Chapter IV: Freddy keeps Silence

"IT'S the most mysterious affair I ever heard of in my life! Are you quite sure you left the coat in the surgery last night? Might you not have hung it up in the hall? No. Well, who has had an opportunity of getting at it, then?" —and Mrs. Dennis, who had a few minutes previously entered the house with Poppy, looked in bewilderment from her husband to the two servants who had met her in the hall with the news that the former's old overcoat was missing.

"How can I possibly tell?" Dr. Dennis answered a trifle irritably; "all I know is, that I wore the coat to Mr. Henley's last night, and, when I came home, hung it behind the surgery door as I usually do; and—I was very tired, that is the only excuse I have to offer for my carelessness—I went straight upstairs to bed, omitting to take my pocket-book from the breast pocket of the coat. This morning, as you know, I was called out early, and I then wore my new overcoat. The worst of it is," he explained, as he followed his wife into the dining-room, "there were two five-pound notes in that pocket-book, which Mr. Henley gave me last night for a poor patient of mine whose husband has died, leaving her destitute."

"Oh, Jo!" exclaimed Mrs. Dennis distressfully, "supposing the money should be lost? What if your coat has been stolen?"

"Then I must make the money good, my dear. When I first found the coat missing it occurred to me that you might have given it away."

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Dennis glanced around and saw Freddy standing in the doorway, listening to the conversation. The little boy's face looked very pale and startled; but she thought that was only natural under the circumstances. "I don't see how the coat can have been stolen," she proceeded meditatively, "because none of your patients ever enter the surgery, and I am sure the servants are honest."

"Yes," the doctor agreed, "cook and Jane are as much in the dark as we are, of that I am certain." Then, catching sight of Freddy, he said: "Come near the fire, my boy, you look chilled to the bone. What have you been doing all the afternoon? You ought not to have stayed upstairs in the cold."

"I've only been upstairs a little while," Freddy rejoined hastily. "I've been down here most of the time, reading, and—and looking out of the window."

"Then you would certainly have heard if any one had been in the surgery?"

"Oh, yes, Uncle Jo!"

Freddy had come downstairs in a doubtful frame of mind as to whether or not he would be able to pluck up his courage and confess the truth concerning the doctor's coat; but on hearing the amount of money in the pocket-book he had been too frightened to speak out. Afterwards he bitterly regretted having kept silence.

When Edwin and Claude arrived at home they were immediately informed that their father's old overcoat was missing, and joined with the other members of the household in making an exhaustive search from attic to basement, without, of course, any satisfactory result. Freddy wandered aimlessly from room to room with the rest, looking white and miserable, until his aunt sent him back to the dining-room fire. There, by-and-by, Poppy came to hint with the information, given in an awestricken voice, that her father had gone to the police station to tell the police of his loss. This news was an additional cause of alarm to Freddy, who now began to wonder if the police would find the poor bootlace-seller in possession of the overcoat, and charge him with the theft; but even with that thought in his mind he was too great a coward to acknowledge what he had done. He reflected that if he spoke out now, he would be blamed for not having done so at first, so he continued to hold his peace.

"If I told uncle, that would not bring the coat back," he argued with his conscience, which pricked him sorely; "and I don't know the name of the man I gave the coat to, or anything about him. If he is honest he will certainly bring the pocket-book back, and then I shan't mind so much telling uncle, for he will have the money all right."

But the bootlace-seller did not reappear at the doctor's house, and though Freddy kept an anxious look out for him for many days to come, he never caught sight of his tall, gaunt form; and the loss of the coat remained a mystery to all the other members of the household.

One November evening, Mrs. Dennis and the children had drawn their chairs round the sitting-room fire, when Freddy began to talk of Christmas, to which season he was eagerly looking forward, for his father and stepmother proposed being at home by that time.

"I wish you were all going to be at Marldon Court for Christmas," he said, looking affectionately at his aunt and cousins; "what fun we would have! But I suppose Uncle Jo would not be able to leave his practice?"

"No," Mrs. Dennis replied; "and we all like to be together at Christmas time—not that it is ever a very gay season for us, and I expect it will be even quieter than usual this year, for your uncle had to replace those five-pound notes which were lost, or stolen I suppose I should say. He could not tell Mr. Henley they were missing, and he could not keep the poor widow without her money. It has been an unfortunate affair, but one would not mind that so much if it was not still wrapped in mystery. It is unsatisfactory in every way."

Freddy made no response, but his face, which had been very bright as he talked of Christmas, grew overcast. His happiness at the anticipation of the reunion with his father was shadowed by the remembrance of his guilty secret, and he became so wrapped in uneasy thought that he lost a great part of the conversation which followed, until a remark of Claude's brought him out of his reverie with a start.

"I really thought it was father's old overcoat," the boy was saying, "and I'm not quite certain now that it wasn't; however, I lost sight of the fellow in the crowd."

"What is that, Claude? I didn't hear," Freddy said with sudden anxiety.

"I thought I saw a man wearing father's old overcoat yesterday," Claude explained. "There was a case being tried at the police-court as I was passing, and amongst the crowd outside was a young man with an overcoat exactly like—"

"A young man?" Freddy interrupted. "Oh, you must have been mistaken!"

The others looked at him quickly, for he had spoken with great decision. He grew very red, and became covered with confusion as he noticed their astonished glances.

"I mean it couldn't have been uncle's coat," he continued stammeringly; "that is—it's not very likely—"

"I don't know that it's altogether unlikely," Edwin said. "I should not be surprised if the coat turns up some day, and then we shall find out who stole it."

The conversation drifted into another channel after that; but later, when Freddy had gone to his own room for the night, there was a knock at the door, and Edwin entered.

"What do you want?" Freddy asked, yawning as though he was very sleepy, his eyes resting suspiciously on his cousin's face, which looked decidedly perturbed.

"I want to ask you something," was the reply in a low tone. "Freddy, do you know anything about father's old coat? I—I have often thought—from your manner—that you do; and I—I remember that you were at home alone that Saturday afternoon. Oh, Freddy, forgive me if I'm wrong!"

"Do you imagine I stole the coat?" Freddy demanded, inwardly terrified, though he spoke haughtily, with an assumption of indignation.

"No, no," was the hasty response; "but I do imagine you know something about it. If you do, wouldn't it be better and—and straighter of you to own it, and—"

"But I don't! I know nothing about it!"

Freddy lied glibly. He had no intention of revealing his secret, having kept it so long. What good purpose would be gained by his speaking out now?

"Then I beg your pardon," Edwin said, looking distressed. "I was obliged to speak to you; I felt I ought. Of course, if you say you know nothing about the coat I must believe you. Good-night." He refrained from meeting the other's eyes as he spoke.

"Good-night," Freddy answered in a somewhat abashed tone, conscious that, as far as his cousin was concerned, he had lied in vain.

He felt exceedingly miserable, for Edwin had always shown him great consideration, smoothing his path for him at school, helping him with his lessons, and doing him many little, unobtrusive kindnesses. He admired Edwin, and was ambitious to be like him, whilst he realised that he never could he unless he was less selfish; and now the fact that he had told him a direct lie lay heavily upon his conscience. He could not recall ever having uttered a deliberate falsehood before.

"Oh, I am very wicked!" thought Freddy, as he knelt by his bed, after Edwin had left the room, to say his prayers. "How difficult it is to keep a secret; who would have thought that I should be obliged to tell a story? But I couldn't have told Edwin the truth; he would have considered me such a coward to have held my tongue so long. I see now I ought to have confessed that I had given away the coat. Poor Uncle Jo! I am sorry he has had to replace that ten pounds out of his own pocket. Oh, dear me, what mischief I have made! When I go home at Christmas I will tell father everything— that is, I think I will, and I will ask him to give Uncle Jo the money again."

Freddy was not in a fit state of mind to lift his heart in prayer, but his lips mechanically murmured the prayers he was accustomed to repeat every night, and then he got into bed; but it was a long, long time before he slept, for his conscience would not allow him to rest. Never—not even on the night after he had given away his uncle's old coat—had he felt so intensely wretched as he did now, for he seemed to be falling deeper into the mire of deception; he had never meant to be led into telling a lie, and his cheeks burned with shame at the remembrance of how, in reference to the missing coat, he had boldly declared, "I know nothing about it!"