The Wooden Hand

"About the diamonds?"

"We know about the diamonds," said Horace. "I guess Father Don's got them."

"Saikes! hes he?" said Butsey regretfully; "that comes of me tellin' about the letter I guv to you" – this was to Mask-"if he hadn't opened the hand, he wouldn't have got 'em."

"You are quite wrong, Butsey," said Allen, rising. "Horace, I'll leave the boy in your keeping. Mr. Mask, will you come with me into the next room?"

Rather surprised, Mask did so, and was speedily put in possession of the terrible story. He quite agreed that the matter should be kept quiet. "Though I hope it won't be necessary to rake it up when Butsey is tried for murder."

"What! did that boy shoot Mr. Strode?"

"I think so," said the lawyer, looking puzzled; "but to tell you the truth I'm not sure. I can't get the boy to speak freely. He said he would do so, only in the presence of you and Parkins. That is why I brought him down."

"How did you get hold of him?"

"Through one of the stolen notes. Butsey presented himself at the bank and cashed ten pounds. He was arrested and brought to me. I gave bail for him, and brought him to explain."

"Where did he get the notes?"

"Out of the blue pocket-book, he says-in which case he must have committed the murder. Not for his own sake," added Mask quickly. "I fear the poor little wretch has been made a cat's-paw by the others."

"Well," said Allen, drawing a long breath of astonishment, "wonders will never cease. I never thought Butsey was guilty."

"I can't be sure yet if he is. But, at all events, he certainly knows who is the culprit, and, to save his own neck, he will confess."

"But would the law hang a boy like that even if guilty?"

"I don't think Butsey will give the law the chance of trying the experiment. He's a clever little reptile. But we had better return and examine him. Your mother-?"

"She is with my poor father."

"Is that quite safe?" asked Mask anxiously. "Perfectly. He is harmless."

Mask looked sympathetic, although he privately thought that madness was the best thing which could have befallen Mr. Hill, seeing he had twice brought himself within the clutches of the law. At least there was now no danger of his being punished for theft or attempted murder, whatever might be said by those who had escaped with the diamonds; and certainly Mrs. Hill would be relieved of a very troublesome partner. Had Hill remained sane, she would not have lived with him after discovering how he had tricked her into marriage, and had traded on her deep gratitude all these years. Now, by tending him in his hopeless state, she was heaping coals of fire on his head, and proving herself to be, what Mask always knew she truly was, a good woman.

So, in Allen's company, he returned to the room where Parkins was keeping watch over Master Train, and found that brilliant young gentleman smoking a cigarette. "Produced it from a silver case too," said the amused American. "This is a mighty smart boy. I guess you got rid of a lot of that money, bub?"

"I cashed two notes," said Butsey coolly, "but the third trapped me. But I don't care. I've had a good time!"

"And I expect you'll pass the rest of your life in gaol."

"What's that?" said Butsey, not turning a hair; "in gaol? – not me. I've been in quod once and didn't like it. I ain't a-goin' again. No, sir, you give me some cash, Mr. Hill, and I'll go to the States."

"They'll lynch you there, as sure as a gun," said Horace, grinning.

Allen was quite taken aback by the coolness of the prisoner, for a prisoner Butsey virtually was. Mask leaned back nursing his foot, and did not take much part in the conversation. He listened to Allen examining the culprit, and only put a word in now and then.

"You don't seem to realise your position," said Hill sharply.

"Oh yuss, I does," said Butsey, calmly blowing a cloud of smoke, "you wants to get the truth out of me. Well, I'll tell it, if you'll let me go. I dessay our friend here" – he nodded to Mask-"can arrange with the peelers about that note."

"It's probable I can," said Mask, tickled at the impudence of the boy; "but wouldn't you rather suffer for stealing, than for murder?"

The boy jumped up and became earnest at once. "See here," he said, wetting his finger, "that's wet," and then he wiped it on his jacket, "that's dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie. I didn't shoot the old bloke. S'elp me, I didn't!"

"Who did, then? Do you know?"

"I might know; but you've got to make it worth my while to split."

Allen took the boy by the collar and shook him. "You young imp," he said, "you'll tell everything you know, or pass some time in gaol."

"Make me tell, then," said Butsey, and put out his tongue.

"Suppose I hand you over to Father Don and your own parent?"

"Can't, sir. Th' gang's broke up. They'll go abroad with them diamonds, and start in some other country. 'Sides, I ain't going in for that business again. I'm going to be respectable, I am. And I did git you out of the den, sir," said Butsey more earnestly.

Allen dropped his hand from the boy's collar. "You certainly did that-at the request of Miss Lorry. What of her?"

"Nothing but good," said Butsey, flushing; "she's the best and kindest laidy in the world. I ain't a-goin' to saiy anything of her."

"I don't want you to talk of people who have nothing to do with the matter in hand," said Hill; "but you must tell us about the murder. If you don't-"

"What am I a-goin' to get fur splitting?" asked Butsey in a businesslike way.

"I'll arrange that you won't go to gaol. You must remember, Master Train," said Mask with deliberation, "that you are in a dangerous position. The note you cashed was taken from a pocket-book which the murdered man had on his person, when he was shot. How did you get it, eh? The presumption is that you shot him."

Butsey whistled between his teeth. "You can't frighten me," said he, his one eye twinkling savagely; "but I'll tell you everything, 'cept who shot the bloke."

"Huh," said Horace. "I guess we can ravel out that, when we know what you have to say. But you speak straight, young man, or I'll hide you proper."

"Lor," said Butsey coolly, "I've bin hided by father and old Don much wuss than you can hammer. But I'll tell-jest you three keep your ears open. Where 'ull I begin?"

"From the beginning," said Allen; "how did the gang come to know that Strode had the diamonds?"

"It wos father told 'em," said Butsey candidly. "Father's Red Jerry, an' a onener at that-my eye! He got into trouble here, and cuts to furrein parts some years ago. In Africay he saw the dead bloke."

"Strode?"

"Well, ain't I a-saiyin' of him?" snapped Butsey; "yuss-Strode. Father comes 'ome in the saime ship es Strode and knows all about 'im having prigged diamonds in Africay."

"What do you mean by prigged?"

"Wot I saiy, in course. Strode got them diamonds wrong-"

"I. D. B.," said Parkins. "I told you so, Hill."

"Well then," went on Butsey, looking mystified at the mention of the letters, "father didn't see why he shouldn't git the diamonds, so he follered the dead bloke to this here country and come to tell old Father Don in the Perry Street ken. Father Don and Foxy both went in with father-"

"To murder Strode?" said Allen.

"Not much. They wanted to rob him, but didn't want to dance on nothink. Father Don's a fly one. I was told about the job, an' sent to watch the dead bloke. I watched him in London, and he wos never out of my sight. He wos coming down to this here plaice on Thursdaiy-"

"How do you know that?" asked Mask.

"Cause I knows the 'all porter at the Guelph Hotel, an' he tells me," said Butsey calmly. "I cuts an' tells Father Don, and him and father an' Foxy all come to Westhaven on Wednesday to see him as is called Merry."

"He's another of the gang?"

"Rather. He's bin in with us fur years, he hes. And he wos doin' the strong man at Stag's circus at Westhaven. Father Don, he come down, knowing Merry 'ated Strode, to try and get him to do the robbin'."

"Did Merry agree?"

"In course he did, only too glad to get a shot at Strode-"

"Do you mean to say Merry shot him?"

"Naow," said Butsey, making a gesture of irritation, "let a cove talk. I'll tell you if he shot him, if you'll let me. I saiy we wos all down to fix things on Wednesdaiy, and I come along with a blessed ragged kids' fresh air fund, so as to maike m'self saife, if the police took a hand. I didn't want to be mixed with no gang, having my good name to think of."

Horace grinned and rubbed his hands, but Allen frowned. "Go on," he said sharply, "and don't play the fool."

"Oh, I'm a-goin' on," was the unruffled reply, "and I don't plaiy th' fool without cause, d'ye see. Well, I wos at the station at Westhaven, an' I sees Strode come. I went off to tell Merry, and he comes to the station and talks to Strode."

"That was on Wednesday?"

"Yuss. Strode sold 'us and come down, though we didn't 'ope to 'ave the pleasure of his company till Thursday. Well, I tried to 'ear what Giles wos a-saiying, but he guves me a clip on the ear and sends me spinnin', so I couldn't 'ear. I goes to complain to Father Don, an' when I gits back, Strode's away and Merry too. He'd started walkin' to Wargrove, a porter tole me. I wos about to foller, when Merry, he comes up and tells me, he'll go himself."

"That's a lie," said Allen; "Merry was doing the strong man that night in the circus."

"No, he wasn't," grinned the boy. "I went to the circus, havin' nothin' to do, and I saw the strong man. It wos Cain Merry, his son, he's like his father, and could do the fakements. No one knew but the circus coves."

"Then Merry-?"

"He went after Strode. I told Father Don an' Foxy, an' they swore awful. They couldn't start after him, as they didn't know what 'ud happen, and Merry's an awful one when put out, so they waited along o' me, d'ye see? Next daiy Merry come back, but said he'd left Strode a-goin' to the Red Deeps."

"What did Father Don do?"

"He went to the Red Deeps an' found the dead bloke. Then he come back and saw Merry. What he said to 'im I don't know: but Father Don sent me with a telegram to send from the St. James's Street orfice, saiying that Strode wouldn't be down till Friday. I think Father Don did that, to give toime to Merry to get awaiy."

"That was the telegram received by Miss Strode after nine on Thursday, I think?" said Mask.

"Yuss," said Butsey. "I sent it early an' the kid es took it to Wargrove forgot it till laite. I comes down again from town, gits back with the fresh air kids, saime night, to sell the peelers, an' nex' mornin' I comes down agin to tell Mrs. Merry es Cain would be over th' nex' daiy."

"Why did you do that? Cain was in the house."

"I knowed he wos. But Merry sent me to see if Miss Eva hed heard o' the death. Then I cuts-"

"One moment," said Allen, "if Father Don saw the man dead, why didn't he take the wooden hand?"

"Cause he didn't know it wos worth anythin' till Mr. Masks here spoke at the inquest."

"About its being delivered to get the diamonds?" said Mask; "quite so. And you saw Mr. Hill bury it?"

"Yuss. I wos told to watch him, es Merry said he knew a lot about Strode, and if the wust come he might be accused-"

"A clever plot. Well?"

"I follered him and saw him bury something. I digs it up and takes the cross es he put over it to mark it. Then I gives the 'and to Father Don an' the cross to Merry. He sends it to Hill to frighten him, and sends it through Cain. Then Father Don sees Mr. Mask, and you knows the rest."

"Not all, I guess," said Horace, stretching a long arm and shaking the boy, "say straight, you-you imp. Did Merry shoot?"

"Of course he did," replied Butsey cheerfully, "he hated Strode, an' wanted to git them diamonds. Merry hed the blue pocket-book, fur when I come down to see Miss Lorry at Shanton, I took the book from Merry's box which wos in his room. He found me with it and took it back, hammerin' me fur stealin'. But I got the notes," added Butsey with satisfaction, "and I spent three."

"Merry seems to be guilty," said Mr. Mask; "he was absent from the circus on that night and let his son-who resembles, him closely-take his place. He had the pocket-book and-"

"Got the diamonds? No, he didn't," said Butsey briskly, "he didn't know es the hand would open. I found that out from a letter I guv you, Mr. Mask, and tole ole Father Don. He opened the hand-that wos arter he saw you, Mr. Mask-but he foun' nothin'. Then he guessed es Hill-your father, Mr. Allen-had got the diamonds, seein' he had the han', while looking fur some paiper. An' Merry got the paiper out of the pocket-book," said Butsey, "an' showed it to Don. Wot Don did with it I dunno."

"He got the diamonds with it," said Allen grimly, "and has escaped. But I don't think Merry will. He's at Shanton now, as the circus is again there by particular request of the townsfolk. We'll go over to-night, Parkins, and see him perform: then we'll catch him and make him confess."

"Will you have him arrested?" asked Horace coolly.

"We'll see when the time comes," said Allen shortly. "Mask-?"

"I'll remain here and look after this boy, Master Train."

Butsey made a grimace, but so the matter was arranged.

CHAPTER XXIII

MISS LORRY'S LAST APPEARANCE

There was no doubt that Stag's Circus was a great success at Shanton. Within a comparatively short period it had played three engagements in the little town, two performances each time, and on every occasion the tent was full. Now it was the very last night, as Stag announced; the circus would next turn its attention towards amusing the North. Consequently the tent was crammed to its utmost capacity, and Stag, loafing about in a fur coat, with a gigantic cigar, was in a very good humour.

Not so Miss Lorry. That lady was already dressed in riding-habit and tall hat to show off the paces of her celebrated stallion White Robin, and she sat in her caravan dressing-room fuming with anger. Miss Lorry always insisted on having a dressing-room to herself, although the accommodation in that way was small. But she had such a temper and was such an attraction that the great Stag consented she should be humoured in this way. She had a bottle of champagne beside her and was taking more than was good for her, considering she was about to perform with a horse noted for its bad temper. In her hand Miss Lorry held an open letter which was the cause of her wrath. It was from Saltars, written in a schoolboy hand, and announced that he could never marry her, as he was now aware, through the dowager Lady Ipsen, that she, Miss Lorry, was a married woman. "I have been with the dowager to the church in London," said the letter, "so I know there's no mistake. I think you've treated me very badly. I loved you and would have made you my wife. Now everything is off, and I'll go back and marry my cousin Eva Strode."

There were a few more reproaches to the effect that the lady had broken the writer's heart, and although these were badly expressed and badly written, yet the accent of truth rang true. Miss Lorry knew well that Saltars had really loved her, and would not have given her up unless the result had been brought about by the machinations of the dowager. She ground her teeth and crushed up the letter in her hand.

"I'm done for," she said furiously. "I'd have given anything to have been Lady Saltars, and I could have turned that fool round my finger. I've risked a lot to get the position, and here I'm sold by that brute I married when I was a silly girl! I could kill him-kill him," she muttered; "and as it is, I've a good mind to thrash him," and so saying she grasped a riding-whip firmly. It was used to bring White Robin to subjection, but Miss Lorry was quite bold enough to try its effect on the human brute.

Shortly she sent a message for Signor Antonio, and in a few minutes Giles presented himself with a grin. He was ready to go on for his performance, and the fleshings showed off his magnificent figure to advantage. He looked remarkably handsome, as he faced the furious woman coolly, and remarkably happy when he thought of a certain parcel of notes he had that afternoon placed in the safe keeping of the Shanton Bank.

"Well, Bell," said he coolly, "so you know the worst, do you? You wouldn't look in such a rage if you didn't."

Miss Lorry raised her whip and brought it smartly across the eyes of Signor Antonio. "You hound!" she said, in a concentrated voice of hate, "I should like to kill you."

Merry snatched at the whip, and, twisting it from her grip, threw it on the floor of the caravan. "That's enough," he said in a quietly dangerous voice. "You've struck me once. Don't do it again or I twist your neck."

"Oh no, you won't," said Miss Lorry, showing her fine white teeth; "what do you mean by splitting?"

"I was paid to do so," said Merry coolly; "so, now you know the worst, don't keep me chattering here all night. I 'ave to go on soon."

"I have my turn first," said Miss Lorry, glancing at a printed bill pinned against the wall of the van. "I must speak out, or burst," she put her hand to her throat as though she were choking. "You beast," she cried furiously, "have I not suffered enough at your hands already?"

"You were always a tigress," growled Merry, shrinking back before her fury; "I married you when you was a slip of a girl-"

"And a fool-a fool!" cried the woman, beating her breast; "oh, what a fool I was! You know my father was a riding-master, and-"

"And how you rode to show off to the pupils?" said Merry with a coarse laugh. "I just do. It was the riding took me."

"You came as a groom," panted Miss Lorry, fixing him with a steelly glare, "and I was idiot enough to admire your good looks. I ran away with you, and we were married-"

"I did the straight thing," said Giles, "you can't deny that."

"I wish I had died, rather than marry you," she said savagely. "I found myself bound to a brute. You struck me-you ill-treated me within a year of our marriage."

Merry lifted a lock of his black hair and showed a scar. "You did that," he said; "you flew at me with a knife."

"I wish I'd killed you," muttered Miss Lorry. "And then you left me. I found out afterwards you had married that farmer's daughter in Wargrove because you got a little money with her. Then you left her also, you brute, and with a baby. Thank God, I never bore you any children! Ah, and you were in with that bad lot of Hill, and Strode, and Father Don, who was kicked out of the army for cheating at cards. You fell lower and lower, and when you found I was making money in the circus you would have forced me to live with you again, but that I learned of your Wargrove marriage. It was only my threat of bigamy that kept you away."

"You intended to commit bigamy too, with Lord Saltars," said Merry sullenly, "and I was willing enough to let you. But you wrote to Miss Strode saying you'd stop me going to Wargrove-"

"So I could by threatening to prosecute you for bigamy."

Merry shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what good would that do?" he asked brutally. "I have confessed myself, and now you can do what you like. Old Lady Ipsen paid me fifteen hundred pounds for stopping your marriage with Saltars, and now it's off. I'm going to South Africa," finished the man.

"I'll prosecute you," panted his wife.

"No, you won't," he turned and looked at her sharply, "I know a little about you, my lady-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the name of Miss Lorry was called for her turn. She picked up the riding-whip and gave Giles another slash across the eyes, then with a taunting laugh she bounded out of the van. Giles, left alone, set his teeth and swore.

He was about to leave the caravan, intending to see Miss Lorry no more, and deciding to go away from Shanton next day with his money, for London en route to South Africa, when up the steps came Allen. Behind him was a veiled lady.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Merry, starting back; "get away. This place is for the performers."

"And for murderers also," said Allen, blocking the way resolutely, in spite of the splendid specimen of physical strength he saw before him. "I know you, Mr. Giles Merry?"

"What do you know?" asked Merry, turning pale. "I know that you shot Strode-"

"It's a lie," said Merry fiercely. "I was at the circus-"

"Cain was at the circus. He performed in your stead on that night at Westhaven. You followed Strode to the Red Deeps where he met my unhappy father, and you shot him. The boy Butsey has confessed how he found the blue pocket-book, taken from Strode's body, in your box. You took it back: but the boy retained the notes and was traced thereby. Butsey is in custody, and you also will be arrested."

Merry gasped and sat down heavily. "It's a lie. I saw Butsey with the pocket-book, and took it from him. It was in the book I found the paper which Don showed to your father; I never knew there was any notes. I don't know where Butsey stole the book."

"He took it from you."

"It's a lie, I tell you," cried Merry frantically, and seeing his danger. "I was never near the Red Deeps. Ask Cain, and he'll tell you, I and not he performed. He perform my tricks!" said Merry with a sneer; "why he couldn't do them-he hasn't the strength. I swear, Mr. Hill, by all that's holy I was not at the Red Deeps."

"You were," said the woman behind Allen, and Eva Strode pushed past her lover. "Allen and I came to this circus to see Cain and get him to speak about his appearing for you at Westhaven. We came round to the back, by permission of Mr. Stag. When we were passing here, I heard you laugh. It was the laugh I heard in my dream-a low, taunting laugh-"

"The dream?" said Merry aghast; "I remember reading what you said at the inquest, Miss Strode, and then my silly wife-the first wife," said Merry, correcting himself, "talked of it. But dreams are all nonsense."

"My dream was not, Giles. The body was brought home, and the five knocks were given-"

"By Butsey?" said Merry contemptuously; "bless you, Miss Eva, the boy was hidden on the verge of the common when you and Mr. Allen were walking on the night your father's body was brought home. You told Mr. Allen your dream."

"Yes, Eva, so you did," said Allen.

"Well then, Butsey heard you, and being a little beast as he always is, when he met those three men with the body he came too, and knocked five times as you described to Mr. Allen. That for dreams," said Merry, snapping his fingers.

Eva was slightly disconcerted. "That is explained away," she said, "but the laugh I heard in my dream, and heard just now in this caravan, isn't. It was you who laughed, Giles, and you who shot my father."

Merry started, and a red spot appeared on his cheek. "I wonder if Bell did kill him after all?" he murmured to himself; "she's got a vile temper, and perhaps-"

Allen was about to interrupt him, when there came a cry of dismay from the circus tent, and then a shrill, terrible scream. "There's an accident!" cried Merry, bounding past Eva and Allen, "White Robin's done it at last," and he disappeared.

The screams continued, and the noise in the tent. Suddenly there was the sound of two shots, and then a roar from the audience. A crowd of frightened women and children came pouring out. From the back came Stag and Merry and Horace and others carrying the mangled body of Miss Lorry. She was insensible and her face was covered with blood.

The tears were streaming down Stag's face. "I knew that brute would kill her some day," he said. "I always warned her-oh, poor Bell! Take her into the van, gentlemen. She'll have the finest funeral; – send for a doctor, can't you!"

Eva shrank back in horror at the sight of that marred face. The woman opened her eyes, and they rested on the girl. A flash of interest came into them and then she fell back unconscious. Stag and Merry carried her into the van, but Horace, surrendering his place to another bearer, joined Allen and Miss Strode.

"It was terrible," he said, wiping his face, which was pale and grave, "after you left me to see Cain, Miss Lorry entered on her white stallion. She was not very steady in the saddle-drink, I fancy. Still she put the horse through some of his tricks all right. But he seemed to be out of temper, and reared. She began to strike him furiously with her whip, and quite lost her self-control. He grew more savage and dashed her against the pole of the tent. How it happened I can't say, but in a moment she was off and on the ground, with the horse savaging her. Oh, the screams," said Horace, biting his lips, "poor woman! I had my Derringer in my pocket and almost without thinking I leaped into the ring and ran up to put a couple of bullets through the brute's head. White Robin is dead, and poor Miss Lorry soon will be," and he wiped his face again.