The Wooden Hand

"Did you see who fired the shot?"

"No. I was too afraid. I simply ran away and never looked back."

At this point Mask held up his hand. "I hear some one in the outer office," he said, and rose to open the door. Hill slipped behind the table quivering with fear. However, Mask returned to his seat. "I am wrong," he said, "there's no one there. Go on."

"What else do you want to know?" questioned Hill irritably.

"Why you fainted and left the house, when you got that cross from Giles Merry?"

Hill stared. "You knew it was Giles?" he stammered; "what do you know of Giles?"

"Nothing. But Mrs. Merry recognised the direction on the brown paper as being in her husband's writing. Why did you faint?"

Hill looked down and then looked up defiantly. He was still standing behind the desk. "I stole the wooden hand!"

"What!" cried Mask and Allen, both rising.

"Yes. I had my reasons for doing so. I took it from the body, when I was in the death-chamber. I had it in my pocket when I saw you and Eva, and said it was stolen. And then," went on Mr. Hill very fast, so that Allen should not give expression to the horror which was on his face, "I took it home. But I feared lest my wife should find it and then I would get into trouble. Sarah was always looking into my private affairs," he whined, "so to stop that, I went and buried the hand on the common. Some one must have watched me, for I put that cross to mark the spot. When I opened the parcel and saw the cross I knew some one must have dug up the wooden hand and that my secret-"

"What has the wooden hand to do with your secret?"

Hill shuffled, but did not reply to the question. "It was Giles's writing. I knew he'd got the wooden hand, and my secret-Hark!" There was certainly the sound of retreating footsteps in the other room. Allen flung open the door, while his father cowered behind the desk. The outer door was closing. Allen leaped for it: but the person had turned the key in the lock. They heard a laugh, and then retreating footsteps. Mask, who had followed Allen, saw something white on the floor. He picked it up. It was a letter addressed to Sebastian Mask. Opening this he returned to the inner office. "Let us look at this first," said Mask, and recalled Allen: then he read what was in the envelope. It consisted of one line. "Open the wooden hand," said the mysterious epistle.

"No," shrieked Hill, dropping on his knees; "my secret will be found out!"

CHAPTER XVII

A FRIEND IN NEED

Allen was stopping in quiet rooms near Woburn Square, which was cheaper than boarding at a hotel. He was none too well off, as his father allowed him nothing. Still, Allen had made sufficient money to live fairly comfortable, and had not spent much, since his arrival in England, owing to his residence at "The Arabian Nights."

It had been Allen's intention to escort his father back to Wargrove, whither Hill consented to go. But, on explaining to Mask his desire to trace out Butsey by using the address of the Fresh Air People in Whitechapel, Mask had agreed to take the old man home himself. He thought that it was just as well Allen should find the boy, who might know much.

"He didn't steal the wooden hand," said Mask, when he parted from Allen, "but he is evidently in with the gang."

"What gang, Mr. Mask?"

"That headed by the old gentleman who called on me. Jerry is one of the gang, and this boy Butsey another. He sent that telegram, remember. If you can find the lad you may learn much, and perhaps may get back the hand."

"But what good will that do?" asked Allen, puzzled; "from what my father said when you read the anonymous letter, he evidently knew that the hand can be opened. If, as he says, it contains his secret, he must have opened it himself when he took it home, and before he buried it."

Mask wrinkled his brows and shook his head. "I confess that I cannot understand," he remarked hopelessly, "nor will I, until your father is more frank with me. This is one reason why I am taking him myself to Wargrove. When I get him there I may induce him to tell me his secret."

"It must be a very serious secret to make him behave as he does."

Mask sighed. "I repeat that I can't understand. I have known your father all his life. We were boys together, and I also knew Strode. But although your father was always foolish, I can't think that he would do anything likely to bring him within reach of the law."

"He stole the wooden hand, at all events," said Allen grimly.

"Out of sheer terror, I believe, and that makes me think that his secret, for the preservation of which he robbed the dead, is more serious than we think. However I'll see what I can learn, and failing your father, I shall ask Giles Merry."

"Do you think he knows?"

"I fancy so. The parcel with the cross was addressed in his writing, so it is he who has the hand. He must have given it to the old scoundrel who called on me, so I think, Mr. Allen, we are justified in adding Merry to the gang."

"But the hand must have been empty when my father buried it on the common, so how could Giles know his secret?"

"I can only say that I don't understand," said Mask with a gesture of hopelessness; "wait till I get your father to speak out. Then we may learn the truth."

"I dread to hear it," said the son gloomily.

"Well," replied Mask in a comforting tone, "at all events we know it has nothing to do with this murder. It is your task to learn who committed that, and you may do so through Butsey."

After this conversation Mr. Mask took Hill back to Wargrove, whither the old man went willingly enough. He seemed to think himself absolutely safe, when in the company of his legal adviser and old friend. Allen returned to his rooms, and sent a message to Mr. Horace Parkins that he would see him that afternoon. It was necessary that he should keep faith with his friend Mark Parkins in South America, and find a capitalist; and Allen thought that Horace, whom Mark reported shrewd, might know of some South African millionaire likely to float the mine in Bolivia. As to the search after Butsey, Allen had not quite made up his mind. He could learn of Butsey's whereabouts certainly, but if it was some low den where the lad lived, he did not want to go alone, and thought it might be necessary to enlist the service of a detective. For his father's sake, Allen did not wish to do so. But he must have some one to go with him into the depths of London slums, that was certain. Allen knew the life of the Naked Lands, and there could more than hold his own, but he was ignorant of the more terrible life of the submerged tenth's dens.

It was at three o'clock that Allen appointed the meeting with Parkins, and at that hour precisely a cab drove up. In a few minutes Parkins was shown in by the landlady, and proved to be a giant of over six feet, lean, bright-eyed, and speaking with a decided American accent. He was smartly dressed in a Bond Street kit, but looked rather out of place in a frock-coat and silk hat and patent leather boots.

"Well, I'm glad to see you," said the giant, shaking hands with a grip which made Allen wince-and he was no weakling. "Mark's been firing in letters about what a good sort you are, and I was just crazy to meet you. It isn't easy finding a pal in this rotten planet of ours, Mr. Hill, but I guess from what Mark says, you fill the bill, so far as he's concerned, and I hope you'll cotton on to me, for I'm dog-sick with loneliness in this old city."

Allen laughed at this long speech and placed a chair for his visitor. "You'd like a drink, I know," he said, ringing the bell.

"Milk only," said Parkins, hitching up the knees of his trousers, and casting his mighty bulk into the deep chair; "I don't hold with wine, or whisky, or tea, or coffee, or anything of that sort. My nerves are my own, I guess, and all I've got to hang on to, for the making of bargains. I'm not going to play Sally-in-our-Alley with them. No, sir, I guess not. Give me the cow's brew."

So a glass of milk was brought, and Mr. Parkins was made happy. "I suppose you don't smoke, then?" said Allen, amused.

"You bet-a pipe." He produced a short clay and filled it. "I'm of the opinion of that old chap in Westward Ho., if you know the book?"

"I haven't read it for years."

"Y'ought to. I read it every year, same as I do my Bible. Had I my way, sir," he emphasised with his pipe, "I'd give every English boy a copy of that glorious book to show him what a man should be."

"You're English, I believe, Mr. Parkins?"

"Born, but not bred so. Fact is, my mother and father didn't go well in double harness, so mother stopped at home with Mark, and I lighted out Westward-ho with father. You'd never take me for Mark's brother?"

"I should think not. You're a big man and he's small: you talk with a Yankee accent, and he speaks pure English. He's-"

"Different to me in every way. That's a fact. I'm a naturalised citizen of the U.S.A. and Mark's a Britisher. We've met only once, twice, and again, Mr. Hill, but get on very well. There's only two of us alive of the Parkins gang, so I guess we'd best be friendly, till we marry and rear the next generation. I'm going to hitch up with an English girl, and Mark-if I can persuade him-will marry an American dollar heiress. Yes, sir, we'll square accounts with the motherland that way."

All the time Parkins talked, he pulled at his pipe, and enveloped himself in a cloud of smoke. But his keen blue eyes were constantly on Allen's face, and finally he stretched out a huge hand. "I guess I've taken to you, some," said he, "catch on, and we'll be friends."

"Oh," said Allen, grasping the hand, "I'm sure we shall. I like Mark."

"Well then, just you like the American side of him, which is Horace Parkins. I guess we'll drop the misters and get to business, Hill."

"I'm ready. What do you want to see me about?"

"Well, Mark wrote to me as you'd got a mine of sorts, and wanted a capitalist. I'm not a millionaire, but I can shell out a few dollars, if y'think you can get the property cheap."

"Oh, I think so. The Spaniard that owns it wants money and isn't very sure of its value."

"Tell me about that right along."

Whereupon Hill detailed the story of the Indian and how the mine had been worked by the Inca kings. He described the locality and the chances of getting the silver to the coast: also spoke of the labour required and the number of shares he and Mark intended to divide the mine into. Horace listened, nodding gravely.

"I see you've figured it out all right, Hill," said Parkins, "and I guess I'll take a hand in the game. Give me a share and I'll engineer the buying."

"Good," said Allan, delighted, "we'll divide the mine into three equal shares. You buy it, and Mark and I will work it."

"Good enough. We won't want any one else to chip in. It's a deal."

They shook hands on this, and then had a long talk about the West Indies, which Horace, who had never been there, knew chiefly through the glowing pages of Westward Ho.. "Though I guess the place has changed since then," said he, "but the gold and silver's there right enough, and maybe, if we looked long enough, we'd chance on that golden Manoa Kingsley talks about."

The talk drifted into more immediate topics, and Allen, much amused at his gigantic companion's naïve ways of looking at things, asked him about his life. Thereupon Horace launched out into a wild tale of doings in Africa. He had been all through the war and had fought therein. He had been up the Shire River, and all over the lion country. He made money and lost it, so he said, and finally managed to find a fortune. It was five o'clock before he ended, and later he made a remark which made Allen jump: "So I just thought when I got Mark's letter telling me you were in the old country and about the mine, that I'd come home and see what kind of man you were. I'm satisfied-oh yes, you bet. I'll trust you to the death, for I size up folk uncommon quick, and you?"

"I'll trust you also," said Allen, looking at the man's clear eyes and responding to his true-hearted grip, "and in fact I need a friend now, Mr. Parkins."

"Call me Parkins, plain, without the Mister. Well, here I am, ready to be your pal, while Mark's over the herring-pond. What's up? Do you want me to cut a throat? Just say the word, and I'll do it. Anything for a change, for I'm dead sick of this place ever since I left the Dunoon Castle.."

It was this speech which made Allen jump. "What, did you come home in the Dunoon Castle?"

"You bet I did, and a fine passage we had."

"Did you know a passenger called Strode?"

Parkins raised his immense bulk slightly, and looked sharply at the questioner. "Do you mean the man who was murdered?"

"Yes. I suppose you read about the crime in the papers?"

"That's so. Yes, I knew him very well. Better than any one on board, I guess. We got along finely. Not a man I trusted," added Parkins musingly, "but a clever sort of chap. Well?"

"Did he ever tell you of his daughter?"

"No. He never spoke of his private relations."

"Well, he has a daughter, Miss Eva Strode. You must have read her name in the papers when the case was reported."

"I did," said Parkins after a pause; "yes?"

"I'm engaged to her."

Parkins rose and looked astonished. "That's a queer start."

"You'll hear of something queerer if you will answer my questions."

"What sort of questions?"

Allen debated within himself if he should trust Parkins all in all. It seemed a rash thing to do, and yet there was something about the man which showed that he would not break faith. Horace was just the sort of companion Allen needed to search after Butsey in the slums of Whitechapel. It was no good telling him anything, unless all were told, and yet Allen hesitated to bring in the name of his father. Finally he resolved to say as little as he could about him, and merely detail the broad facts of the murder, and of the theft of the hand, without mentioning names. "Parkins," he said frankly and with a keen look, "can I trust you?"

"I guess so," said the big man serenely. "I mean what I say. You can take my word without oaths, I reckon."

"Very well, then," said Allen with a sudden impulse to make a clean breast of it; "sit down again and answer a few questions."

Horace dropped down heavily and loaded his pipe. While he was lighting up, he listened to Allen's questions. But Allen did not begin before he had explained the purpose of his inquiries.

"I am engaged to Miss Strode," said Allen, "but she refuses to marry me until I learn who killed her father."

"Very right and just," nodded Parkins.

"Well, I'm trying to hunt out the criminal, and I should like you to help me."

"I'm with you right along, Hill. Fire away with your questions."

Allen began: "Did Mr. Strode ever tell you he had money?"

"Yes. He made a lot in South Africa and not in the most respectable way. I don't like talking ill of the dead, and of the father of the girl you're going to make Mrs. Hill, but if I am to be truthful-"

"I want you to be, at all costs. The issues are too great for anything false to be spoken."

"Well then, I heard a lot about Strode in Africa before we steamed together in the Dunoon Castle.. He made his money in shady ways."

"Humph!" said Allen, "I'm not surprised, from what I've heard."

"He was an I. D. B. if you want to get to facts."

"What's that?" demanded Allen.

"An illicit diamond buyer."

"Can you explain?"

"I guess so. Strode bought diamonds from any one who had them. If a Kaffir stole a jewel, and many of them do steal, you bet, Strode would buy it from him at a small price. He was on this lay for a long time, but was never caught. And yet I don't know," said Parkins half to himself, "that brute Jerry Train knew something of his doings!"

Allen almost leaped from his seat. "Jerry! was he a big red-headed man-a ruffian?"

"He was a bad lot all through-a horse-thief and I don't know what else in the way of crime. He made South Africa too hot for him, and came home steerage in the Dunoon Castle.. I saw him at times, as I knew a heap about him, and he thieved from a pal of mine up Bulawayo way. He seemed to suspect Strode of yanking diamonds out of the country."

"Did Strode tell you he possessed diamonds?"

"No. He said he'd made money to the extent of forty thousand pounds."

"Did he carry the money with him?"

Parkins shook his head. "I can't say. I should think he'd have letters of credit. He'd a pocketbook he was always dipping into, and talked of his money a lot."

"A blue pocket-book with a crest?"

"That's so. Do you know it?"

"No. But that pocket-book was stolen from the body. At least it was not found, so it must have been stolen."

"Oh, and I guess Strode was murdered for the sake of the pocket-book. But see here," said Horace shrewdly, "I've told you a heap. Now, you cut along and reel out a yarn to me."

The other man needed no second invitation. He laid aside his pipe and told the story of the crime, suppressing only the doings of his father. Horace listened and nodded at intervals.

"I don't see clear after all," he said when Allen ended, "sure you've told me everything?"

The young man looked uneasy. "I've told you what I could."

Parkins rose and stretched out his hand. "What you've told me will never be repeated. Good-bye."

"What for?" asked Allen, also rising.

"Because you won't trust me. I can't straighten out this business, unless you do."

"The other thing I might tell isn't my own."

"No go. If it concerns the murder it must be told. I don't work half knowledge with any one. You can trust me."

Allen hesitated. He wanted to tell all, for he felt sure that Parkins would help him. But then it seemed terrible to reveal his father's shame to a stranger. What was he to do?

"See here, I'll tell-you everything, suppressing names."

"Won't do," said the inflexible Parkins; "good-bye."

"Will you give me a few hours to think over the matter?"

"No. If I'm not to be trusted now, I'm not to be trusted at all."

The young man bit his fingers. He couldn't let Parkins go, for he knew about Strode and Red Jerry, and might aid the case a lot. It was imperative that the truth should be discovered, else it might be that his father would be put to open shame. Better, Allen thought, to tell Parkins and get his aid, than risk the arrest of his father and see the whole story in the papers. "I'll tell all," he said.

"Good man," growled Parkins, his brow clearing.

When in possession of all the facts, Parkins thought for a moment and delivered his opinion: "Strode I take it was followed to the Red Deeps by Jerry Train, and Jerry shot him and stole the pocket-book."

"But the wooden hand?"

"Merry's got it and he's in the gang. Hold on," said Parkins, "I'll not give a straight opinion till I see this boy. We'll go down and hunt him up. He'll give the show away."

"But my father?" asked Allen, downcast.

"He's a crank. I don't believe he mixed up in the biznai at all."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FINDING OF BUTSEY

It did not take Allen long to learn something about Butsey. An inquiry at the offices of the philanthropic people, who dealt with the transfer of ragged boys to the country for fresh air, brought out the fact that Butsey was a thief, and a sparrow of the gutter, who lived in a certain Whitechapel den-address given-with a set of the greatest ruffians in London.

"It was a mere accident the boy came here," said the spectacled gentleman who supplied the information; "we were sending out a number of ragged children to Westhaven for a couple of days, and this boy came and asked if he could go too. At first, we were not inclined to accept him, as we knew nothing about him. But the boy is so clever and amusing, that we consented he should go. He went with the rest to Westhaven, but did not keep with those who looked after the poor creatures. In fact, Mr. Hill," said the gentleman frankly, "Butsey took French leave."

"Where did he go?"

"I can't tell you. But one of our men caught sight of Father Don, and Red Jerry, at Westhaven-those are the ruffians Butsey lives with. He might have gone with them."

"Did you take the children down on a Wednesday?"

"Yes. And then they came back, late the next day."

Allen reflected that if Butsey sent the wire before four o'clock, he must have gone back to London, and wondered where he got the money for the fare. Then he must have come down again, in order to give the lying message to Mrs. Merry. However, he told the philanthropist nothing of this, but thanked him for his information. "I intend to look this boy up," he said, when taking his leave.

"Has he got into trouble?" asked the gentleman anxiously.

"Well, not exactly. But I want to learn something from him relative to a matter about which it is not necessary to be too precise. I assure you, sir, Butsey will not come to harm."

"He has come to harm enough already, poor lad." I tell you, Mr. Hill, "that I should like to drag that boy out of the gutter, and make him a decent member of society. He is sharp beyond his years, but his talents are utilised in the wrong way-"

"By Father Don, Red Jerry, and Co.," said Allen drily; "so I think."

"One moment, Mr. Hill; if you go to the Perry Street den, take a plain clothes policeman with you. Father Don is dangerous."

"Oh, I'll see to that," said Allen, confident in his own muscles and in those of Parkins. "You couldn't get Butsey to come here?"

"I fear not-I sadly fear not, Mr. Hill. The boy has never been near us since he came back with the children from Westhaven."

"He did come back with them, then?"

"Oh yes," said the philanthropist frankly, by the late train; "but what he did in the meantime, and where he went, I can't say. He refused to give an account of himself."

"Shrewd little devil," said Allen; "but I think I know."

"I trust it has nothing to do with the police," said the gentleman anxiously; "a detective asked after Butsey. I gave him the address of Father Don in Perry Street, but the lad could not be found. The detective refused to say why the lad was wanted, and I hope he'll not come to harm. If you find him, bring him to me, and I'll see what I can do to save him. It's a terrible thing to think that an immortal soul and a clever lad should remain in the depths."

Allen assented politely, promised to do what he could towards bringing about the reformation of Butsey, and went his way. He privately thought that to make Butsey a decent member of society would be next door to impossible, for the lad seemed to be quite a criminal, and education might only make him the more dangerous to the well-being of the community. However he reserved his opinion on this point, and got back to his Woburn rooms to explain to Horace. The big American-for he virtually was a Yankee-nodded gravely.

"We'll go down this very night," he said. "I guess we'd best put on old togs, leave our valuables at home, and carry six-shooters."

"Do you think that last is necessary?" asked Allen anxiously.

"It's just as well to be on the safe side, Hill. If this boy is employed by Father Don and his gang, he won't be let go without a fight. Maybe he knows too much for the safety of the gang."

"That's very probable," assented Hill drily; "however, we'll take all precautions, and go to Perry Street."

"This is what I call enjoyment," said Horace, stretching his long limbs. "I'm not a quarrelsome man, but, by Gosh, I'm just spoiling for a fight."

"I think there's every chance we'll get what you want, Parkins."

So the matter was arranged, and after dinner the two men changed into shabby clothes. It was raining heavily, and they put on overcoats, scarves, and wore slouch hats. Both carried revolvers, and thus they felt ready for any emergency. As Allen knew London comparatively well, he took the lead, and conducted Horace to Aldgate Station by the underground railway. Here they picked up a cab and went to Whitechapel. The driver knew Perry Street but refused to go near it, on the plea that it was a dangerous locality. However, he deposited the two near the place, and drove away in the rain, leaving Allen and Horace in a somewhat dark street. A search for a guide produced a ragged boy of the Butsey type, who volunteered to show the way to Father Don's den. "You've got some swag to send up the spout, gents both?" leered the brat, looking up to the big men as they stood under a lamp-post.