way or the other. Your health, sir. Now, you'll bring her here to me all ready, Mr. Taffendale—you'll understand that after I've once seen her I can't lose sight of her again. There shall be naught said now, sir, beyond a pleasant word or so—a 'good evening,' eh?—and we'll drive straight to Mr. Wroxdale's and he shall go on with us. And—and tell her not to be afraid, sir."
Taffendale nodded and left the room. He stood in the hall for a minute, thinking. Then from an old chest he took out two thick carriage rugs and laid them in readiness; near them he placed a heavy travelling cloak, which had been his mother's. That done, he opened the parlour door and called the housekeeper, and in a word or two explained what had happened and bade her keep out of the way for a few minutes. And then he opened the door again and went in to Rhoda. She gave him one quick look and rose, and the colour flushed into her pale cheeks. He saw that she knew.
Taffendale took her hands.
"You wanted this to be settled, Rhoda?" he said.
"Yes—yes!" she breathed quickly. "Yes—oh, yes!"
"Then—it's going to be settled now," he said.
"They've—come for me?" she whispered. Taffendale nodded.
"I'm ready—and I'm glad," she said. "Now—tell me what to do. But first—"
She threw her arms about him passionately and kissed him. And Taffendale asked himself as their lips met if that was for the last time.
Five minutes later Taffendale opened the door of the little room, and cried cheerily and bravely—
"Now, Mr. Superintendent, here's Mrs. Perris—all ready for you, and well wrapped up for a cold drive!"
Chapter XXII
There were three railway-stations in the market-town; that at which Perris arrived lay in a valley, far out from the centre of the place, and during his two years' acquaintance with the neighbourhood he had never seen it or its immediate surroundings before, never having had occasion to travel by the small branch line which had brought him to it from the main line at the big junction twelve miles off. Only himself and one more passenger left the train; on the wind-swept platform there was no one to be seen but a porter; the station itself was poorly lighted by a couple of oil-lamps; outside it the winter night was cheerless and black. Within a minute or two of his leaving the train, Perris was standing outside the station in the midst of a darkness that seemed all the denser because of his recollection of the brilliantly lighted scenes amidst which he had often wandered at night, lonely and wondering, during his residence in London. High above him, but some little distance away, he saw the lights of the market-town, the approach to which was by a winding road, lighted at long intervals by feeble and flickering jets of gas that shivered in their lamps; in a dip in this road he saw more lights which seemed to betoken the presence of a small, outlying hamlet, or cluster of cottages; amongst those lights was one which shone through red curtains. Perris felt cheered at the roseate glow.
"I'll lay yon's a public," he muttered. "Publics has red blinds as a rule. I'll call in and tek an odd glass afore I walk up to t' town—I could do wi' sum-mat after that theer journey, and wi' a bite o' sum-mat to eat an all."
Moving forward along the ill-lighted road, he came to a small inn which stood on an open space surrounded by a half-score of old cottages. It was no more than a wayside ale-house, and in the dim light of the one lamp which stood in front of it Perris regarded it doubtfully. But hunger overcoming his doubts he eventually pushed open the door and walked into a sanded passage, on either side of which were rooms meanly furnished with rough tables and benches of unpainted wood. There was a heavy scent of stale liquor and of pungent tobacco in the atmosphere, and as Perris closed the door behind him, he heard the loud voices of men in what appeared to be an argument of a spirited nature.
These voices came from the room on the left hand side of the passage, and Perris instinctively turned into the opposite one and was thankful to find it empty, for he was in the state of mind that makes a man desire loneliness. He sat down at one of the rough tables and rapped on its surface with his ash-plant. An elderly woman, hard-bitten, tall, gaunt, appeared from some interior part of the place, drying her hands on her rough apron, and looked an inquiry in silence.
"I'll tek a glass o' Scotch whisky, if you please," said Perris.
The woman shook her head.
"We've no licence for spirits, mister," she answered. "Only for ale and porter."
"Then a pint o' ale," said Perris. "An' happen ye could let me hey a plate o' bread-an'-cheese with it."
"Yes," replied the woman. "We've some good cheese just now. Happen you'd care for a pickled onion?"
"I shouldn't hey no objection," Perris answered. "Ye needn't be sparin' wi' t' bread-an'-cheese—I'm a bit hungry, like."
The landlady went down the passage, and Perris laid aside his ashplant and stared at the brewers' advertisements and grocers' almanacks which adorned the dingy walls.
In the other room across the narrow passage its occupants were continuing their loud-voiced debate; since Perris's entrance two of them had been speaking at the same time, and he had paid no attention to them, being more intent on his own affairs, but now one man had obtained a proper hearing and his voice came loud and clear into the room in which Perris sat alone. And Perris suddenly caught a word and a name, and he sat erect and listened.
"—an' I tell yer 'at our Jack's been workin' at yon theer Cheery-trees ever sin' they started building them cottages for Taffendale, and as he's been on t' spot all t' time 'at this has been goin' on, who's more likely to know all about it than what he is? He were present when t' body o' yon man 'at they called Pippany Webster were found—he helped to draw it up out o' t' well, and he heerd what they said 'at rekernised it, and I tell yer he's been theer ever sin,' and of course he's seen all and heerd all 'at there were to hear an' see. Our Jack's more likely to know all about t' matter than what ye are, and that he'd prove to yer if he were i' this company—now then!"
"Well, an' as ye're Jack isn't in this comp'ny ye can tell us what ye're Jack knows—I mean summat 'at folk like us doesn't know," said another voice, somewhat scornful and sceptical in tone.
"Our Jack knows what t' opinion o' them 'at's on t' spot is, mi lad, and ye're not on t' spot, any more nor what any on us here present is. Them 'at's been theer has drawn their own conclusions. It's t' common opinion 'at t' woman, Mrs. Perris, not only did away wi' yon Pippany Webster, but 'at she did away wi' her husband an' all. That's what t' common opinion is, so theer!"
"Well, I don't believe it!" said the scornful voice, with unrestrained contempt. "I don't believe 'at she killed Perris, nohow!"
"Then wheer is Perris? Ye tell me that! Wheer is t' man? Has he gone up above, as them theer owd pateriarks did 'at ye hear tell about i' t' Good Book, or has he been spirited away bi t' Owd Lad, or what? Men doesn't disappear same as if they were t' smook out o' this here pipe—"
"A' but don't they? Don't ye mek no mistak's! Theer's been many a man disappear 'at's never been heerd on agen—many a man, I say. I' my opinion yon theer Perris just took hissen off, quiet like, an—"
The landlady brought Perris his supper, took his money, and vanished. And Perris, with a queer smile, drank of his ale, crammed his mouth with food, and continued to listen attentively. The conversation in
