"Then you'd better—lie down, Ronald."
"Yes, I'll—lie down, dev'lish—drowsy p-place—lie down," mumbled Barrymaine, suiting the action to the word; yet after lying down full length, he must needs struggle up to his elbow again to blink at Mr. Chichester, heavy eyed and with one hand to his wrinkling brow. "Wha-what w-was it we—came for? Oh y-yes—I know—Bev'ley, of course! You'll w-wake me—when he c-comes?"
"I'll wake you, Ronald."
"S-such a c-cursed—drowsy—" Barrymaine sank down upon his side, rolled over upon his back, threw wide his arms, and so lay, breathing stertorously.
Then Mr. Chichester smiled, and coming beside him, looked down upon his helpless form and flushed face and, smiling still, spoke in his soft, gentle voice:
"Are you asleep, Ronald?" he inquired, and stirred Barrymaine lightly with his foot, but, feeling him so helpless, the stirring foot grew slowly more vicious. "Oh Ronald," he murmured, "what a fool you are! what a drunken, sottish fool you are. So you'd give him a chance, would you? Ah, but you mustn't, Ronald, you shan't, for your sake and my sake. My hand is steadier than yours, so sleep, my dear Ronald, and wake to find that you have rid us of our good, young Samaritan—once and for all, and then—hey for Cleone, and no more dread of the Future. Sleep on, you swinish sot!"
Mr. Chichester's voice was as soft as ever, but, as he turned away, the sleeping youth started and groaned beneath the sudden movement of that vicious foot.
And now Mr. Chichester stooped, and taking the pistols, one by one, examined flint and priming with attentive eye, which done, he crossed to a darkened window and, bursting open the rotting shutter, knelt and levelled one of the weapons, steadying his wrist upon the sill; then, nodding as though satisfied, he laid the pistols upon the floor within easy reach, and drew out his watch.
Slowly the sun declined, and slowly the shadows lengthened about Oakshott's Barn, as they had done many and many a time before; a rabbit darted across the clearing, a blackbird called to his mate in the thicket, but save for this, nothing stirred; a great quiet was upon the place, a stillness so profound that Barnabas could distinctly hear the scutter of a rat in the shadows behind him, and the slow, heavy breathing of the sleeper down below. And ever that crouching figure knelt beside the broken shutter, very silent, very still, and very patient.
But all at once, as he watched, Barnabas saw the rigid figure grow suddenly alert, saw the right arm raised slowly, stealthily, saw the pistol gleam as it was levelled across the sill; for now, upon the quiet rose a sound faint and far, yet that grew and ever grew, the on-coming rustle of leaves.
Then, even as Barnabas stared down wide-eyed, the rigid figure started, the deadly pistol-hand wavered, was snatched back, and Mr. Chichester leapt to his feet. He stood a moment hesitating as one at a sudden loss, then crossing to the unconscious form of Barrymaine, he set the pistol under his lax hand, turned, and vanished into the shadow.
Thereafter, from the rear of the barn, came the sound of a blow and
the creak of a rusty hinge, quickly followed by a rustle of leaves
that grew fainter and fainter, and so was presently gone. Then
Barnabas rose, and coming to the window, peered cautiously out, and
there, standing before the barn surveying its dilapidation with round,
approving eyes, his nobbly stick beneath his arm, his high-crowned,
broad-brimmed hat upon his head, was Mr. Shrig.
CHAPTER LVI
OF THE GATHERING OF THE SHADOWS
Surprise and something very like disappointment were in Mr. Shrig's look as Barnabas stepped out from the yawning doorway of the barn.
"V'y, sir," said he, consulting a large-faced watch. "V'y, Mr. Beverley, it's eggs-actly tventy minutes arter the time for it!"
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"And you—ain't shot, then?"
"No, thank heaven."
"Nor even—vinged?"
"Nor even winged, Mr. Shrig."
"Fate," said Mr. Shrig, shaking a dejected head at him, "Fate is a werry wexed problem, sir! 'Ere's you now, Number Three, as I might say, the unfort'nate wictim as was to be—'ere you are a-valking up to Fate axing to be made a corp', and vot do you get? not so much as a scrat—not a westige of a scrat, v'ile another unfort'nate wictim vill run avay from Fate, run? ah! 'eaven's 'ard! and werry nat'ral too! and vot does 'e get? 'e gets made a corp' afore 'e knows it. No, sir, Fate's a werry wexed problem, sir, and I don't understand it, no, nor ever shall."
"But this was very simple," said Barnabas, slipping his hand in Mr. Shrig's arm, and leading him away from the barn, "very simple indeed, I got here before they came, and hid in the loft. Then, while they were waiting for me down below, you came and frightened them away."
"Ah! So they meant business, did they?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, nodding grimly, "they certainly meant business, —especially Mr. Chich—"
"Ssh!" said Mr. Shrig, glancing round, "call 'im Number Two. Sir, Number Two is a extra-special, super-fine, over-weight specimen, 'e is. I've knowed a many 'Capitals' in my time, but I never knowed such a Capital o' Capital Coves as 'im. Sir, Vistling Dick vas a innercent, smiling babe, and young B. is a snowy, pet lamb alongside o' Number Two. Capital Coves like 'im only 'appen, and they only 'appen every thousand year or so. Ecod! I 'm proud o' Number Two. And talking of 'im, I 'appened to call on Nick the Cobbler, last night."
"Oh?"
"Ah! and I found 'im vith 'is longest awl close 'andy—all on account o' Number Two."
"How on his account?" demanded Barnabas, frowning suddenly.
"Vell, last evening, Milo o' Crotona, a pal o' Nick's, and a werry promising bye 'e is too, 'appened to drop in sociable-like, and it seems as Number Two followed 'im. And werry much Number Two frightened that 'andsome gal, by all accounts. She wrote you a letter, vich she give me to deliver, and—'ere it is."
So Barnabas took the letter and broke the seal. It was a very short letter, but as he read Barnabas frowned blacker than ever.
"Mr. Shrig," said he very earnestly as he folded and pocketed the letter, "will you do something for me—will you take a note to my servant, John Peterby? You'll find him at the 'Oak and Ivy' in Hawkhurst village."
"Vich, seeing as you're a pal, sir, I vill. But, sir," continued Mr. Shrig, as Barnabas scribbled certain instructions for Peterby on a page of his memorandum, "vot about yourself—you ain't a-going back there, are ye?" and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the barn, now some distance behind them.
"Of course," said Barnabas, "to keep my appointment."
"D'ye think it's safe—now?"
"Quite,—thanks to you," answered Barnabas. "Here is the note, and if you wish, John Peterby will drive you back to London with him."
"V'y, thank'ee sir,—'e shall that,—but you, now?" Mr. Shrig paused, and, somewhat diffidently drew from his side pocket a very business-like, brass-bound pistol, which he proffered to Barnabas, "jest in case they should 'appen to come back, sir," said he.
But Barnabas laughingly declined it, and shook his chubby hand instead.
"Vell," said Mr. Shrig, pocketing note and weapon, "you're true game, sir, yes, game's your breed, and I only 'ope as you don't give me a case—though good murder cases is few and far between, as I've told you afore. Good-by, sir, and good luck."
So saying, Mr. Shrig nodded, touched the broad rim of his castor, and strode away through the gathering shadows.
