“What an uproar,” he said. “I’ve come to keep my promise; but do you really think these little animals will care for the Jackdaw of Rheims?”
“I think they will be glad to sit still for a little while after their romp, and I’ve no doubt they’ll laugh at the jackdaw. It’s very good of you to come.”
“Is it? If you knew how I detest infant school children you might say so, but if you knew how I—.” He left the sentence unfinished. “How is Treverton?” he asked.
“Much better. Mr. Morton says he will be well in a day or two.”
“I passed a curious-looking fellow in the road just outside your gates, a regular London Bohemian; a man whose very walk recalled the most disreputable quarters of that extraordinary city. I have no idea who the fellow is; but I’ll swear he’s a Londoner, a swindler, and an adventurer; and I have a lurking idea that I have seen him before.”
“Indeed! Was it that which attracted your notice?”
“No, it was the man’s style and manner altogether. He was loitering near the gate, as if with some intention; possibly not the most honourable. You’ve heard perhaps of a kind of robbery known as the portico dodge?”
“No. I am not learned in such distinctions.”
“It is a common crime nowadays. A country house with a portico is a fine field for the display of genius in burglary. One of the gang scales the portico after dusk, most likely at the family dinner-hour, gets from the roof of the portico through a convenient window, and then quietly admits his accomplices. In all such robberies there is generally one member of the gang, the cleverest and best educated, who has no active part in the crime. He does all the intellectual work, schemes and directs the whole business; but though the police know him and would give their eyes to catch him tripping, he never tumbles into their trap. The fellow I saw at your gates tonight seemed to me just this sort of man.”
Laura looked very serious, as if she were alarmed at the idea of robbery.
“Was this man young or old?” she asked thoughtfully.
“Neither. He is middle-aged, perhaps even elderly, but certainly not old. He is as straight as a dart, spare but broad-shouldered, and with something of a military air.”
“What made you fancy he had some evil design upon this house?” asked Laura, her face clouded with anxious thought.
“I did not like the way in which he loitered by the gate. He seemed to be looking for someone or something, watching his opportunity. I don’t want to scare you, Laura. I only want to put you on your guard, so that you may have all the doors and shutters looked after with extra care tonight. After all, the man may be perfectly harmless, some seedy acquaintance of your husband, perhaps. A man cannot live in the world of London without that kind of burr sticking to his coat.”
“You do not flatter my husband by such a supposition,” said Laura, with an offended look.
“My dear Laura, do you think a man can live his life without making acquaintance he would not care to exhibit in the glare of noonday. You know the old adage about poverty and strange bedfellows. I hope there is no treason in reminding you that Mr. Treverton was not always rich.”
“No. I am not ashamed of his having been poor; but it would shame me if I thought he had any acquaintance in his poverty whom he would blush to own now he is rich. Will you begin your reading? The children are ready.”
The infants, flushed and tousled by their sports, had been ranged on benches by the joint efforts of Tom Sampson, his sister, and Celia Clare, and were now being regaled with cake and negus. Celia had placed a small table, with a pair of candles, and a glass of water at the end of the room, for the accommodation of the reader.
“Silence!” commanded Mr. Sampson, as Edward walked to his place, gave a little preparatory cough, and opened his book. “Silence for ‘The Jackdaw of Rheims.’
“The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk and many a friar,
Many a knight and many a squire,”
began Edward.
A loud peal of the front door bell startled him. He stopped for a moment, and looked at Laura, who was sitting with the Vicar and his wife in a little group near the fireplace at the other end of the room. At the sound of the bell she looked up quickly, and, with an agitated air, kept her eyes fixed on the door, as if she expected someone to enter.
He had no excuse for leaving off reading, curious as he felt about that bell, and Laura’s evident concern. He went on mechanically, full of wondering speculations as to what was going on in the entrance hall, hating the open-mouthed and open-eyed infants who were hanging on his words; while Celia, seated at the end of the front row, started all the laughter and applause.
“Where did I meet that man?” he asked himself over and over again while he read on.
The answer flashed upon him in the middle of a sentence.
“It is the man I saw with Chicot in Drury Lane; the man I talked to in the public-house.”
The door opened, and the slow and portly Trimmer came in, and softly made his way to the place where his mistress was seated. He whispered to her, and then she whispered to Mrs. Clare—doubtless an apology for leaving her—and anon followed Trimmer out of the room.
“What can that man—if it is that man who rang the bell—want with her,” wondered Edward, so deeply moved that he could scarcely go on reading. “Is the secret going to be told tonight? Are the cards going to be taken out of my hands?”
XXVI
A Disinterested Parent
“A person has called
