Tinman

"No, thank you," replied Dawkins. "But hang me if I thought it was a bluff to begin with – and neither did the boy. More than that, I don't quite see the object of it."

"Then I'll tell you," said Olivant, with a note of bitterness in his voice. "He's gone away now, eating his heart out – mad with jealousy. If he meets her to-morrow, and she holds out her arms to him, he'll most likely turn away, and refuse to speak to her. Love's a frail thing, and wants carefully nourishing. Now get out, and leave me in peace," he added – "I'm tired."

Dawkins went at once; I think he saw the futility of attempting to speak to his patron about the matter further at that time. Fanshawe and I were just going also, when Murray Olivant, on a sudden impulse, as it seemed, called us back.

"Just one moment; I want to speak to you," he said. I noticed that a sudden seriousness had come over him; even the cigar he had picked up, and from which he had savagely wrenched the end with his teeth, remained unlighted. "Which of you knows anything about this young lady?"

"I don't," I replied at once, and looked at Fanshawe. For in my mind I was certain then that Fanshawe had in some way or other, after overhearing the conversation between Moggs and myself, contrived to get Barbara away. Nothing would persuade me to trust the man.

"And you, Fanshawe?"

"What should I know about her?" was the nervous reply. "What is she to do with me? You've got to manage this business for yourself, Mr. Olivant; it seems to me that your policy is to make other people work for you, and give them nothing but kicks in return. For my part, I wash my hands of it."

I felt sure that he was lying; I was certain in my own mind that he knew more than he would say. But, of course, I could say nothing then.

"You're very silent, Tinman," said Murray Olivant after a pause, during which we had stood helplessly watching him. "What's your opinion of this night's work?"

"My opinion is that Mr. Millard means to carry out his first threat," I replied slowly. I saw him look up at me, and the match he had lighted burned down to his fingers, so that he dropped it hurriedly. He made no attempt to light another.

"To kill me?"

I nodded. "I've seen him, as you haven't seen him; and I know that his life is wrapped up in this girl," I said earnestly. "He fears neither God nor man in such a business as this – and he's gone away to-night, believing that you have harmed her as you threatened – believing that she is lost to him. He's gone out to-night with murder in his heart. Don't I know that look – haven't I seen it?"

He threw away that second match, and laid down the cigar. After an uneasy pause he said slowly: "Well – I know that – and I know you're right. He's desperate, and perhaps with him I've gone a bit too far."

"Ah!" My relief at hearing him say that must have sounded in my voice, for he turned upon me quickly, with a sudden new fierceness.

"Don't misunderstand me. I've taken a wrong move to-night, but I mean to take another and a safer one. I'll not go back on what I mean to do; I'll not knuckle under to a young cub like that. It shall be as if the girl had really been here – only I'll work in a more secret fashion. I have a love for plotting and mystery; I'll leave that young fool staring up at these windows for a few days, and eating his heart out, and thirsting for my blood; and I'll be comfortably slipping away elsewhere. You shall help me, Tinman – and you too, Fanshawe – and I'll promise you some sport."

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"In the first place, I don't quite like the idea of being kept prisoner here, under the fear of what may happen if I venture outside. The boy's mad – but it's a sort of madness from which he may only wake when he has stuck a knife into me, or has done something else that may bring him to the gallows. That's too much of a risk for me; at the same time, I mean to get the whip hand of him. You and Fanshawe shall help me."

"Willingly – very willingly," said Fanshawe, speaking mechanically, and not raising his eyes. "You may trust us, Mr. Olivant; Tinman and I have no life that is not concerned with you and your affairs. But for you we must starve."

I looked at the despicable creature; I remembered what he had said to me, and what he had promised that very night; I was glad to think that I had not trusted him. I thought he looked at me strangely, when for a moment he raised his eyes to me; there was a look in them I did not understand.

"Well, I'm glad you recognize that fact," said Murray Olivant, with a laugh. "That's been my way always: to pay people to do things for me I don't care to do myself. You can listen, then, to my plans."

He was so exuberant about it, and chuckled so much to himself at the thought of it, that it was some time before he began to set it forth; and even then he prefaced the business with a sudden generous bringing out of bottles and glasses for our entertainment. Fanshawe drank greedily, with many slavish expressions of gratitude; I refused to take anything. At last Murray Olivant, standing with his back to the fire, and with a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, began to say what was in his mind.

"Suppose that a certain man is threatened by another – goes, in fact, in fear of his life from a madman; and suppose that it is not convenient for him to have that other arrested, or cautioned, or withheld from what he means to do by the law. In other words, he does not wish a certain fair lady's name to be dragged into the light of day, and things said about her. I have always been mighty sensitive on such matters," he added complacently.

"You have indeed!" broke in Fanshawe, with a grin.

"Suppose I suddenly say that I am tired of the whole business, and that I have made up my mind to go abroad, and to leave these people in peace and security," went on Olivant. "Suppose I decide to take the faithful Tinman with me; suppose I even go so far as to take tickets on a certain steamer for the faithful Tinman and myself, and to publish the fact abroad that I'm going. And then suppose, after that, that I never go at all."

"But why not?" I asked helplessly; for I did not see his drift.

"Dolt! Everybody is expecting that I have gone; everybody knows that I have gone; and our young friend Millard, who hasn't money enough to follow me, and who has no reason for following me as I've left the coast clear, is thrown off the scent. I slip away quietly from this place, after sending a mountain of luggage – or no luggage at all, if it pleases me; and I go to an obscure lodging where no one thinks of looking for me. And in due course, after the vessel has sailed on which I am supposed to be, our dear Fanshawe here – or our faithful Tinman – making careful inquiries, discovers the lady, and brings her to me. I'm abroad, and all suspicions are lulled; I am at home, and am playing out to a finish the game I started upon."

I saw the fiendish ingenuity of the thing at once. This man would publicly start off upon a voyage; his name would be entered upon the list of passengers; and he would quietly lie in hiding in London. The boy would feel that his vengeance had been snatched away from him; he would give up the battle in despair – only to learn too late the trick that had been played upon him. For my own part, I could do nothing; because to warn Arnold Millard of that trick would be but to put him more strongly and eagerly on the track of his enemy. I was powerless; Olivant and Fanshawe would play the game out to the end, and I should have to look on, a helpless spectator. There might be a faint chance that the girl would not be found by either of them; on the other hand, I had a shrewd suspicion that Fanshawe already knew where she was. I was certain in my own mind that he had smuggled her away from the house in which he lodged that very night; that explained his presence in Murray Olivant's rooms at the time I reached them with the boy.

"You'll come here to-morrow, Tinman," said Olivant, with a yawn, "and I'll give you money to get the tickets, and full instructions. Then I'll tell you where to engage a lodging for me, and under what name. I mean to play the game thoroughly, I assure you; not a living soul shall suspect who I am; no one shall know till long afterwards that I have not sailed for another country. It's a beautiful scheme; we'll work it out to-morrow."

It was getting well into the small hours when I came down the stairs at last, with Jervis Fanshawe at my heels. I could not trust myself then to speak to him; I held him in such loathing that I was afraid of what I might do. He spoke to me once as I walked away, but I paid no attention to him. I walked on and on doggedly, wondering bitterly what I should do, and realizing more every moment how helpless I was; seeing only that I was beating feeble hands against a wall that I could not break down.

Suddenly he plucked me by the sleeve in a quiet street through which we were passing; I turned suddenly, and faced him. As he shrank away from me, my rage overmastered me, and I caught him by the throat and forced him to his knees.

"Where are you driving me?" I demanded hoarsely. "Is not once enough, in a lifetime such as yours, to strive to ruin a woman; is there no mercy in your black heart at all?"

"You don't understand," he faltered.

"I understand only too well," I retorted savagely. "Was it for this you met me when I came from prison; was it for this that you have drawn me on and on, until I am as desperately involved in this business as yourself? What of your lying promises – your pleadings that I would trust you?"

"Indeed – indeed I only mean well – indeed I want to help her!" he exclaimed, staggering to his feet, and trying to pull my hands away from his collar. "I can't tell you; I can't explain."

"The dead woman you have seen – whose eyes have looked into yours – did she teach you nothing?" I demanded.

He suddenly covered his face with his hands, and shuddered. "She taught me something I shall not forget," he whispered. "Only I must go on and on; I dare not look back. I have set my hand to something, and I will not stop now!" He raised his haggard face to the sky, and if I had not had that desperate hatred of him in my heart, I must have been moved by the strange look upon it.

"No, you will not turn back, until you have brought this child to ruin and disgrace," I said. "But it may be given to me to spoil your game yet; this new move on the part of Olivant may lead to something he has not reckoned upon – or you either."

"Yes, it may," he said; and he seemed to shudder again.

A clock near at hand in a church tower struck three over the sleeping city. I told Fanshawe I would not go back with him then; I would walk the streets until daylight. He tried to dissuade me from that, but seeing that I had made up my mind he presently turned away, and set off towards his lodging. I tramped the streets until dawn – staring now and then into the faces of poor wanderers that flitted past me, in the vain hope of seeing the girl; but there was no face like hers.

I got some breakfast at a coffee stall, and felt refreshed and less hopeless. As I turned to go away, I heard a voice beside me giving an order for some coffee; I turned quickly, and saw that it was young Arnold Millard. He looked forlorn and tired and haggard; I was doubtful at first whether to speak to him. I decided, however, that I might do some good, if I persuaded him that Murray Olivant was about to leave the country; it might at least drive out of his mind the murderous thought that obsessed it then. I ventured to touch his sleeve; he looked round quickly, and recognized me.

"Well, what do you want?" he asked.

"I wanted to say something about last night, sir," I replied in a whisper. "Surely it was better I should prevent you from doing what was in your mind."

He took the cup of coffee from the man, and began to drink it, without replying to me. I went on speaking after a moment or two in an eager whisper.

"He lied to you, the young lady was not there at all," I said. "More than that, he's failed to get hold of her, and he's giving up the game. He goes abroad to-morrow. And I don't know where the young lady is."

He looked at me over the cup he held, and spoke sternly. "It's a lie – and you know it," he said slowly. "Look me in my eyes now – fair and square – and tell me that he's going away."

I suppose I was never a good hand at that business of deceit; I tried now to raise my eyes to his; tried to get some words out that should bravely defend the statement I had made. But the words would not come, and my eyes fell. I turned away hurriedly, and I heard his derisive laughter echoing after me as I went. I knew that I had only made matters worse.

I had gone but a few yards when he overtook me; seized me roughly by the shoulder, and swung me round, so that I faced him. "You are his servant and his slave," he said contemptuously, "and so I suppose you must lie for the sake of your bread and butter. But tell him that his lies won't serve him; tell him that my mind is as firmly made up about him as it ever will be about anything. I know he's hiding from me – but that shan't serve him. Tell him from me that I mean to kill him, just as I said I would. It's his body for her soul: a fair exchange!"

I would have protested further, but he waved me aside impatiently, and strode off into the darkness. I wondered then if there was any man in London that morning quite so miserable as I was: any man who had failed in everything he had undertaken as I had failed. I had started out so well, with such high hopes and such high ideals – and, lo! they had all come to nothing, and it was written that I was to fail again.

I carried that thought with me through all the long day. It was with me when presently I went to Murray Olivant's flat, and stood with apparent humility before him, while he looked through his letters and toyed with his breakfast; it was with me when he put the money into my hands that was to pay, in part, for his trick – that money with which I was to purchase the steamer tickets. He had decided to go by a comparatively small vessel to the Mediterranean; or, at all events, to let it be thought that he was going by that vessel. I remember that it was called the Eaglet; and he kept up that mad trick so that he was even careful as to the choosing of his cabin. I was supposed to accompany him, and a berth was engaged for me.

I went back to him later in the day, carrying the tickets with me. I found the place in disorder, and the manservant covering everything up, and locking drawers and cupboards; Olivant himself was destroying a great mass of letters. So thorough was the business that I observed with some surprise some new clothing, of a cheaper and commoner pattern than that usually worn by him; it was only after the manservant had left the room that he told me what this clothing was intended for.

"I do everything thoroughly, Tinman," he said, with a chuckle. "Everything here is packed up and left; Murray Olivant walks out of the place, and disappears from that moment. The world believes he goes on board the Eaglet, to start for a pleasure cruise. As a matter of fact he goes in those clothes" – he pointed to the new garments I had before noticed – "and he turns up in another place, and under another name. You will know that other place, because you will be there with me; and Jervis Fanshawe will know it also; but that's all. I shall not have a scrap of paper about me, nor a mark on my clothes by which any one can point to me and say, 'That's Murray Olivant!' I'm going to begin a new life with that sweet child Barbara (she's bound to be found; she'll be glad enough to come back to me) – and I shall keep that life up for just as long as I wish. I'm taking money enough to last me, in a modest way, until I resurrect Murray Olivant, and bring him back again."

I was busied all that day on various errands for him; it was late in the evening when he suddenly put a newspaper before me, and pointed to an advertisement. "That's the place for me," he said; "top rooms, and quiet and secluded. Do you know Lincoln's Inn Fields?"

I stared at the paper; it shook and rustled in my fingers. "I wouldn't go there," I said, while a great trembling seized upon me. "I wouldn't go there if I were you."

"Why, what's the matter with the man?" He snatched the paper from me, and laughed. "Do you think the place will be too dreary, or too quiet? Or do you think I might see ghosts there?"

"I think you might see ghosts there," I replied.

"Well, I'm not afraid of that," he retorted. "Go at once and see the people; if the rooms are all right, take them. Here's money; pay a quarter in advance. You need not give any names, or anything of that sort; it's a small place, and the money ought to be sufficient."

It was at that moment that there came a knock at the outer door; immediately afterwards Jervis Fanshawe was announced. Murray Olivant, who seemed elated at the prospect of his new adventure, pointed to the advertisement, and showed it to Fanshawe.

"Tinman here doesn't seem to like the idea of Lincoln's Inn Fields," said Olivant with a laugh. "What's your opinion, Fanshawe?"

Jervis Fanshawe stared at the newspaper for a moment or two; then he raised his eyes to mine. It seemed in that moment, as he looked at me, that there was a frightened look in his face; I wondered if he read my own thoughts. "Yes," he said, turning to Olivant, and handing back the newspaper, "I should think Lincoln's Inn Fields is the very spot."

I secured the rooms within an hour. It was strange to me to walk again in that place, over whose pavements my uneasy feet had trod twenty years before, that time I waited for Gavin Hockley. I was glad to find that the rooms were not in that building; but they were too close at hand to be pleasant. I walked away, with the old thoughts beginning to surge up again in my brain; and once again I was desperately afraid. I knew that some grim Fate was driving me on; I could only set my weak shoulders against the storm that pressed me forward; but I was powerless to stay the force of it.

I came away from the flat, leaving Jervis Fanshawe and the manservant still there. I understood that the manservant was to be sent away that night, and the flat locked up. I walked to the lodging that the elder Barbara had taken; I felt that I owed it to her to tell her at least that her child was gone, but was safe from Murray Olivant. The decent woman who opened the door to me told me that "Mrs. Avaline" was at home; it had only occurred to me at the last moment to ask for her in that name she had given herself.

Barbara met me at the door of the room; she held out her hands to me, and seemed, I thought, strangely excited. Nor would she for a moment let me into the room; she stood there looking at me, and I felt her hands tremble in mine.

"Guess – guess what has happened!" she whispered; and at the look in her eyes I suddenly felt myself trembling too. I thrust her aside, and went quickly into the little shabby room. A lamp was burning on the table, and some needlework lay beside it. And on a couch under the window lay that younger Barbara – peacefully sleeping.

I stood there, looking down at her like a man in a dream; I could not understand what had happened. It was only when the mother began to speak to me in her quiet voice that I understood how she had found the child.

"I wanted to see you – to be near you; I went to that address you had told me, where you were living with Fanshawe," she said softly. "I waited about, afraid to go in; and while I waited there I saw you come out with the man I suppose must have been Murray Olivant – the man I had seen down at Hammerstone Market. I could not speak to you then; I waited in the hope that you would return. And while I waited I saw this dear girl come stealing out of the place like a frightened ghost; I knew, of course, who she was, because I had seen her down at the old house, and because she is so like what I was so long ago. She did not know me, of course; she never will know me; but when I spoke to her she seemed to turn in her distress and fear to me instinctively. She came here with me willingly; she will be safe here for the present."

"Thank God!" I whispered, as I looked down at the sleeping girl. "This is all as it should be; now we can decide what is best to be done."

"I mean to take her back to her father," she said quietly. Then, as I started and looked at her, she shook her head quietly, and smiled. "Don't be afraid, Charlie; I'm not going back to him myself. I could not do that now. But the girl is different; the girl must go back to the home that is hers – and to her father."

"There to be found by Murray Olivant whenever he likes," I reminded her. "You have forgotten that. You – an unknown woman; I – a felon and an outcast; what can we do to protect her against him?" I stood there looking down at the sleeping girl; my heart was beating fast. "But I think I know the way," I said slowly.

"You know the way?" She was looking at me keenly.

"Yes, the way I took before," I whispered, without looking at her. "God is good; he has given my enemy into my hands at last!"

CHAPTER X

Too Late!

For now it all seemed straight and plain before me; now I saw clearly the pointing finger of Fate, and trembled no more at the task I had to face. Who was I, that I should ever have hung back at all, or should ever have dreaded the road on which my feet had been firmly set from the first. I looked down at the sleeping girl, and my heart was filled with a great gratitude that God had snatched me from death and from prison, and had reserved me for this. I thanked Him humbly that there was no other man in all the wide world so trained and fitted for the task as I was.

I saw it all clearly enough at last. The time was coming when this poor tangled love story would be set right; when the boy would come naturally and by instinct to the girl, and would take her in his arms, with a very perfect understanding of her purity and her innocence; so much had been ordained from the first. If they gave a thought to me, it would only be as the poor unknown grey-headed man that had been called Tinman, and had flitted into their lives for a brief hour, and flitted out again, and so been done with. Even the woman who stood beside me – that elder Barbara – was only mercifully permitted to look on at the completion of the love story she and I might have lived ourselves. After all, God had been very good to me.

"I don't understand," Barbara was saying to me, as we stood beside the sleeping girl. "What way will you take? – what will you do?"

"You will know presently," I whispered, lest I should wake the sleeper. "In any case, I want you to promise one thing: I want you to take the girl back to her father, and to leave her safely in his hands. Promise me – swear to me that nothing shall turn you from that purpose; nothing that you hear – nothing that you suspect. All that I hope to do, and all that I shall strive to do, will be brought to naught if you fail me in that."

"I promise, my dear," she said solemnly. "But Olivant?"

"Will trouble her no more," I replied. "I wonder if you remember what I said to you once – twenty long years ago?"

"I hope I remember," she whispered. "Say the words again."

"I lay under sentence of death; I was to die the next morning. You came to me; you had travelled hard and fast to reach me before they killed me. Do you remember?"

She bowed her head, and whispered that she did. I went on – repeating the words I had used so long before; they had been in my mind many many times since, and I had not forgotten them.

"This is what I said to you. 'In the years that are coming it may happen, in God's own good time, that some child you love may stand in need of a friend who will strike as I struck – fight as I fought – for her honour. It may happen, long after I am dead and forgotten by all but you, that some such an one may spring up, to do again more perfectly what I did – springing from the dead ashes of my past to work out the pitiful story I began.' Do you remember?"

"Perfectly," she whispered; and now she looked at me with startled eyes.

"I never thought then," I went on, "that it would fall to me to do again what I did then; I was as one dead when I spoke those words. But all things have fitted in so wonderfully and so strangely; there is no drawing back for me, and there is no one else who can strike the blow – no one with a greater right."