“How’s it likely I could see, squintin’ through a hole like that? Some ’un or ’nother stretching his legs, ’cause he ain’t got no work to do, I s’pose.”
“But couldn’t you see his face?”
“See his face? Is it likely? Just you get up and look through that hole. Why, I had to look straight up, then sidewise, and then straight up again, and that bends your sight about so as you couldn’t even do anything with a spyglass.”
“I believe you could see who it was, and won’t tell me.”
“Hear that, now! Why shouldn’t I want to tell? Says you, I’m out on the sly, and nobody mustn’t know I’m here.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Morton shortly.
“Well, lad, not in words you didn’t; but that’s how it seemed to be, so I kep’ as quiet as I could, and whoever it was didn’t hear us.”
“What did he throw into the water?”
“Stone, I s’pose. Some o’ them dandy jacks, as looks as if they couldn’t move in their clothes, once they gets alone, nothing they likes better than throwing stones in the water. If it wasn’t that the waves washes ’em up again, they’d have throwed all Saltinville into the sea years ago.”
Two hours later, after a very successful night’s sport, Morton parted from Fisherman Dick at the shore end of the pier, and ran home, while the owner of the lines and the heavy basket sat down on the lid, and rubbed the back of his head.
“Yes, I did see his face, as plain as I ever see one, but I warn’t going to tell you so, Master Morton, my lad. What did he chuck inter the sea, and what did he chuck it there for?”
Fisherman Dick sat thinking for a few minutes, and shaking his head, before saying aloud:
“No; it didn’t sound like a stone.”
After which he had another think, and then he got up, shouldered his basket, and went homeward, saying:
“I shall have to find out what that there was.”
Volume One – Chapter Fifteen.
Miss Clode’s Library
Miss Clode’s library and fancy bazaar stood facing the sea – so near, indeed, that on stormy days she was occasionally compelled to have the green shutters up to protect the window-panes from the spray and shingle that were driven across the road. But on fine days it was open to the sunshine, and plenty of cane-seated chairs were ranged about the roomy shop.
The back was formed of a glass partition, pretty well covered with books, but not so closely as to hide the whole shop from the occupants of the snug parlour, where little, thin Miss Clode sat one fine morning, like a dried specimen of her niece, Annie Slade, a stout young lady nicknamed Dumpling by the bucks who made the place a sort of social exchange.
The shop was well fitted and carpeted. Glass cases, filled with gaily-dyed wools and silks, were on the counter. Glass cases were behind filled with knick-knacks and fancy goods, papier-maché trays and inkstands bright with mother-of-pearl, and ivory and ebony specimens of the turner’s art. Look where you would, everything was brightly polished, and every speck of dust had been duly hunted out. In fact, Miss Clode’s establishment whispered of prosperity, and suggested that the little eager-eyed maiden lady must be in the circumstances known as comfortable.
Business had not been very brisk that morning, but several customers had called to make purchases or to change books, and two of these latter had made purchases as well. In fact, it was rather curious, but when certain of her clients called, and Miss Clode introduced to their notice some special novelty, they always bought it without further consideration.
“You are such a clever business woman, auntie,” drawled her niece. “I wish I could sell things as fast as you.”
“Perhaps you will some day, my dear.”
“Lady Drelincourt bought that little Tunbridge needle-book for half a guinea, didn’t she, aunt?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Miss Clode, pursing up her thin lips.
“She couldn’t have wanted it, auntie,” drawled the girl. “I don’t believe she ever used a needle in her life.”
“Perhaps not, my dear, but she might want it for a present.”
“Oh, so she might; I never thought of that. Customers!” added the girl sharply, and rose to go into the shop.
“I’ll attend to them, my dear,” said Miss Clode quickly, and she entered the shop to smilingly confront Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray.
“Well, Miss Clode, what’s the newest and best book for a man to read?”
“Really, Sir Harry, I am very sorry,” she said. “The coach has not brought anything fresh, but I expect a parcel down some time to-day. Perhaps you’d look in again?”
“Ah, well, I will,” he said. “Come along, Bray.”
“Have you seen these new card-cases, Sir Matthew?” said the little woman, taking half a dozen from a drawer. “They are real russia, and the gilding is of very novel design. Only a guinea, Sir Matthew, and quite new.”
“Ah, yes, very handsome indeed. A guinea, did you say?” he said, turning the handsome leather case over and over.
“Yes, Sir Matthew. May I put it down to your account?”
“Well, ah, yes – I – ah, yes, I’ll take this one.”
“Thank you, Sir Matthew. I’ll wrap it up, please, in silver paper;” and, with deft fingers, the little woman wrapped up the purchase, handed it over with a smile, and the two friends strolled out for Sir Harry to give his friend a light touch in the side with the head of his cane, accompanied by a peculiar smile, which the other refused to see.
“How very anxious Sir Harry seems to be to get that new book, auntie,” drawled Annie, coming into the shop where Miss Clode was busily making an entry on her slate; “that makes twice he’s been here to-day.”
“Yes, my dear, he’s a great reader. But now, Annie, the time has come when I think I may take you into my confidence.”
“La, auntie, do you?”
“I do, and mind this, child: if ever you are foolish or weak, or do anything to betray it, you leave me directly, and that will be a very serious thing.”
Miss Slade’s jaw fell, and her mouth opened widely, as did her eyes.
“Ah, I see you understand, so now come here with me.”
Miss Slade obeyed, and followed her aunt into the middle room at the back, where, by means of a match dipped into a bottle of phosphorus. Miss Clode obtained a light and ignited a little roll of wax taper, and then, as her niece watched her with open eyes as they sat at the table, the lady took a small letter from her pocket and laid it with its sealed side uppermost on the table.
“Why, I saw Sir Harry Payne give you that letter this morning, auntie, when he came first.”
“Oh, you saw that, did you?” said Miss Clode.
“Yes, auntie, and I thought first he had given it to you to post, and then as you didn’t send me with it, I wondered why he had written to you.”
“He did give it to me to post, my dear,” said Miss Clode with a curious smile, “and before I post it I am bound to see that he has not written anything that is not good for the la – person it is for.”
“Oh, yes, auntie, I see,” said Miss Slade, resting her fat cheeks on her fat fingers, and watching attentively as her aunt took out a seal from a tin box, one that looked as if it were made of putty, and compared it with the sealing-wax on the letter.
This being satisfactory, she cleverly held the wax to the little taper till it began to bubble and boil, when it parted easily, the paper being drawn open and only some silky threads of wax securing