Chapter XII: Part 12

These were some of the thoughts which troubled me, but I put them past for after consideration, while I made arrangements with the organ-grinder to try a curious experiment, first binding him to absolute secrecy, even from his “friend, Tom Joson.” The lost money-bag had been made out of a piece of the green cloth which had covered M^cCarthy’s organ when he was overtaken by rain. He had made the bag himself, and said he would know it again among a thousand. I asked him if he could make one a little like it in size, to which he promptly answered that he could, and out of the same stuff. I then left him, and returned late at night, and long after it was dark. We weighted the new money-bag with a quantity of coppers which the organ-grinder had taken in the streets, and then placed it on the ledge in the chimney. I then mounted to the roof and easily found the right chimney top, as I had made M^cCarthy light a candle and place it within the fire-place. I then lowered the “fishing tackle” I had prepared for my experiment. This was a leaden sinker at the end of a string, to which was attached an arrangement of hooks, which could not have failed to catch the money-bag if I could only have brought them near it. But there was the difficulty. I fished and fought away for half an hour, but I could never get swing enough on that sinker to bring the hooks near the bag, though I knew exactly where the bag lay, which was more than the thief could have known. As the fire-place widened considerably from the chimney proper, I could not see the bag for which I was fishing, and in the end I gave up the attempt, almost convinced that the robbery had not been effected by any such means. I had gone there after dark to make my queer experiment with a view to keeping the thing as quiet as possible, and also because I thought it likely that the real attempt had been made under like conditions. While doing so I was, without knowing it, within a few feet of what would have given me the real clue to the mystery—I might almost have touched it with my hand—and yet I saw nothing, and left the roof rather more puzzled than when I ascended. Had I gone in daylight all that might have been different.

I had now done with experiments, and set myself to something practical by hunting for the absconding hawker. The finding of his whereabouts was no difficult matter. He was well known, and though out of the city, he had to pursue his calling to get a living, and so a few messages across the adjoining counties soon revealed the fact that Poulson, after an eccentric tour, was returning to Edinburgh for a fresh stock. I was surprised at the news. I had fully expected that a man with 207 stolen sovereigns in his possession would not only cease working for a while, but give the scene of his exploit a wide berth for some time to come. At length I heard that he was in the city, and went to his house to look for him. As I had expected, he was not there, and had not been near the place. There was another place known to him, as I had discovered through Tom Joson, the lame man, in which any one who had means could hide for any length of time. I had been in that den before, and went there direct.

It was a quiet place, down near the bottom of the North Back Canongate. The house was entered by an outside stair in a dark court, where there were excellent corners for concealment.

I took up my position there as soon as it was dark, and had not been long there before I saw a man enter the court, take in all the bearings of the place much as I had done myself, and then select a corner quite as good as my own. In this he ensconced himself so coolly that in sheer wonder I crossed the court and grabbed him by the shoulder. Then in the dim light I recognised a sheriff-officer well known to me.

“Hullo! are you watching for some one too?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, and a bonnie chase I’ve had,” he growled in a whisper. “It’s a hawker called Poulson——”

“Ah, indeed! and what do you want him for?”

“Oh, just an affiliation case—decree for ten pounds and expenses, and the usual aliment. I’ve been all over Fife after him, and he knows it. Fourpence a mile will never pay me for all the trouble I’ve had. I know he’s in here, but I’ll wait till he comes out. I wouldn’t go into that den for a hundred pounds. They’d jump on me and stave in my ribs, or break my leg as soon as look at me.”

“Then, if you’re sure he’s in here, let’s go in together,” I answered; “I’ll warrant they won’t jump on me, or break my leg either. I want Poulson, too; what are we to do with him when we get him, eh?—halve him?”

“Oh, you can keep him if we get him,” he returned, with a gruesome shrug of the shoulders. “He’ll be as safe with you as any one.”

We ascended the stair and knocked, and after some delay were admitted. Poulson, they said, was not there, and of course we did not see him. After locking the outer door on the inside and pocketing the key, I went over the three rooms. In the windows of two apartments adjoining each other there were fixed boxes, with lids, which appeared to be used as seats.

I lifted the lid of one. There was nothing inside, and the space revealed was only about three feet long by a foot and a half deep. I got into the next room after a little, and saw the exact counterpart of this box seat in the window of that. It also was empty, but in length was rather shorter than the other. Something about one of the ends attracted my attention, and I put my hand to it. The whole end moved a little. I touched a small nail in the centre and pulled it. The end slid easily towards me, and, looking through, I saw that the two window seats were one compartment with a movable division. In the long end—that is the end I had searched first—Poulson was lying on his side, and he looked considerably astonished when I hauled him out by the leg.

But when we got him out of the house, and he learned that he was wanted by me more than the sheriff-officer, his surprise increased. He could not understand it at all. When we got him to the Central, and the charge was made known, he broke out into the most indignant protestations of innocence. He had never heard of the robbery of the organ-grinder’s money-bag, and had not dreamt of the man possessing such a sum.

“If I had thought it,” he added, “I would have asked him to lend me enough to get over this difficulty.”

He was locked up, and every search made for the stolen sovereigns, but without success; and after a few days’ detention he was handed over to the sheriff-officer. As he pledged himself to pay all his debts, he was released under certain conditions.

This fact having been made known to me, I had him strictly watched, as I had the idea that the money would be drawn from that pile of sovereigns taken from the organ-grinder. No such call, however, was made upon that store. Poulson proceeded to “realise” upon his furniture and effects, and with that and the little money he had for buying a new stock, he managed to clear himself of the disagreeable surveillance of the sheriff-officer. He was still being watched closely by M^cSweeny, and as he soon became conscious of the fact, he became very unhappy. His recent misfortunes had somewhat broken his spirit, and he began to drink and loaf about instead of bestirring himself to retrieve his position. There was not the slightest indication that he had the organ-grinder’s sovereigns hidden anywhere; and in his straits he was dependent chiefly upon the organ-grinder and the lame man, Tom Joson. One day when he had reached his last coin and was groaning over the fact that he was the object of such attention from the police, it was proposed to him by the lame man that he should get rid of the espionage by a sudden flight.

“I’ll lend you enough to pay your passage to London,” said the generous Joson confidentially; “and to tell you a secret, I’m thinking of going there myself if I can manage to give the wife the slip.”

The offer was jumped at by the hawker, the more so as Joson told him he would give him a trifle to start with when he should reach the metropolis. One afternoon, accordingly, they met at an appointed place, and walked towards Granton together. As a touching proof of his confidence, the lame man entrusted Poulson with a bundle of his to carry. The bundle was not very large, but it was heavy. When they reached Trinity, the lame man said he could walk no further, and took a penny ride by rail for the rest of the way, the agreement being that they were to meet on board the steamer. M^cSweeny, who had got word of the movement from the organ-grinder, was already at the ticket office at Granton Pier. The lame man went on board unchecked. Half an hour later Poulson appeared, carrying the bundle given him by the lame man, and was promptly stopped by M^cSweeny. The weight of the bundle gave my chum great hope, and for once he was not disappointed. When the bundle was opened at the station-house, there was found within a bag of coarse green cloth, containing 203 sovereigns. Then the hawker confessed that he had got the bundle from the lame man to carry, but was well laughed at for his pains. By that time the London steamer had sailed, and it appeared probable that the lame man had gone with it, for he was nowhere to be found. M^cSweeny was very proud of his capture, but while he was thus engaged I had been busy in another quarter. A slater had gone up on to the roof of the house upon which I had made my fishing experiment, and found there a long iron rod, bent at the end and fitted with a sharp hook. The moment I got word of this discovery I made the circuit of the district to find the nearest blacksmith, and from him I learned that the rod had been made to order by him for “a lame man who played the whistle on the streets.” Back to the organ-grinder I went, and tried the patent rod down his chimney with perfect success. I hooked up the dummy bag at the very first attempt. At the same time I drew from the organ-grinder a confession that “in drink” he was very loquacious and communicative. I had now no doubt but he had in some such unguarded moment allowed the lame man to draw from him part of his secret, the man’s native cunning and ingenuity filling up the blanks.

I now wished very much to see Joson, and with that end in view took the night mail for London. I was in the city long before the steamer arrived, and waiting for it at the wharf when it slowly crept up the river. No tender relative could have looked out for a dear friend with more anxious solicitude than I did for the face of the cripple whistle-player, and, as luck had it, his was almost the first face I saw.

He was looking over the taffrail, and evidently viewing the lively scene with great interest, for he saw no one—not even me—till my hand was laid upon his arm with the words—

“Well, Joson, I’m glad to see you. I hope you’ve had a good passage?”

The kind inquiry was never answered. Joson appeared to collapse at the very sight of my face, and submitted to be led away without a murmur. Poulson would have had some difficulty in proving his innocence, had not the lame man made a clean breast of it, and pleaded guilty with a view to shortening his own sentence.

For a long time there was one whistler less in the streets, and the organ-grinder’s motto ever after was, “Save me from my friends!”

THE BERWICK BURR.

The first time my attention was directed to Will Smeaton, was by a telegram from a Border town which described his appearance, and stated—a little late, however—that he had escaped in the direction of Edinburgh. The message called for Smeaton’s arrest on suspicion of a very deliberate attempt at murder, the victim being a sweetheart, named Jessie Aimers. The full particulars followed the telegram, and they seemed to leave little doubt of Smeaton’s guilt. Jessie Aimers was a girl of superior education, a teacher in the town, and greatly beloved by all. She and Smeaton had been brought up at the same school, but with very different results—for he became a kind of coarse dare-devil, a brass-finisher by trade, with a strong inclination for salmon poaching; while Jessie grew up refined, modest, and gentle. What possible bond of love could exist between two such natures? is the question which naturally rises to one’s lips; yet, with that tantalising contrariety which humanity seems to revel in, the answer was only, that such love did exist, and in no common degree of strength. The question was asked and echoed by all the townsfolk, and debated and wondered over, but the only decision was that Jessie Aimers was foolish to lavish her love on such a worthless object, and very much to be pitied on that account. Simple, short-sighted townsfolk! Jessie’s love was her life, her breath, the very pulse of her heart. To give up that would have been simply to lie down in the grave.

The circumstances under which the attempt at murder was said to have been made were these:—Jessie Aimers had left her home about dusk on a fine October evening to meet her lover, who was positively forbidden her father’s house. They had met at some appointed spot, and were seen about an hour later wandering slowly up by the river side. Smeaton appeared to be in a bad temper, for he was talking loudly and hotly. Jessie was answering gently and pleadingly. It was then quite dark, but they were readily recognised by their voices. Further up the river, and but a short time after, a great scream was heard, and very soon Smeaton was seen returning along the path alone, in great haste, and so intent on his own thoughts that he passed an intimate acquaintance close enough to brush his sleeve, silent as a ghost. Smeaton had gone straight home, but stayed there only long enough to get some money and his watch, and then made his way to the railway station and took a ticket for Edinburgh.

It was the manner in which this ticket was procured which first excited suspicion. Smeaton did not go to the ticket window himself, but skulked at the other end of the station, while he sent a boy whom he had hailed for the purpose to get the ticket. The boy was known, and the ticket clerk—astonished at him taking such a long journey—refused to give the ticket till he admitted that he was acting not for himself but for Will Smeaton. The boy probably made no mention of the circumstance to Smeaton, for when the ticket clerk went over the train helping to examine the tickets, and came upon Smeaton in an obscure corner, he said to him laughingly—“Were ye feared to come for the ticket yoursel’?” whereat the passenger looked horribly scared and taken aback, so much so that he was unable to reply before the ticket clerk was gone.

While this had been taking place, some young fellows were making a queer catch on the river. They were salmon poachers, and were hurriedly making a cast of a net at a shady part of the stream after seeing the watchers safely out of sight, when suddenly one of them cried out—

“Pull in! pull in! we’ve gotten as bonnie a beast as ever was ta’en oot the water. I saw the white glisk o’ her as she tried to skirt roond ootside the net, but we’ve gotten her! The sly witch is hidin’ at the bottom, but ye’ll see her in a meenit!”

Very much more quickly and eagerly than paid salmon labourers, the others rushed the ends of the close-meshed net ashore, agreeing the while that if it was but a single fish, it was a sixty or seventy pounder at least, and in a moment or two had landed the bonnie white fish—sweet Jessie Aimers, with her light dress clinging close to her slight figure, her eyes closed as in death, and her white face gleaming up at them like a shining moon out of the gloom.

“Gude save us, it’s a wuman! drooned! deid!” the scared poachers cried in a breath, and by a common impulse they were near dropping her and the net, and taking at once to their heels.

But one more sharp-sighted than the rest, bending down, noticed first that there was a wound on the white brow, which was bleeding, and next, that the features were familiar to him.

“Dog on it, lads, if it’s no bonnie Jessie Aimers!”

Exclamations of incredulity and horror ran round the group, and it was only on one striking a match and holding the light close to the cold face that they were convinced of the truth.

They stood there, silent and sorrowful, and with watchers and their own dangers far from their thoughts, and then one threw out a wonder as to how Jessie had got into the water.

“Fell in, maybe?” suggested one.

“Or jumped in, mair likely,” said another. “The puir thing has been fretting her life away for Wull Smeaton. I aye thoucht it wad come to this. She was far owre gude for him.”

“Maybe he helped her in,” darkly suggested a third. “I’ve seen them often walking here thegither, and he’s a perfect brute when he’s in a passion. He wad ding her in as sune as look at her.”

This last suggestion found most acceptance. These men knew Smeaton thoroughly—his fiery temper, brutal strength, and impulsive ferocity—and had little doubt but his hand had sent the poor girl to her watery grave. Their only difficulty was how to act in the dilemma.

One thought that it would be safest, in order to avoid awkward questioning by those in authority, to quietly slip the body into the water again, stow away their net in its usual hiding-place, and drop work for the night; but this proposal was not well received, for Jessie was a general favourite, and was admired from a distance by the roughest in the place. While they stood thus in doubt, one of them suddenly exclaimed—

“Deid folk dinna bleed! She’s maybe living yet—let’s gie the puir thing a chance—row her on the grass—lift up her airms—dae onything that’s like to bring her roond.”

The result of this electrifying speech was that the whole gang lent a hand in the rough and ready means of restoration, and, with such good effect, that very shortly the supposed drowned girl gave signs of life, though not of consciousness. Thus encouraged, the men made a litter of their coats, and ran with her to the nearest cottage, where she was put to bed, and tended and nursed as carefully as if she had been in her own home.

Jessie’s parents were sent for and informed as gently as possible of the accident, and their first exclamation on reaching their daughter’s side was—“Oh, the villain! this is Smeaton’s wark!”

Jessie was able to recognise her father, and smile faintly when he took her hand in his own, but she was too weak to give any account of the accident or crime till next morning. By that time the flight of Smeaton had been discovered, and telegrams despatched ordering his arrest and detention; and when Jessie woke she found not only the lieutenant of police, but a magistrate at her bedside, ready to hear her statement and act upon her charge. Then they all were surprised to find that Jessie had no charge to make. She would not, by as much as a look, admit that Smeaton had thrown her into the water, or even struck her so as to cause her to fall in or receive the wound on her temple. How had the accident happened then?

“I must have fallen in,” said Jessie, after a long pause, and with tears in her eyes.

“Yes, you must have fallen in,” impatiently interposed her father, who positively hated her lover, “or you could never have been picked out, but was the falling in purely accidental? Surely, Jessie, I have trained you well enough in truthfulness to be able to rely on your answer in a matter of life and death?”

“Yes, father, dear,” meekly answered Jessie, with fresh tears. “I will always be truthful. But I cannot answer every question. I would rather die and be at rest.”

“If this wretch attempted to drown you—to take your life—do you think you are doing right to screen him from the just punishment of his crime?” sternly observed her father.

“Will would never attempt such a thing,” warmly answered the girl. “He has faults—though not so many as people imagine—but that he would never do. It is not in his nature.”

“The police are after him now, and likely to get him, and when he is tried you will be forced to speak the truth,” said her father; “you will be the principal witness, and if you do not speak the whole truth, you will be sent to prison yourself.”

“I will never say anything against him though they cut me in pieces,” said Jessie, with a deep sigh. “Why did they take me out of the river? It would have been better to let me lie than torture me with questions.”

As Jessie’s condition was still precarious, it was decided to let the matter rest for a little, and meanwhile make every effort to capture Smeaton, trusting to Jessie becoming less reticent, or other evidence turning up sufficient to secure his conviction. On the same forenoon that Jessie was thus questioned, I was going along a street near Nicolson Street, with my thoughts about as far from this case as the moon is from the sun. As yet I had only the brief telegram to guide me, and that contained but a meagre description of the man. He was said to be a native of Berwick, of medium height, and to have curly hair of a sandy hue, and a florid complexion, and to be rather muscular and firmly built. These points might suit a dozen out of every hundred one might meet in passing along the street, and the description interested me so little that the actual features had, at the moment, all but left my memory. What invisible finger is it that guides many of our sudden impulses? When I entered that street I had no intention whatever of visiting a pawnbroker’s, but when I came to one of their prominent signs I turned into the stair and ascended it, as gravely as if I had gone south for no other purpose than to visit that particular establishment. I had been there the day before looking for some trinkets which were reported stolen, and as I entered, the thought struck me that I might ask for them again as an excuse for my reappearance. I was in no hurry, however, and as I could hear that there were some customers in before me, I simply took my stand inside one of the little boxes, and nodded to the proprietor to intimate that I should wait my turn. For the benefit of those lucky mortals who have never been forced to enter such a place, I may explain that these boxes run along in front of the counter, and are chiefly useful for screening one customer from another. Once shut in, you are safe from every eye but that sharp million-power magnifier owned by the proprietor or his assistant.

As soon as I was shut in I noticed that the box next to me was occupied by a male customer, who was busy extolling the value and powers of a silver lever which he was trying to pledge. The pawnbroker was quite willing to take the watch, but, as is usual in such cases, the point on which they disagreed was the sum to be advanced on the pledge. The argument was not particularly interesting to me, and I gradually left it behind in my thoughts while I revelled in the queer brogue of the stranger. It was a rich and musical twang to my ears; and when the man came to any word with the letter R in it—such as “tr-r-r-ain”—he rolled that R out into about a thousand, with a rich swell which made one imagine he enjoyed it. I was puzzled for a moment or two to decide on the exact locality of the dialect—though I have often boasted that I can tell the dialects of Scotland and a good part of England to within thirty miles of the exact spot on hearing them spoken.

“The man is from Newcastle,” I rather hastily decided; then came a slight mental demur at the decision. There were slight points of difference and many strong points of resemblance. I listened for a little longer, and then smiled out at my own slowness and stupidity.

“I might have known that tongue at the first sentence,” was my mental exclamation. “It’s the Berwick burr.”

While this analysis was going on in my mind, the haggling over the watch was concluded by the stranger accepting a loan of thirty shillings on the pledge, and a ticket was rapidly filled up to that effect, till it came to the important question—

“What name?”

There was a pause before the answer came, and when it was spoken there was much in the careless tone which implied that too much reliance was not to be placed on the truthfulness of the reply.

“Oh, say John Smith.”

“I can’t take it at all unless you give me your real name,” said the pawnbroker, sharply. I have no doubt my presence put a little _edge_ on him. “How am I to know,” he virtuously added, “that the watch is not stolen?”

“Stolen?” echoed the stranger, warmly. “Man, there’s the name of the man I bought it frae;” and he turned out a watch-paper inserted under the back. I could not see the name, but I did make out the words “Berwick-on-Tweed.” “I’m no a thief—I’m a brassfounder to trade,” continued the man, with energy, “and I expect to lift it again in a week or two.”

“A brassfounder?” I thought, with a start. “I wonder if his name is Smeaton?”

While I was wondering the bargain was concluded, and the money paid over, and then the man left. I left my box at the same moment, and we moved out together.

“It’s a nice morning,” he said, and I returned the greeting.

When we reached the street he turned northwards, and I decided that that was my way too.

“I heard you say you are a brassfounder,” I remarked. “You’ll be looking for a job?”

No, he didn’t think he was—he meant to lie quiet for a little.

“Oh, indeed?—got into trouble, I suppose,” I returned, with interest. “Well, man,” I added, in a confidential whisper, “I know a place where your dearest friends couldn’t get at you. You’d be safer there than anywhere. Care to go?”

He wasn’t sure. He didn’t mind going, but he did not promise to stay there. He was glad of company, however, and offered to treat me to some drink. I was in a hurry, and begged to be excused.

“You belong to Berwick?” I said, decidedly.

He looked startled and troubled.

“Who said that? How do you know?” he stammered.

“I know the Berwick burr, and you’ve got it strong,” I quietly answered.

“I haven’t been in Berwick for mony a year,” he said firmly.

“I thought that—that’s what puzzled me for a while—you’ve got a touch of Coldstream or Kelso on your tongue,” I coolly remarked.

He stared at me in evident consternation, and getting a trifle pale, but made no reply. I had been studying his appearance, and from that moment felt almost certain of my man.

I conducted him by North College Street, down College Wynd, chatting familiarly all the way, but never extracting from him his real name. I took him that way to convey to him the idea that he was going to some low “howf,” in which a man in trouble might burrow safely, and was pleased to note that, as the route became more disreputable, his spirits rose. He evidently did not know the city, and that circumstance aided me. I turned up the Fishmarket Close, and into the side entrance to the Central.

“What kind o’ a place is this?” he asked, staggered at the width and spaciousness of the stair.

“It’s the place I told you of,” I carelessly answered, taking care to make him move up the stairs in front of me. I saw his step become more faltering and unsteady, and when we reached the door of the “reception room,” I knew by his ghastly pallor that the truth had flashed upon him.

“Straight in there, Smeaton,” I said, as his eye fell on me. “This is an unexpected pleasure to both of us.”

He looked at me like a trapped tiger, and I fully expected him to make a dash and dive for liberty.

“What’s your name?” he almost groaned.

“M^cGovan.”

“The devil!” he ungratefully exclaimed; and then I led him in, and accommodated him with a seat. He became fearfully agitated, and at length blurted out—

“If anything has happened to the girl, I’m not to blame for it.”

He did not once seem to think of denying his identity, and yet till that moment I was anything but certain that I had the right man. He seemed a desperate, callous, and daring fellow, and but for the canny way in which he had been led to the place, would, I feel sure, have given us a world of trouble to capture. But once fairly limed, he became but a quaking coward. I did not understand his terror till I learned that he did not know that Jessie Aimers had been rescued, and her life saved. There was a visionary gallows before the villain at the moment seen only by himself. We were smiling all round, but there wasn’t a ghost of a smile left in him. After he had emitted a very brief declaration, he was locked up; and next day a man came through and took him back to the town he had left so suddenly. Jessie Aimers still persisted in her silence, and the only charge which could justify Smeaton’s detention was one of salmon poaching. The evidence took some time to collect, and when the trial came on, Jessie Aimers was just able to drag herself out of bed and be present. Smeaton was found guilty, and fined heavily, with an alternative of imprisonment, which every one said would be his reward. But to the astonishment of all, and the disgust of Jessie’s father, the fine was paid. No one but Smeaton then knew that the money had been furnished by Jessie Aimers; and yet when the brute was set at liberty, and she waited at the Court entrance to see him and speak with him as he passed out, he was seen by many to push the loving girl violently from him with some imprecation, and walk off with a servant girl of evil reputation named Dinah King. Jessie pressed back the rising tears, and was able to draw on a faint smile before she was joined by her father. Her father had almost to carry her home, and every one looking on that pale face and drooping form declared that Jessie was not long for this world.

Some months after the trial, the house in which Dinah King served was broken into and robbed. Although the plunder was mostly of a kind not easily hidden or carried away, no trace of it was got, and the thieves were never heard of. After a decent interval Dinah discovered that the work of that house was too heavy for her, and gave notice to leave. When she did go she left the town, and Smeaton disappeared with her. Had she gone alone, perhaps no suspicion would have been roused, but his reputation was already tainted, and the result was another intimation to us to look after the pair, as it was rumoured that they had gone to Edinburgh. The very day on which this message arrived a young lady appeared at the Office asking for me, and giving her name as Miss Aimers. As she appeared weak and faint, she was allowed to wait my arrival. When I saw her face my first thought was—“How young and how sweet to have death written on her face!” Yes, death was written there—in the pale, sunken cheeks and waxy lips; in the deep lustrous eyes, and in the gasping and panting for breath which necessitated every sentence she uttered being broken in two. A word or two introduced her, and then I distinctly recalled the former case with Smeaton, and a thrill of pity ran through me as I looked on that wistful face and eager pair of eyes, and listened to her story.

“Every one is prejudiced against him but me,” she said with strange calmness. “Look at me. I am dying. I know it, and yet I am calm and fearless. I could even be happy were it not for him, and the thought of him being lost to me through all eternity. I could not exist in heaven sundered from him. It would not be heaven to me. Oh, sir! you have seen much misery and much wickedness, but you know that a woman is not always blind even when she loves with all her soul. He is not so bad; but he is easily influenced and led away. If he is taken and put in prison, through that fearful woman, will you remember that? And if I should not be allowed to see him, or if I am taken away before then, will you give him a message from me?”

I bowed, for I could not speak.

“Tell him I have never lost faith in the goodness of his heart, that I shall love him for ever, and that heaven will never be heaven to me without him beside me. Will you tell him to think of that—sometimes—when he is alone; and of the sweet, happy hours we spent together when we were but boy and girl, full of innocent glee and love, before he was contaminated and led away. Oh, if God would only grant me a little time longer on earth—a little time—just enough to see poor Will led back to the right road and safe for heaven, I could lay my head and say—‘Take me, Lord Jesus, take me home!’”

“You may be quite sure that time will be granted you for all that God needs you to do on earth,” I softly returned. “He will not take you till your work is done.”

I spoke with her for some time, going over many points in her history already partly known to me, but I found that she would not breathe one word against the man. She would not admit that in a fit of passion he had thrown her into the river, or that she owed to that immersion her present feeble condition. She would not listen with patience to one slighting expression or word of demur; her whole soul was wrapped up in him; and no tender, pure-souled mother could have yearned over her child more eagerly than she did over the man whose very name I could scarcely utter with patience. When she was gone I drew a long breath, and mentally wished that I might get my clutches on Smeaton firmly enough to treat him to a good long sentence of penal servitude. I felt as if that would relieve my mind a bit.

A day or two later I came on Dinah and her companion, and took them without trouble, but they had not an article about them which could connect them with the robbery at Dinah’s last place. After a short detention they were released, and I hoped that they would take fright and leave the city. During my short acquaintance with Dinah, it struck me that she was a great deal worse than her companion. “She is of the stuff that jail birds are made of, and a bad one at that,” was my reflection, and I remember thinking that it would certainly not be long before I heard of her again, supposing they favoured the city much longer with their presence. I saw them occasionally after that, and noted the general decay in their appearance, and guessed at their means of living, but never managed to get near them. One evening I was surprised by a visit from Dinah at the Central. She looked savage and sullen—a perfect fiend.

“You want to take Will Smeaton?” she abruptly began. “I know you do, for you’ve been after him often enough.”

“I would rather take you,” was my cold reply, and I spoke the truth.

She affected to take the remark as a joke, and laughed savagely—having the merriment all to herself. Then she revealed her message. Smeaton and another were to break into a shop in the New Town by getting through a hatch, creeping along the roof, and thence descending through an unoccupied flat, and so reaching the workrooms and shop.

“You’ve quarrelled with him, and this is your revenge, I suppose?” was my remark when she had finished, but Dinah’s reply cannot be written down.

My only regret at the moment was that I could not warn Smeaton of his danger. Dinah went back and had dinner and supper with the man she had betrayed—actually broke bread with him and smiled in his face, and appeared more loving than she had showed herself for weeks. A woman, when good, can be holier, purer, and more strong in her devotion and love than a man; but when she is bad, the depths of iniquity which she can reach have never been touched by mortal man.

I sent over a posse of men one by one to the marked establishment, and when Smeaton and his companion appeared and ascended the stair I followed, and so closed up the retreat. They were not long gone. We heard the alarm, and some shouting and struggling, and soon saw Smeaton come scrambling out at the window on the roof by which he had entered, and come flying along the slates towards the hatch. As he got close my head popped out in front of him, and he started—staggered back with an oath—lost his footing, and vanished over the edge of the roof. He was picked up on the pavement below, very much injured and quite senseless, and borne on a shutter to the Infirmary, while his captured companion was marched over to the Office and locked up. Dinah, in ferocious joy over Smeaton’s accident, got drunk and disorderly, and was taken to the cells next day. Smeaton remained for the most part unconscious during two days and nights. Towards the close of the second day, a cab drove up to the Infirmary gate, and out of it stepped a young girl, so pale and feeble that every one thought it was a patient instead of a visitor who had arrived. It was Jessie Aimers, who had risen from bed and taken that long journey the moment she heard of the accident. She was helped in to the ward, and sat there with Smeaton’s hand in her own till evening, when he opened his eyes for a moment and hazily recognised her.

“Oh, Jessie, I’ll never rise off this bed,” he feebly exclaimed; and then, as her warm tears rained down on his cheeks, and her lips were pressed to his own, he said—“Dinna! dinna dae that! I dinna deserve it. Pray for me, Jessie, lass; it’s a’ I can ask o’ ye now.”

A screen had been put up round the bed, shutting them off from the gaze of the other patients, and inside that the nurses glanced occasionally. They remained there, whispering and communing till Smeaton relapsed again. Towards morning there was a cry, loud and piercing, behind the screen, but the night nurse was out of the ward at the moment. When she appeared, one of the patients spoke of the cry, and the nurse looked in on the pair. Jessie lay across the bed with her arms clasped tight about the patient, and her face hid in his bosom. Smeaton’s face was marble-like, his eyes half open and fixed. The nurse knew that look at a glance, and called to her companion that Smeaton was dead, and that she feared the young girl had fainted. Gently they tried to disengage the clasping fingers, that they might raise her and restore her to consciousness, but the deathly coldness of the thin hand caused them both to start back and exchange a look of inquiry and alarm. They bent over her, they listened; all was still—still as the grave, still as eternity. Jessie was dead.

THE WRONG UMBRELLA.

A gentleman drove up to a Princes Street jeweller’s in a carriage or a cab—the jeweller was not sure which, but inclined to think that it was a private carriage—in broad daylight, and at the most fashionable hour. He was rather a pretty-faced young man, of the languid Lord Dundreary type, with long, soft whiskers, which he stroked fondly during the interview with the tradesman, and wore fine clothes of the newest cut with the air of one who was utterly exhausted with the trouble of displaying his own wealth and beauty. He wore patent boots fitting him like a glove, and appeared particularly vain of his neat foot and the valuable rings on his white fingers.

When this distinguished customer had been accommodated with a seat by the jeweller—whom I may name Mr Ward—he managed to produce a card-case, and then dropped a card bearing the name of Samuel Whitmore. The address at the corner at once gave the jeweller a clear idea of the identity of his customer. The Whitmores were a wealthy family, having an estate of considerable size in the West, and had, in addition to the fine house on that estate, a town residence in Edinburgh and another in England. There was a large family of them, but only one son; and that gentleman the jeweller now understood he had the pleasure of seeing before him. He was said to be a fast young man, with no great intellect, but traits of that kind are not so uncommon among the rich as to excite comment among tradesmen. The follies of some are the food of others, and the jeweller was no sooner aware of the identity of his visitor than he mentally decided that he was about to get a good order. He was not disappointed—at least in that particular.

“I want your advice and assistance, Mr Ward, as to the best sort of thing to give—ah—to a young lady—you know—as a present,” languidly began the pretty young gentleman. “It must be a real tip-top thing—artistic, pretty, and all that; and you must be willing to take it back if she shouldn’t like it—that is, in exchange for something as good or better.”

“Hadn’t we better send a variety of articles to the young lady, and let her choose for herself?” suggested Mr Ward.

“Oh, hang it, no!—that would never do,” said Mr Whitmore, with considerable energy. “She’d stick to the lot, you know; women are never satisfied;” and he gave a peculiar wink to convey the idea he wished to express. “You just be good enough to show me the things, and I’ll choose what I think best, and you can send them to the house addressed to me. I’ll take them to her myself to-morrow, and if they don’t suit, I’ll send them back by my valet, or bring them myself.”

All this was fair and quite business-like, and Mr Ward hastened to display his most tempting treasures to his customer, who, however, speedily rejected the best of them on account of their high price. At length he chose a lady’s small gold lever, ornamented with jewels on the back, and a set of gold ear-rings, with brooch and necklet to match. The price of the whole came to a trifle under £60, and the buyer expressed much satisfaction at the reasonable charges and the beauty of the articles.

“You will put them up carefully and send them home, and, if I keep them, you can send in your bill at the usual time,” said the agreeable customer; and so the pleasant transaction concluded, the jeweller showed him out, the cab was entered, and Mr Whitmore not only disappeared from the jeweller’s sight, but also, as it seemed, from every one else’s. As he left the shop, the languid gentleman had looked at his watch, and the jeweller had just time to notice that it was an expensive gold one, with a very peculiar dial of gold figures on a black ground. Some reference had also been made to diamonds during the selection of the presents, and Mr Whitmore had been obliging enough to remove one of the rings from his white fingers and place it in the hands of the jeweller, when that gentleman read inside the initials “S. W.”

These two circumstances were afterwards to add to the intricacy of the case when it came into our hands. From the moment when the pretty-faced gentleman was shown out by Mr Ward, he could not have vanished more effectually if he had driven out of the world. Half an hour after, a young apprentice lad in Mr Ward’s employ took the small parcel given him by his master out to the stately residence of the Whitmores at the West End, and, according to his statement afterwards, duly delivered the same. There was no name-plate upon the door, but there was a big brass number which corresponded with that on the card left by the pleasant customer. The messenger, who was no stupid boy, but a lad of seventeen, declared most positively that he looked for the number in that fine crescent, rang the bell, and was answered by a dignified footman. He then asked if the house was that of the Whitmores, was answered with a stately affirmative, and then departed. None of the articles thus sent home were returned, and they were therefore entered in the books as sold. A month or two later the account was made up and sent to the buyer. There was no response for many weeks, but at length the answer did come, and in a manner altogether unexpected. A gentleman, young, but by no means good-looking, drove up to the shop door one forenoon and entered the shop. Mr Ward had never seen him before, but the card which he placed before the jeweller was familiar enough to cause him to start strangely. It bore the name, “Samuel Whitmore,” with the address at the lower corner—it was, indeed, the _facsimile_ of that which had been produced by Mr Ward’s languid but agreeable customer months before.

“I wish to see Mr Ward,” said the new comer, evidently as ignorant of the jeweller’s appearance as that gentleman was of his.

“I am Mr Ward, sir,” was the reply; and then the stranger brought out some papers, from which he selected Mr Ward’s account for the articles of jewellery, which he placed before the astonished tradesman, with the words—

“I am Mr Whitmore, and this account has been sent to me by mistake. It would have been checked sooner, but it happened that I was away in Paris when it was sent, and as I was expected home they did not trouble to forward the paper.”

The jeweller stared at his visitor. He was a young man, and wore Dundreary whiskers, and had on his fingers just such rings as Mr Ward remembered seeing on the hand of his customer, but there was not the slightest resemblance of features.

“You Mr Samuel Whitmore?” he vacantly echoed, picking up the card of the gentleman, and mentally asking himself whether he was dreaming or awake.

“Mr Samuel Whitmore,” calmly answered the gentleman.

“Son of Mr Whitmore of Castleton Lee?”

“The same, sir.”

“Then you have a brother, I suppose?” stammered the jeweller. “There has been a mistake of some kind.”

“I have no brother, and never had,” quietly answered his visitor; “and I never bought an article in this shop that I know of, and certainly did not purchase the things which you have here charged against me.”

“A gentleman came here—drove up in a cab, just as you have done—and presented a card like this,” said the jeweller, beginning to feel slightly alarmed. “Surely I have not been imposed upon? and yet that is impossible, for the things were safely sent home and delivered at your house.”

The gentleman smiled, and shook his head.

“I thought it possible that my father might have ordered and received these things,” he politely observed, “but on making inquiry I learned that not only was that not the case, but no such articles ever came near the house.”

This was too much for the jeweller. He touched a bell and had the apprentice lad, Edward Price, sent for, and drew from him such a minute account of the delivery of the parcel, that it became the gentleman’s turn to be staggered and to doubt his own convictions. The lad described the house, the hall, and the clean-shaven footman so clearly and accurately that his narrative bore an unmistakable impress of truthfulness. The gentleman could, therefore, only suggest the possibility of Price having mistaken the _number_ of the house, and the things being accepted as a present by the persons who had thus received them by mistake. But even this supposition—which was afterwards proved to be fallacious—did not account for the most mysterious feature in the case—how the things had been ordered and by whom. It was clear to Mr Ward that the gentleman before him and the buyer of the presents were two distinct persons, having no facial resemblance; but the new Mr Whitmore having, in his impatience to be gone, drawn from his pocket a gold watch, with the peculiar black dial already described, a fresh shade of mystery was cast over the case.

“I have seen that watch before,” he ventured to say. “The gentleman who ordered the things wore just such a watch as that. I saw it when he was leaving. And he had on his finger a diamond ring very like that which you wear. I had it in my hand for a few moments, and it bore his initials inside.”

The gentleman, looking doubly surprised, drew from his finger the ring in question and placed it in the jeweller’s hand. The initials “S.W.” were there inside, exactly as he had seen them on the ring of the mysterious representative.

“Did you ever lend this ring to any one?” he asked in amazement.