Chapter XIII: Part 13

“Never; and, what is more, it is never off my finger but when I am asleep,” was the decided reply; and then he listened patiently while Mr Ward related the whole of the circumstances attending the selection of the articles. No light was thrown on the matter by the narrative; but the gentleman, who before had been somewhat angry and impatient, now sobered down, and showed sufficient interest to advise Mr Ward to put the case in our hands, promising him every assistance in his power to get at the culprit. This advice was acted upon, and the next day I was collecting the facts I have recorded. I had no idea of the lad Price being involved in the affair, but I nevertheless thought proper to make sure of every step by taking him out to the Crescent and getting him to show me the house at which he delivered the parcel. He conducted me without a moment’s hesitation to the right house. I rang the bell, and when the door was opened by a clean-shaven footman, Price rapidly identified the various features of the hall. He failed, however, to identify the footman as the person who had taken the parcel from him. I was not disappointed, but rather pleased at that circumstance. I had begun to believe that the footman, like the purchaser, was a “double.” Being now on the spot, I asked to see Mr Samuel Whitmore, and, being shown up, I began to question that gentleman as to his whereabouts on the day of the purchase. That was not easily settled. Mr Whitmore’s time was his own, and one day was so very like another with him that he frankly told me that to answer that question was quite beyond his power.

By referring to Mr Ward’s account, however, we got the exact day and month of the purchase, and the naming of the month quickened the gentleman’s memory. That day had been one of many days spent in the same manner, for he had been two weeks confined to bed by illness. He could not give me the exact date, but I guessed rightly that his medical man would have a better idea, and, getting that gentleman’s address, I soon found beyond doubt that Mr Samuel Whitmore had on the day of the purchase been confined to his own room, and so ill that his life was in actual danger.

“Some of his friends may have personated him for a lark,” was my next thought, but a few inquiries soon dispelled that idea. None of Mr Whitmore’s friends had looked near him during his illness, and to complete the impersonation, it was necessary that they should have had his ring and watch, which he declared had never been out of his possession.

The discovery of these facts narrowed down the inquiry considerably. They all seemed to focus towards that invisible and mysterious footman who had taken in the parcel.

There is a great deal in a name. The lad Price had used the word “footman” in describing the servant, probably because he had a vague idea that any one was a footman who wore livery and opened a door. It had never struck him to ask if there was any other man-servant in the house, and it might not have struck me either if I had not seen another—a valet—busy brushing his young master’s clothes in a bedroom close to the apartment in which we conversed.

“Who is that brushing the clothes?” I asked of Mr Whitmore. “The coachman?”

“Oh, no; the coachman does not live in the house while we are in town; that’s my valet.”

“And what does he do?”

“Attends me—gets my clothes, helps me to dress—looks after everything, and serves me generally.”

“Does he ever answer the door bell?”

“Really, I could not say,” was the answer, somewhat wearily given, “but you may ask him.”

The gentleman, I could see, had a sovereign contempt for both me and my calling, and was impatient to see me gone; but that, of course, did not disturb me in the least.

I had the valet called in, and in reply to my question he gave me to understand very clearly that answering the door bell “was not his work,” but lay entirely between the footman and tablemaid.

“Supposing they were both out of the way, and you were near the door when the bell rang, would you not answer it by opening the door?”

“No, certainly not.”

He appeared to think me very simple to ask such a question.

“Then who would open the door?”

“I don’t know; somebody else—it wouldn’t be me; but they wouldn’t be both out of the way at once without leaving some one to attend the door.”

“Just so; and that one might be you. Now don’t interrupt, and try to carry your mind back five months, and to the 21st day of that month, while your master here lay ill, and tell me if you did not answer the door bell and take in a small parcel addressed to your master?”

“I wasn’t here five months ago, sir,” was the quick response; “I was serving in the north then.”

“Indeed!” and I turned to his master in some surprise; “have you discharged your valet within that time?”

“Oh, yes,” he lazily drawled; “I had Atkinson before him.”

“At the time you were ill?”

“Possibly so. I really don’t remember.”

“You did not tell me of this before.”

“No? Well, it doesn’t matter much, I suppose?”

I found it difficult to keep my temper. I had the lad Price brought up from the hall, and he said most decidedly that the valet before us was not the man who had taken in the parcel.

“Why did Atkinson leave you?” I resumed, to the master.

“He did not leave exactly. I was tired of him. He put on so many airs that some thought that he was the master and I the man—fact, I assure you. He was too fast, and conceited, and vain; and I thought—though I’d be the last to say it—he wasn’t quite what you call honest, you know.”

“Good-looking fellow?”

“Oh, passable as to that,” was the somewhat grudging reply. Mr Whitmore himself was very ugly.

“Did he ever put on your clothes—that is, wear them when you were not using them yourself?”

“Oh, yes; the beggar had impudence enough for anything.”

“And your jewellery, and watch, too, I suppose?”

“Well, I don’t know as to that—perhaps he did. I could believe him capable of anything that was impudent—coolest rascal I ever met. I tell you, Mr—Mr—Mr M^cFadden—I beg your pardon, M^cGadden—ah, I’m not good at remembering names—I tell you, I’ve an idea; just struck me, and you’re as welcome to it as if it were your own. P’r’aps that rascal Atkinson has ordered those things, and got them when they were sent home. Rather smart of me to think of that, eh?”

“Very smart,” I answered, with great emphasis, while his valet grinned behind a coat. “The affinity of great minds is shown in the fact that the same idea struck me. Can you help me to Atkinson’s present address?”

He could. Although he had been wearied and disgusted with the fellow himself, he had not only given Atkinson a written character of a high order, but personally recommended him to one of his acquaintances with whom, he presumed, the man was still serving. I took down the address and left for Moray Place, taking the lad Price with me. When we came to the house a most distinguished-looking individual opened the door—much haughtier and more dignified than a Lord of State—and while he was answering my inquiries, the lad Price gave me a suggestive nudge. When I quickly turned in reply and bent my ear, he whispered—

“That’s like the man that took the parcel from me at Whitmore’s.”

“Like him? Can you swear it is him?”

The lad took another steady look at the haughty flunkey, and finally shook his head and said, “No, I cannot swear to him, but it is like him.”

The haughty individual was John Atkinson, formerly valet to Mr Whitmore. A few questions, a second look at the lad Price, and one naming of Mr Ward the jeweller, disturbed his highness greatly, but failed to draw from him anything but the most indignant protestations of innocence.

I decided to risk the matter and take him with me. He insisted upon me first searching his room and turning over all his possessions, to show that none of the articles were in his keeping. I felt certain of his guilt. There was in his manner an absence of that flurry and excitement with which the innocent always greet an accusation of the kind; but his cool request as to searching made me a little doubtful of bringing the charge home to him. It convinced me, at least, that the articles themselves were far beyond our reach. From this I reasoned that they had not been procured for the ordinary purposes of robbery—that is, to be sold or turned into money. The buyer had said that they were intended as a present for a lady: could it be possible that he had told the truth?

I began to have a deep interest in Atkinson’s love affairs and a strong desire to learn who was the favoured lady. On our way to the Office I called in at Mr Ward’s, but the jeweller failed to identify Atkinson as the buyer of the articles. He was like him, he said, but the other had Dundreary whiskers, and this man was clean shaven. Afterwards, when I had clapped a pair of artificial whiskers upon Atkinson, the jeweller was inclined to alter his opinion and say positively that it was the man, but, on the whole, the case was so weak that it never went to trial.

Atkinson was released, and returned to his place “without a stain upon his character,” and so justice appeared to be defeated. The first act of the drama had ended with villainy triumphant.

Let me now bring on “the wrong umbrella.” A great party was given, some months after, in a house in the New Town, and, as usual at such gatherings, there was some confusion and accidental misappropriation at the close. All that happened was easily explained and adjusted, but the case of the umbrella. Most of the guests had come in cabs, but one or two living near had come on foot, bringing umbrellas with them. The number of these could have been counted on the fingers of one hand, yet, when the party was over, the lady of the house discovered that a fine gold-mounted ivory-handled umbrella of hers had been taken, and a wretched alpaca left in its place. The missing umbrella was a present, and therefore highly prized; it was also almost fresh from the maker. It was rather suggestive, too, that the wretched thing left in its place was a gentleman’s umbrella—a big, clumsy thing, which could not have been mistaken for the other by a blind man. It seemed therefore more like a theft than a mistake, and after fruitless inquiries all round, the lady sent word to us, and a full description of the stolen umbrella was entered in the books.

The theory formed by the owner was that the umbrella had been stolen by some thief who had gained admittance during the confusion, and that the umbrella left in its place had simply been forgotten by some of the guests, and had no connection with the removal of her own. Reasoning upon this ground, I first tried the pawnbrokers, without success, and then, remembering that the missing article had been heavily mounted with gold, I thought of trying some of the jewellers to see if they had bought the mounting as old gold. I had no success on that trial either, but, to my astonishment and delight, M^cSweeny, whom I had sent out to hunt on the same lines in the afternoon, brought in the umbrella, safe and sound, as it had been taken from the owner’s house. The surprising thing was that the umbrella had been got in a jeweller’s shop, at which it had been left by a gentleman to get the initials E. H. engraved on the gold top. It was a mere chance remark which led to its discovery, for when M^cSweeny called the umbrella was away at an engraver’s, and had to be sent for.

I went over to the New Town very quickly and showed the umbrella to the lady, who identified it—with the exception of the initials—and showed marks and points about the ivory handle which proved it hers beyond doubt. I kept the umbrella, and went to the jeweller who had undertaken the engraving of the initials. He described the gentleman who had left the umbrella, and, turning up his books, gave me the name and address, which I soon found to be fictitious. He stated, however, that the umbrella was to be called for on the following day, and I arranged to be there at least an hour before the stated time to receive him. When I had been there a couple of hours or so—seated in the back shop reading the papers—a single stroke at a bell near me, connected with the front shop, told me that my man had come. I advanced and looked through a little pane of glass, carefully concealed from the front, and took a good look at him. What was my astonishment to find that the “gentleman” was no other than my old acquaintance, John Atkinson, the valet!

According to the arrangement I had made with the jeweller—in anticipation of finding the thief to be a man in a good position in society—the umbrella was handed over to the caller, the engraving paid for, and the man allowed to leave the shop.

I never followed any one with greater alacrity or a stronger determination not to let him slip. I fully expected him to go to his place in Moray Place, and intended to just let him get comfortably settled there, and then go in and arrest him before his master, who had been very wrathful at the last “insult to his trusted servant.”

But John did not turn his face in that direction at all. He moved away out to a quiet street at the South Side, where he stopped before a main door flat bearing the name “Miss Huntley” on a brass plate. A smart servant girl opened the door, and John was admitted by her with much deference. When he had been in the house a short time, I rang the bell and asked for him.

“He is with Miss Huntley,” said the girl, with some embarrassment, evidently wishing me to take the hint and leave.

“Indeed! and she is his sweetheart, I suppose?”

The girl laughed merrily, and said she supposed so.

I only understood that laugh when I saw Miss Huntley—a toothless old woman, old enough to be my mother, or John’s grandmother. From the girl I learned that her mistress was possessed of considerable property, and that John and she were soon to be made one.

I doubted that, but did not say so. I had no qualms whatever, and sharply demanded to be shown in. John became ghastly pale the moment he sighted my face. Miss Huntley had the stolen umbrella in her hands, and was admiringly examining her initials on the gold top.

“Is that your umbrella, ma’am?” I asked, in a tone which made her blink at me over her spectacles.

“Yes, I’ve just got it in a present from Mr Atkinson,” she answered.

“Oh, indeed! And did he give you any other presents?” I sternly pursued, as John sank feebly into a chair.

She refused to answer until I should say who I was and what was my business there; but when I did explain matters, the poor old skeleton was quite beyond answering me. She was horrified at the discovery that John was a thief, but more so, I am convinced, to find that he was not a gentleman at all, but only a flunkey. In the confusion of her fainting and hysterics, I had the opportunity of examining the gold watch, which was taken from her pocket by the servant, and found inside the back of the case a watch-paper bearing Mr Ward’s name and address, and also the written date of the sale, which corresponded exactly with that already in my possession. The brooch and other articles were readily given up by Miss Huntley, as soon as she was restored to her senses. Had she been fit for removal, we should have taken her too, but the shock had been too much for her, and her medical man positively forbade the arrest.

John made a clean breast of the swindle and impersonation, and went to prison for a year, while the poor old woman he had made love to went to a grave which could scarcely be called early. I met John some years after in a seedy and broken-down condition, and looking the very opposite of the haughty aristocrat he had seemed when first we met. I scarcely recognised him, but when I did, I said significantly—

“Ah, it’s you? I’m afraid, John, you took the _wrong_ umbrella that time!”

“I did,” he impressively returned, with a rueful shake of the head; and I saw him no more.

A WHITE SAVAGE.

The woman had a queer and almost crazed look; was miserably clad, with no bonnet on her head, and her hair covered with the “fluff” which flies about factories and covers the workers. I am not sure if she had any covering on her feet; if she had, it must have been some soft material which gave out no more noise than her bare soles would have done.

Added to this, she smelled strongly of whisky, though she was not in any way intoxicated. She had come into the Office at the breakfast hour, and patiently waited till I appeared, without enlightening any one as to her business. “No one but Mr M^cGovan was of any use to her,” she said; and when I appeared and heard her begin her strange story I soon thought that I should be of no use to her either. Her statements were so wild and improbable, and her delivery so incoherent, that I speedily decided that if I was not conversing with a mad woman I was at least beside one suffering from _delirium tremens_. Her age seemed to be about twenty-five, and she was by no means bad looking, had she not been such a miserable wreck.

“I want you to help me to hunt for my man,” she said, with perfect self-possession. “My name is Janet Hanford, and I’m married—maybe you’ll mind the name.”

I thought for a little—or appeared to do so—and then told her that she had the advantage of me, for I did not remember the name.

“Your husband has run away from you, then?” I remarked, secretly not at all surprised at his action.

“No, not that,” she answered, and it was then that I began to doubt her sanity. “It was not running away. They told me he was dead and buried, and I believed them; but I saw him to-day riding along in a carriage with a grand lady—a new wife, as I suppose—and I want you to hunt him out. I’m not so good as I should be, but I’m still his wife, surely?”

“Surely,” I echoed, thinking it best to humour the maniac.

“You must know that though I’ve been in jail I’m not a bad woman,” she continued. “If I had been, he’d have divorced me, or at least put me away, for he was too poor to afford lawyer’s fees. He’s only a factory worker like myself.”

“How can that be, when you told me just now that you saw him riding in a carriage with a grand lady?” I asked, thinking to catch her up.

“That’s the mystery which I can’t understand,” she answered. “You are to find out all about that. I did not see the lady’s face right, as the carriage went by so fast, and I was horrified at seeing him, and could scarcely take my eyes off him; but I know it was Dick Hanford, my husband.”

“Some one resembling him in features,” I thought. “What were you put in jail for, pray?” I added aloud.

“I was put in once or twice for drink,” she said, hanging her head a little. “He wouldn’t pay the fines, and so I had to suffer. It’s my only failing. I was brought up as a girl behind the bar, and I got to take drink secretly till I couldn’t keep from it. Then I was put away, and went into the factory. It’s down in Leith Walk. I used to be called ‘the Beauty of the Mill,’ and all the men were daft about me.”

“Good heavens!” was my mental exclamation; “daft about a creature like this!”

“I could have had my choice of a dozen men, but I took Hanford, though his wage was the poorest in the place,” she calmly continued. “I suppose it was because I was daft about him. I’m that yet. I never loved anybody else, and never can.”

“You said ‘once or twice for drink’—were you ever in jail for anything else?” I asked, pretty sure that she had kept something back.

“Yes, I was in for two years. It’s only about nine months since I got out. It was then they told me he was dead, and I believed them.”

“What were you put in for?”

She trembled and grew paler, and tears came into her eyes.

“I don’t remember much about it,” she hurriedly answered; “perhaps you will. It was after one of my drinking fits. I was always excitable after them; and they say I sharpened a knife and lay in wait for him for a whole day and night, saying I meant to kill him. I couldn’t have meant that, for I love him dearer than my own life. But when he came he was stabbed, and taken to the Infirmary. They said that I did it, and I suppose it’s true. I don’t remember doing it. He was very badly hurt, and they thought he would die. That’s why I was so long in prison before they tried me. If he had died I should have wished to be hanged, so as to be done with everything. You look frightened. Does it seem horrible for me to say these things, when they are true?”

“They do not sound nice from a woman’s lips,” I gravely replied. “I remember your case now. You hid in the loft of the factory for two days after stabbing him, and it was I who had the hunting for you. I thought it a very bad case at the time, and I remember your husband in Court giving a picture of your domestic life which would have melted a heart of stone. I suppose my plain speaking horrifies you quite as much as yours does me?”

“No; everybody speaks that way, so I suppose I must bear it, though I don’t feel so bad as people think me,” she answered, with a despairing ring in her tones. “If I hadn’t been brought up in a public house, and so learned to drink, I might have been in a very different position. Everybody is against me, and sometimes I feel as if I was against myself.”

“There was a child, too, I think,” I continued. “Didn’t you injure it in some way, or ill-treat it? I forget the particulars now.”

“Its leg was broken,” she answered, with a quiver in her voice, and tears again filling her lustrous eyes. “I think the doctor said he would never walk right if he lived, because it was the thigh that was broken. It was hurt about the head too. Perhaps it fell down the stairs and hurt itself. Some of them believed that I flung it down. I don’t think I could have done that, though I was at the top of the stair when they picked him up. I don’t remember anything about it.”

“And what has become of the child?” I asked in a low tone, not sure whether to feel overwhelmed with horror or pity.

“They told me he was dead too when I came out, but perhaps they’ve told a lie about that too. Perhaps he’s living, and only hidden from me as Hanford has been. That’s more work for you. I have no money, and I must have justice. If he is alive, he is bound to support me; and if he has married that grand lady, he must go to prison for bigamy.”

Broken and lost though she was, she seemed to know the law pretty well, but I thought there was little chance of it coming to an appeal of that kind.

“Who told you that your husband was dead?” I asked.

“His mother. That was when I came out of prison. I went home, of course, but I found the house let to strangers, and was told it had been so for two years. Then I went to his mother’s, and she would scarcely let me in, or speak to me. She has an awful hatred to me. At last she let me in, and told me he was dead.”

“And you believed it without further inquiry?”

“No, I didn’t believe it at all at first; but then she got out a certificate from the registrar and showed it to me. I read his name on it with my own eyes—Richard Hanford. If he isn’t dead, that name must have been forged. You’ll maybe have to take her for that. I shouldn’t be sorry at that, for she has caused me many an unhappy hour.”

Here was a case altogether uncommon. It is usual for injured persons, not the injurers, to seek our aid.

“You would like your husband to be put in prison too, if he is alive, and yet you fancy you love him?” I remarked. “It’s a queer kind of love which seeks a revengeful retaliation like that. I’ve seen women sunk in degradation of the deepest kind who would make the blush rise to your cheek.”

The crimson rose to her face there and then under the taunt.

“I don’t wish him any ill, but I am his wife, and he has deserted me and thrown me off, and I want you to find him. I want to try to do better, and live a different life. I want to deserve that he should love me; and I will not allow him to have the love of another while I am his wife.”

“I am afraid you have made some strange mistake,” I hastened to observe. “Your husband is probably dead, and beyond the reach of your love or your neglect. The gentleman you saw in a carriage possibly resembled him strongly—such cases often come under our notice. Mistaken identity? why, it’s as common as day. We had a woman here the other day who insisted upon us arresting a man whom she alleged was her husband, and she would not be convinced till he brought his father and mother and a whole host of relatives to prove that he was another man altogether, and had never been married in his life. And even supposing your husband were alive, how could you prevent him loving another? To retain a man’s love is even more difficult than to win it, and can never be done by running a knife into him, or throwing dishes at his head.”

“I did not do that; it was the drink did it,” she tearfully pleaded. “He said I would never be better till the grave closed over me. You heard him say so at the trial. But I think there’s a chance for me yet. It’s a dreadful struggle to keep away from drink, but I win the battle sometimes. No one knows what I have fought against; and I’m so poor, and despised, and wretched now that nobody cares to ask. If I were a black savage in a far off country, they’d send missionaries to me and give me every comfort and help; but I’m only a white savage living in Scotland; and I tell you I’m _not_ mistaken about seeing my man. I could not be mistaken. I saw him alive and well in that carriage as sure as there’s a God in heaven.”

“How could a poor factory worker like him rise to such a position?” I incredulously remarked.

“I don’t know, but there he was sitting by the lady’s side and looking as happy as he used to look when he was courting me; and he saw me too, and turned as white as death at the sight. Perhaps he thought I should die in prison for want of drink, and so married again without waiting to see. I thought of going to his mother’s and asking if he was really dead; but then I changed my mind, and came here. It would be better for you to go; you know better how to get at the truth.”

“You charge him with deserting you and marrying another woman?” I said, scarcely able to restrain myself.

To this she replied with a wavering affirmative, and then she produced the certificates of her marriage and of the birth of her child, and gave me the address of her mother-in law. She then described minutely the place and circumstances of the meeting with her husband’s counterpart, and left the Office. She left her own address also, but I had no expectation of ever needing that. It seemed to me that the supposed fraud, forgery, and bigamy were entirely the offspring of her own drink-sodden brain, and that to ascertain that her husband was dead and buried would be so simple a matter that there was not the slightest occasion for her putting the task upon us. Still I remember thinking—“If the man is really alive, I hope he will really be nimble enough to escape me. It would be an actual blessing to such a man if the jade fell downstairs and broke her neck.”

In the afternoon I went to the address of the mother. The house was a small one in Greenside, but the woman appeared a respectable widow, and I found her quietly preparing the supper of her sons, two of whom supported her. She seemed a superior person to be in such a situation; and noting that fact I guessed that her son, though a poor worker, must have had some natural refinement. I told her I had called to make some inquiries about her son, and she probably thought I meant one of the younger members of her family, for she smiled brightly, and invited me to enter. While I accepted the offer I studied her quiet and somewhat shadowed features, and quickly decided that I had before me a woman who, if she had occasion, could throw as many obstacles in my way as any one who ever hampered a detective.

“It is your son Richard, I mean,” I quietly continued, as I sat down at the clean little fireplace.

The mother gave a great start, and I saw the hands busy at the supper grow suddenly tremulous. She looked at me, too, but it was not so much a look of surprise as of searching inquiry or suspicion.

“What about him?” she cautiously returned, when she had recovered somewhat.

“I want to know where he lives, what he does, and all about him,” I quickly answered. I fully expected her to blurt out, possibly with tears, that her son was dead, but no such words rose to her lips. She stared at me keenly for a moment or two, as if trying to discover from my appearance what was the nature of my occupation, and then she said—

“What are you? a sheriff-officer or something of that kind?”

“Something of that kind,” I lightly returned. “Now, about your son Richard. Is it true that he is dead?”

“I suppose that fiend that he married has sent ye here?” she said with great energy; “but if she has, ye’ll get naething oot o’ me.”

“Well, but you told her he was dead,” I persisted; “either he is dead or he is not.”

“Ay.”

“And you showed her a certificate of death bearing his name?”

“Did I?”

“If you altered that name you committed a felony, and are liable to arrest and imprisonment.”

“Am I? I’m no feared,” she answered, with a sneer and a toss of the head.

“Will you let me see that certificate?”

“Humph! will I, indeed! Ye’ll see nae papers here, I can tell ye.”

“We can force it.”

“Force awa’ then—naebody’s hinderin’ ye.”

“Come, come now—it is quite evident to me that you have something to conceal,” I said, fairly baffled.

“Everybody has,” she grimly returned.

“Perhaps your son has paid you to be silent?”

A flashing look was the answer; it said scornfully—“As if that would be necessary!”

“Did you forge the certificate?”

“Humph!” The grunt was utterly derisive of me and my powers. After trying her for nearly half an hour I gave the old woman up in despair and left, determined to overhaul the books of the registrar for the district. I did so for a period extending over the two years, but could find no record of such a death. I had not expected to find it. The strange reticence of the mother had convinced me that I had misjudged the broken wife, and that the man was really alive. My visit to the registrar was productive of one discovery, however, which pointed to a solution to one mystery. I found recorded the death of one Richard Hanford, aged 58 years, spouse of the old woman who had proved so intractable under my questioning. By referring to the broken wife I discovered that she had never thought of looking at the _age_ of the deceased as recorded in the certificate; and I had a strong suspicion that it had been the certificate of the father’s death which had been shown her, with a view to severing the connection for ever.

Back I went to the old woman’s home, only to find her flown, and the house shut up and empty. She had taken alarm, then, and deemed flight the most easy way out of her difficulties.

I had now no clue whatever to the discovery of Hanford, and, truth to tell, was not sorry. I heartily hoped that he, too, had taken alarm and left the city, and that I should thus hear no more of the case. But the broken wife, from the hour of the first meeting, had never rested. She was continually on the prowl, never going to her work, seldom eating or sleeping, and almost forgetting to drink. The result was that one night, in watching a quiet hotel or boarding-house at the West End, she saw a man come out and hurry towards a waiting cab, and flew across and pinned him in her arms with his foot on the steps.

“Dick! Dick Hanford! look at me and say why you have tried to make me believe you were dead?” she cried in frenzied tones.

The man was alone, and did not seem greatly surprised, though he was labouring under great excitement and emotion.

“Call me John Ferguson,” he said, tremulously, without trying to push her off or escape. “Dick Hanford is dead—dead to everyone.”

“Not to me, for I am still your wife,” she excitedly returned. “Oh, Dick! I am bad and weak, and foolish—maybe mad at times—but I love you; and I want to be better, and get back my bairn that they say I nearly killed. I think it would keep me from falling. Oh, give me one more chance! I thought you were both in the grave, and that I had put you there, but when I found you alive a new life seemed to spring up in me.”

“Call me John Ferguson—Dick Hanford is dead,” he still answered, in low husky tones.

He dismissed the cab, and motioned to the broken wife to follow him out to the dark road beyond the city, where they could converse unseen and unheard. He would not say he was married to another woman, nor would he admit that he was Hanford, or this broken woman’s husband; though his grave, earnest manner, his gentleness, and every thrill of his voice, convinced her of his identity, if such convincing had been needed.

“I am nothing to you, or you to me,” he said; and with a pang she noticed that he never even touched her or offered her his arm. “We are strangers; our ways are different—far apart; just as much sundered as if we were both dead, and buried at different sides of the globe. But I have money now, and I am willing to give you that, if it will do you any good, just to relieve my own mind, if you will let me go in peace. Why should we fight over a dead past? Say how much you want, and it shall be yours, though it should be every penny I own.”

“I don’t want money, but the bairn I nearly killed,” cried the weeping wife. “Money would curse me, but the bairn might lift me up. I’m not the first lost woman who has been pulled up to heaven by a bairn’s wee hand.”

“That can never be,” said the husband, decidedly. “More likely you would drag him down with you. Be content with the ill you’ve done. Freddy is dead.”

“I don’t believe it,” screamed the broken wife. “He is hidden from me, not dead. I will make a bargain with you. If your love for me is dead, go your way in peace, but leave me the bairn. I’ll sell my rights for him. Is it a bargain? or must I put you in prison?”

“You can do neither,” was the agitated reply. “You cannot put me in prison, and you cannot touch the boy. You will never see him again. He is far beyond your reach.”

They quarrelled over that point, and had to separate without an arrangement. Janet Hanford came to me the same night, demanding that I should arrest the “bigamist,” as she declared him to be, and also hunt out her boy, wherever he was hidden, as the care of the child would legally fall to her, who had committed no offence against the moral law. A light task, certainly!

In the first place, I found that the accused persisted that he was not Richard Hanford, but John Ferguson. He had been at the Cape for nearly two years, so he had no one to whom he could refer in confirmation of his statement. He was very hazy as to his antecedents. He had prospered at the Cape, he admitted, but would not say that the money he now possessed had come to him by marriage; he would not admit that he was married at all to the lady who accompanied him, though it was proved that at the private hotel at which they resided they were known as Mr and Mrs Ferguson. The lady herself, being referred to, declined to say whether she was married or not; and when _she_ took up that position, I need not say that our chance of bringing home to him a charge of bigamy became poor indeed. Then there remained the charge of desertion, but that could scarcely be brought forward, seeing that the wife had been in prison, serving a term of two years, while he had been away at the Cape and had but recently returned, and so might be supposed not to know that she was alive.

But the weaker Janet Hanford’s case grew, the more determined and desperate she seemed to become. John Ferguson’s wife had a maid-servant to attend her, and Janet Hanford appears to have taken to watching the girl. One forenoon, when the case was at its most critical point—that is, when there were evidences that John Ferguson and his wife would soon be out of the country—the broken wife saw this girl leave the hotel with two letters in her hand. The girl walked rapidly along Princes Street, with the intention of posting them at the General Post Office; but before she had gone two divisions, Janet Hanford became a highway robber, by snatching the letters from her hand and vanishing like magic. One of the letters was addressed to “Master Frederick Hanford,” at a boarding-school some miles from the city; and almost before the amazed girl got back to her master, Janet Hanford was in a railway carriage and speeding towards that school.

The letter she had stolen proved beyond a doubt that John Ferguson was Richard Hanford, and father of the boy, and also revealed the fact that it had been Hanford’s intention to remove the boy in a day or two, as he was “leaving the country.” Janet Hanford stopped all that by taking a policeman with her, and demanding that the boy—who readily recognised her as his mother—should be delivered up to her. The grief and consternation of the father were terrible to behold, and we had now the singular case of two persons charging each other with a crime, and each demanding the other’s arrest.

Hanford made the most strenuous attempts to get back the custody of his boy—who was lame and rather weakly—but failed completely, though he had money and lawyers to help him. An inquiry had been by that time despatched to the Cape, to ascertain whether the so-called John Ferguson had been legally married to Rosa Gladwin, the girl who in Scotland had passed as his wife. In anticipation of the answer to that question being against him, Hanford redoubled his exertions to quicken the slow processes of law which were to give him charge of his boy; but with almost the same result as if he had single-handed tried to push on some great Juggernaut. The ponderous thing moved none the faster, but all the heat and turmoil and excitement fell to Hanford. He was continually running between his temporary home and his lawyers, and in one of these races he caught a chill which he “had not time to attend to.”

When the pain became unbearable, he was forced to lie down and send for a doctor. By that time he was almost delirious and in a high fever. The doctor pronounced the trouble inflammation of the lungs, and the case critical.

The moment Janet Hanford heard of the illness she came to see her husband, bringing with her the boy, whom she had hitherto kept studiously out of sight. She was loud in her self-recriminations. She blamed herself for the calamity; in grovelling grief cried aloud to heaven to witness her vow, that if Hanford’s life were only spared she would restore his boy, suffer him to leave the country with his father, and nevermore seek to molest either, or wish for anything but their welfare and happiness. The cry was vain; the resolve came too late. Hanford scarcely knew her, and appeared to be living the misfortunes of his life over again; for when his eye did light on her face, he implored those present to take her from him, or at least to save the boy from her remorseless hands. In a day or two he died, to the very last turning from her with aversion, and speaking of his other attendant as his true and only wife, and denouncing Janet Hanford as a curse to herself and all mankind. Of course these delirious utterances could not be taken for his real feelings; indeed, his second wife afterwards assured Janet that the love he bore her was greater than that which he had conceived for herself—it was merely the outside shell of wretchedness and debauchery which he loathed and detested. There was no more concealment of the truth then. It was freely admitted that Hanford had married again out at the Cape, getting a rich settler’s daughter and a little fortune by the union, as well as the unselfish devotion of a woman who knew the whole of his past life, and yet did not hesitate to sacrifice her all for his sake. A strange result sprang from that death-bed scene. The second wife imbibed a strong affection for the lame boy, and could not think of parting with him; at the same time a feeling of pity grew up in her breast for the broken wife, who was so prostrated by her great loss that for weeks her life was despaired of. Rosa Gladwin nursed her through it all, and, I suppose, must have discovered in her some good qualities which were hidden from ordinary onlookers, for when Mrs Hanford fairly recovered they did not separate. At first Rosa offered to provide for her by settling on her an annuity quite sufficient for her wants, but the proposal was never carried out. They went out to the Cape together, and no sisters could have been more firmly bound together in affection. Neither of them ever married again, but their lives have been spent in watching the development of Hanford’s son, who is no longer a lame boy, but a strong man, bidding fair to leave a big mark in the world’s history. The most singular thing in the case, however, is the fact that Janet Hanford left her drunkenness and debasement in the grave which swallowed her husband. Truly there is hope for all, even for the White Savage.

THE BROKEN MISSIONARY.

The place was called a church, but it was really little more than a mission-house thrown out and partly supported by a religious body in Edinburgh wishing to extend its connection. The town is a few miles from Edinburgh, and the building used for the church had at one time been used as a school, then as a slaughter-house for pigs, and at last, with a little painting and fitting up, as a church or meeting-house.

It is not necessary to name the particular sect of which this small church was a part. All churches are formed of men and women, and with these there is always to be found some twist of character, which we, who are twisted in another direction, call an imperfection. Such men as the deacon in the following case may be found in almost any church—men of strong convictions and great pugnacity, who are such heroes for virtue that they never think it possible to fall on the other side.

The little church had no vestry, and but one door, so the minister and congregation all entered from the front. Just within the door there was a small partition, and a folding door to keep the draught off the congregation during the assembling, and conspicuously in front of that, and facing the outer door, stood a three-legged stool bearing a big pewter plate for contributions. The contents of this plate were in general so scanty that they might easily have been counted by the eye, but occasionally, during the summer, visitors from the city would drop into the little place and leave in the plate a practical proof of their interest in the struggling church. After the services, it was the duty of the deacon or deacons to count the collection and place the sum to the credit of the general fund of the church. The minister or missionary, Arthur Morrison by name, was a young man with a wife and two children, who was struggling vainly to exist upon £55 a year. He had striven hard, but had so far failed that he was considerably in debt to different tradesmen about the town. He could scarcely be blamed for that, for his wife was a delicate woman, and most of the expenses had been forced upon him on her account. There was little prospect of his position in that town improving, as only a part of his salary was made up by the church, the rest being a grant from the main body; and as he was a quiet mild fellow, with no great energy or ability, there was little chance of him being sought after by a richer congregation. The poor fellow, however, seemed very earnest and sincere, and to love the work, and had never uttered a word of complaint to one of his people during the three years he had been among them.

That was the position when an incident occurred, so curious and so strange in its results, that it is necessary to put it down minutely, and exactly as it was afterwards narrated by the chief witness in the case, the deacon himself.

It was immediately before the morning service, and the congregation had nearly all assembled. The Rev. Arthur Morrison had not arrived, but an agreeable incident had kept the deacon who stood at the plate from noting the fact. A lady, evidently a summer visitor of wealth, had put a bank note into the plate, and asked to be shown to a seat as graciously as if she had been in the finest cathedral in the world.

The deacon was a man named Thomas Aikman, a baker by trade, a sharp business man, who considered himself the main pillar of that church. He fluttered into the building and showed the distinguished visitor to his own pew—if pew it could be called—placed books before her, and returned to the plate. There was an interval during which no other worshippers entered, and Mr Aikman spent the time in admiring that bank note as it lay in the plate, contrasting so deliciously with the thin strata of coppers below. It was a crisp note of the Bank of Scotland, and so new that it would not remain folded. Of course it had a number, and that number Mr Aikman declared he could not help noting, as the paper lay open before him. He did not mark down the number—did not think of doing so—but he had a good memory, and he could trust to that, and swear by his convictions.

As he gazed the deacon rapidly ran up in his mind all that this bank note would do. There was a trifling debt on the building fund, and this would all but clear it off. There would be no difficulty in getting the other managers of the church to agree to that; they were afraid of the stout and pugnacious baker, and always hurriedly agreed to whatever he thought fit to propose.