The Wooden Hand

CHAPTER XXI

THE DIAMONDS

At seven o'clock that same evening Allen and his American friend were walking to Mrs. Palmer's to dine. As yet, Allen knew nothing of what had transpired at Misery Castle, for Eva was keeping the story till they met. But as the two men passed the little inn they saw Giles Merry descend from a holiday-making char-à-banc.. Two or three men had just passed into the inn, no doubt to seek liquid refreshment. Allen knew Merry's face, as Mrs. Merry had shown him a photograph of Signor Antonio in stage dress, which she had obtained from Cain. The man was a handsome and noticeable blackguard, and moreover his good looks were reproduced in Cain. Therefore young Hill knew him at once, and stepped forward.

"Good evening, Mr. Merry," he said; "I have long wished to meet you."

Giles looked surly. "My name is Signor Antonio, monsieur," he said.

"Oh," mocked Allen, "and being Italian you speak English and French badly?"

"What do you want?" demanded Giles savagely, and becoming the English gipsy at once. "I've no time to waste?"

"Why did you send that cross to Mr. Hill?"

Giles grinned. "Just to give him a fright," he said. "I knew he was a milk-and-water fool, as I saw a lot of him in the old days, when I did Strode's dirty work."

"You dug up the wooden hand?"

"No, I didn't. Butsey, who was on the watch, saw Hill plant it, and dug it up. He brought it to me, and I gave it to Father Don. Then Butsey stole it back, and passed it along to that young woman you're going to marry."

"I guess," said Horace at this point, "you'd best speak civil of Miss Strode. I'm not taking any insolence this day."

Allen nodded approval, and Giles cast a look over the big limbs of the American. Apparently, strong man as he was, he thought it would be best not to try conclusions with such a giant. "I wish I'd met you in Father Don's den," he said. "I'd have smashed that handsome face of yours."

"Two can play at that game," said Allen quietly; "and now, Mr. Merry, or Signor Antonio, or whatever you choose to call yourself, why shouldn't I hand you over to Wasp?"

"You can't bring any charge against me."

"Oh, can't I? You know something about this murder-"

"I was playing my turn at the circus in Westhaven when the shot was fired," said Giles coolly.

"I didn't say you shot the man yourself; but you know who did."

"No, I don't," said Merry, his face growing dark; "if I did know the man, I'd make him a present. I'd like to have killed Strode myself. He played me many a dirty trick, and I said I'd be even with him. But some one else got in before me. As to arrest," he went on sneeringly, "don't you think I'd be such a fool as to come down here, unless I was sure of my ground. Arrest me indeed!"

"I can on suspicion. You're in with the Perry Street gang."

Giles cast a look towards the inn and laughed. "Well, you've got to prove that I and the rest have done wrong, before you can run us all in."

"The wooden hand-"

"Oh, we know all about that, and who stole it," said Giles meaningly.

Allen started. He saw well enough that he could not bring Giles to book without mentioning the name of his father. Therefore he changed his mind about calling on Wasp to interfere, and contented himself with a warning. "You'd best clear out of this by to-morrow," said he angrily. "I shan't have you, troubling your wife."

"My wife! Ha-ha!" Merry seemed to find much enjoyment in the remark.

"Or Miss Strode either."

"Oh," sneered the man insolently, "you'd best see Miss Strode. She may have something interesting to tell you. But I can't stay talking here for ever. I'm going back to Shanton to-night. Come round at eleven," he said to the driver of the char-à-banc.. "We'll drive back in the moonlight."

"I think you'd better," said Allen grimly; "you stop here to-morrow, and whatever you may know about a person, whose name need not be mentioned, I'll have you run in."

"Oh, I'll be gone by to-morrow," sneered Merry again, and took his cap off with such insolence that Horace longed to kick him, "don't you fret yourself. I'm a gentleman of property now, and intend to cut the sawdust and go to South Africa-where the diamonds come from," he added with an insolent laugh, and then swung into the inn, leaving Allen fuming with anger. But there was no use in making a disturbance, as the man could make things unpleasant for Mr. Hill, so Allen walked away with Horace to Mrs. Palmer's.

It would have been wiser had he entered the inn, for in the coffee-room were three men, whom he might have liked to meet. These were Father Don smartly dressed as a clergyman, Red Jerry as a sailor, and Foxy in a neat suit of what are known as hand-me-downs. The trio looked most respectable, and if Jerry's face was somewhat villainous, and Foxy's somewhat sly, the benevolent looks of Father Don were above suspicion. Giles sat down beside these at a small table, and partook of the drinks which had been ordered. The landlord was under the impression that the three men were over on a jaunt from Shanton, and intended to return in the moonlight. Merry had met them at the door, and now came in to tell them his plans.

"I've arranged matters," he said in a low voice to Father Don, "the groom Jacobs is courting some young woman he's keeping company with, and the women servants have gone to a penny reading the vicar is giving."

"What of young Hill and his friend?"

"They are dining with Mrs. Palmer. The house is quite empty, and contains only Mr. and Mrs. Hill. I have been in the house before, and know every inch of it. I'll tell you how to get in."

"You'll come also?" said Foxy suspiciously.

"No," replied Giles. "I'll stop here. I've done enough for the money. If you're fools enough to be caught, I shan't be mixed up in the matter."

"We won't be caught," said Father Don with a low laugh; "Jerry will keep guard at the window, and Foxy and I will enter."

"How?" asked the sharp-faced man.

"By the window," said Giles. "I explained to Father Don here, in London. Hill has taken up his quarters in a Japanese room on the west side of the house, just over the wall. There are French windows opening on to the lawn. You can steal up and the grass will deaden the sound of footsteps. It goes right up to the window. That may be open. If not, Jerry can burst it, and then you and Don can enter."

"But if Hill isn't alone?"

"Well then, act as you think best. Mrs. Hill's twice the man her husband is. She might give the alarm. But there's no one in the house, and she'll have to sing out pretty loudly before the alarm can be given to the village."

"There won't be any alarm," said Father Don calmly. "I intend to make use of that paper I got from you. Where did you get it, Merry?"

"From Butsey. I found him with Strode's blue pocket-book, and made a grab at it. I saw notes. But Butsey caught those and bolted. I got the book and some papers. The one I gave you, Don, will make Hill give up the diamonds, if he has them."

"He must have them," said Don decidedly, "we know from the letter sent to Mask, and which was left at his office by Butsey, that the hand could be opened. I did open it and found nothing. I believe that Strode stored the diamonds therein. If Hill stole the hand, and took it home, he must have found the diamonds, and they are now in his possession. I expect he looked for them."

"No," said Merry grimly, "he was looking for that paper you intend to show him. He'll give up the diamonds smart enough, when he sees that. Then you can make for Westhaven-"

"What of the charry-bang?" asked Jerry in heavy tones.

"That's a blind. It will come round at eleven, but by that time we will all be on our way to Westhaven. If there is pursuit, Wasp and his friend will follow in the wrong direction. Then Father Don can make for Antwerp, and later we can sell the diamonds. But no larks," said Merry, showing his teeth, "or there will be trouble."

"Suppose young Hill and his friend tell the police?"

"Oh," said Giles, grinning, "they will do so at the risk of the contents of that paper being made public. Don't be a fool, Don, you've got the whole business in your own hands. I don't want a row, as I have to meet a lady in a few days," Giles grinned again, when he thought of Lady Ipsen, "and we have to do business."

So the plan was arranged, and after another drink Father Don and stroll in the village to "see the venerable church in the moonlight," as the pseudo clergyman told the landlord. But when out of sight, the trio changed the direction of their walk, and made for "The Arabian Nights" at the end of the village. Departing from the high-road they stole across a large meadow, and, in a dark corner, climbed the wall. Father Don was as active as any of them, in spite of his age. When the three rascals were over the wall and standing on a smoothly-shaven lawn, they saw the range of the Roman pillars, but no light in the windows. "It's on the west side," said Don in a whisper; "come along, pals."

The three crept round the black bulk of the house and across the drive. All was silent and peaceful within the boundary of the wall. The moonlight silvered the lawns and flower-beds and made beautiful the grotesque architecture of the house. A few steps taken in a cat-like fashion brought the thieves to the west side. They here saw a light glimmering through three French windows which opened on to a narrow stone terrace. From this, the lawn rolled smoothly to the flower-beds, under the encircling red brick wall. Father Don pointed to the three windows.

"The middle one," he said quietly; "see if it's open, Foxy. If not, we'll have to make a certain noise. And look inside if you can."

Foxy stole across the lawn and terrace and peered in. After a time, he delicately tried the window and shook his head. He then stole back to report, "Hill is lying on the sofa," he said, "and his wife is seated beside him. He's crying about something."

"We'll give him something to cry about soon," said Father Don, feeling for the paper which he had received from Giles. "Smash the middle window in, Jerry."

Without the least concealment the huge man rushed up the slope and hurled his bulk against the window. The frail glass gave way and he fairly fell into the centre of the room. With a shrill cry of terror, Hill sprang from the sofa, convulsively clutching the hand of his wife, while Mrs. Hill, after the first shock of alarm, faced the intruders boldly. By this time Father Don with Foxy behind him was bowing to the disturbed couple. Jerry took himself out of the room, and guarded the broken window.

"Who are you? what do you want?" demanded Mrs. Hill. "If you don't go I'll ring for the servants."

"I am afraid you will give yourself unnecessary trouble," said Don suavely. "We know the servants are out."

"What do you want?"

"We'll come to that presently. Our business has to do with your husband, Mr. Hill" – Father Don looked at the shivering wretch.

"I never harmed you-I don't know you," mumbled Hill. "Go away-leave me alone-what do you want?"

"We'll never get on in this way. – No, you don't," added Don, as Mrs. Hill tried to steal to the door, "Go and sit down by your good husband," and he enforced this request by pointing a revolver.

"I am not to be frightened by melodrama," said Mrs. Hill scornfully.

"Sit down, Sarah-sit down," said Hill, his teeth chattering.

The woman could not help casting a contemptuous look on the coward, even though she fancied, she owed so much to him. But, as she was a most sensible woman, she saw that it would be as well to obey. "I am ready to hear," she said, sitting by Hill, and putting her strong arm round the shivering, miserable creature.

"I'll come to the point at once," said Don, speaking to Hill, "as we have not much time to lose. Mr. Hill, you have forty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds here. Give them up!"

Hill turned even paler than he was. "How do you know that?" he asked.

"It can't be true," put in Mrs. Hill spiritedly. "If you are talking of Mr. Strode's diamonds, my husband hasn't got them."

"Your husband stole the wooden hand from the dead," said Foxy, with his usual snarl. "He took it home and opened it."

"I did not know it contained the diamonds," babbled Hill.

"No. You thought it contained a certain document," said Don, and produced a paper from his pocket, "a blue paper document, not very large-of such a size as might go into a wooden hand, provided the hand was hollow as it was. Is this it?"

Hill gave a scream and springing up bounded forward. "Give it to me-give it!' he cried.

"For the diamonds," said Father Don, putting the paper behind him.

"You shall have them. I hid them in this room-I don't want them, but that paper-it is mine."

"I know that-signed with your name, isn't it? Well, bring out the diamonds, and, when you hand them over-"

"You'll give me the paper?"

Foxy shook his head as Father Don looked inquiringly at him. "No, we must keep that paper, so as to get away-otherwise you'll be setting the police on our track."

"I swear I won't-I swear-" Hill dropped on his knees, "I swear-"

His wife pulled him to his feet. "Try and be a man, Lawrence," she said. "What is this document?"

"Nothing-nothing-but I must have it," cried Hill jerking himself away. He ran across the room, and fumbled at the lock of a cabinet. "See-see-I have the diamonds! I found them in the hand-I put them into a canvas bag-here-here-" his fingers shook so that he could hardly open the drawer. Foxy came forward and kindly helped him. Between the two, the drawer was opened. Hill flung out a mass of papers, which strewed the floor. Then from beneath these, he hauled a small canvas bag tied at the mouth and sealed. "All the diamonds are here," he said, bringing this to Don and trying to open it. "Forty thousand pounds-forty-for God's sake-" he broke off hysterically-"the paper, the paper I signed!"

Don took possession of the bag and was about to hand over the document, when Foxy snatched it. "We'll send this from the Continent," he said, "while we have this, you won't be able to set the peelers on us."

Hill began to cry and again fell on his knees, but Father Don took no notice of him. He emptied the contents of the bag on the table and there the jewels flashed in the lamp-light, a small pile of very fine stones. While he gloated over them, Mrs. Hill laid her hand on Foxy's arm: "What is in that paper?" she asked sternly.

"Don't tell her-don't tell her!" cried Hill.

"Lawrence!"

But he put his hands to his ears and still cried and grovelled. "I shall go mad if you tell her! I shall-ah-oh-ugh-!" he suddenly clutched at his throat and reeled to the sofa.

Mrs. Hill took little notice of him. "Read me the document," she said.

"I can almost repeat it from memory," said Foxy, putting the paper into his pocket; "it's simply a confession by your husband that he stole a certain necklace belonging to-"

"The Delham heirloom!" cried Mrs. Hill, turning grey, and recoiling.

"Yes, and also a promise to withdraw from seeking to marry Lady Jane Delham, and to marry you."

"Oh!" Mrs. Hill turned such a withering look on her miserable husband, that he shrank back and covered his eyes. "So this is the real reason of your chivalry?"

"Yes," said Father Don, who had placed the diamonds again in his bag, and stood up, "I heard some of the story from Giles Merry, and read the rest in the signed document. It was Hill who stole the necklace. He took the key from the schoolroom, where it had been left by Lady Ipsen. He opened the safe, and collared the necklace. Near the door, he left a handkerchief of yours, Mrs. Hill, so that, if there was danger, you might be accused. Strode found the handkerchief, and knowing Hill had possessed it, made him confess. Then he made Hill sign the confession that he had stolen the necklace, and also made him promise to marry you."

Mrs. Hill sank down with a stern, shamed look, "So this was your chivalry," she said, looking again at her husband, "you stole the necklace-you let me bear the shame-you tried to incriminate me-you pretended to wed me to save me from starvation, and-oh, you-you shameless-creature!" she leaped, and made as though she would have struck Hill; the man cowered with a cry of alarm like a trapped rabbit.

"What became of the necklace?" she asked Don sharply.

"Strode made Hill sell it, and they divided the profits."

"Eva's father also," moaned Mrs. Hill, covering her face, "oh, shame-shame-shall I ever be able to look on this man's face again!"

Hill attempted to excuse himself, "I didn't get much money," he wailed. "I let Strode take the lot. He carried the confession in his wooden hand-that's why I took it. I stole the hand and opened it-but the confession wasn't in it-I found the diamonds, and I have given them to you-let me have the paper!" he bounded to his feet, and snatching a dagger from a trophy of arms on the wall made for Foxy, "I'll kill you if you don't give it to me!"

Father Don dodged behind a chair, while Foxy, who was right in the centre of the room, ran for the window, and, bursting past Jerry, raced down the lawn with Hill after him, the dagger upraised. Round and round they went, while Mrs. Hill stood on the terrace, looking on with a deadly smile. Had Hill been struck down, she would have rejoiced. Don twitched the arm of Jerry.

"Let's cut," he said; "I've got the swag, Foxy can look after himself," and these two gentlemen left the house hurriedly.

Mrs. Hill saw them disappear without anxiety. The blow she had received seemed to have benumbed her faculties. To think that she had been so deceived and tricked. With a stony face she watched Foxy flying round the lawn, with the insane man-for Hill appeared to be mad-after him. Foxy, in deadly terror of his life, seeing his pals disappear, tore the document from his pocket, threw it down, and ran panting towards the wall. While he scaled it, Hill picked up the paper and tore it, with teeth and hands, into a thousand shreds. The three scoundrels had disappeared, and Mrs. Hill looked down coldly on her frantic husband. Hill danced up to the terrace, and held out his hands. "Happiness-happiness, I am safe."

"Coward," she said in a terrible voice. Her husband looked at her, and then began to laugh weirdly. Then with a cry, he dropped.

"I hope he is dead," said Mrs. Hill, looking down on him with scorn.

CHAPTER XXII

BUTSEY'S STORY

There was no excitement in Wargrove next day over the burglars who had entered "The Arabian Nights," for the simple reason that the village knew nothing about the matter. But a rumour was current, that Mr. Hill had gone out of his mind. No one was astonished, as he had always been regarded as queer. Now, it appeared, he was stark, staring mad, and no longer the harmless eccentric the village had known for so long. And the rumour was true.

"It is terrible to think of the punishment which has befallen him, Allen," said Mrs. Hill the next morning; "but can we call it undeserved?"

"I suppose not," answered her son gloomily. "I wish I had remained at home last night, mother."

"Things would have been worse, had you remained. There would have been a fight."

"I would have saved Eva's diamonds, at all events."

"Let the diamonds go, Hill," chimed in Parkins, who formed a third in the conversation, "they were come by dishonestly, and would have brought no luck. You come out to Bolivia, and fix up the mine. Then you can make your own coin, and marry Miss Strode."

"But you forget, Mr. Parkins," said Mrs. Hill, "I am now rich, and Allen need not go to America."

"No, mother," said Allen hastily, "I'll go. You will do much more good with my father's money than I can. Besides-" he hesitated, and looked at Horace. The American interpreted the look.

"Guess you want a little private conversation," he said; "well I'll light out and have a smoke. You can call me when you want me again," and Mr. Parkins, producing his pipe, left the room.

"My poor mother," said Allen, embracing her, "don't look so sad. It is very terrible and-

"You can't console me, Allen," said the poor woman bitterly, "so do not try to. To think that I should have believed in that man all these years. He was a thief-doubly a thief; he not only robbed the Delhams of the necklace, but robbed the dead, and me of my good name."

"I almost think the dead deserved to be robbed," said Allen; "I begin to believe, mother, that Strode was my father's evil genius as he said he was. Why should my father steal this necklace, when he had plenty of money?"

"He had not at the time. I think his father kept him short. He took the necklace, I expect, under the strong temptation of finding the key in the schoolroom."

"I believe Strode urged him to steal it," said Allen, "and at all events Strode was not above profiting by the theft. And it was Strode who brought about the marriage-"

"By threats," said Mrs. Hill grimly, "I expect, Strode swore he would reveal the truth, unless Lawrence married me. And I thought Lawrence acted so, out of chivalry."

"But if Strode had revealed the truth he would have incriminated himself."

"Ah, but, as I learn, he waited till after I was married before he disposed of the necklace. Then he sold it through Father Don, who was his associate in villainy. However, Strode is dead and your father is mad. I wonder what fate will befall Merry and those wretches he associates with?"

"Oh, their sins will come home to them, never fear," said Allen, in a prophetic vein. "I suppose it is best to let the matter rest."

"Certainly. Father Don and his two associates have got away. What about Merry?"

"He went almost at once to Shanton, and did not pay for the char-à-banc.. The owner is in a fine rage and drove back to Shanton at midnight, vowing to summons Merry, who was responsible for its ordering."

"Well, they are out of our life at last," said his mother, "we now know the secret which caused your unhappy father to try and murder Strode, and did make him steal the hand. The confession has been destroyed, so no one can say anything. Merry will not speak-"

"No; that's all right. Merry is going to receive money from old Lady Ipsen, for stopping the marriage of Saltars with Miss Lorry. I expect he will go to Africa as he says. He'll hold his tongue and so will the others. But they have the diamonds, and poor Eva receives nothing."

"I agree with Mr. Parkins," said Mrs. Hill quickly, "the jewels were come by dishonestly, and would have brought no good fortune. Will you tell Eva anything, Allen?"

"No. I'll tell her as little as possible. No one, but you, I, and Parkins, know of the events of last night. My poor father has been reported ill for some time and has always been so eccentric, so it will surprise no one to hear he has gone mad. We will place him in some private asylum, and-"

"No, Allen," said Mrs. Hill firmly, "the poor soul is harmless. After all, wickedly as he has acted, he has been severely punished, and is my husband. I'll keep him here and look after him till the end comes-and that won't be long," sighed Mrs. Hill.

"Very good, mother, you shall act as you think fit. But we know the truth now."

"Yes, save who murdered Mr. Strode."

"I believe Jerry did, or Giles."

"They both deny doing so."

"Of course," said Allen contemptuously, "to save their own skins. I shall go up to London, mother, and tell Mr. Mask what has taken place."

But there was no need for Allen to go to town. That afternoon the lawyer arrived and with him a small boy with one eye. The lad was neatly dressed, he had his hair cut, and his face washed. In spite of his one eye and white cheeks he looked a very smart youngster, and grinned in a friendly manner at Allen and Horace.

"This," said Mr. Mask, leading the lad into the room, where the young men were smoking after luncheon, "is Master Train-"

"Butsey?" said Allen.

"Oh no," replied Mask gravely, "he is a gentleman of property now and is living on his money. You mustn't call him by so low a name as Butsey."

The boy grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "I saiy, how long's this a-goin' on?" he inquired; "you've been shying fun at me all day."

"We won't shy fun any more," said Mr. Mask in his melancholy voice. "I have brought you here to make a clean breast of it."