hand-carriage was spinning away before us at a most indecorous pacefor an invalid vehicle, and was making most irregular curves upon thesand. Mr. Slinkton, noticing it after he had put his handkerchief to hiseyes, said:
‘If I may judge from appearances, your friend will be upset, Mr.Sampson.’
‘It looks probable, certainly,’ said I.
‘The servant must be drunk.’
‘The servants of old gentlemen will get drunk sometimes,’ said I.
‘The major draws very light, Mr. Sampson.’
‘The major does draw light,’ said I.
By this time the carriage, much to my relief, was lost in the darkness.We walked on for a little, side by side over the sand, in silence. Aftera short while he said, in a voice still affected by the emotion that hisniece’s state of health had awakened in him,
‘Do you stay here long, Mr. Sampson?’
‘Why, no. I am going away to-night.’
‘So soon? But business always holds you in request. Men like Mr.Sampson are too important to others, to be spared to their own need ofrelaxation and enjoyment.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said I. ‘However, I am going back.’
‘To London?’
‘To London.’
‘I shall be there too, soon after you.’
I knew that as well as he did. But I did not tell him so. Any more thanI told him what defensive weapon my right hand rested on in my pocket, asI walked by his side. Any more than I told him why I did not walk on thesea side of him with the night closing in.
We left the beach, and our ways diverged. We exchanged good-night, andhad parted indeed, when he said, returning,
‘Mr. Sampson, _may_ I ask? Poor Meltham, whom we spoke of,—dead yet?’
‘Not when I last heard of him; but too broken a man to live long, andhopelessly lost to his old calling.’
‘Dear, dear, dear!’ said he, with great feeling. ‘Sad, sad, sad! Theworld is a grave!’ And so went his way.
It was not his fault if the world were not a grave; but I did not callthat observation after him, any more than I had mentioned those otherthings just now enumerated. He went his way, and I went mine with allexpedition. This happened, as I have said, either at the end ofSeptember or beginning of October. The next time I saw him, and the lasttime, was late in November.
V.
I HAD a very particular engagement to breakfast in the Temple. It was abitter north-easterly morning, and the sleet and slush lay inches deep inthe streets. I could get no conveyance, and was soon wet to the knees;but I should have been true to that appointment, though I had to wade toit up to my neck in the same impediments.
The appointment took me to some chambers in the Temple. They were at thetop of a lonely corner house overlooking the river. The name, MR. ALFREDBECKWITH, was painted on the outer door. On the door opposite, on thesame landing, the name MR. JULIUS SLINKTON. The doors of both sets ofchambers stood open, so that anything said aloud in one set could beheard in the other.
I had never been in those chambers before. They were dismal, close,unwholesome, and oppressive; the furniture, originally good, and not yetold, was faded and dirty,—the rooms were in great disorder; there was astrong prevailing smell of opium, brandy, and tobacco; the grate andfire-irons were splashed all over with unsightly blotches of rust; and ona sofa by the fire, in the room where breakfast had been prepared, laythe host, Mr. Beckwith, a man with all the appearances of the worst kindof drunkard, very far advanced upon his shameful way to death.
‘Slinkton is not come yet,’ said this creature, staggering up when I wentin; ‘I’ll call him.—Halloa! Julius Cæsar! Come and drink!’ As hehoarsely roared this out, he beat the poker and tongs together in a madway, as if that were his usual manner of summoning his associate.
The voice of Mr. Slinkton was heard through the clatter from the oppositeside of the staircase, and he came in. He had not expected the pleasureof meeting me. I have seen several artful men brought to a stand, but Inever saw a man so aghast as he was when his eyes rested on mine.
‘Julius Cæsar,’ cried Beckwith, staggering between us, ‘Mist’ Sampson!Mist’ Sampson, Julius Cæsar! Julius, Mist’ Sampson, is the friend of mysoul. Julius keeps me plied with liquor, morning, noon, and night.Julius is a real benefactor. Julius threw the tea and coffee out ofwindow when I used to have any. Julius empties all the water-jugs oftheir contents, and fills ’em with spirits. Julius winds me up and keepsme going.—Boil the brandy, Julius!’
There was a rusty and furred saucepan in the ashes,—the ashes looked likethe accumulation of weeks,—and Beckwith, rolling and staggering betweenus as if he were going to plunge headlong into the fire, got the saucepanout, and tried to force it into Slinkton’s hand.
‘Boil the brandy, Julius Cæsar! Come! Do your usual office. Boil thebrandy!’
He became so fierce in his gesticulations with the saucepan, that Iexpected to see him lay open Slinkton’s head with it. I therefore putout my hand to check him. He reeled back to the sofa, and sat therepanting, shaking, and red-eyed, in his rags of dressing-gown, looking atus both. I noticed then that there was nothing to drink on the table butbrandy, and nothing to eat but salted herrings, and a hot, sickly,highly-peppered stew.
‘At all events, Mr. Sampson,’ said Slinkton, offering me the smoothgravel path for the last time, ‘I thank you for interfering between meand this unfortunate man’s violence. However you came here, Mr. Sampson,or with whatever motive you came here, at least I thank you for that.’
‘Boil the brandy,’ muttered Beckwith.
Without gratifying his desire to know how I came there, I said, quietly,‘How is your niece, Mr. Slinkton?’
He looked hard at me, and I looked hard at him.
‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Sampson, that my niece has proved treacherous andungrateful to her best friend. She left me without a word of notice orexplanation. She was misled, no doubt, by some designing rascal.Perhaps you may have heard of it.’
‘I did hear that she was misled by a designing rascal. In fact, I haveproof of it.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ said he.
‘Quite.’
‘Boil the brandy,’ muttered Beckwith. ‘Company to breakfast, JuliusCæsar. Do your usual office,—provide the usual breakfast, dinner, tea,and supper. Boil the brandy!’
The eyes of Slinkton looked from him to me, and he said, after a moment’sconsideration,
‘Mr. Sampson, you are a man of the world, and so am I. I will be plainwith you.’
‘O no, you won’t,’ said I, shaking my head.
‘I tell you, sir, I will be plain with you.’
‘And I tell you you will not,’ said I. ‘I know all about you. _You_plain with any one? Nonsense, nonsense!’
‘I plainly tell you, Mr. Sampson,’ he went on, with a manner almostcomposed, ‘that I understand your object. You want to save your funds,and escape from your liabilities; these are old tricks of trade with youOffice-gentlemen. But you will not do it, sir; you will not succeed.You have not an easy adversary to play against, when you play against me.We shall have to inquire, in due time, when and how Mr. Beckwith fellinto his present habits. With that remark, sir, I put this poorcreature, and his incoherent wanderings of speech, aside, and wish you agood morning and a better case next time.’
While he was saying this, Beckwith had filled a half-pint glass withbrandy. At this moment, he threw the brandy at his face, and threw theglass after it. Slinkton put his hands up, half blinded with the spirit,and cut with the glass across the forehead. At the sound of thebreakage, a fourth person came into the room, closed the door, and stoodat it; he was a very quiet but very keen-looking man, with iron-grayhair, and slightly lame.
Slinkton pulled out his handkerchief, assuaged the pain in his smartingeyes, and dabbled the blood on his forehead. He was a long time aboutit, and I saw that in the doing of it, a tremendous change came over him,occasioned by the chang
e in Beckwith,—who ceased to pant and tremble, satupright, and never took his eyes off him. I never in my life saw a facein which abhorrence and determination were so forcibly painted as inBeckwith’s then.
‘Look at me, you villain,’ said Beckwith, ‘and see me as I really am. Itook these rooms, to make them a trap for you. I came into them as adrunkard, to bait the trap for you. You fell into the trap, and you willnever leave it alive. On the morning when you last went to Mr. Sampson’soffice, I had seen him first. Your plot has been known to both of us,all along, and you have been counter-plotted all along. What? Havingbeen cajoled into putting that prize of two thousand pounds in yourpower, I was to be done to death with brandy, and, brandy not provingquick enough, with something quicker? Have I never seen you, when youthought my senses gone, pouring from your little bottle into my glass?Why, you Murderer and Forger, alone here with you in the dead of night,as I have so often been, I have had my hand upon the trigger of a pistol,twenty times, to blow your brains out!’
This sudden starting up of the thing that he had supposed to be hisimbecile victim into a determined man, with a settled resolution to
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