The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 105

"Not I, my G.o.d! not I," answered a deep hoa.r.s.e voice. "It's ten years since she and I met, and I'd go to my grave sooner than we should meet again. Mind you, the day when her cold cruel eyes rest on me will be a fatal day for me. Faugh! I've pa.s.sed through as much bloodshed as it's ever given one man to encounter in his life, and never flinched; but I tell you, Sullivan, the thought of meeting her face to face seems to freeze the life-blood of my heart."

"Do you think she had a hand in this, O'Brian?"

"Who can tell? She did not pause once; what should stop her again?"

"The fear of you."

"She sees no reason to fear. She believes I'm still over _there_, where she sent me."

"And the young fellow, _my_ man, does he know anything?"

"Again how can I tell? But I should say not. How could _she_ enlighten _him_?"

"Then he is--"

"Their son."

A pause succeeded. Meanwhile Jones had engaged in a sort of dumb-show with me to throw the men opposite off the scent, by pa.s.sing papers and money backwards and forwards, and apparently making calculations with his pencil; in reality I saw he was taking notes. Presently De Vos spoke again.

"Well, let's drink to the heir, old boy; and so long as I can make him play the piper, why thin it's myself that will, and bedad to him."

His Irishisms, be it observed, were intermittent.

"Long life to the heir!" cried the two voices simultaneously; and there was a clash of gla.s.ses.

"What's the time of day by your ticker?" asked De Vos a few moments afterward.

"Just upon eleven. The lad was to be here by then, wasn't he?"

"Yes, by eleven. I'd like to know what he wants with me now."

Jones here took up his cap, b.u.t.toned his coat, quietly opened the door, and went out; I following him, of course. He threw a good-humored nod to the woman, who still stood behind the bar, and I did the same; but he never spoke until we were some yards from "Noah's ark."

"You may be thankful, sir," he then said in a low voice, "to have got out safely and unmolested. That's the worst haunt of some of the worst characters in London; and they're banded together so as to shut out every one as don't belong to them. There's been a Providence, sir, in it all," raising his cap, "depend upon it. Now we must see if we can stop this lad whom they are expecting. We'll talk the matter over afterward."

Just then a boy came up running at full speed.

"Halt!" cried Jones, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder. "What makes you so late?"

"What's the odds to you? Let me go," replied the boy, with a mixture of impudence and cunning in his face. "I'm not not bound for you."

"You're bound for 'Noah's Ark,' though."

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"Are you Mr. Sullivan?"

"Of course I am."

"Oh! then here's the letter, and you're to see if it's all right."

"All right," said Detective Jones, opening the note and glancing at its contents; "tell the gentleman I'll be there. Here's for you, young Codlings," dropping a half-crown into the boy's hand.

"Five shillings, and not a stiver less, is my fare."

"Here you are then, you small imp of iniquity;" and another coin of similar value found its way into the ragam.u.f.fin's pocket.

He cut a caper, turned head over heels, and was gone.

And now Jones tore on breathlessly till we were safe out of Blue-Anchor Lane and had reached Paradise Row, where a policeman was standing at the corner. Jones took him aside for a minute, and then rejoined me.

"We'll hail the first cab, sir, in Spa Road, and drive to your home, if you've no objection."

This we did; and as soon as we had started he took a small candle-lantern from his pocket, lit it, and then handed me the note to read which he had taken from the boy. It contained but few words; no names used, no address, no signature, and simply desired the person addressed to meet the writer the following day at the usual place and hour. What clue was there in that to the dark mystery we were bent on solving? Only this, and I put it into words:

"Great heavens! it is Lister Wilmot's handwriting!"

TO BE CONTINUED.

[ORIGINAL.]

THE MARTYR.

Serene above the world he stands, Uplift to heaven on wings of prayer: Across his breast his folded hands Recall the cross he loved to bear.

Upon his upturned brow the light Flows like the smile of G.o.d: he sees A flash of wings that daze his sight, He hears seraphic melodies.

In vain the cruel crowd may roar, In vain the cruel flames may hiss: Like seas that lash a distant sh.o.r.e, They faintly pierce his sphering bliss.

He hears them, and he does not hear-- His fleshly bonds are loosened all-- No earthly sound can claim the ear That listens for his Father's call.

It comes--and swift the spirit spurns, His quivering lips and soars away; The blind crowd roars, the blind fire burns, While G.o.d receives their fancied prey.

D. A. C.

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From The Month.

ECCE h.o.m.o. [Footnote 131]