four bones inthe block-house, and yourself on the twister; and he's not a cove to be bilked out of his tin. But he would not like the bother of your
cross-charge, either, and I think I could make all square between ye. What do you say?"
"How can I tell that you ever set eyes on Mr. Longcluse?" said Davies, more satisfied as the conference proceeded that he had misdi-rected his first guess at the identity of the horseman. "How can I tell you're not just a-gettin' all you can out o' me, to make what you can of it on your own account in that market?"
"That's true, you can't tell, mate."
"And what do I know about you? What's your name?" pursued Paul Davies.
"I forgot my name, I left it at home in the cupboard; and you know nothing about me, that's true, excepting what I told you, and you'll hear no more."
"I'm too old a bird for that; you're a born genius, only spoilt in the baking. I'm thinking, mate, I may as well paddle my own canoe, and sell my own secret on my own account. What can you do for me that I can't do as well for myself ?"
"You don't think that, Paul. You dare not show to Mr. Longcluse, and you know he's in a wax; and who can you send to him? You'll make nothing o' that brag. Where's the good of talking like a blast to a chap like me? Don't you suppose I take all that at its vally?
I tell you what, if it ain't settled now, you'll see me no more, for I'll not undertake it." He pulled up his horse's head, preparatory to starting.
"Well, what's up now?--what's the hurry?" demanded Mr. Davies.
"Why, if this here meetin' won't lead to business, the sooner we two parts and gets home again, the less time wasted," answered the cavalier, with his hand on the crupper of the saddle, as he turned to speak.
Each seemed to wait for the other to add something.
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CHAPTER XVII.
MR. LONGCLUSE AT MORTLAKE HALL.
F you let me go this time, Mr. Wheeler, you'll not catch me a-walking out here again," said Mr. Davies sourly. "If there's business to be done, now's the time."
"Well, I can't make it no plainer--'tis as clear as mud in a wine-glass," said the mounted man gaily, and again he shook the bridle and hitched himself in the saddle, and the horse stirred uneasily, as he added, "Have you any more to say?"
"Well, supposin' I say ay, how soon will it be settled?" said Paul Davies, beginning to think better of it.
"These things doesn't take long with a rich cove like Mr. Longcluse. It's where they has to scrape it up, by beggin' here and borrowin' there, and sellin' this and spoutin' that--there's a wait always. But a chap with no end o' tin--that has only to wish and have--that's your sort. He swears a bit, and threatens, and stamps, and loses his temper summat, ye see; and if I was the prencipal, like you are
in this 'ere case, and the police convenient, or a poker in his fist, he might make a row. But seein' I'm only a messenger like, it don't come to nothin'. He claps his hand in his pocket, and outs with the rino, and there's all; and jest a bit of paper to sign. But I won't stay here no longer. I'm getting a bit cold myself; so it's on or off now. Go yourself to Longcluse, if you like, and see if you don't catch it. The least you get will be seven-penn'orth, for extortin' money by threatenin' a prosecution, if he don't hang you for the murder of the Saloon cove. How would you like that?"
"It ain't the physic that suits my complaint, guvnor. But I have him there. I have the statement wrote, in sure hands, and other hevi-dence, as he may suppose, and dated, and signed by respectable people; and I know his dodge. He thinks he came out first with his charge against me, but he's out there; and if he will have it, and I split, he'd best look slippy."
"And how much do you want? Mind, I'll funk him all I can, though he's a wideawake chap; for it's my game to get every pig I can out of him."
"I'll take two thousand pounds, and go to Canada or to New York, my passage and expenses being paid, and sign anything in reason he wants; and that's the shortest chalk I'll offer."
"Don't you wish you may get it? I do, I know, but I'm thinking you might jest as well look for the naytional debt."
"What's your name?" again asked Davies, a little abruptly.
"My name fell out o' window and was broke, last Tuesday mornin'. But call me Tom Wheeler, if you can't talk without calling me something."
"Well, Tom, that's the figure," said Davies.
"If you want to deal, speak now," said Wheeler. "If I'm to stand between you, I must have a power to close on the best offer I'm like to get. I won't do nothing in the matter else-ways."
With this fresh exhortation, the conference on details proceeded; and when at last it closed, with something like a definite understanding, Tom Wheeler said,--"Mind, Paul Davies, I comes from no one, and I goes to no one; and I never seed you in all my days."
"And where are you going?"
"A bit nearer the moon," said the mysterious Mr. Wheeler, lifting his hand and pointing towards the red disk, with one of his bearded grins. And wheeling his horse suddenly, away he rode at a canter, right toward the red moon, against which for a few moments the figure of the retreating horse and man showed black and sharp, as if cut out of cardboard.
Paul Davies looked after him with his left eye screwed close, as was his custom, in shrewd rumination. Before the horseman had got very far, the moon passed under the edge of a thick cloud, and the waste was once more enveloped in total darkness. In this absolute obscurity the retreating figure was instantaneously swallowed, so that the shrewd ex-detective, who had learned by rote every article
of his dress, and every button on it, and could have sworn to every mark on his horse at York Fair, had no chance of discovering in
50
the ultimate line of his retreat, any clue to his destination. He had simply emerged from darkness, and darkness had swallowed him again.
We must now see how Sir Reginald's little dinner-party, not a score of miles away, went off only two days later. He was fortunate, seeing he had bidden his guests upon very short notice, not one disappointed.
I daresay that Lady May--whose toilet, considering how quiet everything was, had been made elaborately--missed a face that would have brightened all the rooms for her. But the interview between Richard Arden and his father had not, as we know, ended in reconciliation, and Lady May's hopes were disappointed, and her toilet labour in vain.
When Lady May entered the room with Alice, she saw standing on the hearth-rug, at the far end of the handsome room, a tall and very good-looking man of sixty or upwards, chatting with Sir Reginald, one of whose feet was in a slipper, and who was sitting in an easy-chair. A little bit of fire burned in the grate, for the day had been chill and showery. This tall man, with white silken hair, and a countenance kind, frank, and thoughtful, with a little sadness in it, was, she had no doubt, David Arden, whom she had last seen with silken brown locks, and the cheerful aspect of early manhood.
Sir Reginald stood up, with an uncomfortable effort, and, smiling, pointed to his slippers in excuse for his limping gait, as he shuffled
forth across the carpet to meet her, with a good-humoured shrug. "Wasn't it good of her to come?" said Alice.
