The Second Dandy Chater

by Tom Gallon

  CHAPTER IX

  A SUMMONS FROM SHYLOCK

  For quite a long time, Philip Chater stood, staring helplessly in thedirection in which the girl had disappeared. All around him was thesilence of the wood, broken only by the call of some night-bird, or bythe whisper and rustle of the branches, stirred by a rising wind. Sostill was it all, that he almost shrieked aloud when a hand was laidsoftly on his arm.

  It was Harry—white-faced, and shaking as though with an ague. He, too,gazed in the direction in which Philip’s eyes were turned, and spoke ina frightened whisper.

  “Master Dandy—did she—did she see it?”

  The question roused Philip, and put the whole horrible thing moreclearly before him than it had appeared even in his imagination. Helooked round at the lad, and spoke aloud, and in a tone of recklessnessquite out of keeping with the peril of his situation. But allconsiderations of prudence had been swept aside, at that time; ringingin his ears still, was the startled scream of the woman heloved—(yes—he could confess it to his own heart, now that he had losther)—before his eyes again was the sight of her running figure, withits horror-struck eyes hidden from his view.

  “See it! Of course she saw it. What does it matter? All the world maysee it; all the world may know of it. Take your spade away, Harry; youmay dig a grave, as deep as the pit of Hell itself, and yet you shallnot hide that thing! Why do you tremble? What is there for _you_ totremble at? Her blood cries out—not against you, but against me; itcries to Heaven—‘See—Dandy Chater killed me—Dandy Chater spilled myblood on God’s fair earth—Dandy Chater——’”

  His voice had risen to a cry; the other sprang at him, and clapped ashaking hand over his mouth.

  “Stop—stop, for God’s sake!” he cried, huskily. “Are you mad, MasterDandy—are you mad? I tell you it can be hidden; no man knows of it butmyself, and Miss Barnshaw will say nothing.”

  “I tell you it shall not be hidden,” cried Philip, impatiently.“Why—if any one found you here, digging a grave for it—don’t youunderstand that suspicion would fall upon you?”

  “I don’t care about that, Master Dandy,” he cried. “Better me than you.Let them think what they will, Master Dandy; only get you gone, beforethe hue and cry is raised.”

  “No—I shall not go,” replied Philip, speaking quite calmly, and with acertain hopeless note in his voice which was more impressive than anyother utterance could have been. “My dear boy—you can’t understandthat it doesn’t matter one little bit—now. It has been a blunder and amuddle, from first to last; Fate has proved too strong for me—I’llstruggle against it no longer.”

  “But, Master Dandy,” urged the eager voice—“won’t you let me hideit—at least, for the moment? It will give you time to get away—timeto hide.”

  “I tell you I shall not hide,” said Philip, quietly. “Come away; Iwon’t have you mixed up in the business. Why—dear lad”—he dropped hishand, for a moment, on the other’s shoulder—“there’s a sweet girl,whom you love, and who loves you, I’ll be bound, no matter what she maysay. Your life is straight before you; you mustn’t throw it away on me.”

  He turned, and went in the direction he had come, looking behind himonce, to be certain that the other was following. Suddenly rememberingthat he was like a blind man, groping his way, and having no desire togo near Madge Barnshaw’s house again, he turned abruptly, when he hadgone a little way, and motioned to Harry to go before him.

  “Lead the way,” he said, in the old tone of authority—“I want to besure that you don’t go back again.”

  Harry passed him, with bent head, and walked in front. And in thatorder they came to Chater Hall.

  Once inside the home which he felt was rightly his, and surrounded bythe quiet and luxurious repose of it, the mood of the man changed. Hewas but young, and life was very, very sweet. Quixotism,self-sacrifice, despair; all these things went to the winds. He was ahunted man, playing a desperate game with chance, with his life for thestake. Figuratively speaking, he had his back to the wall; and he meantto make a fight for it, before he gave in.

  Pretence was gone; and he was more lonely even than before. The onebeing who had seemed to turn to him naturally, avoided him now withhorror, as one whose hands were stained with blood. Whatever hope mighthave been in his mind of escaping was gone; he no longer masqueraded inanother man’s garments, and in another man’s place; he was battling forhis life.

  “Every moment that I stay here makes the danger greater; that thing maybe found, and they may be upon me, like bloodhounds, at any moment. Imust clear myself; I must, if necessary, undo all that I have done, anddeclare who I really am. But, if I stop here, I shall be caught like arat in a trap. I want time to think—time to plan out what I mustdo——What’s that?”

  Some one had knocked softly at the door. After a moment’s pause, PhilipChater, in a nervous voice, called out—“Come in!”

  A servant entered, bearing a letter. “I did not know you were in, sir,”he said. “This came while you were out.”

  Philip Chater—doubly suspicious now—looked at the man curiously as hetook the letter. Was it possible that some one had watched his goingout—had even seen Harry going in the direction of the wood first,carrying the spade for his awful work? The spade! It had been leftbehind, in that half-dug grave; there had been no time even to think ofit. All these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, in the fewseconds during which the man handed him the letter—bowedrespectfully—and retired.

  Almost mechanically, he tore open the envelope, and unfolded the sheetwithin it.

  “DEAR SIR,

  “It is imperative that you should see me at once. I use the term‘imperative,’ because it is necessary that there should be no delayabout the matter. Permit me to add that the business has reference tothe draft, recently paid into my hands, and drawn by a Mr. ArthurBarnshaw. I must ask you, if quite convenient to yourself, to be goodenough to call upon me, at my office, to-morrow (Thursday) before noon.

  “I am, Dear Sir,

  “Your obedient servant,

  “Z. ISAACSON.”

  The letter bore an address in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street,London—and was dated that day.

  Philip Chater read the letter through three times, without coming anynearer to its meaning. Again, the phrase—“drawn by a Mr. ArthurBarnshaw”—was more puzzling than anything else. It was, of course,probable—indeed, almost certain—that this Mr. Arthur Barnshaw was arelative of Madge; but, if so, what relative?—and on what terms offriendship, or otherwise, had he stood with the late Dandy Chater? Allthese things had to be discovered.

  “Under any circumstances,” said Philip to himself, “this letter helpsme, and points the road that I must travel. For the time, at least, Imust get out of the way; this business calls me to London—and toLondon I will go. The name of Isaacson has a flavour of sixty per cent.and promissory notes; but I must leave explanations to him. I wish Iknew who Arthur Barnshaw is.”

  Still with that dread upon him of the fearful thing in the wood, hedetermined not to wait until the morrow, but to start for London thatnight. Finding, however, that it was far too late for any train to berunning, he made up his mind to press Harry into his service; and sentfor him, without any further delay.

  The lad made his appearance at once, and stood quietly just within theclosed door of the room, waiting for his master to speak. Between thetwo, from this night onwards, there seemed a tacit understanding thatsomething was not to be mentioned between them, at any time—even whilethere was an equally strong understanding—also unspoken—that eachwatched for danger, and was ready to act swiftly, if necessary.

  “Harry—I am going to London. Yes—yes—I know”—as the other glancedinstinctively at the clock—“it’s too late for trains; I must drive asfar as possible—and walk the rest. I leave all the details to you; getthe horse you think will stay best
; we shall go some fifteen miles, andyou can then drop me, and drive back. Quick—there is no time to belost!”

  Understanding, only too well, the necessity for quickness and forcaution, Harry returned, in a very short space of time, to announcethat the dog-cart was in waiting at the gate in the lane, and a bag,packed with a few necessary articles, already in it. With the servantleading the way, Philip went through a long passage he had nevertraversed before, and, passing through a low doorway, found himselfunder the stars. The two men went silently across a sort of paddock,and came out into a narrow lane, where the dog-cart stood waiting, withthe horse fastened to the fence.

  “I thought it best to do it myself, Master Dandy; so I sent Jim away,and did the harnessing alone,” he said.

  “Quite right, Harry,” replied Philip. “Here—you’d better drive—andtake the straight road for London, once we get past the village.”

  They had come almost to the end of the lane, when Philip’s quick eardetected the sound of running feet, on the road towards which they weredriving. He signed to Harry to check the horse scarcely twenty yardsfrom the road; and they drew up in the shadow of the trees.

  “Get down,” he whispered to the lad—“and stroll out into the road tomeet them. Find out what is the matter.”

  Harry jumped down, and reached the road just as two men came runningheavily along it. Philip, listening intently, while they gave theirbreathless answers, knew that the body was found, and that thefrightened yokels were off in search of the village constable. As theirhurried footsteps died away in the distance, Harry came back to thetrap, and climbed in, and took the reins.

  “You were wise to start to-night, Master Dandy,” he said, as he startedthe horse. “Bamberton won’t sleep to-night, with this news in the air.”

  Leaving Bamberton behind them—to be stirred to its depths presently bythe news, and to gather itself in excited shuddering knots, within andwithout the Chater Arms, and other public places; and to whisper, andshake heads, and offer many wise suggestions in regard to themurder—Philip Chater and his companion headed straight for London. Itwas pitch dark, and heavy rain had begun to fall, when, within aboutten or fifteen miles of the first straggling outskirts of the greatcity, Philip directed the vehicle to be stopped, and sprang down intothe road. They had rattled on, mile after mile, in silence; now, as hestood beside the steaming horse, he looked up at his servant.

  “Understand, Harry,” he said, “I won’t have you interfere in thismatter again. Keep away from the wood—keep away from everything andeverybody. I am more grateful than I can say, for your devotion; and Iwill not insult you by asking you to be silent. Keep a stout heart, mylad; I’ll get clear of this, and be back with you before very long.Good-bye!”

  He turned away, and struck off alone in the direction of London; Harryturned the jaded horse, and started on his journey back to Bamberton.

  It was a very drenched and disconsolate-looking man that tramped intothe slowly awakening streets of London some hours later. He found amodest hotel—a sort of superior public-house, of an old-fashionedtype; and, after waiting some considerable time, was able to getsomething of a meal, and to get to bed. But his last thought, as heundressed, was that this hurried flight, on the spur of the moment, hadbeen a blunder.

  “Harry’s devotion and my fright have, I fear, carried us both away,” hemuttered to himself. “The smuggling out of the dog-cart by a back way;this hurried race to London; above all—the spade, taken, I suspect,from the Hall—and left so near the body; it all points to DandyChater. Well—I must get this interview over to-morrow—or ratherto-day—and see what further troubles are in store for me. For themoment, I am worn out, and shall do no good by thinking or planning.”

  He slept soundly, and—a little before noon—presented himself at theoffice of Mr. Z. Isaacson, in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street.

  It was a somewhat pretentious place, consisting, so far as he couldsee, of but two rooms; the first of which, at least, was very solidlyand heavily furnished. But by far the most solid and heavy piece offurniture in the place was the gentleman he imagined to be Mr. Z.Isaacson—a portly individual, with pronounced features, muchwatch-chain, and some heavy rings on his fat white fingers.Remembering, in time, that he was probably supposed to know thisgentleman with some intimacy, Philip nodded carelessly, and threwhimself into the chair which the other indicated.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, my dear boy,” began Mr. Isaacson, in a familiarmanner. He spoke with something of a nasal accent, and a little asthough his tongue were too large for his mouth. “You know—we like tohave things pleasant and square, and _I_ like—as you’ve found beforeto-day—to do the amiable, if I can. But, you know, dear boy”—hepassed his large hand over his shining bald head, and shook that headgravely—“this is rather—well, you know—really——”

  His voice trailed off, and he pretended to be busy with some papers onhis desk. Philip Chater looked at him for a moment, and then broke outimpatiently,

  “What are you talking about? What do you want with me?”

  “Now, my dear boy,” said Mr. Isaacson, soothingly—“this is not thespirit I like to see—it isn’t really. You and me have had dealings,this year or two, and you’ve paid the little bit of interest I’veasked, fairly and squarely; likewise, I’ve renewed from time totime—for a little consideration—and all has been square and pleasant.But, when it comes to playing it off on an old friend in thisfashion—well, really, you know——”

  Philip Chater was in no mood for unprofitable conversation, especiallywith a man of this stamp, on that particular morning. His nerves hadbeen tried, beyond the lot of common nerves, within the pastfour-and-twenty hours; he had had a wet and weary journey, and not toomuch sleep. Consequently, the smooth oily utterances of Mr. Isaacsondrove him almost to frenzy.

  “Why the devil can’t you say what you’re driving at, and be done withit. You’ve brought me all this distance,” he cried, savagely—“and nowyou’re mouthing and carrying on in this fashion. What’s the matter withyou? Out with it!”

  Mr. Isaacson’s face underwent a sudden change; certain veins in histemples swelled up ominously, and he came a little way round his desk;leaning over it, and putting his face near to that of his visitor, hesaid, truculently—

  “Oh—so you want me to out with it—do you? You’re not a bit ashamed ofwhat you’ve done——”

  “Ashamed? What of?” cried Philip.

  “Forgery! Obtaining money by false pretences! Robbery! HolyIsrael!—how much more do you want?”

  “Not much more—thank you,” replied Philip, staggered into calmness.“Perhaps you’ll have the goodness to explain.”

  “There isn’t much explanation needed,” snarled the other. “The lasttime you were in this office, you paid me a cheque for one thousand sixhundred and twenty-six pounds, for accumulated interest, expenses, andother matters; because I had threatened that, unless I had that sum, bythat date, I would come down on you, and sell you up. Now, you knew,Mr. Dandy Chater—and _I_ knew—that you hadn’t any such sum of yourown; therefore you came to me, bringing a cheque for the amount, on thesame bank as your own, at Chelmsford, from a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw—thebrother, so you told me, of the young lady you expected to marry.”

  (“I’m glad I know who Arthur Barnshaw is,” thought Philip.)

  “You told me a pretty story, about his having lent you the money, outof affection for his dear sister, and to keep the knowledge of youraffairs from her ears. Now, Mr. Dandy Chater”—the man brought his handdown upon the desk with a bang, and became rather more red than beforein the face—“perhaps you’ll be surprised to learn that that cheque hasbeen referred, on account of the signature, to Mr. Barnshaw himself;and that he unhesitatingly states that it is a forgery, and that henever drew any cheque, for any such amount.”

  Philip Chater, utterly at a loss what to say, sat staring at the manhelplessly. The opening of the door behind him, and a change ofexpression to something milder on the part
of Mr. Isaacson’scountenance, caused him to turn his head.

  A young man—at whom it was unnecessary to cast a second glance, toassure him that this was Madge’s brother—had entered the room; hadstopped, on seeing Philip; and now came hesitatingly forward. He wasyounger than Philip—scarcely more, from his appearance, than a year ortwo the senior of his sister. He waved aside the man Isaacson, andsaid, in a low voice, to Philip—

  “I say, old fellow—I’d like to have a word with you.” Then, as Philiprose, and walked with him towards a window, he added, in a lowvoice—“Look here, Dandy—I want to do the square thing; and I swear toyou that, if I’d have known that this affair had anything to do withyou, I should never have pressed my enquiries. But, you see, the chequewas made out to the order of that old shark at the desk there, and Inever guessed—now, look here—you’ve got into a hole, old boy—but I’dlike to pull you out of it, if I can. What can we do? You see, I’ve gotto think, not only of you, but of Madge; it’ll be such an awful blow toher.”

  Philip wondered whether anything could be a greater blow to her thanthe sight on which her eyes had rested in the wood. But he saidnothing. His one desire, at the moment, was to get clear away; and todrop, as completely as possible, out of the life in which he hadusurped a place. There was, too, a wholly foolish and ridiculous ideain his head, that he would not like this girl, who had kissed his lips,and had once believed in him—(or in his dead counterpart)—to have anyworse opinion than she at that time cherished. As by an inspiration, heremembered that the notes he had received on the night of the meetingat “The Three Watermen” were still in his pocket. He determined to usethem.

  He explained briefly to Arthur—even while he expressed hisregret—that he had unexpectedly received a considerable sum ofmoney—the proceeds from some speculations, the shares in which hadlong lain useless. He suggested that it might be possible to bribe thatworthy Hebrew at the desk.

  Mr. Isaacson was not at first to be persuaded; but the cheque being inhis hands—marked “Refer to drawer”—he at last agreed to sell it, forthe sum of three thousand pounds. Arthur Barnshaw struck a match—setfire to the tell-tale paper—and allowed it to burn down to hisfingers. “That matter is done with,” he said, quietly.

  In the street, however, a change came over him; he stood, for a moment,looking at Philip, and then thrust his hands into his pockets. “I don’tthink I should care to shake hands—not yet,” he said. “I want to getover this.” He turned, and walked away.

  At the same moment, a newsboy—hurrying past—shouted at the full pitchof his lungs—“’Orrible murder in Essex! Bank robbery in Sheffield!Weener!”

  Philip Chater staggered, and then walked on, in a dazed condition. Forhe knew that he stood—wholly, in the one case—partly, in theother—responsible for both.