"’Tis precious bad luck any way, Hildebrand," said he, "and I don't know that we oughtn't to do something. You don't forget that he's only eight miles from here. He'll not be remaining another week and know nothing of us. Faith, that would be a miracle."
"It's the best course, sir," said I; "let sleeping dogs lie, as I've often told you. Eight miles in the country are eight miles. How should he hear of you now if he's not done it by this time?"
He was not satisfied, and all the Sunday he thought of it. There are few who would call Nicky Steele a coward, but this Heresford was like a whip to him. He lost his laugh that day, and for the most part he spent the hours in his bedroom. When I went up to him at night, he had made up his mind, and nothing that I could say would turn him from his purpose.
"Hildebrand," he cried, "we must get this jabbering old idiot out of Derbyshire, and we mustn't lose time about it."
"Will you please to tell me how that's to be done, sir?" I asked.
"To be done, man—you've no more wits than a pig"—he always spoke impatient like this; "why, fetch him back to his place at Datcham with a telegram. Isn't that how it's to be done? Look, now, the wedding's for Saturday—this is Sunday. Let your brother wire to him on Wednesday from London. No name, of course, and no address. Just the simple words—'Return home at once.' That 'll fetch him to Surrey on Thursday, and before he's time to think of it we'll have done the trick. Faith, 'tis a good idea, too, and lucky that one of us did not leave his wits in Paris. Why, man, a child could see it."
I did not argue with him, hoping to find him in better mind next morning; but the more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea, and so it came about that on Tuesday he had his way, and I wrote to my brother Jerome in London telling him to telegraph to Heresford at Altenham. But it was my notion to add the words—"meet you there," for, said I, that will put him off the scent, and he will think that his lawyer or some one wishes to see him on big business. In this way the whole telegram would read, "Return to Datcham at once—meet you there," and might after all, I thought, help us over a stiff place. Any way, I posted the letter to Jerome on the Tuesday in time for the London post, but it was not until the Wednesday evening that the answer came, and hit us, so to speak, fair between wind and water. I saw what had happened directly I looked at the thing. Either Jerome had addressed his telegram wrongly, or the muddle was made at the post-office. Be that as it might, I had got the message intended for Heresford, and he must have got the message intended for me.
"Now," said I to myself, as I went down the village road that night, "was ever such a thing heard of—that we should go out of our way to bring that old busybody buzzing about the White House? And just when we seemed set for the best innings we'd ever played! It's enough to make a man cut his throat."
CHAPTER VII
OLD BARKER SHOWS HIS BOOKS
All this, as you may think, was in my mind when I set out for the post-office to find out, if I could, what message really had been given to Lord Heresford. I knew well enough that a word would send him barking to old Oakley; and if that word had been written, good-by to Miss Janet, said I, and heigho for Paris again. This wasn't the first time by a long way that Nicky and I had changed our quarters suddenly; but better quarters than the White House we couldn't hope to find in a hurry—better quarters nor better people, for there wasn't a man of them, even down to Reubens, the constable, that didn't treat us in slap-up style. Whenever I went into the village, it was "Good-day to you, Mr. Bigg. Ye'll take a glass of ale with me?" or, "How's Sir Nicolas finding himself to-day, Mr. Bigg? Been riding, I suppose. Ay, he's a wunner on horseback is your master." Strange, it was, too, how they did love Nicky, every man, woman, and child among them; and this I will say, that more pleasant manners with children you'll never see this side of Dublin.
When I got down to the post-office, old Barker, the post-master, was at the meeting-house, "wrestling with the Lord," his wife called it; and there was nothing for it but to catch him as he came out and before he got into the public. But I hadn't been in the village five minutes when Reubens came sidling up to me, and began a parley. He was a rare talker, was Reubens, and if you wanted any thing put abroad, you couldn't do better than give him a whisper of it.
"Evenin', Mister Bigg," said he. "I do hope that you be finding yourself better this day."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Reubens," said I, "it's not much that I'm complaining of. Will you have a cigar to-night?"
I offered him my case, and he took a smoke readily.
"It's funny," said he, biting off the end of it then and there, "that you should be offering me bacca, for it weren't five minutes ago that Mrs. Reubens says to me, 'Reubens, ye're more tiresome this night than I can remember. Drat ye, go out and smoke your pipe, and leave me to get the childer to bed.' Ay, wunnerful woman she is with childer! Ye'll not be having a lucifer about you, Mr. Bigg?"
"Oh, but I have, though. You'll take a glass of ale with me, Mr. Reubens?"
"Well, now, you do put things into a man's head!"
I took him up to the Duke of York, and we went into the private bar at his wish.
"There's some as say," he explained, "that a constable shouldn't go for to be seen drinking in a public; but that's not my word. A man's a man, and no' the worse for taking a glass of yale like other folk. And it's example, too. What would ye think of a policeman that wanted a stomach for a sup of beer? That's no man to preserve the Queen's peace."
"Quite right," said I. "But I don't suppose the Queen's peace wants very much preserving in these parts."
"No," said he, draining his jug at a draught; "we're a tidy civil folk as folk go. When there's trouble, it's a'most a' ways brought by strangers. An' that reminds me—ye'll not have been looking for any man from Lunnon to-day, Mr. Bigg?"
"What sort of a man?" said I, feeling a bit queer at the question; which was no wonder, remembering the business I'd come down to the village about.
"Spare party, with short legs and a fly-away voice," said he. "Clerkish way he has, too, pryin' about just as if he was sorting out pigs. Thought he might be down here about Saturday. Ay, but you'll be busy enough without him. She's a fine lady, is Miss Oakley; no finer in the county, that I do say. And I've seed a many giv' and took since I was a lad, Mr. Bigg."
"That's so, Mr. Reubens," replied I; "you must have seen a wonderful lot in your time. But this clerk, now—was he asking after me?"
"After you—no; I don't mind that he was, or I'd have been bringing him up to the house. Queer party he is, though. And you'll not forget that there are diamonds and such up yonder now. There's been stranger things in Derbyshire than house-breakers, Mr. Bigg."
I saw in a minute what he meant, and I could have burst out laughing in his face. When he told me that a clerk was in the village he didn't need to say more. I knew well what the chap was after, and I said to myself, "Nicky, my boy, here's another bit of white paper which the wind has sent us." Yet how they had scented us out, or whose writ it was, I couldn't think. At the same time, it wasn't for me to be putting thoughts into the constable's head, and I kept my wits about me.
"It seems to me that the village should think itself lucky to have such a man as you about, Mr. Reubens," said I, after a bit. "There's no knowing what these London chaps aren't up to nowadays. Do you remember when old Lord Ramer was married down Bedford way last autumn? Well, the very night he was honeymooning, three of them entered his place and filled themselves right up with plate and jewels. Broke into his dressing-room, they did, and wired all the park, so that when his butler went after them he cut his face cruel. What do you think of that?"
"Ay, but it was bad business, Mr. Bigg."
"You're right there; and if I was you I'd keep my eye on this chap you speak of. Likely enough he's news of what's going