 Chapter 35 of Aurora Floyd. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading done by Jules Harlec of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. Aurora Floyd by Mary Elizabeth Braden. Chapter 35, Under a Cloud. Talbot Bolstrode and his wife came to Melish Park a few days after the return of John and Aurora. Lucy was pleased to come to her cousin. Pleased to be allowed to love her without reservation. Grateful to her husband for his gracious goodness in setting no barrier between her and the friend she loved. And Talbot, who shall tell the thoughts that were busy in his mind, as he sat in a corner of the first-class carriage to all outward appearance engrossed in the perusal of a Times leader. I wonder how much of the thunder is noble Saxon English Mr. Bolstrode comprehended that morning. The broad white paper on which the Times is printed serves as a convenient screen for a man's face. Heaven knows what agnes have been sometimes endured behind that printed mass. A woman married and a happy mother glances carelessly enough at the births and marriages and deaths and reads perhaps that the man she loved and parted with and broke her heart for 15 or 20 years before has fallen shot through the heart far away upon an Indian battlefield. She holds the paper firmly enough before her face and her husband goes on with his breakfast and stirs his coffee or breaks his egg while she suffers her agony. While the comfortable breakfast table darkens and goes away from her and the long ago day comes back upon which the cruel ship left Southampton and the hard voices of well-meaning friends held forth monotonously upon the folly of improvisant marriages. Would not it be better, by the by, for wives to make a practice of telling their husbands all the sentimental little stories connected with the pre-matrimonial era? Would it not be wiser to gossip freely about Charles' dark eyes and mustache and to hope that the poor fellow is getting on well in the Indian service than to keep a skeleton in the shape of a phantom ensign in the 87th hidden away in some dark chamber of the feminine memory? But other than womanly agnes are suffered behind the times. The husband reads bad news of the railway company in whose shares he has so rashly invested that money which his wife believes safely lodged in the jog trot, 3% yielding consoles. The dashing son with new market tendencies reads evil tidings of the horse he has backed so boldly. Perhaps at the advice of a Manchester prophet who warranted putting his friends in the way of winning a hat full of money for the small consideration of three and six pence in postage stamps. Visions of a wall that it will not be very easy to square of a black list of play or pay engagements of a crowd of angry bookmen clamorous for their dues and not slow to hint at handy horse ponds and possible tar and feathers for defaulting swells and sneaking welshers. All these things flit across the disorganized brain of the young man. While his sisters aren't treating to be told whether the crown diamonds is to be performed that night and if dear Miss Pine will warble roads air before the curtain falls. The friendly screen hides his face and by the time he has looked for the Covent Garden advertisements and given the required information he is able to set the paper down and proceed calmly with his breakfast pondering ways and means as he does so. Lucy Bolsteroed read a high church novel while her husband sat with the times before his face thinking of all that had happened to him since he had first met the banker's daughter. How far away that old love story seemed to have receded since the quiet domestic happiness of his life had begun in his marriage with Lucy. He had never been false in the remotest shadow of thought to his second love but now that he knew the secret of Aurora's life he could but look back and wonder how he should have borne that cruel revelation if John's faith had been his. If he had trusted the woman he loved in spite of the world in spite of her own strange words which had so terribly strengthened his worst fear so cruelly redoubled his darkest doubts. Poor girl he thought. It was scarcely strange that she should shrink from telling that humiliating story. I was not tender enough. I confronted her in my obstinate and pitiless pride. I thought of myself rather than of her and her sorrow. I was barbarous and un-gentlemanly and then I wondered that she refused to confide in me. Talbot Bolsteroed reasoning after the fact and the weak points of his conduct with a preternatural clearness of vision and could not repress a sharp pang of regret that he had not acted more generously. There was no infidelity to Lucy in this thought. He would not have exchanged his devoted little wife for the black-browed divinity of the past though an all-powerful fairy had stood at his side ready to cancel his nuptials by a fresh knot between him and Aurora. But he was a gentleman and he felt that he had grievously wronged, insulted and humiliated a woman whose worst fault had been the trusting folly of an innocent girl. I left her on the ground in that room at Felden, he thought, kneeling on the ground with her beautiful head bowed down before me. My God, can I ever forget the agony of that moment? Can I ever forget what it cost me to do what I thought was right? The cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead as he remembered that bygone pain as it may do with a cowardly person who recalls too vividly the taking out of a three-pronged double tooth or the cutting off of a limb. John Mellish was ten times wiser than I thought, Mr. Bolstrode. He trusted to his instinct and recognized a true woman when he met her. I used to despise him at Rugby because he couldn't construe Cicero. I never thought he'd live to be wiser than me. Talbot Bolstrode folded the Times newspaper and laid it down in the empty seat beside him. Lucy shut the third volume of her novel. How should she care to read when it pleased her husband to desist from reading? Lucy said Mr. Bolstrode, taking his wife's hand, they had the carriage to themselves, a piece of good fortune which often happens to travelers who give the guard half a crown. Lucy, I once did your cousin a great wrong. I want to atone for it now. If any trouble which no one yet foresees should come upon her, I want to be her friend. Do you think I am right in wishing this, dear? Right, Talbot. Mrs. Bolstrode could only repeat the word in unmitigated surprise. When did she ever think him anything but the truest and wisest and most perfect of created beings? Everything seemed very quiet and melanch when the visitors arrived. There was no one in the drawing room nor in the smaller room within the drawing room. The Venetians were closed for the day was close and sultry. There were vases of fresh flowers upon the table, but there were no open books, no litter of frivolous needlework or drawing material to indicate Aurora's presence. Mr. and Mrs. Melish expected you by the later train, I believe, sir. The servant said as he ushered Talbot and his wife into the drawing room. Shall I go and look for Aurora? Lucy said to her husband. She's in the morning room, I daresay. Talbot suggested that it would be better perhaps to wait till Mrs. Melish came to them. So Lucy was feigned to remain where she was. She went to one of the open windows and pushed the shutters apart. The blazing sunshine burst into the room and drowned it in light. The smooth lawn was aflame with scarlet geraniums and standard roses and all manner of godly colored blossoms. But Mrs. Bolstrode looked beyond this vividly tinted parquet to the thick woods that loomed darkly purple against the glowing sky. It was in that very wood that her husband had declared his love for her, the same wood that had since been outraged by violence and murder. The man is buried, I suppose, Talbot, she said to her husband. I believe so, my dear. I should never care to live in this place again if I were Aurora. The door opened before Mrs. Bolstrode had finished speaking and the mistress of the house came toward them. She welcomed them affectionately and kindly, taking Lucy in her arms and greeting her very tenderly. But Talbot saw that she had changed terribly within the few days that had passed since her return to Yorkshire. And his heart sank as he observed her pale face and the dark circles about her hollow eyes. Could she have heard? Could anybody have given her reason to suppose? You are not well, Mrs. Mellish, he said, as he took her hand. No, not very well. This oppressive weather makes my headache. I am sorry to see you looking ill. Where shall I find John? asked Mr. Bolstrode. Aurora's pale face flushed suddenly. I don't know, she stammered. He is not in the house. He has gone out to the stables or to the farm, I think. I'll send for him. No, no, Talbot said, intercepting her hand on its way to the bell. I'll go and look for him. Lucy will be glad of a chat with you, I daresay, Aurora, and will not be sorry to get rid of me. Lucy, with her arm about her cousin's waist, ascended to this arrangement. She was grieved to see the change in Aurora's looks, the unnatural constraint of her manner. Mr. Bolstrode walked away, hugging himself upon having done a very wise thing. Lucy is a great deal more likely to find out what is the matter than I am, he thought. There is a sort of free masonry between women, an electric affinity, which a man's presence always destroys. How deathly pale Aurora looks. Can it be possible that the trouble I expect has come so soon? He went to the stables, but not so much to look for John Mellish as in the hopes of finding somebody intelligent enough to furnish him with a better account of the murder than any he had yet heard. Someone else, as well as Aurora, must have had reason for wishing to get rid of this man. He thought, there must have been some motive, revenge, gain, something which no one has yet fathomed. He went into the stable yard, but he had no opportunity of making his investigation. For John Mellish was standing in a listless attitude before a small forge, watching the shooing of one of his horses. The young squire looked up with a start as he recognized Talbot and gave him his hand with a few straggling words of welcome. Even in that moment, Mr. Bolstrode saw that there was perhaps a greater change in John's appearance than in that of Aurora. The Yorkshire man's blue eyes had lost their brightness, his step its elasticity, his face seemed sunken and haggard, and he evidently avoided meeting Talbot's eye. He lounged listlessly away from the forge, walking at his guest's side in the direction of the stable gates, but he had the air of a man who neither knows nor cares whether he is going. Shall we go to the house, he said? You must want some lunch in after your journey. He looked at his watch as he said this. It was half past three an hour after the usual time for luncheon at Mellish. I've been in the stables all the morning, he said. We're busy making our preparations for the York summer. What horses do you run, Mr. Bolstrode asked politely, affecting to be interested in a subject that was utterly indifferent to him in the hope that stable talk might rouse John from his listless apathy. What horses, repeated Mr. Mellish vaguely? I hardly know, Langley manages all that for me, you know, and I forget the names of the horses he proposed, and Talbot Bolstrode turned suddenly upon his friend and looked him full in the face. They had left the stables by this time and were in a shady pathway that led through a shrubbery toward the house. John Mellish, he said, this is not fair towards an old friend. You have something on your mind and you are trying to hide it from me. The squire turned away his head. I have something on my mind, Talbot, he said quietly. If you could help me, I'd ask your help more than any man's. But you can't. You can't. But suppose I think I can help you, cried Mr. Bolstrode. Suppose I mean to try and do so, whether you will or no. I think I can guess what your trouble is, John, but I thought you were a braver man than to give way under it. I thought you were just the sort of man to struggle through it nobly and bravely and to get the better of it by your own strength of will. What do you mean, exclaimed John Mellish? You can guess. You know. You thought. Have you no mercy upon me, Talbot Bolstrode? Can't you see that I'm almost mad and that this is no time for you to force your sympathy upon me? Do you want me to betray myself? Do you want me to betray? He stopped suddenly as if the words had choked him and, passionately stamping his foot upon the ground, walked on hurriedly with his friends still by his side. The dining room looked dreary enough when the two men entered it, although the table gave promise of a very substantial luncheon, but there was no one to welcome them or to officiate at the banquet. John seated himself wearily in a chair at the bottom of the table. You had better go and see if Mrs. Bolstrode and your mistress are coming to luncheon, he said to a servant who left the room with his master's message and returned three minutes afterward to say that the ladies were not coming. The ladies were seated side by side upon a low sofa in Aurora's morning room. Mrs. Mellish sat with her head upon her cousin's shoulder. She had never had a sister, remember? And gentle Lucy stood in place of that near and tender comforter. Talbot was perfectly right. Lucy had accomplished that which he would have failed to bring about. She had found the key to her cousin's unhappiness. Cease to love you, dear, exclaimed Mrs. Bolstrode, echoing the words that Aurora had last spoken, impossible. It is true, Lucy, Mrs. Mellish answered despairingly. He has ceased to love me. There is a black cloud between us now, now that all secrets are done away with. It is very bitter for me to bear Lucy, for I thought we should be so happy and united. But it is only natural. He feels the degradation so much. How can he look at me without remembering who and what I am, the widow of his groom? Can I wonder that he avoids me? Avoids you, dear? Yes, avoids me. We have scarcely spoken a dozen words to each other since the night of our return. He was so good to me, so tender and devoted during the journey home, telling me again and again that this discovery had not lessened his love. That all the trial and horror of the past few days had only shown him the great strength of his affection. But on the night of our return, Lucy, he changed, changed suddenly and inexplicably. And now I feel that there is a gulf between us that can never be past again. He is alienated from me forever. Aurora, all this is impossible, remonstrated Lucy. It is your own morbid fancy, darling. My fancy, cried Aurora bitterly. Ah, Lucy, you cannot know how much I love my husband if you think that I could be deceived in one look or tone of his. Is it my fancy that he averts his eyes when he speaks to me? Is it my fancy that his voice changes when he pronounces my name? Is it my fancy that he roams about the house like a ghost and paces up and down his room half the night through? If these things are my fancy, heaven have mercy upon me, Lucy, for I must be going mad. Mrs. Bolstrode started as she looked at her cousin. Could it be possible that all the trouble and confusion of the past week or two had indeed unsettled this poor girl's intellect? My poor Aurora, she murmured, smoothing the heavy hair away from her cousin's tearful eyes. My poor darling, how is it possible that John should change toward you? He loved you so dearly, so devotedly, surely nothing could have alienated him from you. I used to think so, Lucy, Aurora murmured in a low heartbroken voice. I used to think nothing could ever come to part us. He said he would follow me to the uttermost end of the world. He said that no obstacle on earth should ever separate us. And now she could not finish the sentence, for she broke into convulsive sobs and hid her face upon her cousin's shoulder, staining Mrs. Bolstrode's pretty silk dress with her hot tears. Oh, my love, my love, she cried piteously. Why didn't I run away and hide myself from you? Why didn't I trust to my first instinct and run away from you forever? Any suffering would be better than this. Any suffering would be better than this. Her passionate grief merged into a fit of hysterical weeping, in which she was no longer mistress of herself. She had suffered for the past few days more bitterly than she had ever suffered yet. Lucy understood all that. She was one of those people whose tenderness instinctively comprehends the grief of others. She knew how to treat her cousin, and in less than an hour after this emotional outbreak, Aurora was lying on her bed, pale and exhausted, but sleeping peacefully. She had carried the burden of her sorrow in silence during the past few days, and had spent sleepless nights in brooding over her trouble. Her conversation with Lucy had unconsciously relieved her, and she slumbered calmly after the storm. Lucy sat by the bed watching the sleeper for some time, and then stole on tiptoe from the room. She went, of course, to tell her husband all that had passed, and to take counsel from his sublime wisdom. She found Talbot in the drawing room alone. He had eaten a dreary luncheon in John's company, and had been hastily left by his host immediately after the meal. There had been no sound of carriage wheels upon the gravel drive-all that morning. There had been no callers at Mellish since John's return, for a horrible scandal had spread itself throughout the length and breadth of the county, and those who spoke of the young squire and his wife talked in solemn undertones and gravely demanded of each other whether some serious step should not be taken about the business which was uppermost in everybody's mind. Lucy told Talbot all that Aurora had said to her. This was no breach of confidence in the young wife's coat of morality, for were not she and her husband immutably one, and how could she have any secrets from him? I thought so, Mr. Bolstrode said, when Lucy had finished her story. You thought what, dear? That the breach between John and Aurora was a serious one. Don't look so sorrowful, my darling. It must be our business to reunite these divided lovers. You shall comfort Aurora, Lucy, and I'll look after John. Talbot Bolstrode kissed his little wife and went straight away upon his friendly errand. He found John Mellish in his own room, the room in which Aurora had written to him upon the day of her flight, the room from which the murderous weapon had been stolen by some unknown hand. John had hidden the rusty pistol in one of the locked drawers of his Davenport, but it was not to be supposed that the fact of its discovery could be locked up and hidden away. That had been fully discussed in the servants' hall, and who shall doubt that it had traveled farther, percolating through some of those senuous channels which lead away from every household? I want you to come for a walk with me, Mr. John Mellish, said Talbot, imperatively. So put on your hat and come into the park. You are the most agreeable gentleman I ever had the honor to visit, and the attention you pay your guest is really something remarkable. Mr. Mellish made no reply to this speech. He stood before his friend Pale, silent, and sullen. He was no more like the hearty Yorkshire squire whom we have known than he was like Viscount Palmerston or Lord Clyde. He was transformed out of himself by some great trouble that was preying upon his mind. And, being of a transparent and childlessly truthful disposition, was unable to disguise his anguish. John, John, cried Talbot. We were little boys together at Rugby and have backed each other in a dozen childish fights. Is it kind of you to withhold your friendship from me now when I have come here on purpose to be a friend to you? To you and to Aurora. John Mellish turned away his head as his friend mentioned that familiar name, and the gesture was not lost upon Mr. Bolstrode. John, why do you refuse to trust me? I don't refuse. I, why did you come to this accursed house? cried John Mellish passionately. Why did you come here, Talbot Bolstrode? You don't know the blight that is upon this place and those who live in it. Or you would have no more come here than you would willingly go to a plague-stricken city. Do you know that since I came back from London, not a creature has called at this house, do you know that when I and, and my wife went to church on Sunday, the people we knew sneaked away from our path as if we had just recovered from typhus fever? Do you know that the cursed gaping rabble come from Don Caster to stare over the park palings, and that this house is a show to half the West riding? Why do you come here? You will be stared at and grinned at and scandalized. You, who, go back to London tonight, Talbot, if you don't want to drive me mad. Not till you trust me with your troubles, John answered Mr. Bolstrode firmly. Put on your hat and come out with me. I want you to show me the spot where the murder was done. You may get someone else to show it to you, Mother John sullenly. I'll not go there. John Mellish cried Talbot suddenly. Am I to think you are coward and a fool? By the heaven that's above me, I shall think so if you persist in this nonsense. Come out into the park with me. I have the claim of past friendship upon you, and I'll not have that claim set aside by any folly of yours. The two men went out upon the lawn, John complying moodily enough with his friend's request, and walked silently across the park toward the portion of the wood in which James Conyers had met his death. They had reached one of the loneliest and shadiest avenues in this wood, and where, in fact close against the spot from which Samuel Prodder had watched his niece and her companion on the night of the murder, when Talbot stopped suddenly and laid his hand on the squire's shoulder. John, he said in a determined tone, before we go look at the place where this bad man died, you must tell me your trouble. Mr. Mellish drew himself up proudly and looked at the speaker with gloomy defiance lowering upon his face. I will tell no man that which I do not choose to tell, he said firmly, and then, with a sudden change that was terrible to see, he cried impetuously. Why do you torment me, Talbot? I tell you that I can't trust you. I can't trust anyone upon earth. If I told you the horrible thought that, if I told you it would be your duty too, I, Talbot, have pity upon me. Let me alone. Go away from me. I, stamping furiously as if he would have trampled down the cowardly despair for which he despised himself and beating his forehead with his clenched fists, John Mellish turned away from his friend and, leaning against the gnarled branch of a great oak, wept aloud. Talbot bolstrowed, waited till the paroxysm had passed away before he spoke again. But when his friend had grown calmer, he linked his arm about him and drew him away, almost as tenderly as if the big Yorkshire man had been some sorrowing woman, sorely in need of manly help and comfort. John, John, he said gravely, thank God for this, thank God for anything that breaks the ice between us. I know what your trouble is, poor old friend, and I know that you have no cause for it. Hold up your head, man, and look forward to a happy future. I know the black thought that has been gnawing at your poor, foolish, manly heart. You think that Aurora murdered the groom. John Mellish started shuddering convulsively. No, no, he gasped. Who said so? Who said? You think this, John, continued Talbot bolstrowed, and you do hear the most grievous wrong that ever yet was done to a woman. A more shameful wrong than I committed when I thought that Aurora Floyd had been guilty of some base intrigue. You don't know, stammered John. I don't know, I know all, and first saw trouble for you before you saw the cloud that was in the sky, but I never dreamed of this. I thought the foolish country people would suspect your wife, as it always pleases people to try and fix a crime upon the person in whom that crime would be more particularly atrocious. I was prepared for this, but to think that you, you, John, who should have learned to know your wife by this time to think that you should suspect the woman you have loved of a foul and treacherous murder. How do we know that the man was murdered? cried John vehemently. Who says that the deed was treacherously done? He may have goaded her beyond endurance, insulted her generous pride, stung her to the very quick, and in the madness of her passion, having that wretched pistol in her possession, she may stop interrupted Talbot. What pistol you told me the weapon had not been found? It was found upon the night of our return. Yes, but why do you associate this weapon with Aurora? What do you mean by saying that the pistol was in her possession? Because, oh my God, Talbot, why do you ring these things from me? For your own good, and for the justification of an innocent woman, so help me heaven, answered Mr. Bolstrowed. Do not be afraid to be candid with me, John. Nothing would ever make me believe Aurora Mellish guilty of this crime. The Yorkshire man turned suddenly toward his friend, and leaning upon Talbot, Bolstrowed's shoulder, wept for the second time during that woodland ramble. May God in heaven bless you for this Talbot, he cried passionately. Oh, my love, my dear, what a wretch I have been to you, but heaven is my witness that, even in my worst agony of doubt and horror, my love has never lessened, it never could, it never could. John, old fellow, said Mr. Bolstrowed cheerfully, perhaps instead of talking this nonsense, which leaves me entirely in the dark as to everything that has happened since you left London, you will do me the favour to enlighten me as to the cause of these foolish suspicions. They had reached the ruined summer house and the pool of stagnant water on the margin of which James Conyers had met with his death. Mr. Bolstrowed seated himself upon a pile of broken timber while John Mellish paced up and down the smooth patch of turf between the summer house and the water and told, disjointedly enough, the story of the finding of the pistol which had been taken out of his room. I saw that pistol upon the day of the murder, said he. I took particular notice of it, for I was cleaning my guns that morning and I left them all in confusion while I went down to the lodge to see the trainer. When I came back, I—well, what then? Aurora had been setting my guns in order. You argue, therefore, that your wife took the pistol? John looked piteously at his friend, but Talbot's grave smile reassured him. No one else had permission to go into the room, he answered. I keep my papers and accounts there, you know, and it's an understood thing that none of the servants are allowed to go there except when they clean the room. I'll be sure, but the room is not locked, I suppose. Locked, of course not, and the windows which open to the ground are sometimes left open, I dare say, almost always in such weather as this. Then, my dear John, it may be just possible that someone who had not permission to enter the room did nevertheless enter it for the purpose of abstracting this pistol. Have you asked Aurora why she took upon herself to rearrange your guns? She has never done such a thing before, I suppose. Oh yes, very often. I'm rather than the habit of leaving them about after cleaning them, and my darling understands all about them as well as I do. She has often put them away for me. Then there was nothing particular in her doing so upon the day of the murder. Have you asked her how long she was in your room and whether she can remember seeing this particular pistol among others? Ask her, exclaimed John. How could I ask her when? When you had been mad enough to suspect her? No, my poor old friend. You made the same mistake that I committed at Felden. You presupposed the guilt of the woman you loved and you were too great a coward to investigate the evidence upon which your suspicions were built. Had I been wise enough, instead of blindly questioning this poor bewildered girl to tell her plainly what it was that I suspected, the incontrovertible truth would have flashed out of her angry eyes and one indignant denial would have told me how basely I had wronged her. You shall not make the mistake that I made, John. You must go frankly and fearlessly to the wife you love, tell her of the suspicion that overclouds her fame and implore her to help you to the uttermost of her power in unraveling the mystery of this man's death. The assassin must be found, John, for as long as he remains undiscovered, you and your wife will be the victims of every penny-aligner who finds himself at a loss for a paragraph. Yes, Mr. Millish answered bitterly. The papers have been hard at it already and there's been a fellow hanging about the place for the last few days whom have had a very strong inclination to thrash. Some reporter, I suppose, come to pick up information. I suppose, old Talbot, answered thoughtfully, what sort of man was he? A decent-looking fellow enough, but a Londoner, I fancy, and stay. Exclaimed John suddenly, there's a man coming towards us from this turnstile and, unless I'm considerably mistaken, it's the very fellow. Mr. Millish was right. The wood was free to any foot passenger who pleased to avail himself to the pleasant shelter of spreading beaches and the smooth carpet of mossy turf rather than tramp-wearily upon the dusty highway. The stranger advancing from the turnstile was a decent-looking person dressed in dark, tight-fitting clothes and making no unnecessary or ostentatious display of linen. For his coat was buttoned tightly to the chin, he looked at Talbot and John as he passed them, not insolently or even inquisitively, but with one brightly rapid and searching glance which seemed to take in the most minute details in the appearance of both gentlemen. Then, walking on a few paces, he stopped and looked thoughtfully at the pond and the bank above it. This is the place, I think, gentlemen. He said in a frank and rather free and easy manner. Talbot returned his look with interest. If you mean the place where the murder was committed, it is, he said. I understood so, answered the stranger by no means abashed. He looked at the bank, regarding it now from one point, now from another, like some skillful upholster taking the measure of a piece of furniture. Then, walking slowly around the pond, he seemed to plumb the depth of this stagnant water with his small gray eyes. Talbot bolsteroed watch the man as he took this mental photograph of the place. There was a business-like composure in his manner which was entirely different to the eager curiosity of a scandal monger and a busy body. Mr. Bolsteroed rose as the man walked away and went slowly after him. Stop where you are, John, he said. As he left his companion, I'll find out who this fellow is. He walked on and overtook the stranger at about a hundred yards from the pond. I want to have a few words with you before you leave the park, my friend, he said quietly. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you are a member of the detective police and come here with credentials from Scotland Yard. The man shook his head with a quiet smile. I am not obliged to tell everybody my business, he answered coolly. This footpath is a public thoroughfare, I believe. Listen to me, my good fellow, said Mr. Bolsteroed. It may serve your purpose to beat about the bush, but I have no reason to do so and therefore may as well come to the point at once. If you are sent here for the purpose of discovering the murderer of James Conyers you can be more welcome to know one than to the master of that house. He pointed to the Gothic chimneys as he spoke. If those who employ you have promised you a liberal reward Mr. Malish will willingly treble the amount they may have offered you. He would not give you cause to complain of his liberality should you succeed in accomplishing the purpose of your errand. If you think you will gain anything by underhand measures and by keeping yourself dark, you are very much mistaken for no one can be better able or more willing to give you assistance in this than Mr. and Mrs. Malish. The detective, for he had tacitly admitted the fact of his profession looked doubtfully at Talbot Bolsteroed. You're a lawyer, I suppose, he said. I am Mr. Talbot Bolsteroed, member for Penruthi. And the husband of Mrs. Malish's first cousin. The detective bowed. My name is Joseph Grimstone of Scotland Yard and Balls Pond, he said. And I certainly see no objection to our working together. If Mr. Malish is prepared to act on the square, I'm prepared to act with him and to accept any reward his generosity may offer. But if he or any friend of his wants to hoodwink Joseph Grimstone he'd better think twice about the game before he tries it on. That's all. Mr. Bolsteroed took no notice of this threat but looked at his watch before replying to the detective. It's a quarter past six, he said. Mr. Malish dines at seven. Can you call at the house and say at nine this evening? You shall then have all the assistance it is in our power to give you. Certainly, sir, at nine this evening. We shall be prepared to receive you. Good afternoon. Mr. Grimstone touched his hat and strolled quietly away under the shadow of the beaches while Talbot Bolsteroed walked back to rejoin his friend. It may be as well to take this opportunity of stating the reason of the detective's early appearance at Malish Park. Upon the day of the inquest and consequently the next day but one after the murder two anonymous letters worded in the same manner and written by the same hand were received respectively by the head of the Doncaster Constabulary and by the chief of the Scotland Yard Detective Confederacy. These anonymous communications, written in a hand which, in spite of all attempts at disguise, still retained the spidery peculiarities of feminine calligraphy, pointed by a sensuous and inductive process of reasoning at Aurora Malish as the murderous of James Conyers. I need scarcely say that the writer was no other than Mrs. Powell. She has disappeared forever from my story and I have no wish to blacken a character which can ill afford to be slandered. The Ensign's widow actually believed in the guilt of her beautiful patroness. It is so easy for an envious woman to believe horrible things of the more prosperous sister whom she hates. End of Chapter 35 Under a Cloud Chapter 36 of Aurora Floyd This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett Aurora Floyd by Mary Elizabeth Braddon Chapter 36 Reunion We are on the verge of a precipice, Talbot Bolstrode thought as he prepared for dinner in the comfortable dressing-room allotted to him at Malish. We are on the verge of a precipice, and nothing but a bold grapple with the worst can save us. Any reticence, any attempt at keeping back suspicious facts or hushing up awkward coincidences would be fatal to us. If John had made away with this pistol with which the deed was done he would have inevitably fixed most fearful suspicion upon his wife. Thank God I came here to-day. We must look matters straight in the face and our first step must be to secure Aurora's help. So long as she is silent as to her share in the events of that day and night there is a link missing in the chain, and we are all at sea. John must speak to her tonight, or perhaps it will be better for me to speak. Mr. Bolstrode went down to the drawing-room where he found his friend pacing up and down, solitary and wretched. The ladies are going to dine upstairs," said Mr. Malish as Talbot joined him. I have just had a message to say so. Why does she avoid me, Talbot? Why does my wife avoid me like this? We have scarcely spoken to each other for days. Shall I tell you why, you foolish John?" answered Mr. Bolstrode. Your wife avoids you because you have chosen to alienate yourself from her and because she thinks, poor girl, that she has lost your affection. She fancies that the discovery of her first marriage has caused a revulsion of feeling and that you no longer love her. No longer love her? cried John. Oh, my God! she ought to know that if I could give my life for her fifty times over I would do it to save her one paying. I would do it, so help me heaven, though she was the guiltiest wretch that had ever crawled the earth. But no one asks you to do any thing of the kind," said Mr. Bolstrode. You are only requested to be reasonable and patient, to put a proper trust in Providence and to be guided by people who are rather less impetuous than your ungovernable self. I will do what you like, Talbot. I will do what you like. Mr. Malish pressed his friend's hand. Had he ever thought, when he had seen Talbot an accepted lover at Felden, and hated him with a savage and wild Indian-like fury, that he would come to be thus humbly grateful to him, thus pitifully dependent upon his superior wisdom, he wrung the young politician's hand and promised to be as submissive as a child beneath his guidance. In compliance, therefore, with Talbot's command, he ate a few morsels of fish and drank a couple of glasses of sherry, and having thus gone through a show of dining, with Mr. Bolstrode to seek Aurora. She was sitting with her cousin in the morning-room, looking terribly pale in the dim dusk of the August evening, pale and shadowy in her loose white muslin dress. She had only lately risen after a long fever slumber, and had pretended to dine out of courtesy to her guest. Lucy had tried in vain to comfort her cousin. This passionate, impetuous, spoiled child of fortune and affection refused all consolation, crying out again and again that she had lost her husband's love, and that there was nothing left for her upon earth. But in the very midst of one of these desponding speeches she sprang up from her seat, erect and trembling, with her parted lips quivering in her dark eyes dilated, startled by the sound of a familiar step, which within the last few days had been seldom heard in the corridor outside her room. She tried to speak, but her voice failed her, and in another moment the door had been dashed open by a strong hand, and her husband stood in the room, holding out his arms and calling to her, Aurora! Aurora! my own dear love! my own poor darling!" She was folded to his breast before she knew that Talbot Balstrode stood close behind him. My own darling! John said, my own dearest, you cannot tell how cruelly I have wronged you! But oh my love! the wrong is brought on in durable torture with it! My poor guiltless girl! how could I? how could I? But I was mad, and it was only when Talbot— Aurora lifted her head from her husband's breast and looked wonderingly into his face, utterly unable to guess the meaning of these broken sentences. Talbot laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder. You will frighten your wife if you go on in this manner, John," he said quietly, you mustn't take any notice of his agitation, my dear Mrs. Melish. There is no cause, believe me, for all this outcry. Will you sit down by Lucy and compose yourself? It is eight o'clock, and between this and nine we have some serious business to settle." Serious business! repeated Aurora vaguely. She was intoxicated by her sudden happiness. She had no wish to ask any explanation of the mystery of the past few days. It was all over, and her faithful husband treated her as devotedly and tenderly as ever. How could she wish to know more than this? She seated herself at Lucy's side, in obedience to Talbot, but she still held her husband's hand. She still looked in his face, for the moment most supremely unconscious that the scheme of creation included anything beyond this stalwart Yorkshireman. Talbot brawl strode, lighted the lamp upon Aurora's writing-table, a shaded lamp which only dimly illuminated the twilight room, making a seat nearer, said gravely. My dear Mrs. Melish, I shall be compelled to say something which I fear may inflict a terrible shock upon you, but this is no time for reservation, scarcely a time for ordinary delicacy. Will you trust in the love and friendship of those who are around you, and promise to bear this new trial bravely? I believe and hope that it will be a very brief one." Aurora looked wonderingly at her husband, not at Talbot. A new trial, she said inquiringly. You know that the murderer of James Conyers has not yet been discovered, said Mr. Bolsteroed. Yes, yes, but what of that? My dear Mrs. Melish, my dear Aurora, the world is apt to take a morbid delight in horrible ideas. There are some people who think that you are guilty of this crime. I— she rose suddenly from her low seat and turned her face toward the lamplight with a look of such blank amazement, such utter wonder and bewilderment that had Talbot Bolsteroed until that moment believed her guilty, he must then s'forth and forever have been firmly convinced of her innocence. I—she repeated. Then turning to her husband with a sudden alteration in her face, that blank amazement changing to a look of sorrow, mingled with reproachful wonder, she said in a low voice. You thought this of me, John. You thought this. John Melish bowed his head before her. I did, my dear. He murmured. God forgive me for my wicked folly. I did think this, Aurora. But I pitied you and was sorry for you, my own dear love. And when I thought it most, I would have died to save you from shame or sorrow. My love has never changed, Aurora. My love has never changed. She gave him her hand and resumed her seat. She sat for some moments in silence as if trying to collect her thoughts and to understand the meaning of this strange scene. Who suspects me of this crime? She asked presently. Has anyone else suspected me? Anyone else besides? My husband. I can scarcely tell you, my dear Mrs. Melish," answered Talbot. When an event of this kind takes place, it is very difficult to say it. Different persons set up different theories. One man writes to a newspaper to declare that, in his opinion, the crime was committed by some person within the house. Another man writes as positively to another paper, asserting that the murderer was undoubtedly a stranger. Each man brings forward a mass of suppositious evidence in favour of his own argument, and each thinks a great deal more of proving his own cleverness than of furthering the ends of justice. No shadow of slander is found in the house or upon those who live in it. It is necessary, therefore, imperatively necessary that the real murderer should be found. A London detective is already at work. These men are very clever. Some insignificant circumstance, forgotten by those most interested in discovering the truth, would be often enough to set a detective on the right track. This man is coming here at nine o'clock, and we are to give him all the assistance we can. Help you! How? By telling us all you know of the night of the murder, why were you in the wood that night? I was there to meet the dead man. For what purpose? Aurora was silent for some moments, and then looking up with a bold, half defiant glance, she said suddenly. Talbot Bolstrode, before you blame or despise me, remember how the tie that bound me to this man had been broken, the law would have set me free from him if I had been brave enough to appeal to the law, and was I to suffer all my life because of the mistake I had made in not demanding a release from the man whose gross infidelity entitled me to be divorced from him. Heaven knows I had borne with him patiently enough. I had endured his vulgarity, his insolence, his presumption. I had gone penniless while he spent my father's money in a gambling-booth on a race-course, and dinnerless while he drank champagne with cheats and reprobates. Remember this when you blame me most. I went into the wood that night to meet him for the last time upon this earth. He had promised me that he would emigrate to Australia upon the payment of a certain sum of money. And you went that night to pay it to him?" cried Talbot eagerly. I did. He was insolent, as he always was, for he hated me for having discovered that would shut him out from all claim of fortune. He hated himself for his folly in not having played his cards better. Angry words passed between us, but it ended in his declaring his intention of starting for Liverpool early the next morning, and you gave him the money. Yes. But tell me, tell me, Aurora! cried Talbot almost too eager to find words. How long had you left him when you heard the report of the pistol? Not more than ten minutes. John Mellish exclaimed Mr. Bolstrode. Was there any money found upon the person of the murdered man? No. Yes, I believe there was a little silver. Mr. Mellish answered vaguely. A little silver? cried Talbot contemptuously. Aurora, what was the sum you gave James Cognos upon the night of his death? Two thousand pounds. In a check? No, in notes. And heard of since. No, John Mellish declared that he had never heard of it. Thank God! exclaimed Mr. Bolstrode. We shall find the murderer. What do you mean? asked John. Whoever killed James Cognos killed him in order to rob him of the money that he had upon him at the time of his death. But who could have known of the money? asked Aurora. Anybody, the pathway through the wood is a public thoroughfare. The conversation with the murdered man may have been overheard. You talked about the money, I suppose. Yes. Thank God! Ask your wife's pardon for the cruel wrong you have done her, John, and then come downstairs with me. It's past nine, and I dare say Mr. Grimston is waiting for us. But stay, one word, Aurora. The pistol with which this man was killed was taken from this house, from John's room. Did you know that? How should I know it? Mrs. Melish asked naively. That fact is against the theory of the murder having been committed by a stranger. Is there any one of the servants whom you could suspect of such a crime, John? No. Answered Mr. Melish decisively. Not one. And yet the person who committed the murder must have been the person who stole your pistol. You, John, declare that very pistol to have been in your possession upon the morning before the murder. Most certainly. You put John's guns back into their place upon that morning, Aurora," said Mr. Bolsteroed. Do you remember seeing that particular pistol? No, Mrs. Melish answered. I should not have known it from the others. You did not find any of the servants in the room that morning. Oh, no! Aurora answered immediately. Mrs. Powell came into the room while I was there. She was always following me about, and she kept me talking to—talking to whom? To James Conyers Hangarondon Messenger, Stephen Hargraves. The softie, as they call him. You were talking to him. Then this Stephen Hargraves was in the room that morning. Yes. He brought me a message from the murdered man and took back my answer. Was he alone in the room? Yes. I found him there when I went in expecting to find John. I disliked the man, unjustly perhaps, for he is a poor, half-witted creature, who I dare say scarcely knows right from wrong, and I was angry at seeing him. He must have come in through the window. A servant entered the room at this moment. He came to say that Mr. Grimstone had been waiting below for some time and was anxious to see Mr. Bolsteroed. Talbot and John went downstairs together. They found Mr. Joseph Grimstone sitting at a table in the comfortable room that had lately been sacred to Mrs. Powell, with the shaded lamp drawn close to his elbow. The shaded lamp drawn close to his elbow and a greasy little memorandum book opened before him. He was thoughtfully employed making notes in this memorandum book with a stumpy morsel of lead pencil. When do these sorts of people begin their pencils and how is it that they always seem to have arrived at the stump when the two gentlemen entered? John Melish leaned against the mantelpiece and covered his face with his hand. For any practical purpose he might as well have been in his own room. For many reasons for this interview with the detective officer he had no shadowy idea, no growing suspicion shaping itself slowly out of the confusion and obscurity of the identity of the murderer. He only knew that his aurora was innocent, that she had indignantly refuted his base suspicion, and that he had seen the truth radiant as the light of inspiration shining out of her beautiful face. Mr. Bolsteroed rang and ordered a bottle of sherry careful and business-like manner. He recited all that he had been able to discover upon the subject of the murder. Joseph Grimston listened very quietly following Talbot Bolsteroed with a shining track of lead pencil hieroglyphics over the greasy paper just as Tom Thumb strewed crumbs of bread in the forest pathway with a view to his homeward guidance. The detective only looked up now and then to drink a glass of sherry and smack his lips with the quiet approval of a connoisseur. The detective had told all that he had to tell. Mr. Grimston thrust the memorandum book into a very tight breast pocket and, taking his hat from under the chair upon which he had been seated, prepared to depart. If this information about the money is quite correct, he said, I think I can see my way through the affair. That is, if we can have the numbers of the notes, I can't stir a peg without the numbers of the notes. Talbot's countenance fell. Here was a death blow. Was it likely that Aurora, that impetuous and unbusinesslike girl, had taken the numbers of the notes, which in utter scorn and loathing she had flung as a last bribe to the man she hated? I'll go and make inquiries of Mrs. Melish," he said, but I fear it is scarcely likely that I shall get the information you want. He left the room, but five minutes afterward returned triumphant. Mrs. Melish had the notes from her father, and Mr. Floyd took a list of the numbers before he gave his daughter the money. Then, if you will be so good as to drop Mr. Floyd in line, asking for that list by a return of post, I shall know how to act," replied the detective. I haven't been idle this afternoon, gentlemen, any more than you. I went back after I parted with you, Mr. Balstrode, and had another look at the pond. I found something to pay me for my trouble. He took from his waistcoat pocket a small object, which he held between his finger and thumb. Talbot and John looked intently at this dingy object, but could make nothing out of it. It seemed to be a mere disk of rusty metal. It's neither more nor less than a brass button," the detective said with a smile of quiet superiority. Makers name Crosby, Birmingham. There's marks upon it which seem uncommon, like blood, and unless I'm very much mistaken it'll be found to fit pretty correct into the barrel of your pistol, Mr. Mellish. So what we've got to do is to find a gentleman wherein all having in his possession a waistcoat with buttons by Crosby, Birmingham had one button missing, and if we happen to find the same gentleman changing one of the notes that Mr. Floyd took the numbers of, I don't think we shall be very far off laying our hands on the man we want. With which oracular speech charged with a commission to proceed forthwith to Doncaster to order the immediate printing and circulating of a hundred bills offering a reward of two hundred pounds for such information as would lead to the apprehension of the murderer of James Conyers this reward to be given by Mr. Mellish and to be over and above any reward offered by the government. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 of Aurora Floyd This is a LibriVox recording. These recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Elizabeth Klett Aurora Floyd by Mary Elizabeth Braddon Chapter 37 The Brass Button by Crosby, Birmingham Mr. Matthew Harrison and Captain Prodder were both accommodated with suitable entertainment at the sign of the crooked rabbit since he appeared to have ample employment in the neighbourhood, employment of a mysterious nature which kept him on the tramp all day and sent him home at sunset tired and hungry to his hostelry. The sailor, having nothing whatever to do and a great burden of care upon his mind, found the time hang very heavily upon his hands. Although being naturally of a social and genial temper, he made himself very much at home in his strange quarters. From Mr. Harrison the captain obtained much information respecting the secret of all the sorrow that had befallen his niece. The dog fancier had known James Conyers from his boyhood, had known his father, the swell coachman of a bright and high flyer, or skyrocket, or electric, and the associate of the nobleman and gentleman of that princely era in which it was the right thing for the youthful aristocracy to imitate the manners of Mr. Samuel Weller, senior. Matthew Harrison had known the trainer in his brief and stormy married life accompanied Aurora's first husband as a humble dependent and hanger-on in that foreign travel which had been paid for out of Archibald Floyd's check-book. The honest captain's blood boiled as he heard that shameful story of treachery and extortion practised upon an ignorant schoolgirl. Oh! that he had been by to avenge these outrages upon the child of the dark-eyed sister he had loved! His rage against the undiscovered murderer of the dead man was redoubled when he remembered how James Conyers had escaped from his vengeance. Mr. Stephen Hargraves, the softie, took good care to keep out of the way of the crooked rabbit, having no wish to encounter Captain Prodder a second time, but he still hung about the town of Doncaster where he had a lodging up a wretched alley hidden away behind one of the back streets, a species of lair common to every large town, and only to be found by the inhabitants of the locality. The softie had been born dead and had lived his life in such a narrow radius that the uprooting of one of the oaks in Mellish Park could scarcely be a slower or more painful operation than the severing of those ties of custom which held the boorish hanger on to the neighbourhood of the household in which she had so long beat an inmate. But now that his occupation at Mellish was forever gone, and his patron, the trainer, dead, he was alone in the world and had need to look out for a fresh situation. But he seemed rather slow to do this. He was not a very prepossessing person, it must be remembered, and there were not very many services for which he was fitted. Although upward of forty years of age, he was generally rather loosely described as a young man who understood all about horses, and this qualification was usually sufficient to procure for any individual whatever some kind of employment in the neighbourhood of Doncaster. The softie seemed, however, rather to keep aloof from the people who knew and could have recommended him, not seek a situation, gave evasive answers, and muttered something to the effect that he had saved a little bit of money at Mellish Park and had no need to come upon the parish if he was out of work for a week or two. John Mellish was so well known as a generous paymaster that this was a matter of surprise to no one. Stephen Hargraves had no doubt had pretty pickings in that liberal household, so the softie went his way unquestioned, hanging about the town in a lounging uncomfortable manner, sitting in some of the cow's tap-room half the day and night, drinking his meager liquor in a sullen and unsocial style peculiar to himself and consorting with no one. He made his appearance at the railway station one day, and groped helplessly through the timetables pasted against the walls, but he could make nothing of them unaided, and was at last compelled to appeal to a good-tempered-looking official who was busy on the platform. I want the Liverpool trains, he said, and I can't find out about them here. The official knew Mr. Hargraves and looked at him with a stare of open wonder. My word! Steve! he said, laughing. What takes you to Liverpool? I thought you'd never been farther than York in your life. Maybe I haven't," the softie answered sulkily, but that's no reason I shouldn't go now. I've heard of a situation at Liverpool as I think will suit me. Not better than the place you had Mr. Mellish. Perhaps not," muttered Mr. Hargraves with a frown darkening over his ugly face. But Mellish Park be no place for Meno, and aren't been for a long time past. The railway official laughed. The story of Aurora's chastisement of the half-witted groom was pretty well known among the townspeople of Doncaster, and I am sorry to say that there were very few members of that sporting community who did not admire the mistress of Mellish Park, something more by reason of this little incident in her history. Mr. Hargraves shared information about the railway route between Doncaster and Liverpool, and then left the station. A shabby-looking little man, who had also been making some inquiries of the same official who had talked to the softie, and had consequently heard the above brief dialogue, followed Stephen Hargraves from the station into the town. Indeed, had it not been that the softie was unusually slow of perception, he might have discovered that upon this particular day the same shabby- looking little man generally happened to be in every place to which he, Mr. Hargraves, betook himself. But the cast-off retainer of Mellish Park did not trouble himself with any such misgivings. His narrow intellect, never wide enough to take in many subjects at a time, was fully absorbed by other considerations, and he loitered about with a gloomy and preoccupied expression on his face that by no means enhanced his personal attractions. It is not to be supposed that Mr. Joseph Grimstone let the grass grow under his interview with John Mellish and Talbot Bulstrode. He had heard enough to make his course pretty clear to him, and he went to work quietly and sagaciously to win the reward offered to him. There was not a tailor's shop in Doncaster or its vicinity into which the detective did not make his way. There was not a garment confectioner by any of the civil purveyors upon whom he intruded that Mr. Grimstone did not examine, not a drawer of odds and ends which he did not ransack in his search for buttons by Crosby, Maker, Birmingham. But for a long time he made his inquisition in vain. Before the day succeeding that of Talbot's arrival at Mellish was over, the detective had visited every tailor or clothier in the neighbourhood of the racing metropolis of the north, but no traces of Crosby, Maker, Birmingham, had he been able to find. Brass waistcoat buttons are not particularly affected by the leaders of the fashion in the present day, and Mr. Grimstone found almost every variety of fastening upon the examined, except that one special style of button, a specimen of which, out of shape and blood-stained, he carried deep in his trousers pocket. He was returning to the inn at which he had taken up his abode, and where he was supposed to be a traveller in the Glenfield starch and sugar-plum line, tired and worn out with a day's useless work, when he was attracted by the appearance of some ready-made garments gracefully festooned about the door of a Doncaster pawnbroker, who exhibited silver teaspoons, oil shoes, dropsicle watches, doubtful rings, and remnants of silk and satin in his artistically arranged window. Mr. Grimstone stopped short before the moneylenders portal. I won't be beaten! he muttered between his teeth. If this man has got any waistcoats I'll have a look at him. He louched into the shop in a leisurely manner, and asked the proprietor of the establishment if he had anything cheap in the way of fancy waistcoats. Of course the proprietor had everything desirable in that way, and from a kind of grove or arbor of all manner of dry goods at the back of the shop he brought out half a dozen brown paper parcels, the contents of which he exhibited to Mr. Joseph Grimstone. The detective looked at a great many waistcoats, but with no satisfactory result. You haven't got anything with brass buttons, I suppose?" he inquired at last. The proprietor shook his head reflectively. He said, But all lay I've got the very thing you want, now I come to think of it, I got him an uncommon bargain from a travel from a Birmingham house, who was here at the September meeting three years ago, had lost a hatful of money upon underhand, and left a lot of things with me in order to make up what he wanted. Mr. Grimstone pricked up his ears at the sound of Birmingham. The prawnbroker retired once more to the mysterious caverns at the back of his shop, and after a considerable search succeeded in finding what he wanted. He brought another brown paper parcel to the counter, turned the flaming gas a little higher, and exhibited a heap of very gaudy and vulgar-looking waistcoats, evidently of that species of manufacture which is generally called slopwork. These are the goods, he said, and very tasty and lively things they are too. I had a dozen of them, and I've got only these five left. Mr. Grimstone had taken up a waistcoat of a flaming check pattern and was examining it by the light of the gas. Yes, the purpose of his day's work was accomplished at last. The back of the brass buttons bore the name of Crosby Birmingham. You've only got five left out of the dozen," said the detective. Then you've sold seven. Oyav! Can you remember who you sold them to?" The prawnbroker scratched his head thoughtfully. I think I must have sold them all and they take their wages once a fort night, and there some of them drop and hear every other Saturday night to buy something or other, or to take something at a pledge. I know I sold four or five that way. But can you remember selling one of them to anybody else?" asked the detective. I'm not asking out of curiosity, and I don't mind standing something handsome by and by if you can give me the information I want. Think it over now and take your time. You couldn't have sold them all seven to the men from the works. No! I didn't," answered the prawnbroker after a pause. I remember no. I sold one of them, a fancy sprig on a purple ground, to Joseph's the baker in the next street, and I sold another, a yellow stripe on a brown ground, to the head gardener at Melish Park. Mr. Joseph Grimstone's face splashed hot and red. His day's work had not been wasted. He was bringing the buttons by Crosby of Birmingham very near to where he wanted to bring them. You can tell me the gardener's name, I suppose," he said to the prawnbroker. Yes! His name's Dawson. He belongs to Doncaster, and he and I were boys together. I should not remember selling him the waistcoat, perhaps, for it's nigh upon a year and a half ago. Only he stopped and had a chat with me in my Mrs. the night he bought it. Mr. Grimstone did not linger much longer in the shop. His interest in the waistcoats was evidently departed. He bought a couple of second-hand silk handkerchiefs at a civility, no doubt, and then made the prawnbroker good-night. It was nearly nine o'clock, but the detective only stopped at his inn long enough to eat about a pound and a quarter of beefsteak and drink a pint of ale, after which brief refreshment he started from Melish Park on foot. It was the principle of his life to avoid observation, and he preferred the fatigue of a long and lonely walk to the risks of hiring a vehicle to convey him to his destination. Talbot and John had been waiting hopefully all the day for the detectives coming, and welcomed him very heartily when he appeared between ten and eleven. He was shown into John's own room this evening, for the two gentlemen were sitting there smoking and talking after Aurora and Lucy had gone to bed. Mrs. Melish had good need of rest and could sleep peacefully now, for the dark shadow between her and her husband had gone for ever, and she sawro now that she knew herself to be secure of his love. John looked up eagerly as Mr. Grimstone followed the servant into the room, but a warning look from Talbot Balstrode checked his impetuosity, and he waited till the door was shut before he spoke. Now, then, Grimstone, he said, what news? Well, sir, I've had a hard day's work, the detective answered gravely, and perhaps neither of you gentlemen, not being professional, would think much of what I've done, but for all that I believe I'm bringing it home, sir. I believe I'm bringing of it home." Thank God for that! murmured Talbot Balstrode reverently. He had thrown away his cigar and was standing by the fireplace with his arm resting upon the angle of the mantelpiece. You've got a gardener by the name of Dawson in your service, Mr. Melish? said the detective. I have, answered John, but Lord have mercy upon us. You don't mean to say you think it's him. It's as good a fellow as ever breathed. I don't say I think it's anyone as yet, sir," Mr. Grimstone answered sententiously. But when a man has had two thousand pound eponymous banknotes is found in a wood shot through the heart and the note's missing, the wood, being free to anybody is chose to walk in it, it's a pretty open case for suspicion. I should like to see this man, Dawson, if it's convenient. Tonight? asked John. Yes, the sooner the better. The less delay there is in this sort of business the more satisfactory for all parties, with the exception of the party that's wanted," added the detective. I'll send for Dawson, then," answered Mr. Melish. But I expect he'll have gone to bed by this time. Then he can, but get up again if he has, sir," Mr. Grimstone said politely. I've set my heart upon seeing him tonight if it's all the same to you. Maybe suppose that John Melish was likely to object to any arrangement which might hasten, if by but a moment's time the hour of the discovery for which he so ardently prayed. He went straight off to the servants' hall to make inquiries for the gardener and left Talbot Bolstrode and the detective together. There ain't nothing turned up here, I suppose, sir," said Joseph Grimstone, addressing Mr. Bolstrode, as will be of any help to us. Yes," Talbot answered, to the notes which Mrs. Melish gave the murdered man. I telegraphed Mr. Floyd's country house, and he arrived here himself only an hour ago, bringing the list of the notes with him. And an uncommon, plucky thing of the old gentleman to do— beggin' you pardon, sir," exclaimed the detective with enthusiasm. Five minutes afterward Mr. Melish re-entered the room, bringing the gardener with him. The man had been at a don-caster to see his friends, and only returned about half an hour before, so the master caught him in the act of making havoc with a formidable cold joint and a great jar of pickled cabbage in the servant's hall. Now you're not to be frightened, Dawson," said the young squire with friendly indiscretion. Of course nobody for a moment suspects you any more than they suspect me, but this gentleman here wants to see you, and of course you know there's no reason that he shouldn't see you if he wishes it, though what he wants with you— Mr. Melish stopped abruptly, arrested by a frown from Talbot whose innocent of the faintest comprehension of his master's meaning pulled his hair respectfully and shuffled nervously upon the slippery Indian matting. I only want to ask you a question or two to decide a wager between these two gentlemen and me, Mr. Dawson," said the detective with reassuring familiarity. You bought a second-hand waste-git of Gogrom in the marketplace, didn't you, about a year and a half ago? I sure, sir. I bought a waste-git at Gogrom's— answered the gardener. The man nodded with his mouth wide open in the extremity of his surprise at this London strange's familiarity with the details of his toilet. I don't know how you come to know about that waste-git, sir," he said with a grin. It were wore out full six months ago, for I took to warn of it in a garden, and garden work soon spoils anything in the way of clothes, but him as I give it to was glad enough to have it, though it was awful shabby. The man nodded with his mouth wide open in the extremity of his surprise though it was awful shabby. Him as you give it to, repeated Mr. Grimstone not pausing to amend the sentence in his eagerness, you gave it away, then? Yes, I gave it to the softie, and wasn't the poor fond chap glad to get it, that's all. The softie, exclaimed Mr. Grimstone, who's the softie? The man we spoke of last night, answered Talbot Bulstrode, the man who Mrs. Melish found in this rom upon the morning before the murder, the man called Stephen Hargraves. I, I, to be sure, I thought as much, murmured the detective, that will do Mr. Dawson, he added addressing the gardener who had shuffled a good deal nearer to the doorway in his uneasy state of mind. And stay, though, I may as well ask you one more question, were any of the buttons missing off that waistcoat when you gave it away? Not one on them. Answered the gardener decisively. My Mrs. is too particular for that. She's a regular toydy one she is. Allers mending and patching, and if one of the buttons got loose she was sure to sew it on toyt again before it was lost. Thank you, Mr. Dawson! returned the detective with the friendly condescension of a superior being. Good night! The gardener shuffled off, very glad to be released from the awful presence of his superiors, and to go back and pickles in the servant's hall. I think I'm bringing the business into a nutshell, sir," said Mr. Grimston when the door had closed upon the gardener, but the less said the better just yet a while. I'll take the list of the numbers of the notes, please, sir, and I believe I shall come upon you for that two hundred pound, Mr. Melish, before either of us is many weeks older. So, with the list made by cautious Archibald Floyd bestowed safely in his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Joseph Grimston walked back to Don Caster through the still summer's night, intent upon the business he had undertaken. It looked uncommon black against the lady about a week ago, he thought, as he walked meditatively across the dewy grass and Melish Park, and I fancy the information they got at the yard would have put a fool upon the wrong scent, and kept him on it till the right one had got worn out. But it's clearing up! It's clearing up beautiful! And I think it'll turn out one of the greatest cases I ever had the handling of. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 of Aurora Floyd This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Matthew Reese Aurora Floyd by Mary Elizabeth Braddon Chapter 38 Off the Sint It is scarcely necessary to say that, with the button by Crosby in his pocket, and with the information acquired from Dawson the gardener stowed away carefully in his mind, Mr. Joseph Grimstone looked with an eye of particular interest upon Steve Hargraves, the softie. The detective had not come to Don Caster alone. He had brought with him and humble ally and follower in the shape of the little shabby-looking man who had encountered the softie at the railway station, having received orders to keep a close watch upon Mr. Stephen Hargraves. It was, of course, a very easy matter to identify the softie in the town of Don Caster, where he had been pretty generally known since his childhood. Mr. Grimstone had called upon a medical practitioner and had submitted the button to him for inspection. The stains upon it were, indeed, that which the detective had received. Blood. And the surgeon detected a minute morsel of cartilage adhering to the jagged hasp of the button. But the same surgeon declared that this missile could not have been the only one used by the murderer of James Conyers. It had not been through the dead man's body. It had inflicted only a surface wound. The business which now lay before Mr. Grimstone was the tracing of one or other of the banknotes, and for this purpose he and his ally set to work upon the track of the softie, with a view of discovering all the places which it was his habit to visit. The haunts affected by Mr. Hargraves turned out to be some half-dozen very obscure public houses, and to each of these Joseph Grimstone went in person. But he could discover nothing. All his inquiries only elicited the fact that Stephen Hargraves had not been observed to change or attempt to change any banknote whatever. He had paid for all he had had, more than it was usually for him to spend, drinking a good deal harder than had been his habit there to fore. But he had paid in silver, except on one occasion, when he had changed to sovereign. The detective called at the bank, but no person answering the description of Stephen Hargraves had been observed there. The detective endeavored to discover any friends or companions of the softie, but here again he failed. The half-witted hangar on of the English stables had never made any friends, being entirely deficient in all social qualities. There was something almost miraculous in the manner in which Mr. Joseph Grimstone contrived to make himself master of any information which he wished to acquire. And before noon on the day after his interview with Mr. Dawson, the gardener, he had managed to eliminate all the facts set down above, and had also succeeded in ingratiating himself into the dirty old proprietress of that humble lodging in which the softie had taken up his abode. It is scarcely necessary to this story to tell how the detective went to work. But while Stephen Hargraves sat soddening his stupid brain with medicated beer in a low tap room, not far off, and while Mr. Grimstone's ally kept close watch, holding himself in readiness to give warning of any movement on the part of the suspected individual, Mr. Grimstone himself went so cleverly to work in his manipulation of the softie's landlady that in less than a quarter of an hour he had taken full possession of that weak point in the intellectual citadel, which is commonly called the blind side, and was able to do what he pleased with the old woman and her wretched tenement. His peculiar pleasure was to make a very elaborate examination of the apartment rented by the softie, and any other apartments, cupboards, or hiding places to which Mr. Hargraves had access. But he found nothing to reward him for his trouble. The old woman was in the habit of receiving casual lodgers, resting for a night or so at Doncaster, before tramping further on their vagabond wanderings, and the six-roomed dwelling-place was only furnished with such meager accommodation, as may be expected for a four-pence and six-pence a night. There were few hiding-places. No carpets, underneath which fat bundles of banknotes might be hidden. No picture-frames, behind which the same species of property might be sowed. No ponderous cornices or heavily dusted houses shrouding the windows, and affording dusty recesses wherein the tidal deeds of half a dozen fortunes might lie and rot. There were two or three cupboards, into which Mr. Grimstone penetrated with a tallow candle. But he discovered nothing of any more importance than crockery wear, Lucifer matches, firewood, potatoes, bear ropes, on which an onion lingered here and there, and sprouted dismally in its dark loneliness. Empty ginger-beer bottles, oyster shells, old boots and shoes, disabled traps, black beetles, and humid fungi rising ghost-like from the damp in darkness. Mr. Grimstone emerged, dusty and discomfited, from one of these dark recesses after a profitless search, which had occupied a couple of weary hours. Some other chap will go in and cut the ground under my feet if I waste my time this way, thought the detective. I'm blessed if I don't think I've been a fool for my pains. The man carries the money about him, that's clear as mud, and if I were to search Doncaster till my hair got gray I shouldn't find what I want. Mr. Grimstone shut the door of the last cupboard which he had examined with an impatient slam, and then turned toward the window. There was no sign of his scout in the little alley before the house, and he had time, therefore, for further business. He had examined everything in the softies' apartment, and he had paid particular attention to the state of Mr. Hargrave's wardrobe, which consisted of a pile of garments, every one of which bore in its cut and fashioned the stamp of a different individuality, and thereby proclaimed itself as having belonged to another master. There was a new market coat of John Melishes, and a pair of hunting-bridges, which could only have been built by the great pool himself, split across the knees, but otherwise little the worse for wear. There was a linen jacket and an old livery waistcoat that had belonged to one of the servants at the park, odd tops of every hunting field, from the spotless white or the delicate champagne-cleaned color of the dandy, to the favorite vinegar hue of the hard-riding country squire, a groom's hat with a tarnished band and a battered crown, hob-nailed boots, which might have belonged to Mr. Dawson, corduroy britches that could only have fitted a dropsicle lodgekeeper long deceased, and there was one garment which bore upon it the ghastly impress of a dreadful deed that had but lately been done. This was the velveteen shooting-coat worn by James Conyers, the trainer, which pierced with a murderous bullet and stiffened by the soaking torrent of blood, had been appropriated by Mr. Stephen Hargraves in the confusion of the catastrophe. All these things with sundry rubbish in the way of odd spurs and whip-handles, scraps of broken harness, ends of rope and such other scrapings as only a miser loves to accumulate, were packed in a lumbering trunk, covered with mangy fur, and secured by about a dozen yards of rugged rope, tied about it in such a manner as the softie had considered sufficient to defy the most artful thief in Christendom. Mr. Grimstone had made very short work of all the elaborate defenses in the way of knots and entanglements, and had ransacked the box from one end to the other. Nay had even closely examined the fur covering the trunk, and had tested each separate brass-headed nail to ascertain if any of them had been removed or altered. He may have thought it just possible that had been nailed down under the mangy fur. He gave a weary sigh as he concluded his inspection, replaced the garments one by one in the trunk, renoted and secured the jagged cord, and turned his back upon the softie's chamber. It's no go, he thought. The yellow striped waistcoat isn't among his clothes, and the money isn't hidden away anywhere. Can he be deep enough to have destroyed that waistcoat, I wonder? He's got a red woolen one on this morning. Perhaps he's got the yellow striped one under it. Mr. Grimstone brushed the dust and cow-webs off his clothes, washed his hands in a greasy wooden bowl of scalding water which the old woman brought him, and then sat down before the fire, picking his teeth thoughtfully, and with his eyebrows set in a reflective frown over his small gray eyes. I don't like to be beat, he thought. I don't like to be beat. He doubted if any magistrate would grant him a warrant against the softie upon the strength of the evidence—the blood-stained button by Crosby of Birmingham—and without a warrant he could not search for the notes upon the person of the man he suspected. He had sounded all the outdoor servants at Mellish, but had been able to discover nothing that threw any light upon the movements of Stephen Hargraves on the night of the murder. No one remembered having seen him. No one had been on the southern side of the wood that night. One of the lads had passed the north lodge on his way from the high road to the door where Aurora had heard the shot fired in the wood, and had seen a light burning in the lower window. But this, of course, proved nothing either one way or the other. If we could find the money upon him, thought Mr. Grimstone, it would be pretty strong proof of the robbery. And if we find the waistcoat off which that button came in his possession, it wouldn't be bad evidence of the murder, putting the two things together. But we shall have to keep a precious sharp watch upon my friend while we rest if he won't give us the slip and be off to Liverpool and out of the country before we know where we are. Now, the truth of the matter is that Mr. Grimstone was not, perhaps, acting quite so conscientiously in this business as he might have done, had the love of justice in the abstract and without any relation to the sublunary reward been the ruling principle of his life. He might have had any help he pleased from the Doncaster Constabulary had he chosen to confide in the members of that force. But as a very knowing year old, which he has reason to believe a flyer, his apt to keep the capabilities of his horse a secret from his friends and the sporting public while he puts a pot of money upon the animal at enormous odds, so Mr. Grimstone desired to keep his information to himself until it should have brought him its golden fruit in the shape of a small reward from government and a large one from John Mellish. The detective had reason to know that the dog-berries of Doncaster misled by a duplicate of that very letter which had first aroused the attention of Scotland Yard were on the wrong scent as he had been at first and he was very well content to leave them where they were. No, he thought, it's a critical game but I'll play it single-handed or at least with no one better than Tom Chivers to help me through with it and a ten pound note will satisfy him if we win the day. Pondering thus Mr. Grimstone departed after having recompensed the landlady for her civility by a donation which the old woman considered princely. He had entirely deluded her as to the object of his search by telling her that he was a lawyer's clerk commissioned by his employer to hunt for a codicelle which had been hidden somewhere in that house by an old man who had lived in it in the year 1783 and he had contrived in the course of conversation to draw from the old woman who was of a garrulous turn all that she had to tell about the softie. It was not much, certainly. Mr. Hargraves had never changed a banknote with her knowledge. He had paid for his bit of victuals as he had it but had not spent a shilling a day. As to banknotes it wasn't at all likely that he had any of them for he was always complaining that he was very poor and that his little bit of savings scraped together out of his wages wouldn't last him long. This Hargraves is a precious deepen for all they call him soft thought Mr. Grimstone as he left the lodging-house and walked slowly toward the sporting public at which he had left the softie under the watchful eye of Mr. Tom Chivers. I've often heard say that these half-wooded chaps have more cunning in their little fingers than a better man has in the whole of his composition. Another man would never have been able to stand against the temptation of changing one of these notes or would have gone about wearing that identical waistcoat or would have made a bolt of it the day after the murder or tried on something or another that would have blown the gaff upon him. But not your softie. He hides the notes and he hides the waistcoat and then he laughs in his sleeve at those that want him and sits drinking his beer as comfortably as you please. Pondering thus the detective made his way to the public house in which he had left Mr. Stephen Hargraves. He ordered a glass of brandy and water at the bar and walked into the taproom expecting to see the softie still brooding sullenly over his drink still guarded by the apparently indifferent eye of Mr. Chivers. But it was not so. The taproom was empty and upon making cautious inquiries Mr. Grimstone ascertained that the softie and his watcher had been gone for upward of an hour. Mr. Chivers had been forbidden to let his charge out of sight under any circumstances whatever except indeed if the softie had turned homeward while Mr. Grimstone was employed in ransacking his domicile in which event Tom was to have slipped on a few paces before him and given warning to his chief. Wherever Stephen Hargraves went Mr. Thomas Chivers was to follow him. But he was above all to act in such a manner as would effectually prevent any suspicion arising in the softie's mind as to the fact that he was followed. It will be seen therefore that poor Chivers had no very easy task to perform and it has been seen that he had, heretofore, contrived to perform it pretty skillfully. If Stephen Hargraves sat boozing in a taproom half the day Mr. Chivers was also to booze or to make a pretense of boozing for the same length of time. If the softie showed a disposition to be social and gave his companion any opportunity of getting friendly with him, the detective's underling was to employ his utmost skill and discretion in availing himself of that golden chance. It is a wondrous provision of providence that the treachery which would be hateful and horrible in any other man is considered perfectly legitimate in the man who is employed to hunt out a murderer or a thief. The vile instruments which the criminal employed against his unsuspecting victim in due time used against himself and the wretch who laughed at the poor unsuspecting dupe who was trapped to his destruction by his lies is caught in his turn by some shallow deceit or pitifully hackneyed device of the paid spy who has been bribed to lure him to his doom. For the outlaw of society the code of honor is null and void. His existence is a perpetual peril to innocent women and honorable men and the detective who beciles him to his end does such a service to society as must doubtless counterbalance the treachery of the means by which it is done. The days of Jonathan Wilde and his computers are over and the thief-taker no longer begins life as a thief. The detective officer is as honest as he is intrepid and astute and it is not his own fault if the dirty nature of all crime gives him now and then dirty work to do. But Mr. Stephen Hargraves did not give the opportunity for which Tom Chivers had been bidden to lie and wait. He sat sullen, silent, stupid, unapproachable, and as Tom orders were not to force himself upon his companion he was feigned to abandon all thought of warming himself into the softest good-graces. This made the task of watching him all the more difficult. It is not such a very easy matter to follow a man without seeming to follow him. It was market day two and the town was crowded with noisy country-people. Mr. Grimstone suddenly remembered this and the recollection by no means added to his peace of mind. Chivers never did sell me, he thought, and surely he won't do it now. I daresay they're safe enough, for the matter of that, in some other public. I'll slip out and look after them. Mr. Grimstone had, as I have said, already made himself acquainted with all the haunts affected by the softee. It did not take him long, therefore, to look in at the three or four public houses where Steve Hargraves was likely to be found and to discover that he was not there. He's slouching about the town somewhere or other, I daresay, thought the detective, with my mate close upon his heels. I'll stroll toward the marketplace and see if I can find them anywhere that way. Mr. Grimstone turned out of the by-street in which he had been walking into a narrow alley leading to the broad open square upon which the marketplace stands. The detective went his way in a leisurely manner, with his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth. He had perfect confidence in Mr. Thomas Chivers and the crowded stage of the marketplace in its neighborhood in no way weakened his sense of security. Chivers will stick to him through thick and thin, he thought. He'd keep an eye upon his man if he had to look after him between Charing Cross and Whitehall when the Queen was going to open Parliament. He's not the man to be flummoxed by a crowd in a country marketplace. Serene in this sense of security Mr. Grimstone amused himself by looking about him, with an expression of somewhat supercilious wonder, at the manners and customs of those indigene who, upon Market Day, make their in-road into the quiet town. He paused upon the edge of a little sunken flight of worn steps leading down to the stage-shore of the theatre and read the fragments of old bills moldering upon the doorposts in Lentil. There were glowing announcements of dramatic performances that had long ago taken place, and above the rain and mud-stained relics of the past in bold black lettering the record of a drama as terrible as any that had ever been enacted in that provincial theatre. The bill sticker had posted the announcement of the reward offered by John Melich for the discovery of the murderer in every available spot, and had not forgotten this position, which commanded one of the entrances to the marketplace. It's a wonder to me, Mr. Grimstone, that that blessed bill shouldn't have opened the eyes of these Doncaster noodles. But I daresay they think it's a blind, a planned thing to throw them off the scent their clever noses are sticking to, so determined. If I can get my man, before they can open their eyes, I shall have such a haul as I haven't met with lately. Using thus pleasantly Mr. Grimstone turned his back upon the theatre and crossed over to the market. Within the building the clamor of buying and selling was at its height, noisy countrymen chattering in their northern patois upon the value and merits of poultry, butter, and eggs. Dealers and butchers meet themselves in the endeavour to simultaneously satisfy the demands of half a dozen sharp and bargain-loving housekeepers. While from without, there came a confused clatter of other merchants and other customers, clamouring and hustling round the stalls of greengrocers and the slimy barrels of blue-jacketed fishmongers. In the midst of all this bustle and confusion Mr. Grimstone came suddenly upon his trusted ally, pale, terror-stricken, and alone. The detective's mind was not slow to grasp the full force of the situation. You've lost him! He whispered fiercely, seizing unfortunate Mr. Chivers by the collar and pinning him as securely as if he had serious thoughts of making him a permanent fixture upon the stone flags of the marketplace. You've lost him, Tom Chivers! He continued, hoarse with agitation. You've lost the party that I told you was worth more to me than any other party I ever gave you the office for. You've lost me the best chance I've ever had since I've been in Scotland Yard and yourself too, for I should have acted liberal by you. Added the detective apparently oblivious of that morning's reverie in which he had predetermined offering his assistant ten pounds in satisfaction of all his claims. I should have acted liberal by you, Tom. But what's the use of standing drawing here? You come along with me. You can tell me how it happened as we go. With his powerful grasp still on the underling's collar Mr. Grimstone walked out of the marketplace neither looking to the right nor to the left. Though many a pair of rustic eyes opened to their widest as he passed attracted no doubt by the rapidity of his pace and the obvious determination of his manner. Perhaps those rustic bystanders thought that the stern-looking gentleman in the black frock coat had arrested the shabby little man in the act of picking his pocket and was burying him off to deliver him straight into the hands of justice. Mr. Grimstone released his grasp when he and his companion had got clear of the marketplace. Now, he said, breathless but not slackening his pace, now I suppose you can tell me how you came to make such an inadmissible adjective, fool of yourself. Never you mind where I'm going. I'm going to the railway station. Never you mind why I'm going there. You'd guess why if you weren't a fool. Now tell me all about it, can't you? It ain't much to tell the humble follower gasped. His respiratory function sadly tired at which his superior went over the ground. It ain't much. I followed your instructions faithful. I tried, artful and quiet like, to make acquaintance with him, but that weren't a bit of good. He was as surly as a bolterrier, so I didn't force him to it, but kept an eye upon him and let out before him as it was race and business as it brought me to Doncaster, and as I was here to look after a horse, what was entrained in a few miles from him, but not conspicuous? But I think from that minute he was fly, for he didn't go three steps without looking back, and he led me such a chase as made my legs tremble under me, which they tremble at this moment. And then he gets me into the marketplace and he dodges here, and he dodges there, and wherever the crowd's thickest he dodges most, till he gets me at last among a ring of market people, round a couple of coves, a millon with each other, and there I loses him. And he goes to the market, and here and there until I'm fit to drop, but it ain't no good. And you've no call to lay the blame on me for mortal man couldn't have done more. Mr. Chivers wiped the perspiration from his face in testimony of his exertions. Dirty little streams were rolling down his forehead and trickling upon his poor faded cheeks. He mopped up these evidences of his fatigue with a red cotton handkerchief and gave a deprecatory sigh. If there's anybody to lay blame on, it ain't me, he said, mildly. I said all along you ought to have had help. A man as is on his own ground and knows his own ground is more than a match for one cove. However he may work. The detective turned fiercely upon his meek dependent. Who's blaming you? he cried impatiently. I wouldn't cry out before I was hurt if I were you. They had reached the railway station by this time. How long is it since you missed him? asked Mr. Grimstone of the penitent Chivers. Three quarters of an hour or it may be an hour, Tom added doubtfully. I daresay it is an hour, wondered the detective. He walked straight to one of the chief officials and asked what trains had left within the last hour. Two, both market trains. One eastward, Selbyway. The other for Penistone and the intervening stations. The detective looked at the timetable running his thumbnail along the names that train will reach Penistone in time to catch the Liverpool train, won't it? he asked. Just about. What time did it go? The Penistone train? Yes. About half an hour ago at 2.30. The clocks had struck three as Mr. Grimstone made his way to the station. Half an hour ago, wondered the detective, he'd have had ample time to catch the train in time. He questioned the guards and porters as to whether any of them had seen a man answering to the description of the softy, a white-faced, hump-act fellow in corduroy's and a fustian jacket and even penetrated into the ticket clerk's office to ask the same question. No. None of them had seen Mr. Stephen Hargraves. Two or three of them recognized him by the detective's description and asked if it was one of the stablemen from Mellish Park that the gentleman was inquiring after. There was any direct answer to this question. Secrets he was, as we know, the principle upon which he conducted his affairs. He may have contrived to give him all the slip, he said, confidentially, to his faithful but dispirited ally. He may have got off without any of them seeing him. He's got the money about him. I am all but certain of that, and his game is to get off to Liverpool. His inquiries after the trains yesterday proves that. Now I might telegraph and might have him to Liverpool, supposing him to have given us all the slip and gone off there. If I like to let others into the game, but I don't. I'll play to win or lose, but I'll play single-handed. He may try another dodge and get off-hull by way of the canalboats that the market people use, and then slip across to Hamburg or something of that sort, but that ain't likely. These fellows always go one way. It seems as if the minute a man has taken another man's life or forged his name or embezzled his money, his ideas gets fixed in one groove, and never can soar higher than Liverpool in the American packet. Mr. Chivers listened respectfully to his patron's communications. He was very well pleased to see this serenity of his employer's mind gradually returning. Now, I'll tell you what, Tom, said Mr. Grimstone. If this chap has given us the slip, why he's given us the slip, and he's got a start of us, which we shan't be able to pick up till half-past ten o'clock when there's a train that'll take us to Liverpool. If he hasn't given us the slip, there's only one way he can leave Doncaster, and that's by this station, so you stay here patient and quiet till you see me or hear from me. If he is in Doncaster, I'm jiggered if I don't find him. With which powerful acervation Mr. Grimstone walked away, leaving his scout to keep watch for the possible coming of the softie. End of Chapter 38, Recording by Matthew Rees, Iowa.