"You are mad," said Barnabas, "I am not your creditor, and—"
"Liar! I know!" repeated Barrymaine.
"And yet," said Barnabas, fronting him, white-faced, across the table, "I think—I'm sure, there are four things you don't know. The first is that Lady Cleone has promised to marry me—some day—"
"Go on to the next, liar!"
"The second is that my stables were broken into again, this morning,—the third is that my horse killed the man who was trying to hamstring him,—and the fourth is that in the dead man's pocket I found—this!" And Barnabas produced that crumpled piece of paper whereon was drawn the plan of the stables.
Now, at the sight of this paper, Barrymaine fell back a step, his pistol-hand wavered, fell to his side, and sinking into a chair, he seemed to shrink into himself as he stared dully at a worn patch in the carpet.
"Only one beside myself knows of this," said Barnabas.
"Well?" The word seemed wrung from Barrymaine's quivering lips. He lay back in the rickety chair, his arms dangling, his chin upon his breast, never lifting his haggard eyes, and, almost as he spoke, the pistol slipped from his lax fingers and lay all unheeded.
"Not another soul shall ever know," said Barnabas earnestly, "the world shall be none the wiser if you will promise to stop,—now, —to free yourself from Chichester's influence, now,—to let me help you to redeem the past. Promise me this, and I, as your friend, will tear up this damning evidence—here and now."
"And—if I—c-can't?"
Barnabas sighed, and folding up the crumpled paper, thrust it back into his pocket.
"You shall have—a week, to make up your mind. You know my address, I think,—at least, Mr. Smivvle does." So saying, Barnabas stepped towards the door, but, seeing the look on Barrymaine's face, he stooped very suddenly, and picked up the pistol. Then he unlocked the door and went out, closing it behind him. Upon the dark stairs he encountered Mr. Smivvle, who had been sitting there making nervous havoc of his whiskers.
"Gad, Beverley!" he exclaimed, "I ought not to have left you alone with him,—deuce of a state about it, 'pon my honor. But what could I do,—as I sat here listening to you both I was afraid."
"So was I," said Barnabas. "But he will be quiet now, I think. Here is one of his pistols, you'd better hide it. And—forget your differences with him, for if ever a man needed a friend, he does. As for your rent, don't worry about that, I'll send it round to you this evening. Good-by."
So Barnabas went on down the dark stairs, and being come to the door with the faulty latch, let himself out into the dingy street, and thus came face to face with the man in the fur cap.
"Lord, Mr. Barty, sir," said that worthy, glancing up and down the
street with a pair of mild, round eyes, "you can burn my neck if I
wasn't beginning to vorry about you, up theer all alone vith that
'ere child o' mine. For, sir, of all the Capital coves as ever I see,
—'e's vun o' the werry capital-est."
CHAPTER LI
WHICH TELLS HOW AND WHY MR. SHRIG'S CASE WAS SPOILED
"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, starting, "is that you, Mr. Shrig?"
"As ever vas, sir. I ain't partial to disguises as a rule, but circumstances obleeges me to it now and then," sighed Mr. Shrig as they turned into Hatton Garden. "Ye see, I've been keeping a eye—or as you might say, a fatherly ogle on vun o' my fambly, vich is the v'y and the v'erefore o' these 'ere v'iskers. Yesterday, I vas a market gerdener, vith a basket o' fine wegetables as nobody 'ad ordered,—the day afore, a sailor-man out o' furrin parts, as vos a-seeking and a-searchin' for a gray-'eaded feyther as didn't exist,—to-day I'm a riverside cove as 'ad found a letter—a letter as I'd stole—"
"Stolen!" repeated Barnabas.
"Vell, let's say borreyed, sir,—borreyed for purposes o' obserwation, —out o' young Barrymaine's pocket, and werry neatly I done it too!" Here Mr. Shrig chuckled softly, checked himself suddenly, and shook his placid head. "But life ain't all lavender, sir,—not by no manner o' means, it ain't," said he dolefully. "Things is werry slack vith me,—nothing in the murder line this veek, and only vun sooicide, a couple o' 'ighvay robberies, and a 'sault and battery! You can scrag me if I know v'ot things is coming to. And then, to make it vorse, I 've jest 'ad a loss as vell."
"I'm sorry for that, Mr. Shrig, but—"
"A loss, sir, as I shan't get over in a 'urry. You'll remember V'istlin' Dick, p'r'aps,—the leary, flash cove as you give such a leveller to, the first time as ever I clapped my day-lights on ye?"
"Yes, I remember him."
"Veil sir,' e's been and took, and gone, and got 'isself kicked to death by an 'orse!"
"Eh,—a horse?" exclaimed Barnabas, starting.
"An 'orse, sir, yes. Vich I means to say is coming it a bit low down on me, sir,—sich conduct ain't 'ardly fair, for V'istlin' Dick vos a werry promising cove as Capitals go. And now to see 'im cut off afore 'is time, and in such a outrageous, onnat'ral manner, touches me up, Mr. Barty, sir,—touches me up werry sharp it do! For arter all, a nice, strong gibbet vith a good long drop is qvicker, neater, and much more pleasant than an 'orse's 'oof,—now ain't it? Still," said Mr. Shrig, sighing and shaking his head again, "things is allus blackest afore the dawn, sir, and—'twixt you and me,—I'm 'oping to bring off a nice little murder case afore long—"
"Hoping?"
"Veil—let's say—expecting, sir. Quite a bang up affair it'll be too,—nobs, all on 'em, and there's three on 'em concerned. I'll call the murderer Number Vun, Number Two is the accessory afore the fact, and Number Three is the unfort'nate wictim. Now sir, from private obserwation, the deed is doo to be brought off any time in the next three veeks, and as soon as it's done, v'y then I lays my right 'and on Number Vun, and my left 'and on Number Two, and—"
"But—what about Number Three?" inquired Barnabas.
Mr. Shrig paused, glanced at Barnabas, and scratched his ear, thoughtfully.
"V'y sir," said he at last, "Number Three vill be a corp."
"A what?" said Barnabas.
"A corp, sir—a stiff—"
"Do you mean—dead?"
"Ah,—I mean werry much so!" nodded Mr. Shrig.
"Number Three vill be stone cold,—somev'eres in the country it'll 'appen, I fancy,—say in a vood! And the leaves'll keep a-fluttering over 'im, and the birds'll keep a-singing to 'im,—oh, Number Three'll be comfortable enough,—'e von't 'ave to vorry about nothink no more, it'll be Number Vun and Number Two as'll do the vorrying, and me—till I gets my 'ooks on 'em, and then—"
"But," said Barnabas earnestly, "why not try to prevent it?"
"Prewent it, sir?" said Mr. Shrig, in a tone of pained surprise.
