took his way to the Eastgate, in order to put Gabriel unawares into the witness-box. Yet, for all these doings and suspicions Cargrim had no very good reason, save his own desire to get Dr Pendle under his thumb. He was groping in the dark, he had not a shred of evidence to suppose that the uneasiness of the bishop was connected with anything criminal; nevertheless, the chaplain put himself so far out of his usual habits as to venture into the unsavoury neighbourhood wherein stood The Derby Winner. Truly this man’s cobweb spinning was of a very dangerous character when he took so much trouble to weave the web.
As in Excelsior, the shades of night were falling fast, when Cargrim found himself at the door of the curate’s lodging. Here he met with a check, for Gabriel’s landlady informed him that Mr Pendle was not at home, and she did not know where he was or when he would be back. Cargrim made the sweetest excuses for troubling the good lady, left a message that he would call again, and returned along Monk Street on his way back to the palace through the new town. By going in this direction he passed The Derby Winner—not without intention—for it was this young man’s belief that Gabriel might be haunting the public-house to see Mrs Mosk or—as was more probable to the malignant chaplain—her handsome daughter.
As he came abreast of The Derby Winner it was not too dark but that he could see a tall man standing in the doorway. Cargrim at first fancied that this might be Gabriel, and paced slowly along so as to seize an opportunity of addressing him. But when he came almost within touching distance, he found himself face to face with a dark-looking gipsy, fiery-eyed and dangerous in appearance. He had a lean, cruel face, a hawk’s beak for a nose, and black, black hair streaked with grey; but what mostly attracted Cargrim’s attention was a red streak which traversed the right cheek of the man from ear to mouth. At once he recalled John’s description—‘A military-looking gentleman with a scar on the right cheek.’ He thought, ‘Hum! this, then, is the bishop’s visitor.’
Chapter VI.
The Man With the Scar
This engaging individual looked at Cargrim with a fierce air. He was not sober, and had just reached the quarrelsome stage of intoxication, which means objection to everyone and everything. Consequently he cocked his hat defiantly at the curate; and although he blocked up the doorway, made no motion to stand aside. Cargrim was not ill pleased at this obstinacy, as it gave him an opportunity of entering into conversation with the so-called decayed clergyman, who was as unlike a parson as a rabbit is like a terrier.
‘Do you know if Mr Pendle is within, my friend?’ asked the chaplain, with bland politeness.
The stranger started at the mention of the name. His face grew paler, his scar waxed redder, and with all his Dutch courage there was a look of alarm visible in his cold eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ said he, insolently, yet with a certain refinement of speech. ‘I shouldn’t think it likely that a pot-house like this would be patronised by a bishop.’
‘Pardon me, sir, I speak of Mr Gabriel Pendle, the son of his lordship.’
‘Then pardon me, sir,’ mimicked the man, ‘if I say that I know nothing of the son of his lordship; and what’s more, I’m d—d if I want to.’
‘I see! You are more fortunate in knowing his lordship himself,’ said the chaplain, with great simplicity.
The stranger plucked at his worn sleeve with a look of irony. ‘Do I look as though I were acquainted with bishops?’ said he, scoffingly. ‘Is this the kind of coat likely to be admitted into episcopalian palaces?’
‘Yet it was admitted, sir. If I am not mistaken you called at the palace two nights ago.’
‘Did you see me?’
‘Certainly I saw you,’ replied Cargrim, salving his conscience with the Jesuitic saying that the end justifies the means. ‘And I was informed that you were a decayed clergyman seeking assistance.’
‘I have been most things in my time,’ observed the stranger, gloomily, ‘but not a parson. You are one, I perceive.’
Cargrim bowed. ‘I am the chaplain of Bishop Pendle.’
‘And the busybody of Beorminster, I should say,’ rejoined the man with a sneer. ‘See here, my friend,’ and he rapped Cargrim on the breast with a shapely hand, ‘if you interfere in what does not concern you, there will be trouble. I saw Dr Pendle on private business, and as such it has nothing to do with you. Hold your tongue, you black crow, and keep away from me,’ cried the stranger, with sudden ferocity, ‘or I’ll knock your head off. Now you know,’ and with a fierce glance the man moved out of the doorway and sauntered round the corner before Cargrim could make up his mind how to resent this insolence.
‘Hum!’ said he to himself, with a glance at the tall retiring figure, ‘that is a nice friend for a bishop to have. He’s a jail-bird if I mistake not; and he is afraid of my finding out his business with Pendle. Birds of a feather,’ sighed Mr Cargrim, entering the hotel. ‘I fear, I sadly fear that his lordship is but a whited sepulchre. A look into the bishop’s past might show me many things of moment,’ and the fat living of Heathcroft seemed almost within Cargrim’s grasp as he came to this conclusion.
‘Now then, sir,’ interrupted a sharp but pleasant female voice, ‘and what may you want?’
Mr Cargrim wheeled round to answer this question, and found himself face to face with a bar, glittering with brass and crystal and bright-hued liquors in fat glass barrels; also with an extremely handsome young woman, dressed in an astonishing variety of colours. She was high-coloured and frank-eyed, with a great quantity of very black hair twisted into many amazing shapes on the top of her head. In manner she was as brisk as a bee and as restless as a butterfly; and being adorned with a vast quantity of bracelets, and lockets, and brooches, all of gaudy patterns, jingled at every movement. This young lady was Miss Bell Mosk, whom the frequenters of The Derby Winner called ‘a dashing beauty,’ and Mrs Pansey ‘a painted jade.’ With her glittering ornaments, her bright blue dress, her high colour, and general air of vivacity, she glowed and twinkled in the lamp-light like some gorgeous-plumaged parrot; and her free speech and constant chatter might have been ascribed to the same bird.
‘Miss Mosk, I believe,’ said the polite Cargrim, marvelling that this gaudy female should be the refined Gabriel’s notion of feminine perfection.
‘I am Miss Mosk,’ replied Bell, taking a comprehensive view of the sleek, black-clothed parson. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I am Mr Cargrim, the bishop’s chaplain, Miss Mosk, and I wish to see Mr Pendle—Mr Gabriel Pendle.’
Bell flushed as red as the reddest cabbage rose, and with downcast eyes wiped the counter briskly with a duster. ‘Why should you come here to ask for Mr Pendle?’ said she, in guarded tones.
‘I called at his lodgings, Miss Mosk, and I was informed that he was visiting a sick person here.’
‘My mother!’ replied Bell, not knowing what an amazing lie the chaplain was telling. ‘Yes! Mr Pendle comes often to see—my mother.’
‘Is he here now?’ asked Cargrim, noticing the hesitancy at the end of her sentence; ‘because I wish to speak with him on business.’
‘He is upstairs.
