CHAPTER XXIX.
THE VICAR OF DUNWOLD.
At a safe distance Victor Nevill stopped and turned around. When the cabrolled away, he walked slowly back, looking keenly at the house as hepassed it. His demeanor was calm, but it was only skin deep. He feltlike swearing loudly at everybody and everything. His brain was in awhirl of rage and fear, sharp anxiety and keen disappointment. He hadrecognized Noah Hawker and seen the gleam of steel at his wrists, whichexplained the situation as clearly as words could have done.
"The poor chap has been tracked and arrested," he thought; "possibly forsome past burglary. Our negotiations are ended for the present, confoundthe luck! But the papers! By Jove, suppose Hawker had them on hisperson! If so, they will be found when he is searched. They will beopened and examined, and the whole truth will come out. I can't besure that Hawker won't give away my part in the affair. I shall beruined--nothing short of it! What a luckless devil I am!"
The iron hand of Nemesis seemed reaching out to grasp Nevill, and heshuddered as he realized his danger. The rustle of the bank notes in hisbreast pocket afforded him a momentary relief as he remembered that theywould give him a fresh start in case he had to flee from England. Then asudden thought lightened the gloom still more, and he clutched eagerlyat the ray of hope thus thrown out.
"Hawker was too shrewd a man to be caught unawares," he reasoned. "Hekept the papers in a secure hiding-place, and he certainly would nothave taken them from it until I came and he saw the color of the money.Nor is it likely that the police found them, though they must havesearched the place. If they are still in the room, why should I not tryto get possession of them? I could square up with Hawker afterward, whenhe recovers his liberty. By Jove, it's worth risking!"
Nevill walked as far as Peckwater street, debating the question. He didnot hesitate long, for there was too much at stake. He quickly made uphis mind, and retraced his steps to the dingy house from which thedetectives had taken their prisoner. He had planned his course ofprocedure when the door opened to his knock, and Mrs. Miggs revealed herdistrustful countenance. Nevill tendered her half a sovereign on thespot, and asked to see the room lately occupied by Mr. Noah Hawker.
"It's a private matter," he explained. "Yes, I know that Mr. Hawker hasjust been arrested and taken away. District detectives did that--theywere onto him for some breach of the law. I was after him myself, witha Scotland Yard warrant, but I arrived too late, unfortunately."
"Then what do you want?" grumbled the woman.
"I want to search Hawker's room for some papers which I believe he hidthere. If I find them you shall be rewarded."
Mrs. Miggs relaxed visibly. She had a wholesome respect for the police,and she did not doubt that Nevill was other than he purported to be--aScotland Yard officer. She let him into the hall and closed the door.
"You can come up," she said ungraciously, "but I don't think there'sanything there."
She lighted a candle and guided Nevill upstairs. He could scarcelyrestrain his excitement as he entered the little room. He glanced keenlyabout, noting the half-empty bottle of stout and the dirty glass.
"Did the police search here?" he inquired.
"Of course they did, but they didn't find nothin', 'cause there wasn'tanything to find. 'Awker was as poor as Job!"
"They examined his person?--his clothes, I mean?"
"Yes, an' all they got was a knife, and a pistol, and some loose silverand coppers."
"They didn't discover any papers?"
"No; I'm sure o' that," asserted Mrs. Miggs. "I can't stand 'ere allnight," she impatiently added.
Nevill took the hint, and set to work in good spirits. The landladywatched him scornfully while he hauled the carpet and bedding about, andexamined all the joints of the few articles of furniture. He thenproceeded--there was no fireplace in the room--to tap every part of thewalls, and to try the flooring to see if any boards were loose. But thewalls were solid and untampered with, and the nails in the floor hadclearly not been disturbed for many years. He spent half an hour at histask, and the result was a barren failure. He realized that it would beuseless to search further. He looked sharply at the landlady, and said,on a sudden impulse:
"You knew Mr. Hawker pretty well, I think. Perhaps he asked you tooblige him by taking care of the papers I am looking for; they could notpossibly be of any advantage to you in the future, and if you have themI should be glad to buy them from you. I would give as much as--"
"I only wish I _did_ 'ave them!" interrupted Mrs. Miggs. "I wouldn't'esitate a minute to turn 'em into money. But I don't know nothin' ofthem, sir, an' you see yourself they ain't 'id in this room, an' Mr.'Awker never put foot in any other part of the 'ouse."
The woman's expression of disappointment, her manner, satisfied Nevillthat his suspicion was baseless. There was nothing more to be done, sohe gave Mrs. Miggs an additional half-sovereign, cautioned her not tospeak of his visit, and left the house. His last state of mind was worsethan his first, and dread of exposure, tormenting visions of a drearyand perpetual exile from England, not to speak of more bitter things,haunted him as he strode moodily toward the lights of the Kentish Townroad.
"The papers may be in that room, hidden so securely as to baffle anysearch," he said to himself, "and if that is the case there is stillhope. But it is more likely that Hawker had them concealed under hisclothing or in his boots. I will know in a day or two--if the policefind them, they will make the matter public. All I can do is to wait.But the suspense is awful, and I wish it was over."
The next day was cold, sunny and bracing--more like the end of Februarythan the end of November. At nine o'clock in the morning Victor Nevillcrawled out of bed after a troubled night; with haggard face and dulleyes he looked down into Jermyn street, wondering, as he recalled theevents of the previous night, what another day would bring forth.
At the same hour, or a little later, Jimmie Drexell was at Hastings.Having to wait some time for another train, he walked through the prettytown to the sea, and the sight of its glorious beauty--the embodiment ofuntrammeled freedom--made him think sadly of poor Jack in a prison cell.
"Never mind, I'll have him out soon!" he vowed.
He returned to the station, and was whirled on through the flat, greencountry to the charming Sussex village of Pevensey, with its ruined oldcastle and rambling street, and the blue line of the Channel flashing inthe distance. His journey did not end here, and he was impatient tocontinue it. He procured a horse and trap at the Railway Arms, gleanedcareful instructions from the landlord, and drove back a few miles alongthe hedge-lined roads, while the sea faded behind him.
It was eleven o'clock when he reached the retired little hamlet ofDunwold. He put up his vehicle at a quaint old inn, and refreshedhimself with a simple lunch. Then he sought the vicarage, hard by theancient church with its Norman tower, and, on inquiring for Mr.Chalfont, he was shown into a sunny library full of books andChippendale furniture, with flowers on the deep window-seats anda litter of papers on the carved oak writing-desk.
The vicar entered shortly--an elderly gentleman of benevolent aspect andsnowy beard, but sturdy and lithe-limbed for his years, clearly one ofthose persons who seemed predestined for the placidity of clerical life.After a penetrating glance he greeted his visitor most graciously, andexpressed pleasure at seeing him.
"I am sure that you are a stranger to the neighborhood," he continued."Our fine old church draws many such hither. If you wish to go over it,I can show you many things of interest--"
"At another time," Jimmie interrupted, "I should be only too delighted.I regret to say that it is quite a different matter that brings mehere--hardly a pleasant one. This will partly explain, Mr. Chalfont."
He presented the letter Sir Lucius had given him, and when it had beenopened and read he poured out the whole story of Diane's life and end,of the charge against Jack Vernon, and the clew that the murdered womanhad revealed to her landlady.
The vicar rose from his chair, showing traces of deep
agitation anddistress.
"A friend of Sir Lucius Chesney is a friend of mine," he said, hoarsely."I shall be glad to help you--to do anything in my power to clear yourfriend. I believe that he is innocent. Your sad story has awakened oldmemories, Mr. Drexell. And it is a great shock to me, as you willunderstand when I tell you all. I seldom read the London papers, andit comes as a blow and a surprise to me that Diane Merode has beenmurdered."
"Then you know her by that name?" exclaimed Jimmie. "This is indeedfortunate, Mr. Chalfont. I feared that you would find it difficult toidentify the woman--to recall her. And the man whom she proclaimed asher enemy--do you know _him_?"
"Judge for yourself," replied the vicar, as he sat down and settled backin his chair. "I will state the facts, distinctly and briefly. That willnot be hard to do. To begin, I have been in this parish for thirtyyears, and I am familiar with its history. I remember when DianeMerode's father came home with his young bride. He was a doctor, withsome small means of his own, and he lived in the second house beyond thechurch. His wife was a French girl, well educated and beautiful, and hemet and married her while on a visit to France; his name was GeorgeHammersley. They settled here in the village, but I do not think thatthey lived very happily together. Their one child, christened Diane,was born two years after the marriage. She inherited her mother'svivacious disposition and love of the world, and I always feltmisgivings about her future. She spent five years at a school in Paris,and returned at the age of sixteen. Within less than two years herparents died within a week of each other, of a malignant fever thatattacked our village. A friend of George Hammersley's took Diane to hishome--it appeared that she had no relatives--and nine months later shemarried a man, nearly twenty years her senior, who had fallenpassionately in love with her."
"By Jove, so she was really married before!" cried Jimmie. "But I begyour pardon, Mr. Chalfont, for interrupting you."
"This man, Gilbert Morris, was comparatively well-to-do," resumed thevicar. "He owned a couple of ships, and when at home he lived inDunwold; but he was away the greater part of his time, sailing one orthe other of his vessels to foreign ports. Six months after the marriagehe started on such a voyage, leaving his youthful bride with an oldhousekeeper, and just three weeks later Diane disappeared. Every effortwas made to trace her, but in vain, and it was believed that she hadgone to London. Before the end of the winter our village squire returnedfrom abroad, and declared that he had recognized Diane in Paris, andthat she was a popular dancer under the name of Merode. About the sametime it was reported in the papers that the vessel on which GilbertMorris had set sail, the _Nautilus_, had been lost in a storm, with allhands on board. There was every reason to credit the report--"
"But it was not true," exclaimed Jimmie. "I can read as much in youreyes, Mr. Chalfont. What became of Gilbert Morris?"
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