As Screw obeyed I saw a look pass between him and the two strangers which made me begin to feel a little uneasy. I thought the doctor noticed it too; but he preserved his countenance, as usual, in a state of the most unruffled composure.
“What a time that fellow is gone!” he exclaimed gayly. “Perhaps I had better go and get the book myself.”
The two strangers had been gradually lessening the distance between the doctor and themselves, ever since Screw had left the room. The last words were barely out of his mouth, before they both sprang upon him, and pinioned his arms with their hands.
“Steady, my fine fellow,” said Mr. Manasseh’s head agent. “It’s no go. We are Bow Street runners, and we’ve got you for coining.”
“Not a doubt of it,” said the doctor, with the most superb coolness. “You needn’t hold me. I’m not fool enough to resist when I’m fairly caught.”
“Wait till we’ve searched you; and then we’ll talk about that,” said the runner.[1]
The doctor submitted to the searching with the patience of a martyr. No offensive weapon being found in his pockets, they allowed him to sit down unmolested in the nearest chair.
“Screw, I suppose?” said the doctor, looking inquiringly at the officers.
“Exactly,” said the principal man of the two. “We have been secretly corresponding with him for weeks past. We have nabbed the man who went out with him, and got him safe at Barkingham. Don’t expect Screw back with the ledger. As soon as he has made sure that the rest of you are in the house, he is to fetch another man or two of our Bow Street lot, who are waiting outside till they hear from us. We only want an old man and a young one, and a third pal of yours who is a gentleman born, to make a regular clearance in the house. When we have once got you all, it will be the prettiest capture that’s ever been made since I was in the force.”
What the doctor answered to this I cannot say. Just as the officer had done speaking, I heard footsteps approaching the room in which I was listening. Was Screw looking for me? I instantly closed the peephole and got behind the door. It opened back upon me, and, sure enough, Screw entered cautiously.
An empty old wardrobe stood opposite the door. Evidently suspecting that I might have taken the alarm and concealed myself inside it, he approached it on tiptoe. On tiptoe also I followed him; and, just as his hands were on the wardrobe door, my hands were on his throat. He was a little man, and no match for me. I easily and gently laid him on his back, in a voiceless and half-suffocated state—throwing myself right over him, to keep his legs quiet. When I saw his face getting black, and his small eyes growing largely globular, I let go with one hand, crammed my empty plaster of Paris bag, which lay close by, into his mouth, tied it fast, secured his hands and feet, and then left him perfectly harmless, while I took counsel with myself how best to secure my own safety.
I should have made my escape at once; but for what I heard the officer say about the men who were waiting outside. Were they waiting near or at a distance? Were they on the watch at the front or the back of the house? I thought it highly desirable to give myself a chance of ascertaining their whereabouts from the talk of the officers in the next room, before I risked the possibility of running right into their clutches on the outer side of the door.
I cautiously opened the peephole once more.
The doctor appeared to be still on the most friendly terms with his vigilant guardians from Bow Street.
“Have you any objection to my ringing for some lunch, before we are all taken off to London together?” I heard him ask in his most cheerful tones. “A glass of wine and a bit of bread and cheese won’t do you any harm, gentlemen, if you are as hungry as I am.”
“If you want to eat and drink, order the victuals at once,” replied one of the runners, sulkily. “We don’t happen to want anything ourselves.”
“Sorry for it,” said the doctor. “I have some of the best old Madeira in England.”
“Like enough,” retorted the officer sarcastically. “But you see we are not quite such fools as we look; and we have heard of such a thing, in our time, as hocussed wine.”
“O fie! fie!” exclaimed the doctor merrily. “Remember how well I am behaving myself, and don’t wound my feelings by suspecting me of such shocking treachery as that!”
He moved to a corner of the room behind him, and touched a knob in the wall which I had never before observed. A bell rang directly, which had a new tone in it to my ears.
“Too bad,” said the doctor, turning round again to the runners; “really too bad, gentlemen, to suspect me of that!”
Shaking his head deprecatingly, he moved back to the corner, pulled aside something in the wall, disclosed the mouth of a pipe which was a perfect novelty to me, and called down it.
“Moses!”
It was the first time I had heard that name in the house.
“Who is Moses?” inquired the officers both together, advancing on him suspiciously.
“Only my servant,” answered the doctor. He turned once more to the pipe, and called down it:
“Bring up the Stilton Cheese, and a bottle of the Old Madeira.”
The cheese we had in use at that time was of purely Dutch extraction. I remembered Port, Sherry, and Claret in my palmy dinner-days at the doctor’s family-table; but certainly not Old Madeira. Perhaps he selfishly kept his best wine and his choicest cheese for his own consumption.
“Sam,” said one of the runners to the other, “you look to our civil friend here, and I’ll grab Moses when he brings up the lunch.”
“Would you like to see what the operation of coining is, while my man is getting the lunch ready?” said the doctor. “It may be of use to me at the trial, if you can testify that I afforded you every facility for finding out anything you might want to know. Only mention my polite anxiety to make things easy and instructive from the very first, and I may get recommended to mercy. See here—this queer-looking machine, gentlemen (from which two of my men derive their nicknames), is what we call a Mill-and-Screw.”
He began to explain the machine with the manner and tone of a lecturer at a scientific institution. In spite of themselves, the officers burst out laughing. I looked round at Screw as the doctor got deeper into his explanations. The traitor was rolling his wicked eyes horribly at me. They presented so shocking a sight, that I looked away again. What was I to do next? The minutes were getting on, and I had not heard a word yet, through the peephole, on the subject of the reserve of Bow Street runners outside. Would it not be best to risk everything, and get away at once by the back of the house?
Just as I had resolved on venturing the worst, and making my escape forthwith, I heard the officers interrupt the doctor’s lecture.
“Your lunch is a long time coming,” said one of them.
“Moses is lazy,” answered the doctor; “and the Madeira is in a remote part of the cellar. Shall I ring again?”
“Hang your ringing again!” growled the runner, impatiently. “I don’t understand why our reserve men are not here yet. Suppose you go and give them a whistle, Sam.”
“I don’t half like leaving you,” returned Sam. “This learned gentleman here is rather a shifty sort of chap; and it strikes me that two of us isn’t a bit too much to watch him.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Sam’s comrade, suspiciously.
A crash of broken crockery in the lower part of the house had followed that last word of the cautious officer’s speech. Naturally, I could draw no special inference from the sound; but, for all that, it filled me with a breathless interest and suspicion, which held me irresistibly at the peephole—though the moment before I had made up my mind to fly from the house.
“Moses is awkward as well as lazy,” said the doctor. “He has dropped the tray! Oh, dear, dear me! he has certainly dropped the tray.”
&nbs
p; “Let’s take our learned friend downstairs between us,” suggested Sam. “I shan’t be easy till we’ve got him out of the house.”
“And I shan’t be easy if we don’t handcuff him before we leave the room,” returned the other.
“Rude conduct, gentlemen—after all that has passed, remarkably rude conduct,” said the doctor. “May I, at least, get my hat while my hands are at liberty? It hangs on that peg opposite to us.” He moved toward it a few steps into the middle of the room while he spoke.
“Stop!” said Sam; “I’ll get your hat for you. We’ll see if there’s anything inside it or not, before you put it on.”
The doctor stood stockstill, like a soldier at the word, Halt.
“And I’ll get the handcuffs,” said the other runner, searching his coat-pockets.
The doctor bowed to him assentingly and forgivingly.
“Only oblige me with my hat, and I shall be quite ready for you,” he said—paused for one moment, then repeated the words, “Quite ready,” in a louder tone—and instantly disappeared through the floor!
I saw the two officers rush from opposite ends of the room to a great opening in the middle of it. The trap-door on which the doctor had been standing, and on which he had descended, closed up with a bang at the same moment; and a friendly voice from the lower regions called out gayly, “Good-by!”
The officers next made for the door of the room. It had been locked from the other side. As they tore furiously at the handle, the roll of the wheels of the doctor’s gig sounded on the drive in front of the house; and the friendly voice called out once more, “Good-by!”
I waited just long enough to see the baffled officers unbarring the window shutters for the purpose of giving the alarm, before I closed the peephole, and with a farewell look at the distorted face of my prostrate enemy, Screw, left the room.
The doctor’s study-door was open as I passed it on my way downstairs. The locked writing-desk, which probably contained the only clue to Alicia’s retreat that I was likely to find, was in its usual place on the table. There was no time to break it open on the spot. I rolled it up in my apron, took it off bodily under my arm, and descended to the iron door on the staircase. Just as I was within sight of it, it was opened from the landing on the other side. I turned to run upstairs again, when a familiar voice cried, “Stop!” and looking round, I beheld Young File.
“All right!” he said. “Father’s off with the governor in the gig, and the runners in hiding outside are in full cry after them. If Bow Street can get within pistol-shot of the blood mare, all I can say is, I give Bow Street full leave to fire away with both barrels! Where’s Screw?”
“Gagged by me in the casting-room.”
“Well done, you! Got all your things, I see, under your arm? Wait two seconds while I grab my money. Never mind the rumpus upstairs—there’s nobody outside to help them; and the gate’s locked, if there was.”
He darted past me up the stairs. I could hear the imprisoned officers shouting for help from the top windows. Their reserve men must have been far away, by this time, in pursuit of the gig; and there was not much chance of their getting useful help from any stray countryman who might be passing along the road, except in the way of sending a message to Barkingham. Anyhow we were sure of a half hour to escape in, at the very least.
“Now then,” said Young File, rejoining me; “let’s be off by the back way through the plantations. How came you to lay your lucky hands on Screw?” he continued, when we had passed through the iron door, and had closed it after us.
“Tell me first how the doctor managed to make a hole in the floor just in the nick of time.”
“What! did you see the trap sprung?”
“I saw everything.”
“The devil you did! Had you any notion that signals were going on, all the while you were on the watch? We have a regular set of them in case of accidents. It’s a rule that father, and me, and the doctor are never to be in the workroom together—so as to keep one of us always at liberty to act on the signals.—Where are you going to?”
“Only to get the gardener’s ladder to help us over the wall. Go on.”
“The first signal is a private bell—that means, Listen at the pipe. The next is a call down the pipe for ‘Moses’—that means, Danger! Lock the door. ‘Stilton Cheese’ means, Put the Mare to; and ‘Old Madeira’ Stand by the trap. The trap works in that locked-up room you never got into; and when our hands are on the machinery, we are awkward enough to have a little accident with the luncheon tray. ‘Quite Ready’ is the signal to lower the trap, which we do in the regular theater-fashion. We lowered the doctor smartly enough, as you saw, and got out by the back staircase. Father went in the gig, and I let them out and locked the gates after them. Now you know as much as I’ve got breath to tell you.”
We scaled the wall easily by the help of the ladder. When we were down on the other side, Young File suggested that the safest course for us was to separate, and for each to take his own way. We shook hands and parted. He went southward, toward London, and I went westward, toward the sea-coast, with Doctor Dulcifer’s precious writing-desk safe under my arm.
CHAPTER XII
For a couple of hours I walked on briskly, careless in what direction I went, so long as I kept my back turned on Barkingham.
By the time I had put seven miles of ground, according to my calculations, between me and the red-brick house, I began to look upon the doctor’s writing-desk rather in the light of an incumbrance, and determined to examine it without further delay. Accordingly I picked up the first large stone I could find in the road, crossed a common, burst through a hedge, and came to a halt, on the other side, in a thick wood. Here, finding myself well screened from public view, I broke open the desk with the help of the stone, and began to look over the contents.
To my unspeakable disappointment I found but few papers of any kind to examine. The desk was beautifully fitted with all the necessary materials for keeping up a large correspondence; but there were not more than half a dozen letters in it altogether. Four were on business matters, and the other two were of a friendly nature, referring to persons and things in which I did not feel the smallest interest. I found besides half a dozen bills receipted (the doctor was a mirror of punctuality in the payment of tradesmen), note and letter-paper of the finest quality, clarified pens, a pretty little pin-cushion, two small account-books filled with the neatest entries, and some leaves of blotting-paper. Nothing else; absolutely nothing else, in the treacherous writing-desk on which I had implicitly relied to guide me to Alicia’s hiding-place.
I groaned in sheer wretchedness over the destruction of all my dearest plans and hopes. If the Bow Street runners had come into the plantation just as I had completed the rifling of the desk I think I should have let them take me without making the slightest effort at escape. As it was, no living soul appeared within sight of me. I must have sat at the foot of a tree for full half an hour, with the doctor’s useless bills and letters before me, with my head in my hands, and with all my energies of body and mind utterly crushed by despair.
At the end of the half hour, the natural restlessness of my faculties began to make itself felt.
Whatever may be said about it in books, no emotion in this world ever did, or ever will, last for long together. The strong feeling may return over and over again; but it must have its constant intervals of change or repose. In real life the bitterest grief doggedly takes its rest and dries its eyes; the heaviest despair sinks to a certain level, and stops there to give hope a chance of rising, in spite of us. Even the joy of an unexpected meeting is always an imperfect sensation, for it never lasts long enough to justify our secret anticipations—our happiness dwindles to mere every-day contentment before we have half done with it.
I raised my head, and gathered the bills and letters together, and stood up a m
an again, wondering at the variableness of my own temper, at the curious elasticity of that toughest of all the vital substances within us, which we call Hope. “Sitting and sighing at the foot of this tree,” I thought, “is not the way to find Alicia, or to secure my own safety. Let me circulate my blood and rouse my ingenuity, by taking to the road again.”
Before I forced my way back to the open side of the hedge, I thought it desirable to tear up the bills and letters, for fear of being traced by them if they were found in the plantation. The desk I left where it was, there being no name on it. The note-paper and pens I pocketed—forlorn as my situation was, it did not authorize me to waste stationery. The blotting-paper was the last thing left to dispose of: two neatly-folded sheets, quite clean, except in one place, where the impression of a few lines of writing appeared. I was about to put the blotting-paper into my pocket after the pens, when something in the look of the writing impressed on it, stopped me.
Four blurred lines appeared of not more than two or three words each, running out one beyond another regularly from left to right. Had the doctor been composing poetry and blotting it in a violent hurry? At a first glance, that was more than I could tell. The order of the written letters, whatever they might be, was reversed on the face of the impression taken of them by the blotting-paper. I turned to the other side of the leaf. The order of the letters was now right, but the letters themselves were sometimes too faintly impressed, sometimes too much blurred together to be legible. I held the leaf up to the light—and there was a complete change: the blurred letters grew clearer, the invisible connecting lines appeared—I could read the words from first to last.
The writing must have been hurried, and it had to all appearance been hurriedly dried toward the corner of a perfectly clean leaf of the blotting-paper. After twice reading, I felt sure that I had made out correctly the following address:
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 152