The Finger of Fate Part 27

"In course I do. Oh, you needn't be afeerd of its bein' honestly come by, if that's what you're drivin' at. I know all about its pedigree, for I know the painter as painted it; he's a regular artist, he is."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"He's a young un; they're both young uns, for there be two on 'em. One appear to be a furrener--a Italyin, I think. The other ain't so old-- he's English, I should say. Don't know which paints the pictures.

Maybe both takes a hand at it, for both brings 'em to sell. I had some more o' them, but they're sold. I dare say the old un's the one as is the artist."

"Do you know his name?" asked the General, with an eagerness that caused the woman to look suspiciously at him, and hesitate about making reply.

"I am interested," he continued, "in whoever painted this picture. I admire it, and will buy it from you. I'll take more from the same hand, if you can furnish me with the name and address."

"Oh, that's it. Well, then, the black complected chap--that is the old un--his name is a furren' one, an' I've heard it, but don't recollect it. The other's name I never heard, an' as for him, I 'spect he's gone away. I ha'n't seen him here lately--not for months."

"Do you know the address of either--where do they live?"

"In course I do. I've gone there to fetch away some pictures. It's close by here--just the other side of the Fields. I can give it you on one of my bill-heads."

"Do so," said the General. "Here is the thirty shillings for the picture. You can send it round to Messrs. Lawson and Son, Number --, Lincoln's Inn Fields."

The woman took the money, praising the picture throughout the transaction, by characterising it as "dirt cheap," and worth twice as much as she asked for it. Then scratching out with an indifferent pen upon a soiled sc.r.a.p of paper the promised address, she handed it to her purchaser, who, folding it between his fingers, hurried off out of the pa.s.sage, dragging Mr Lawson along with him. Instead of going on towards Downing Street, he turned sharply round, and re-traversed the court in the opposite direction.

"Where now, General?" inquired the solicitor.

"To see the painter," was the reply. "He may throw some light on this strange, this mysterious affair. It still appears to me like a dream.

Perhaps he can interpret it."

He could have done so, had he been found. But he was not. The address, as given by the woman, was correct enough. The General and his companion easily found the place--a mean-looking lodging-house in one of the back streets of High Holborn. Three days before they would have found the artist in it--whose description answered to that given by the picture-dealer, and was recognised by the keeper of the lodging-house.

Three days before he had gone off in a great hurry--altogether out of London, as his former landlady supposed. She came to this conclusion, from the fact that he had sold off all his pictures and things to a Jew dealer at a great sacrifice. She did not know his name, or where he had gone to. He had settled his account, and that was all she seemed to care about.

Had she ever had another lodger, and a.s.sociate of the one she spoke of?

Yes, there had been another--also a painter--a younger one. He was English; but she did not know his name either, as the foreigner paid the bill for both. The young one had gone off long ago--several months--and the foreigner had since kept the apartments himself. This was all the woman could tell, beyond giving a description of the younger artist.

"My son Henry!" said General Harding, as he stepped forth into the street. "He has been living in these wretched rooms, when I thought he was running riot on that thousand pounds! I fear, Mr Lawson, I have been outrageously wronging him."

"It is not too late to make reparation, General."

"I hope not--I hope not. Let us hasten on to Downing Street."

The Foreign Office was reached; the Foreign Secretary seen; and the usual promises given to interfere with all despatch in an affair of such evident urgency.

Nothing more could be done for the time; and General Harding set out for his country seat, to prepare for any eventuality that might arise. He was now ready to send the ransom, if he only knew where to send it; and in hopes that a Roman letter might have arrived during his absence, he had hurried home directly after his visit to Downing Street. In this hope he was not disappointed. On reaching Beechwood he found several letters upon his table that had been for several days there awaiting him. There were two that bore the Roman postmark, though of different dates. One he recognised in the handwriting of his son Henry. He opened and read it.

"Thank heaven!" he exclaimed, as he came to its close. "Thank heaven, he is safe and well."

The second foreign letter was conspicuous, both in size and shape. It carried a multiplicity of stamps, required by its greater weight. The General trembled as he took hold of it. Its "feel" told that it contained an enclosure. His hands felt feeble as he tore open the envelope. There was still another wrapper with something substantial inside--something in the shape of a packet. The covering was at length stripped off, and revealed to the sight an object of ashen colour, somewhat cylindrically shaped, and nearly two inches in length. It was a finger cut off at the second joint, and showing an old scar that, ran longitudinally to the end of the nail.

A cry escaped from the lips of the horrified father, as in the ghastly enclosure he recognised the _finger of his son_!

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

A TERRIBLE THREAT.

It would be impossible to depict the expression on General Harding's face, or the horror that thrilled through his heart, as he stood holding his son's finger in his hand. His eyes looked as if about to start from their sockets, while his frame shook as though he had become suddenly palsied. Not for long did he keep hold of the ghastly fragment; and as he attempted to lay it on the table, it dropped out of his now nerveless grasp.

It was some time before he could command sufficient calmness to peruse the epistle that had accompanied the painful present. He at length took it up, and spreading it before him, read:--

"Signore,--

"Enclosed you will find the finger of your son. You will easily recognise it by the scar. If, however, you still continue to doubt, and refuse to send the ransom by next post, the whole hand shall be remitted to you, and you can see whether the finger fits. You shall have ten days allowed for your answer. If, at the end of that time, it does not reach Rome, and 30,000 scudi along with it, the next post after will take the hand to you. If that fails to open your _borsa_ we shall conclude you have no heart, and that you decline to negotiate for your son's life. Do not, therefore, charge cruelty upon us, who, by unjust laws, have been forced to war with mankind. Tracked like wild beasts, we are compelled to adopt extreme means for obtaining a livelihood. In fine, and to close the correspondence, should the negotiation thus fall through, unsatisfactorily, we promise that your son's body shall have Christian burial. As a reminder of your inhumanity, the head shall be cut off, and sent you by the next steamer that touches at Civita Vecchia. We have paid the post on the finger; we shall do the same with the hand; but we shall expect you to pay carriage on the head.

"And now, Signor General, in respect to the advice already given you.

Don't mistake what is herein written for an idle menace--it has no such meaning. Continue incredulous, and the threat will be carried out to the letter, as stated. Refuse the ransom, and, as sure as you are living, your son will be put to death.

"Il Capo (for himself and _compagnos_).

"_Postscriptum_.--If you send the money by post, direct to Signor Jacopi, Number 9, Strada Volturno. If by messenger, he can find our agent at the same place. Beware of treason: it cannot avail you."

Such was the singular communication that had come into General Harding's hands.

"My G.o.d! my G.o.d!" was his exclamation as he finished reading it--the same he had uttered before commencing.

He had no doubt about the truth of its contents. Lying on the table before his face was the fearful voucher--still apparently fresh--the gore scarce congealed upon it, as it came out of the wrapper in which it had been carefully enfolded.

With a trembling hand the General touched the table bell.

"My son Nigel!" he said to the footman who answered; "send him to me instantly."

The servant went off wondering.

"My G.o.d!" once more e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the sorrowing father, "this is terrible-- horrible--who would have believed it? _Who would_ have believed it? It is true--true beyond a doubt. My G.o.d!"

And bending down over the table, with eyes that showed the agony of his spirit, he once more scrutinised the ghastly object, as if afraid to take it up or touch it. Nigel came in.

"You sent for me, father?"

"I did. Look here--look at that!"

"That--what is it? An odd-looking object. What is it, papa?"

"Ah! _you_ should know, Nigel."

"What--why it looks like part of a finger! _Is_ it that?"

"Alas, yes!"

"But whose? How did it come here?"

"Whose, Nigel!--whose!" said the General, his voice vibrating with emotion. "You should remember it. You have reason."