The Lost Heir

"Possibly; but he cannot know we suspect that."

"It might be about the last will, Hilda."

The latter shook her head.

"We have never thought that there could be anything wrong about it. The will was drawn up by Colonel Bulstrode's lawyers, and they knew my uncle by sight; besides, all the legacies were exactly the same as in the other will, the signature and the written instructions were in his handwriting, and he signed it in the solicitor's office in the presence of two of their clerks. No, I don't think he can possibly mean that. It must be either Walter's abduction or that he is not John Simcoe, and I should say that the former is much the more likely. You see, he had no need of an accomplice in the matter of getting evidence as to identity, whereas he did need an accomplice in the carrying off of Walter. I should say that he is far too clever a man to let anyone into any of his secrets, unless he needed his assistance. I wonder who the man with him can be. He is dressed in good style, and I have certainly met him somewhere. I believe, as I said, it was at the opera. I should have thought that a man of that class is the last Simcoe would choose as a confederate."

Miss Purcell looked from one to the other as they talked. She had by this time been taken completely into their confidence, but had refused absolutely to believe that a man could be guilty of such wickedness as that which they suspected. On their return home they found a letter awaiting them from Mr. Pettigrew:

"My Dear Miss Covington [it ran]: My detective has not yet finished his inquiries, but has at least discovered that the proprietor of Rose Cottage, for they say that the place belongs to him, is somewhat of a mystery to his neighbors. He lives there entirely alone. He goes out regularly in a morning, it is supposed to some occupation in the City. No tradesmen ever call at the door; it is supposed that he brings home something for his breakfast and cooks it for himself, and that he dines in the City and makes himself a cup of tea in the evening, or else that he goes out after dark. Sometimes, of summer evenings, he has been seen to go out just at twilight, dressed in full evening costume – that is to say, it is supposed so, for he wore a light overcoat – but certainly a white necktie, black trousers, and patent leather boots. Of course, in all this there is nothing in itself absolutely suspicious. A man engaged in the City would naturally enough take his meals there, and may prefer to do everything for himself to having the bother of servants. Also, if his means permit it, he may like to go to theaters or places of amusement, or may go out to visit business friends. I have, of course, directed the detective to follow him to town and find out what is his business, and where employed. I will let you know result to-morrow."

The next day brought the letter.

"The man's name is William Barens. He has a small office on the third floor of a house of business in Great St. Helens, and on the doorway below his name is the word 'accountant,' The housekeeper knows nothing about him, except that he has occupied the room for the last twelve years, and that he is a gentleman who gives no trouble. He always puts his papers away at night in his safe, so that his table can be properly dusted. She knows that he has clients, as several times, when he has been away for his dinner hour, she has been asked when he would return. He is a well-spoken gentleman, though not as particular about his dress as some; but liberal with his money, and gives her as handsome a tip at Christmas as some people who have three or four rooms, and, no doubt, think themselves much finer people. This certainly does not amount to much. By the way, the old woman said that she knew he was employed by several tradesmen in the neighborhood to keep their books for them."

Two days later there was another communication:

"My Dear Miss Covington: My man has taken a step which I should certainly have forbidden, had he told me beforehand of his intention. He watched the man go out, and then, having previously provided himself with instruments for picking locks, he opened the door and went in. On the table were several heavy ledgers and account books, all bearing the names of tradesmen in the neighborhood, with several files of accounts, bills, and invoices. These fully bore out what the woman had told him. Besides the chairs, table, and safe, the only other articles of furniture in the room were an office washing stand and a large closet. In the latter were a dress suit and boots, and a suit of fashionable walking clothes, so that it is evident that he often changed there instead of going home. I am sorry to say that all this throws no further light upon the man's pursuits, and had it not been for Simcoe's visit to him, it would be safe to say that he is a hard-working accountant, in a somewhat humble, but perhaps well-paying line; that he is a trifle eccentric in his habits, and prefers living a cheap, solitary life at home, while spending his money freely in the character of a man about town in the evening. I cannot say that the prospect in this direction seems hopeful. I have told my man that for the present we shall not require his services further."

"It does not seem very satisfactory, certainly," Hilda said with a sigh; "I am afraid that we shall have to keep on watching Simcoe. I wish I could peep into his room as this detective did into that of the Pentonville man."

"I don't suppose that you would find anything there, Hilda; he is not the sort of man to keep a memorandum book, jotting down all his own doings."

"No," Hilda said with a laugh; "still, one always thinks that one can find something."

Had Hilda Covington had her wish and looked into John Simcoe's room that morning, she would certainly have derived some satisfaction from the sight. He had finished his breakfast before opening a letter that lay beside him.

"What a plague the old woman is with her letters! I told her that I hated correspondence, but she persists in writing every month or so, though she never gets any reply except, 'My dear Aunt: Thanks for your letter. I am glad to hear that you are well. – Your affectionate nephew.' Well, I suppose I must read it through."

He glanced over the first page, but on turning to the second his eye became arrested, and he read carefully, frowning deeply as he did so. Then he turned back and read it again. The passage was as follows:

"I had quite an interesting little episode a day or two after I last wrote. A young lady – she said her name was Barcum, and that she was an artist – came in and asked if I would take her in as a lodger. She was a total stranger to the place, and had come down for her health, and said that some tradesman had recommended her to come here, saying that, as a single lady, I might be glad to accommodate her. Of course I told her that I did not take lodgers. She got up to go, when she nearly fainted, and I could not do less than offer her a cup of tea. Then we got very chatty, and as I saw that she was really too weak to go about town looking for lodgings, I invited her to stay a day or two with me, she being quite a lady and a very pleasant-spoken one. She accepted, and a pleasanter companion I never had. Naturally I mentioned your name, and told her what adventures you had gone through, and how kind you were. She was greatly interested, and often asked questions about you, and I do think that she almost fell in love with you from my description. She left suddenly on receipt of a letter that called her up to town, saying that she would return; but I have not heard from her since, and I am greatly afraid that the poor child must be seriously ill. She was a pretty and intelligent-looking girl, with dark eyes and hair, and I should say that when in good health she must be very bright. Of course, she may have changed her mind about coming down. I am sure she would have written if she had been well."

"Confound the old gossip!" John Simcoe said angrily, as he threw the letter down. "I wonder what this means, and who this girl can be? It is clear enough that, whoever she is, she was sent down there to make inquiries about me. It is that girl Covington's doing, I have no doubt, though it was not the minx herself, for the description does not tally at all. She has light brown hair and grayish sort of eyes. There is one comfort, she would learn nothing to my disadvantage from the old woman, nor, I believe, from anyone at Stowmarket. In fact, she would only get more and more confirmation of my story. I have no fear upon that score, but the thing shows how that girl is working on my track. As for the lawyer, he is an old fool; and if it hadn't been for her I would bet a hundred to one that he would never have entertained any suspicion that all was not right. It is her doing all through, and this is a piece of it. Of course she could have no suspicion that I was not John Simcoe, but I suppose she wanted to learn if there was any dark spot in my history – whether I had ever been suspected of robbing a bank, or had been expelled from school for thieving, or something of that sort. I begin to be downright afraid of her. She had a way of looking through me, when I was telling my best stories to the General, that always put me out. She disliked me from the first, though I am sure I tried in every way to be pleasant to her. I felt from the day I first saw her that she was an enemy, and that if any trouble ever did come it would be through her. I have no doubt she is moving heaven and earth to find Walter; but that she will never do, for Harrison is as true as steel, and he is the only man who could put them on the right track. Moreover, I have as much pull over him as he has over me. He has never had a doubt about my being John Simcoe; he doesn't know about the other affair, but only that Walter stood between me and the estate, and he was quite ready to lend me a hand to manage to get him out of the way. So in that business he is in it as deep as I am, while I know of a score of schemes he has been engaged in, any one of which would send him abroad for life. I expect those inquiries were made at Stowmarket to endeavor to find out whether any child had been sent down there. If so, Miss Covington is not so sharp as I took her to be. Stowmarket would be the very last place where a man, having relations and friends there, would send a child whom he wished to keep concealed. Still it is annoying, confoundedly annoying; and it shows that these people, that is to say Hilda Covington, are pushing their inquiries in every direction, likely or unlikely.

"The only comfort is, the more closely they search the sooner they will come to the conclusion that the boy is not to be found. I believe that, though they declared they did not recognize the body, they had no real doubt about it, and they only said so because if they had admitted it, the trustees would have had no excuse for not carrying out the provisions of the will. That text the girl had the impudence to quote to me looked as if she believed the body was Walter's, and that I had killed him, though it may be that she only said it to drive me to bringing the whole business into court, by bringing an action against her for libel; but I am not such a fool as to do that. Just at present there is a lot of public feeling excited by the circumstances of the child's loss and the finding of the body, and even if I got a verdict I fancy that the jury would be all on the girl's side, and give me such trifling damages that the verdict would do me more harm than good. No, our game clearly is to let the matter rest until it has died out of the public mind. Then we shall apply formally for the trustees to be called upon to act. No doubt they will give us a great deal of trouble, but Comfrey says that he thinks that the order must be granted at last, though possibly it may be withheld, as far as the estate is concerned, for some years. At any rate I ought to get the ten thousand at once, as the question whether the boy is alive or dead cannot affect that in the slightest."

CHAPTER XVII.

NETTA ACTS INDEPENDENTLY

"It seems to me, Hilda, that somehow or other we are wasting our time," Netta said one morning suddenly, as they were sitting together.

"How do you mean, Netta?"

"Well, you see, we relied a great deal on being able to overhear conversation from a distance; and, except those few words we gathered in the Park, we have absolutely done nothing that way."

"But how can we do more than we are doing?"

"I don't know; that is what is troubling me. You know, dear, that I am quite content to give up my own work to help you. At first, of course, aunt and I would have stayed here, at any rate for a time, to keep you company; but your uncle has been dead now for more than eight months, and time is going on. If I were really helping you I would stop, if it were five years; but in fact I am not helping you in the way we intended."

"You are helping me, Netta!" Hilda exclaimed with tears in her eyes. "How should I have got on through all this sad time if you had not been here to comfort and cheer me?"

"Yes, but the necessity for that is over. You have your friends, and though you don't go out yet, you often go to Lady Moulton's and some of your other friends', and they come to see you."

"Yes, and you will never go with me, Netta, nor see them when they come."

"No, dear; I have nothing in common with them. I do not know the people of whom you talk, and should simply sit there uncomfortably, so I prefer to be out of it altogether. Then I really miss my work. Ever since you came to us some eight years ago I have been teaching eight or ten hours a day. I like the work; it is immensely interesting, and I am happy in seeing my pupils improve."

"And all this means," Hilda said sorrowfully, "you are going to say that it is time for you to go back."

"No, it does not necessarily mean that – there is an alternative; I must either be doing something or go back."

"But, as I said before, Netta, what can we do, more than we have done?"

"That is what I have been thinking, Hilda. Anyhow, I mean to try to do something before I give it up and go to Germany again."

"I warn you, Netta, that I shall be furious if you do that. I am my own mistress now, for Mr. Pettigrew will let me do as I like now I am nineteen, and am quite determined that our old plan shall be carried out, and that you shall start an institution like that of Professor Menzel somewhere near London. You have been twelve months away, your pupils have already taken to other teachers, and there cannot be the least occasion for your assistance in an institution that is now well stocked with teachers, while here you could do enormous good. Anyhow, whether you stay or not, I shall, as soon as all this is settled, take a large house standing in its own grounds, in some healthy place near London, and obtain teachers."

"Well, we need not talk of that just yet," Netta said quietly; "it will be time enough when I have failed in carrying out my plans."

"But what are your plans?"

"I have not quite settled myself; and when I do I mean to work entirely in my own way, and shall say nothing about it until I come to you and say I have succeeded, or I have failed."

Hilda opened her eyes in surprise.

"But why should I be kept in the dark?"

"Because, dear, you might not approve of my plans," Netta replied coolly.

"You are not thinking of doing anything foolish, I hope?" Hilda exclaimed.

"If it were foolish it would be excusable where the counsels of wisdom have failed," Netta laughed; and then more seriously, "Nothing would be foolish if it could possibly lead to the discovery of Walter's hiding place."

That afternoon, when Hilda drove out with Miss Purcell to make some calls, Netta rang the bell, and when Tom Roberts came in she said:

"I want to have a long talk with you, Roberts. But mind, what I say is to be kept a perfect secret between ourselves."

"Yes, miss," he said in surprise.

"Now, sit down," she went on; "we can talk more comfortably so. Now, Roberts, there is no doubt that we are not making much headway with our search."

"That we are not, Miss Netta," he agreed. "I did think that we had gained something when we traced him to that house on Pentonville Hill, but it does not seem that anything has come of it, after all."

"Then it is quite time that we took some other steps," she said decisively.

"I am ready, miss," he replied eagerly. "You tell me what to do, and I am game to do it."

"Well, there are two or three things I have in my mind. First of all, I want to be able to watch John Simcoe and this Pentonville man when they are talking together."

"Yes, I understand," he said; "but how is it to be done?"

"That is what I want to find out. Now, in the first place, about this house. Which way did the window look of the room where there was a light?"

"That window was at the side of the house, miss; a little way round the corner. We noticed the light there, but there was another window looking out on the front. We did not see any light there, as the shutters were closed."

"And you say that the curtains of the other window were pulled very close?"

"Yes, they crossed each other most of the way down."

"Now, the question in my mind, Roberts, is which would be easier – to cut a slit in the curtain, or to bore a hole in the shutter, or to take a brick out carefully from the side wall and then to deepen the hole until we got to the wall-paper, and then make a slight hole there?"

Roberts looked at her with astonishment. "Do you really mean it, miss?"

"Certainly I mean it; it seems to me that our only chance of ever finding Walter is to overhear those men's talk."

"Then, miss, I should say that the simplest way would be to cut a window pane out."

"Yes; but, you see, it is pretty certain that that curtain will not be drawn until they come in, and they would notice it at once. If we took out a pane in the front window the shutter would prevent our seeing or hearing, and the man would be sure to notice the pane was missing as he walked up from the gate to the house."

"I should say, miss, that the best plan would be for me to manage to get into the house some time during the day and to hide in that room, under the table or sofa or somewhere, and listen to them."

She shook her head.

"In the first place, Roberts, you would certainly be murdered if they found you there."

"I would take my chance of that, miss; and you may be sure that I would take a brace of the General's pistols with me, and they would not find it such easy work to get rid of me."

"That may be so," Netta said, "but if in the struggle you shot them both, our last chance of ever hearing of Walter would be gone. You yourself might be tried for murder, and it would be assumed, of course, that you were a burglar; for the explanation that you had broken into the house only to hear a conversation would scarcely be believed. Moreover, you must remember that we don't know how often these men meet. Simcoe has not been there since you tracked him there six months ago, and the only thing we have since found out is that the man I saw him with in the park is the man who lives in that house. It would never do for you to make an entrance into the house night after night and week after week, to run the risk of being detected there, or seized as you entered, or caught by the police as a burglar. No, as far as I can see, the only safe plan is to get out a brick very carefully in the side wall and to make a hole behind it through the paper. It might be necessary to make an entry into the house before this was done, so as to decide which was the best spot for an opening. A great deal would depend upon the paper in the room. If it is a light paper, with only a small amount of pattern upon it, any hole large enough to see through might be noticed. If it is a dark paper, well covered, a hole might be made without any fear of its catching the eye. You see, it must be a rather large hole, for, supposing the wall is only nine inches thick, a person standing outside could not see what was passing inside unless the hole were a good size."

"But I doubt much if you would be able to hear them, Miss Netta."

"No, I don't think that I should; especially as people talking of things of that sort, even if they had no great fear of being overheard, would speak in a low voice. But that would not matter if I could see their faces. I should know what they were saying."

Roberts did not think it right to offer any remark on what appeared to him to be impossible, and he confined himself to saying in a respectful voice, "Indeed, Miss Netta."

"I am stone-deaf," she said, "but have learned to read what people are saying from the movement of their lips."

Although the "Indeed, miss," was as respectful as before, Netta saw that he did not in the slightest degree believe her.

"Just go to the other end of the room, Roberts, and make some remark to yourself. Move your lips in the same way as if you were talking, but do not make any sound."

Roberts, with military obedience, marched to the other end of the room, placed himself in a corner, and turned round, facing her. His lips moved, and, confident that she could not know what he was saying, he expressed his natural sentiments.

The girl at once repeated the words: "Well, I'm jiggered! This is a rum start; Miss Netta has gone clean off her head."

Roberts' jaw dropped, and he flushed up to the hair.

"I am sure," he began; but he was stopped by the girl's merry laugh.

"Do not apologize, Roberts; it was natural enough that you should be surprised. Well, you see I can do as I say. We will now go on with our talk."

Greatly abashed, Tom Roberts returned to the chair, murmuring to himself as he sat down, "Well, I'm blowed!" when he was roughly recalled to the necessity of keeping his mouth shut by her quiet remark, "Never mind about being blowed at present, Roberts; let us talk over another plan. Who are the keepers of the house in Jermyn Street?"

"It is kept by a man and his wife, miss. He has been a butler, I believe, and his wife was a cook. He waits upon the gentlemen who lodge there, and she cooks. They have a girl who sweeps and does the bedrooms and the scrubbing and that sort of thing."

"What sort of a girl is she, Roberts?"

"She seems a nice sort of young woman, miss. Andrew has spoken to her more than I have, because, you see, my get-up aint likely to take much with a young girl."

"I suppose she is not very much attached to her place?"

"Lor', no, miss; she told Andrew that she was only six months up from the country, and they don't pay her but eight pounds a year, and pretty hard work she has to do for it."

"Well, Roberts, I want to take her place."

"You want – " and Roberts' voice failed him in his astonishment.

"Yes, I want to take her place, Roberts. I should think that if you or Andrew were to tell her that you have a friend up from the country who wants just such a place, and is ready to pay five pounds to get one, she might be ready to take the offer; especially as you might say that you knew of a lady who is in want of an under-housemaid and you thought that you could get her the place."

"As to that, miss, I have no doubt that she would leave to-morrow, if she could get five pounds. She told Andrew that she hated London, and should go down home and take a country place as soon as she had saved up money to do so."

"All the better, Roberts; then all she would have to do would be to say that she had heard of a place near home, and wanted to leave at once. She did not wish to inconvenience them, but that she had a cousin who was just coming up to London and wanted a place, and that she would jump at it. She could say that her cousin had not been in service before, but that she was a thorough good cleaner and hard worker."

"And do you mean that you would go as a servant, Miss Netta? Why, it would not be right for you to do so."

"Anything would be right that led to the discovery of Walter's hiding place, Roberts. I have been accustomed to teaching, and I have helped my aunt to look after the house for years, and I do not in the slightest degree mind playing the part of a servant for a short time, in order to try and get at the bottom of this matter. You think that it can be managed?"

"I am sure it can be managed right enough, miss; but what Miss Covington would say, if she knew that I had a hand in bringing it about, I can't say."