Chapter XXXVI (1)

The gentlemen in the dining-room stood looking at one another in blank dismay for a few seconds, and then Dr Macfarlane broke the breathless silence by saying out loud, with his broad Scotch bluntness: ‘Ye’re a fool, Tom Dupuy—a very fine fool, ye are; and I’m not sorry the young Englishman knocked you down and gave you a lesson, for speaking ill against his own mother.’

‘Where has he gone?’ Dick Castello, the governor’s aide-de-camp, asked quickly, as Tom picked himself up with a sheepish, awkward, drunken look. ‘He can’t sleep here to-night now, you know, and he’ll have to sleep somewhere or other, Macfarlane, won’t he?’

‘Run after him,’ the doctor said, ‘and take him to your own house. Not one of these precious Trinidad folk’ll stir hand or foot to befriend him anyhow, now they’ve been told he’s a brown man.’

Castello took up his hat and ran as fast as he could go after Noel. He caught him up, breathless, half-way down to the gate of the estate; for Harry, though he had gone off hurriedly without hat or coat, was walking alone down the main road coolly enough now, trying to look and feel within himself as though nothing at all unusual in any way had happened. ‘Where are you going to, Noel?’ Castello asked, in a friendly voice.—‘By Jove! I’m jolly glad you knocked that fellow down, and tried to teach him a little manners, though he _is_ old Dupuy’s nephew. But of course you can’t stop there to-night. What do you mean now to do with yourself?’

‘I shall go to Hawthorn’s,’ Harry answered quietly.

‘Better not go there,’ Dick Castello urged, taking him gently by the shoulder. ‘If you do, you know, it’ll look as if you wanted to give a handle to Tom Dupuy and break openly with the whole lot of them. Tom Dupuy insulted you abominably, and you couldn’t have done anything else but knock him down, of course, my dear fellow; and he needed it jolly well, too, we all know perfectly. But don’t let it seem as if you were going to quarrel with the whole lot of us. Come home to my house now at Savannah Garden. I’ll walk straight over there with you and have a room got ready for you at once; and then I’ll go back to Orange Grove for Mrs Castello, and bring across as much of your luggage as I can in my carriage, at least as much as you’ll need for the present.’

‘Very well, Captain Castello,’ answered Noel submissively. ‘It’s very kind of you to take me in. I’ll go with you; you know best about it. But hang it all, you know, upon my word I expect the fellow may have been telling the truth after all, and I daresay I really am what these fools of Trinidad people call a brown man. Did ever you hear such absurd nonsense? Calling me a brown man! As if it ever mattered twopence to any sensible person whether a man was black, brown, white, or yellow, as long as he’s not such a confounded cad and boor as that roaring tipsy lout of a young Dupuy fellow!’

So Harry Noel went that Tuesday night to Captain Castello’s at Savannah Garden, and slept, or rather lay awake, there till Wednesday morning—the morning of the day set aside by Louis Delgado and Isaac Pourtalès for their great rising and general massacre.

As for Nora, she went up to her own boudoir as soon as the guests had gone—they didn’t stay long after this awkward occurrence—and threw herself down once more on the big sofa, and cried as if her heart would burst for very anguish and humiliation.

He had knocked down Tom Dupuy. That was a good thing as far as it went! For that at least, if for nothing else, Nora was duly grateful to him. But had she gone too far in thanking him? Would he accept it as a proof that she meant him to reopen the closed question between them? Nora hoped not, for that—that at anyrate was now finally settled. She could never, never, never marry a brown man! And yet, how much nicer and bolder he was than all the other men she saw around her! Nora liked him even for his faults. That proud, frank, passionate Noel temperament of his, which many girls would have regarded with some fear and no little misgiving, exactly suited her West Indian prejudices and her West Indian ideal. His faults were the faults of a proud aristocracy; and it was entirely as a member of a proud aristocracy herself that Nora Dupuy lived and moved and had her being. A man like Edward Hawthorn she could like and respect; but a man like Harry Noel she could admire and love—if, ah if, he were only not a brown man! What a terrible cross-arrangement of fate that the one man who seemed otherwise exactly to suit her girlish ideal, should happen to belong remotely to the one race between which and her own there existed in her mind for ever and ever an absolutely fixed and irremovable barrier!

So Nora, too, lay awake all night; and all night long she thought but of one thing and one person—the solitary man she could never, never, never conceivably marry.

And Harry, for his part, thinking to himself, on his tumbled pillow, at Savannah Garden, said to his own heart over and over and over again: ‘I shall love her for ever; I can never while I live leave off loving her. But after what occurred yesterday and last night, I mustn’t dream for worlds of asking her a third time. I know now what it was she meant when she spoke about the barrier between us. Poor girl! how very wild of her! How strange that she should think in her own soul a Dupuy of Trinidad superior in position to one of the ancient Lincolnshire Noels!’

For pride always sees everything from its own point of view alone, and never for a moment succeeds in admitting to itself the pride of others as being equally reasonable and natural with its own.

SOME PET LIZARDS.

BY CATHERINE C. HOPLEY.

Those who live near commons and turfy heaths may in the spring-time espy the lizards peeping cautiously out from among the weeds to court the sunshine after their winter’s sleep; or, on a warm day, boldly flitting across the grass, but hiding again on the slightest alarm. Much may the amateur naturalist find to interest and amuse him in these tiny lizards; to admire also, for their colours are often very beautiful, their eyes bright and watchful, their form and actions anything but ungraceful. Among these native lizards, the Slow-worm (_Anguis fragilis_) is included—the ‘deaf adder’ or ‘blindworm,’ as it is commonly but wrongly called. As a pet, _Anguis fragilis_ has many recommendations. Small, clean, unobtrusive, inoffensive, and easily fed, are more than can be said of most pets: domestic qualifications which, indeed, may be extended to its little four-legged cousins, the British lizards, often found in the same habitat, and all of which can be caught and transferred to a large glass bowl with ease and satisfaction. One of the bell-shaped glasses with a perforated knob at the top answers capitally. Reversed and furnished with moss, turf, and sand, the hole serves for drainage, because water is indispensable for the lizards, and the moss and turf should be sprinkled occasionally. A stand into which the reversed glass fits can be purchased with it, and a large china plate completes the arrangement, which, with its pretty occupants, is an ornament for any window or conservatory.

By an accident, I soon discovered that a slow-worm—my first and then only pet reptile—requires water. Knowing that it fed on slugs, I was hunting in the garden, and at length found some small ones under a flower-pot saucer, and conveyed them undisturbed to a place in the cage. The slow-worm soon discovered the addition, but instead of selecting a slug for supper, began to lick the cold, damp saucer, putting out its tongue repeatedly, as if refreshed; and forthwith the saucer was reversed and filled with the beverage, which the little reptile soon lapped eagerly, continuing to do so for some minutes. After this discovery, fresh water was supplied daily. That little creature became quickly tamed, a fact which her history will easily explain.

‘Do you want a live viper?’ a friend in the Reading Room of the British Museum asked me, one day.

‘A viper! Here?’

‘Yes, a deaf viper. It was caught in Surrey last week. We had a field-day.’

My friend was a member of a Natural History Society, as was also the gentleman who had found the so-called ‘viper.’ His hobby being geology rather than zoology, he had been breaking and turning over fragments of rock in a sort of dell, when he had discovered the harmless little creature, which he—a scholarly man, by the way—would have immediately put to death, as a dangerous viper, had not my friend—also a learned man, though not versed in snakes—reserved it for me, and with much caution transferred it to a tin box. It was subsequently consigned to a bottle, and tightly corked until I could see it. My friend now promised me he would not put the ‘deaf viper’ to death, as his lady relatives were daily entreating him to do; and a few days afterwards, he shook out of its narrow prison on to my table—not a viper, but a feeble slow-worm, the poor little thing having had no food during those eight or ten days of captivity. No wonder, then, that the half-famished reptile grew easily reconciled to an improved home with fresh grass and moss and other luxuries, and soon learned to recognise its preserver. Soon a companion was brought for it, one freshly caught and full of health and vigour. This one was not so easily reconciled to a glass house, and only by slow degrees would it allow itself to be taken up and handled.

Another year, my saurian family increased to nine, including all the three British species, and all living amicably together in one large bell-glass. I will not trouble my readers with the nine names by which the nine lizards were known in the domestic circle. Scientifically, they were _Anguis fragilis_, _Lacerta agilis_, and _Zootica vivipara_; the last so called from its giving birth to live young. _Anguis fragilis_ also produces its young alive; or, as in the case of one of my own, in a membranous case or ‘shell,’ quite entire, but easily ruptured. The specific name _agilis_ has been applied to the larger lacertine; but a more agile, swift, and flashing little creature than _Zootica vivipara_ can scarcely exist; so that the true names of these three species of lizard are not, after all, so truly descriptive. _Zootica_ is much smaller, and must have acquired its astonishing celerity protectively, the wee animal having no other safeguard than in flight. And its suppleness equals its activity. Caught and held in the closed hand so tightly that one almost feared to crush it, it would nevertheless turn itself round, or rather double itself completely back and escape the other way, where no outlet seemed possible; or between the fingers, where you least expected. It is extremely restless and timid, and less easily tamed than _lacerta_. One of my _zooticas_ had a peculiar dread of being handled, and was so ever on the alert, watching my slightest approach, and looking up sideways out of one eye, and with its head on one side in such a bird-like manner, that it acquired the name of ‘Birdie.’ Birdie seemed guided by intellect more than any of the family; and the devices she practised in order to escape me, when she anticipated my intentions to get hold of her, were truly intelligent. She vanished somewhere, but presently you caught sight of one bright eye peeping up from the depths of the moss, as if saying: ‘Ah, I know what you’re up to!’ Perhaps I did try to circumvent Birdie somewhat heartlessly, just to observe her manœuvres. She would peep at me and watch me through the glass, when I was sitting far away and had no intention of going near; but at last she learned to stay in my open hand, and I sometimes suspected there was as much play as fear in her hiding.

The lizards were also thirsty little creatures, and eagerly refreshed their tongues by lapping the wet moss, until they learned to lap out of a saucer. The male _lacerta_ is of a handsome iridescent green, pale and delicate on the throat and belly, and a rich dark colour on the back. _Lacerta_ is easily tamed. It soon learns to settle itself comfortably in a warm hand, and is quite appreciative of caresses in the form of a gentle stroking with the finger. In intelligence, both species certainly rank above _Anguis fragilis_; they more easily recognise the voice and the owner of the voice, looking up when addressed in the peculiar tone which was reserved for lizard training.

A large and handsome female _lacerta_ that lived in a smaller glass by itself, escaped one day, and fell out of the window near which it was placed. It must have sustained some internal injury, and had, no doubt, suffered from cold and terror during the two days and nights it was lost, until found on a neighbour’s balcony. I had reason to suspect she would soon deposit eggs, but she grew gradually thin and feeble, refusing food, and was evidently suffering, though showing no outward appearance of injury. It exhibited a strong desire to climb against the side of its cage, or whatever upright surface it was near, and remain in a perpendicular position; or if it could find no such leaning-place, it threw up its head and thus held it, as if to relieve itself of some pain. Then, more and more it kept its eyes closed, or opened them only to seek some object against which it could rest in that perpendicular position. As winter approached, I allowed the little sufferer to lie on a table near the fire, and covered it over for warmth; but it never remained contented on the _level_. Though its eyes were usually closed, whenever I spoke to it in the peculiar tone with which it was familiar, it invariably opened them and came towards me. If it could not reach me, it would even jump from the table to my lap in order to gain its favourite perpendicular position on my dress, where it remained quiet until removed. It grew more and more feeble, until one could scarcely detect life in it, except in the effort to open its eyes and try to approach when I spoke to it, and this to the very last.

These little lizards are easily procured; and I trust the perusal of these memoirs may induce some kind and patient individual to try them as pets, when it will be found that their sense of hearing and intelligence is in no way exaggerated.

Lizards cast their skins at uncertain intervals during the summer, being greatly influenced by temperature. One very warm season, when they were much in the sunshine, mine changed their dress on an average once in three weeks. Some of the sloughs came off entire, even to the tips of the tiny, delicate fingers, like a perfect glove. Sometimes they were shed in fragments. The head shields are not regularly renewed with the skin, which was always reversed. _Anguis fragilis_ on one occasion cast its skin entire and unreversed, a very unusual occurrence. All begin at the mouth, as snakes do; and you will see when the process is about to commence by the little creatures rubbing their mouths and their heads against whatever they are near, the loosening cuticle no doubt causing irritation. To watch the process is exceedingly interesting, especially when the lacertines free their limbs of the old garment, shaking off and dragging themselves out of it as you get off a tight sleeve.

A word about the voice of lizards, on which so much has been written. That these do utter a sound is certain; but it is very feeble; though, perhaps, in comparison with their size, not more feeble than the hiss of a snake. And only when much disturbed and annoyed do they ejaculate even this little sound, which is as if you half pronounced and whispered the letter _t_ or _th_. Sometimes it resembles _ts_, only audible when quiet prevails. Both the lizards and the slow-worms expressed their displeasure by this same little expulsion of breath, scarcely to be called a hiss. But once when a slow-worm fell from a high stand to the floor, there was a singular sort of loud chirp or chuckle, as if the breath were forced suddenly from the lungs by the fall. It was wholly unlike its regular ‘voice,’ and was so remarkable, that if it had not been ejaculated simultaneously with the ‘flop’ on the carpet that announced ‘Lizzie’s’ fall, I might have thought a young bird or a frog was in the room. The slow-worms often got out of their cage and fell to the floor, seeming to be none the worse; but only on this one occasion did I hear the breath escape so audibly.

Recommending them as pets, it is important to say that they all like a change of diet; and herein lies the chief difficulty of keeping them, except to those who have gardens or who live in the country. _Anguis fragilis_ will content itself for a long period on worms, but these must be fresh; and it enjoys a slug or a small smooth caterpillar for a change. But the lizards are more fastidious, as is perhaps natural; for in their wild state they catch such insects as are in season, and have a choice of these. In the suburbs of London, I found them glad of such varieties as could be procured from the shrubs in a garden, or by digging; and small worms, caterpillars, spiders, or insects were in turn eagerly pounced upon. ‘Birdie’ was particularly quick in detecting a rarity and in being first to seize it. Flies are liked by the lizards, but not by the slow-worms, the latter preferring less dry food. Centipedes were rejected by common consent.

The difficulty of meeting the dietetic requirements of certain pets reminds me of another pair of lizards that in turn inhabited the bell-glass. These were brought from Brazil, and introduced to me by the name of _Taraquira Smith_. An _i_ or two should perhaps terminate and dignify the latter name, to commemorate the particular Smith who bestowed it on _Taraquira_; but _Smith_ is simple and practical; and the Taraquira Smiths was the name of my two little Brazilian lizards. The smaller one measured about eight inches from the snout to the tip of his slender tail; the larger one was ten or more inches in length. They are, however, less agreeable to handle than the previous pets, their tails being armed with very finely-pointed sharp scales in whorls. The lizards seem to know how to use this long tail protectively, having acquired a habit of retrogression, and when held, of backing out of the hand, as if with the intention of pricking or inconveniencing you with these sharp spines, which are thus converted into weapons of defence. When persistently held or detained, the pricking effect caused by this backward motion is by no means agreeable. For food, they were provided with a supply of a peculiar kind of cockroach, which infested the reptile house at the Zoological Gardens of London, near which I happened to reside; but my two little foreigners persistently declined them and any other equally tempting food. Indeed, the poor little _Smiths_ were in such a feeble condition from exposure to cold during their transfer from the ship to their glass home, that the smaller one soon died. On the voyage, they had been kept in a warm temperature; and at the Reptilium they have been preserved by artificial heat. It was December when mine arrived, and though in the daytime they could be made comfortable near the fire, during the night a regular heat could not be maintained; notwithstanding, at the risk of suffocating them, warm woollen wraps were folded round and over the glass, to keep the frosty air from them.

When the smaller _Taraquira_ died, redoubled care was bestowed on the survivor, but unfortunately, we could not transfer the Brazilian climate to a London residence, and my _Taraquira Smith_ only lived long enough to display that peculiar and yet not vicious instinct of letting you know that its tail was armed throughout its entire length with those sharp prickly scales.

One more lizard-pet deserves an obituary notice.

‘I have a horned toad from Texas down at my office,’ said an Ohio editor to me, when I was visiting in that State. ‘Will you like to call in and see it, when you pass that way?’

The reader will surmise that a very short time elapsed ere I did ‘pass that way;’ and my friend the editor bade me welcome by beginning an immediate search for the ‘horned toad,’ which apparently was allowed the free run of the office. Has the reader ever been introduced into the office of a Western newspaper editor? A chaos of ‘exchanges’ is its principal characteristic. You wonder how one man in a lifetime, much less a week—this was the office of a weekly paper—could look over and ‘scissors and clip’ from that astonishing miscellany. However, the object now was to hunt up the toad, not news. Exchanges in compact piles and loose piles were moved from shelf to table and table to shelf; exchanges half-opened and unopened, exchanges already clipped and thrown under the spacious table; papers filed and papers not filed; books and magazines in vast piles to be reviewed; ink of all colours in bottles of all sizes, some full, some empty; penholders and pencils enough to kindle a fire; paper-knives, scissors, rulers, and clips anywhere but in their natural places; and as for manuscripts, advertisements, and advertising books—from the size of a bath-towel down to the daintiest card—not to mention samples and offerings presented to the influential man in order to win a good word in his paper (here is the office-boy with another armful by the mail just in), and ‘copy’ enough for six months’ use scattered about! All these things were moved, lifted, separated, swept on one side and swept back again, turned over again and again; but no toad rewarded that amiable editor’s search. ‘Toads like damp,’ I suggested, while offering my small aid in picking up a shower of literature which my friend scattered in his haste. ‘The poor thing can scarcely feel comfortable among this wealth of information and so near the stove.’

‘Well, it is an improvement on a boy’s pocket, anyhow,’ returned the erudite man. ‘I rescued it from a boy who had been carrying it about in his pocket for a whole fortnight. His uncle, just from Texas, brought it for him to play with. It _was_ here half an hour ago, for I saw it,’ continued the editor, rummaging a shelf of exchanges for the fourth time. ‘It’s half dead anyhow; for horned toads won’t eat when they’re caught. Do, pray, take a seat.—Why, there he is!’ and down on the floor, in a dusty corner behind a chair which the editor drew out for me, was a poor, pretty little saurian, with a pointed tail, and a cornet of spikes round its head, which gave it a quaint and decorated appearance.

‘It is not a toad after all!’ I ventured to explain; but belief in vernaculars is strong.

‘Maybe it’s a frog, then; there are horned frogs, too, in Texas.’

On a first glance, the reptile has somewhat the appearance of a frog or a toad (with the addition of a tail). Its body was broader for its length than is usual in lizards, and its head was short and flat, looking all the more so for the horny spines, which stood out like a frill. The poor little half-dead thing was too feeble to struggle, and too thickly coated with dust to display any other than mud colour. From its long fast, it was merely skin and skeleton, painfully concave beneath. I gladly accepted it from the editor; and on reaching home gave it a bath, letting it remain in the water, and douching it thoroughly, which seemed to invigorate it, as it tried to crawl out of the basin, and opened a pair of bright black eyes. Gradually, its markings and true colour appeared, and it turned out to be an exceedingly pretty iguanian lizard; but, as my friend the editor had with reason said, it is generally known in Texas as ‘the horned frog’ or ‘the horned toad,’ or scientifically, _Phrynosoma cornutum_.

It now already gave signs of recovery, and when placed on its back, could right itself, and even crawl, and was a quaint, pretty little creature, worth preserving. But a tremendous obstacle here arose. There were young ladies in the house, and had they known I had surreptitiously brought home a toad to ‘sting them with its poisonous horns,’ the consequences are too appalling to conjecture! Such a terrific creature of four and a half inches long, tail inclusive, to be introduced into the family circle! So Iguana and I kept our secret; and I slyly smuggled a large, empty flower-pot into my room, and lined it with fresh grass and a clump of turf from the garden, and had the pleasure of seeing the poor little stranger nestle in it with evident satisfaction. I got its mouth open and gave it water, which it swallowed readily; and by-and-by administered a few flies, one at a time, which it also swallowed; and at night it crept under the turf. Next day, it meekly swallowed more food and drink, similarly administered, and was so greatly strengthened as to try to climb up the side of the flower-pot, then standing in the sunshine. This great flower-pot and its inmate caused me continuous alarm. When any one was expected in my room, it was hidden in all manner of places; but when there was no danger of interruption, it could stand on the window-ledge, fortunately hidden from outside view by a veranda beneath. And in this way Iguana lived for many days, during which it rapidly improved. It is not surprising that such reptiles do not eat in captivity. Their habit is to pursue insects, and swiftly too, or to pounce upon one that takes its fancy; and no half-dead fly or amputated spider thrown into its cage would excite its natural instincts. But this queer little animal submitted to be fed in a ludicrous manner. Without much difficulty I got its mouth open; and after suspiciously swallowing the first mouthful, it took the second and third as passively as a baby fed with a spoon. In this way it ate four or six insects a day, varied by a few drops of water or the soft pulp of a grape.

When my visit in Ohio was terminated, Iguana was secretly packed in moss in a little flat box and put in my bag; and the huge empty flower-pot was left outside the window, to excite the wonder of the curious. The friends I next visited knew nothing of ‘horned toads’ and their ‘venomous spines,’ and all alarms were forestalled by my saying: ‘I have such a pretty little animal up-stairs—a tame lizard which was given me at B.’—‘Oh, do let us see it!’ was the encouraging reply; and when duly presented in my palm, whatever natural shrinking the ladies might have felt, was over-ruled by the ‘queer thing’s’ evident harmlessness and its undeniably pretty coat. And now it was made happy in a large birdcage with a carpet of turf and moss; and when placed in the sunshine, was—in unexaggerated language—‘wild with delight.’ My hopes were to feed and strengthen it for another week or two, by which time it might be safely consigned to a box and to hibernation. But—and it is sad to end this little history with a ‘but’—there came at the beginning of November some very warm days, and the sun had so much power, that when the cage was placed in the window, _Phrynosoma_ must have imagined itself back in Texas. Only twenty minutes elapsed, and when I looked again, it was gone! How it could have squeezed itself and its long spikes between the wires, surpasses comprehension; but gone it was!

Great was the commotion throughout the house. The square of grass plot which separated the house from the pavement, and the neighbours’ front gardens, and the flights of steps leading to the street, and all the gratings, possible and impossible, were hunted over by the united family, neighbours included. Pavement, road, and cellars were carefully searched by my good-natured cousins, after, of course, every inch of the room itself had been well examined. We felt sure that the sunshine would have enticed it outwards, and we began to think poor little Iguana must have fallen a victim to some dog or cat, when one of the family, who had been out walking, came hurrying home exclaiming: ‘Why, here’s your lizard! I found it on the pavement wa-a-y up the street, with its mouth all bleeding!’

Strange that, in a public thoroughfare, it had escaped at all. Several of its horns were broken, and its mouth was wounded internally, giving evidence of a violent struggle against the wires of the cage. It must have partly pushed its head between them, and found difficulty in extricating itself, going sideways, and then falling from the window on to some iron bars beneath. The jaw and teeth on one side were much injured; for when, after this, I attempted to feed it, it struggled violently and swallowed nothing more.

It never regained sufficient energy to attempt another escape, but always held its head sideways, as if stiff or in pain; and after four or five days, poor little _Phrynosoma cornutum_ died, and was buried.

WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. III.

I don’t know that I ever thought more closely or continually over any event in my life than I did over this queer meeting with Sam Braceby. There was too much of a coincidence about this matter; and my experience has been that coincidences do not happen unless there is something to bring them about. I could make nothing of it, however, and so set seriously to work in watching Mr Godfrey. But in this affair it seemed as though I was never to keep steadily on in any course, for on the very evening I was to begin my observations, I received a letter from Mr Thurles, asking me to call on him.

I found the merchant as harsh as before, and, in addition, a little inclined to be offensive; at anyrate, his banter on my want of success was particularly annoying to me. He did not seem able to say anything pleasantly, and his speech ended in his throwing down a number of letters and papers, and telling me that the utterer of the forged bills had been discovered; the man himself had escaped by the merest chance; but upon his lodgings being searched, there was found among his papers correspondence which proved that he was a friend of Mr Godfrey, from whom several letters, all on business matters—that is, relating to the borrowing of money—were found.

‘It was not to be expected,’ continued the merchant, ‘that these letters would state in so many words that they meant to forge bills or break into houses; but there is quite enough to show the footing they were on, and to convince us, if any more conviction were needed, that they were both in the forgery.—Look over the papers, and see if you can get a hint from them.’

I saw the name of the man to whom the letters were addressed, and knew it as that of a young fellow who had borne a doubtful reputation, although he had never been in actual ‘trouble.’ He was certainly a dangerous companion for Godfrey Harleston. I took the papers, and left Mr Thurles with the belief that the step-son was in an awkward position. Hitherto, I had by no means been a believer in his guilt; but I was obliged to own that things were now looking much blacker against him. Knowing as much as I did, I determined on a different course of action. I resolved to make some inquiries, and, if necessary, spend some money among the associates of this newly discovered accomplice, some of whom I knew pretty well.

But again I was destined to be balked in my plans—in fact, it was the continual drifting about, which seemed to be our luck just now, which made this undertaking so different from any other on which I had ever been engaged. This time the interruption came from Long-necked Sam, who had never been out of my waking thoughts for any one quarter of an hour since I had seen him in the public-house. I found that Sam was remanded on a serious charge, which, if proved, would probably secure him, in his own phrase, ‘a lifer;’ and he wished to see me at once. It was rather sharp work, as only a few days had elapsed since I saw him, and now he had been apprehended, had his first hearing, and been remanded. But I knew that the police were constantly looking after him, and that he was always doing something which required him to keep out of their way as much as possible.

He would be a very fresh detective who would slight such a summons, meaningless as it might appear, for in such a business you can never tell what is going to turn up. I went, and saw Sam, who looked serious enough. Just as a matter of form and civility, I began to say that I was sorry to see him there, and so on.

‘Never mind that, Mr Holdrey,’ said Sam; ‘you may be sure I did not send for you to cry over spilt milk. I was sure to be “shopped” some time or another, although I must own I thought I should have had a little longer run. No; it isn’t that; it’s about that business of old Thurles.—You are working with the old fellow, are you not?’

This was a staggerer! If I had ever tried to keep a business quiet, this was the one. If I had been asked to name the job which had been completely kept from oozing out, I should have named this; and yet here was a notorious thief, a man who had nothing whatever to do with Thurles & Company, speaking confidently and correctly as to my share in the affair!

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what then?’ It was of no use denying it, as it was plain that Sam _knew_.

‘The old man,’ he continued, ‘is employing you to find out who broke into his office; but not so much for that as to find out about some forged bills. Well, I know all about the burglary, and pretty near all about the bills. The breaking-in was more in my way, as you know; but I could not do that without learning a good deal about the other.—Mr Holdrey, I have been badly used; the man who is deepest in the job has treated me shabbily, and means to act worse, I can see; so I must tell some one whom I can trust, and who will be honest with me. You know what my pals are, and that I cannot ask them, though some of them would be as true as the day; so I sent for you. Besides, you spoke up for me and helped me when you could get nothing by it. I would trust you for that good turn alone; and without it I would have trusted you, knowing your character. But I say again and again, there are not many who would have acted as you did. There’s a reward out, on the quiet, for this robbery; you can get it through me.—You know my wife, don’t you?’

I had seen her once or twice, and so I told him.

‘Well, she has been badly used in this affair; so have I; but I meant the money for her—I did honestly, to take her away where she was not known, and no one could bring her convict husband up against her, after he was sent off to Portland. Now, all I ask is, will you see to her and the young one, and share the reward with them? I don’t ask you to do anything which may seem in the least wrong, but so far as you can, consistent with your character as a man, very different from me, help her—will you do it? And will you share what reward you get?’

I did not see that there could be much harm in promising this, and on my saying so, Sam was at once satisfied.

‘Then here goes,’ he said. ‘These bills were forged by a friend of young Harleston—step-son to old Thurles, you know—but I am inclined to think the young fellow never got any of the money. He does not say so himself; but I have heard a little from others.’

He went on to tell me, in detail, what I had heard from Mr Thurles; but all this, he owned, was at second-hand; his own share did not begin till later. Mr Godfrey had found him out—how, Sam had no idea—and proposed an easy job to him, which was, of course, to enter the office and spoil the safe. The young man made no secret of his wish to get the bills into his possession—all the rest of the property found, Sam might keep for himself. ‘And there was precious little worth having, I can tell you,’ said the prisoner—‘only a matter of seven or eight pounds. I fancied I should have a rare haul, and, if you will believe me, I took a big bag tied round me, on purpose to hold the money. However, I gave him the papers he wanted, honourable, and in course expected him to act likewise in regard of my share. His game was to save himself in the first case, and then to get money from Mrs Thurles to buy off the people who, he pretended to her, had got the bills, and were threatening to give them up to the police.’

‘Mrs Thurles! Why, that is the young fellow’s own mother!’ I exclaimed. ‘You surely don’t mean to say that he was going to play such a fraud on his mother?’

‘It was not very nice, was it?’ returned Sam. ‘I don’t pretend to any fine feelings; but when I heard his plan, I had half a mind to knock him down. But there was my wife and child to be thought of, so I simply let the matter go. Well, I know for a certainty he has had some money from her, and expects a good deal more directly. All he ever gave me was two pounds. Two pounds out of five, he said; when I know from Bill, the potman at the _Royal Blue_, that he asked the landlord if he could cash him a cheque for a hundred that very night. The landlord could not do it, so Bill didn’t learn much more; but he saw the cheque was in a lady’s writing. But without all that, where could he get a cheque for a hundred, except from Mrs Thurles? He’s always worrying her. Why, he was on the business that night you met me at the public-house in the mews. He had not gone on there above five minutes, when you came in.’

Recollecting on what errand it was I found myself at the public-house in question, this bit of information seemed queerer than all that had gone before. It would have been so strange if I could have seen him and Sam together.

‘He deceived me then,’ continued Sam; ‘and as I am boxed up here and can’t help myself, he will deceive me again, and do me out of my lawful rights in respect of that money. So I mean to spoil him. What I have told you is the truth. I don’t know whether you can do anything about the bills, as he neither forged them nor passed them; but that he arranged the cracking of his governor’s crib’—everybody knows the speaker meant the breaking into the step-father’s office—‘and had the best of what was got, is a fact, as you can call me as a witness upon. And I will tell you this, Mr Holdrey: I am a bad one, I own, and nearly all my ’sociates are bad uns too—they have all been in quod, and will all go there again; but none of us is worse than that young Harleston, and, in fact, very few of us are so bad.’

I was disposed to agree with him, and to think the worst of a young man who could cheat a fond mother so heartlessly. I felt that I would never believe in faces again; for if ever I saw a man who looked incapable of such conduct, young Godfrey Harleston was that person.

We had a long conversation after this, in which Sam arranged that his wife should meet me the next day; I was to write and tell her when and where—which I did directly after leaving the prison—then we were to go before a magistrate; the rest would be plain sailing.

Here, then, at last, I should be able to satisfy my employer; he would be proved to be right, and the business he had given me would be brought to a successful conclusion. I should make a handsome profit, and, as is always the case in such things, get credit for an immense amount of ability I had never shown. Yet I never felt so dissatisfied with anything in my life, and though all was now as clear as crystal, there was something in it which, like a wrong figure in a sum, would not fit.

I don’t know what induced me to do it, but before going home, I went round by Thurles & Company’s office, where I waited to see Mr Picknell come out. I thought as he came towards me, alone and thoughtful, under the shade of a big black wall which was there, I had never seen a more disagreeable-looking fellow. I was in his way, so that he almost ran against me. What a start he gave, to be sure! As I could see by the light of a lamp, he staggered and turned ghastly pale for an instant; but he rallied quickly, and exclaimed, with something like a laugh: ‘Ah!—David!’—he paused a moment before he uttered the name—‘is that you? I declare you almost startled me.’

‘Yes,’ I said; ‘you looked as if you had seen a ghost.’

‘Ghost! It would take a good many ghosts to startle me,’ he began; then at once changing his tone, continued; ‘Well, have you found a fresh job, David? It is just now a bad time to be out of work.’

I made some answer, and could not help keeping my eyes closely on him. He noticed this; I was sure enough of that, although he said nothing about it.

‘Look in next week, David,’ he went on. ‘I will ask among my friends, and perhaps I may have something for you. Do not forget; this day week. Good-night.’

In a friendly manner, he went away, nodding and smiling, as much as to say he would bear me in mind; and I felt as strongly as I had ever felt anything in my life that he knew I was no messenger—that he knew I was a detective. From the first moment I had spoken to him, I had never felt confident as to his motives for being so friendly, and now I was as certain of them as if he had told me plainly. Well, after all, that need not interfere with my making use of various hints he had given me, especially as they fitted in with what I now found to be the real state of the case. But I did not like him.

The end of my engagement was now, I considered, fairly in sight. In the morning, I should go with Sam’s wife to the Mansion House; young Godfrey would be arrested; I should get my two hundred and fifty of the reward; Sam’s wife would have the same; and there would be an end of it all. This was a great deal of money for me to clear; but I could not feel pleased over it. I don’t mean to say that I had any idea of giving up the job, now I had gone so far with it, or of refusing the reward; I was too old a bird for that; yet I could not wake up, as we may say, in the matter.

I was so absorbed in thinking of the change in my life I would make, and thinking, too, of the pleasure it would give Winny as well as myself, that I hardly noticed anybody or anything as I went along, and was so deep in thought, indeed, that I almost ran against two persons, as I turned into a quiet street which was a short cut towards my home. These persons were as interested in their conversation as I was in my reverie, for they seemed as startled as I felt myself to be. I began an apology with a smile; but the words and the smile at once died on my lips; and so with them. The girl was my Winny! my daughter, who had turned ghostly white when she recognised me; but it was her companion who had, I may say, petrified me. Little as I thought to see my Winny in company with a stranger, you may guess what I felt when I saw that stranger was—of all men in the world—Godfrey Harleston!

For the moment I could not believe my eyes; yet, as if by some magical vision, I recalled the night when I thought I had seen Winny in the crescent. I now knew I _had_ seen her; and I recognised her companion as clearly as though I had seen him a hundred times over. Brief as was the glance I had had on that night of him, I knew him as being the same man to an absolute certainty.

Winny was the first to recover herself, although, by her colour coming and going as it did, I could see how unnerved she was. Turning to her companion, she said: ‘This is my father, Godfrey.—It is very strange we should have met him at this moment, is it not?—Father, this is’——

‘Silence, Winny!’ I exclaimed. My voice had somehow turned so hoarse and harsh that it was not like my voice at all. ‘I want no introduction here. You will come home with me, and I shall then be glad to hear an explanation of what’—— I could not very well finish the sentence.

Winny turned pale; she had never been spoken to by me in such a manner in all her life.

‘I trust, Mr Holdrey,’ said the young man—and his tone was very pleasant—‘you are not in any way displeased with—with your daughter; indeed, we were just agreeing to wait on you to-morrow morning’——

‘Do not come, then!’ I interrupted. I could not help glancing at Winny, who looked as much astonished as frightened at hearing me speak like this, for I am not a rude man in general.

‘I am sorry to hear you say so,’ continued Mr Harleston. ‘It is my fault, not Winny’s, that we have not called on you long before. I have only waited to see some serious business settled which has troubled me a great deal. Yet now I think I was wrong. Let me walk home with you now.’

‘No!’ I said sternly—‘no, sir! I shall take my daughter home; and as I wish to have no further argument in the street, I shall bid you good-night.’

The tears, which had been standing in Winny’s eyes, had now overflowed, and were trickling down her cheeks. My heart ached as I saw this; but I grew angry, too, at seeing her, instead of at once joining me, turn her pale face to him with an inquiring look, as though asking permission—asking permission of _him_ to obey her father!

‘Yes, Winny dear,’ he said gently, ‘you had better go. Your father does not understand all, and is naturally hurt; but I will see him to-morrow. Keep up a good heart, dearest!’ And with that he bent his head and kissed her, she lifting her face without the least shyness or shame.

I took her arm, and without another word, led her away. I hailed an omnibus, and we got in. I did this on purpose that there might be no opportunity for argument or pleading until we reached home. When we did so, I quickly lit the gas, drew down the blinds, and so forth; while Winny, having taken off her bonnet and pelisse, stood as pale and motionless as a statue, leaning on the table in the middle of the room.

I never felt a greater difficulty in speaking than I did then; not only was my voice hoarse, but my throat seemed blocked; however, it had to be done. ‘Winifred,’ I said, ‘I could not have believed it possible that you would have had an acquaintance unknown to me—and such an acquaintance! A man who’—— I could not help hesitating here—what I had to say was so dreadfully unpleasant.

‘Father!’ cried Winny—her voice was low but distinct; it was firmer than mine—‘Mr Godfrey Harleston is at least a friend of whom I need not be ashamed. I am not ashamed of him!’

‘Poor silly girl!’ I exclaimed; ‘you will be only too soon’——

‘Never!’ she interrupted, in the same low firm tone.

‘You little know what is before you,’ I continued; ‘and I only wish I had been aware of this intimacy earlier, to have saved you, perhaps, from some suffering. That young man is a suspected forger, and certainly an accomplice of burglars!—Hear me out, Winny! It will be best. I have been on his track for weeks, and at last all is brought home. I fear it will shock you to learn it, but he is a lost man; and in the morning I am under an engagement to apply at the Mansion House for a warrant for his arrest! There is no hope or chance for him; he will sleep in prison to-morrow night!’

I saw that Winny repressed a shriek by a great effort. For a moment a spasm convulsed her features, which quite frightened me, and then, in a strange gasping voice, which had nothing in it like my Winifred’s gentle tones, she cried, again clasping her hands tightly upon her breast: ‘He a criminal! He to be thrown in prison by you—by _you_, father! Never! You know not what you are saying. Father, you are talking of my husband!’

A TALE OF NASEBY FIELD.

About four miles from Market-Harborough lies a little village, which we will call Bullenham. It is one of the most peaceful spots in all the peaceful Midlands. The houses are scattered here and there, divided from each other by orchards and farm-closes; one or two quiet shops supply the modest wants of the people; and several large farms provide the rude fathers of the village with labour. The old church, square-towered and gray, stands amidst the cottages. The curfew bell is still rung every night, and many another quaint custom survives the displacement of old-world life made all over England by modern manufactures and railways. The only disturbance to which the village is now liable is the invasion of its wide street and spacious green by foxhounds and scarlet-coated hunters, who, during the season, often meet there. But two centuries ago the village was invaded by the Cavalier army on its way from Harborough to Naseby, there to meet defeat at the hands of Fairfax and Cromwell and their undaunted Roundheads. The military events of that time, and the momentous national changes they effected, are familiar to every one; and as they form no part of our story, we shall not dwell on them; for on the edge of the splendid blazonry of history there are often homely incidents which the historian and philosopher reject, and it is such an event, full of domestic and human interest, that we propose to narrate.