sake of the children of his late colleague, and even for Roger's sake, on covering with a cloak of oblivion the crime of which chance had made him the detector. This American had it in his power to aid or thwart him, and had chosen the former course; and a great weight was lifted off the tutor's mind in consequence.

On the following day he was calling at the Yeld bank to transact some business (part of which was to pay in Mr Headland's cheque), when the manager invited him into his parlour. This functionary was a respectable, middle-aged person, who had held his appointment for five or six years, keeping pretty much to himself, and, as is the lot of bank managers, being made a great deal of by clients who chanced to be, or desired to be, under obligations to his bank.

"Mr Armstrong," said he, "you will pardon me, but there's a little matter--"

"Hullo!" thought the tutor, "has the bank stopped payment, or the Maxfield securities been robbed?"

"Well, sir?"

"It's a private matter, and I should not mention it if it were not for the talk which is going to and fro about young Mr Ingleton's lost brother. I understand there's a claimant for the t.i.tle, and not a very eligible one."

"On the contrary, most ineligible," said the tutor. "And it seems likely that he will, under present circ.u.mstances, keep far enough away from these parts?"

"Naturally. The coroner's jury have given him a pressing invitation, which he feels compelled to decline."

"Well, about this lost boy. You'll think me impertinent, but I think I can tell you something about him."

The tutor started, and looked hard at the speaker. "Yes," said the latter mildly. "As you know, I've not been here long. My predecessor, Mr Morris, was a friend of the family. I remember his once mentioning an elder son of the Squire who had been reported dead, and that was all I ever heard of the matter from him or anybody else. But only last week, in a bundle of doc.u.ments relating to Mr Morris's own affairs, which, as his executor, it was my duty to examine, I came upon a letter which, though evidently private at the time, seems as if it ought at least to be seen by you and your ward now. It proves that ten years ago the elder son was alive, and being in his handwriting, it may be important evidence if you have to deal with the claim of an impostor."

The tutor expressed considerable discomfort at this new complication, and regarded the doc.u.ment in the banker's hand as if it were an infernal machine.

"It's private, you say. Would it not be better to regard it as such?"

"I think it should be seen. If you prefer I will submit it to Mr Pottinger."

This settled the business. The tutor stretched out his hand for the letter. It was dated from on board the ship "Cyclops," off Havana, ten years ago, and, by the unsteady character of the handwriting, which rendered some words almost illegible, had evidently been written in a high sea. Mr Armstrong could scarcely help smiling at the banker's naive suggestion as to the use of the doc.u.ment as evidence of handwriting.

The note was as follows:--

"Dear Mr Morris,--I write to you in strictest confidence. My father probably has given me up for dead. I hope so. On no account must he know that I have written to you. My object is to enclose a twenty- five dollar note which I owe him. Once, before we quarrelled, he lent me five pounds. I want to pay it back without any one knowing of it, because I'm determined not to owe anything to anybody, especially to one who has told me I'm not honest. Please put it into his bank account. He probably will never notice it; anyhow, please, whatever you do, don't tell him or any one alive where it came from, or that you ever heard a word from me or of me. I trust you as a gentleman.

"Yours truly,--

"Roger Ingleton."

"Well, sir," said the banker, who had watched the reading curiously, "does it not seem an important letter?"

"I think so. It appears to be genuine, too, on the face of it. If you will allow me I should like my ward to see it. It will interest him."

The tutor was not wrong. With this strange missive in his hand all Roger's yearnings towards his lost brother returned in full force. The object of his search seemed suddenly to stand within measurable reach.

Ten years appeared nothing beside the twenty which only a few months back had divided them. If he could but postpone his majority another year! Then came the miserable doubt about Ratman. If, after all, his unlikely, discredited story should prove to have a grain of truth at the bottom of it! But he dismissed the doubt for the hope.

"Armstrong, I must go to town to find out about the 'Cyclops.' Come with me, there's a good fellow. In three weeks it will be too late."

The tutor was prepared for this decision.

"By all means," said he. "We will go to-morrow to inquire after a pa.s.senger or sailor who was on board a sailing-vessel, nationality unknown, which happened to be off Havana in a heavy sea on October 20, ten years ago."

"I know it's absurd," said Roger, "but I can't help it. I never seemed so near my brother before. I should despise myself if I sat idle here."

So it happened that, just when Maxfield was preparing in a quiet way to celebrate the coming of age of the heir; just as the gloom which had followed on Captain Oliphant's tragic death was beginning to lift a little and allow Tom and Jill decorously to think of football; just as Rosalind was beginning to make up her mind that she was not destined for ever to teach the elements of art and science to the Vicarage children; just when everything seemed to be settling down for the last scene of the drama, Roger and his tutor vanished once more on their familiar wild-goose chase.

Dr Brandram grumbled; the county gentry shook their heads; Mr Pottinger breathed again. No one thought well of the expedition; some went so far as to make a jest of it.

Roger cared nothing for what people thought. With Armstrong to back him, with Rosalind to bid him a brave G.o.d-speed, with his own stout heart to buoy him up, and with his lost brother only ten years distant, he could afford to start in good cheer, and let the world think what it liked.

But the cheer was destined to failure. They heard of one or two vessels called the "Cyclops," but respecting the crew or pa.s.sengers, of none of them was it possible to glean a word of news. The vessel in question might have been ship, schooner, or barque; she might have been English, American, Indian, or Australian; she might have foundered, or changed her name, or been broken up for lumber. Lloyds knew her not. West India merchants had never heard of her. Of all their quests, this seemed the most vague and hopeless.

Up to the last, Roger stuck doggedly to it. Even if he spent his majority in the London docks he would not turn tail. The tutor backed up loyally, did most of the work, made most of the inquiries, never grumbled or gibed or protested. When Roger looked most like giving in, it was the tutor who put fresh heart into him.

"To-morrow," said Roger on the eve of his birthday, "I will give it up.

But there is a day yet."

And sure enough, on the last day, a vague ray of light came in the shape of a telegram from the port-master at Havana, to whom, at the tutor's suggestion, a message of inquiry had been sent:--

"_Cyclops known. Writing_."

Writing! A letter would take weeks to come, and they had but a day!

They hurried to the telegraph-office and sent an urgent message begging particulars by wire whatever the cost. Late that day, indeed it was nearly midnight, the reply came:--

"_Sailed Ceylon, West Indies. Name Ingleton unknown. Ship now here_."

Roger staggered from the office a beaten man. Through the deserted City streets the clocks were booming the hour of midnight and ushering in his majority. His brother! All along he had persuaded himself this quest was to end in victory, that before now he should have met his brother face to face and given him what was his. To-day it was no longer his to give. The race was already over, and the clock had won. His brother was not there.

"Take my arm, dear old fellow," said Mr Armstrong, "and cheer up."

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

MISSING LINKS.

For three hours that night the two friends, arm-in-arm, paced the empty streets, saying little, brooding much, yet gaining courage at every step. The touch of his guardian's arm thrilled Roger now and again with a sensation of hope and relief in the midst of his dejection which almost surprised him. He had lost his brother; but was not this man as good as a brother to him? Would life be quite brotherless as long as he remained at his side?

The tutor, for his part, experienced a strange emotion too. The opening day had brought a crisis in his life as well as in that of his ward. It was a day to which he had long looked forward, partly with the dread of separation, partly with the joy of a man who has honestly done his work and is about to render up his trust. But was it all over now? No longer now was he a guardian or governor. Was he therefore to lose this gallant comrade, to whom all the brotherhood in his nature went out?

With reflections such as these it is scarcely to be wondered at that little was said during that long aimless walk.