“E’es,” hissed the “Softy,” with his hot breath close upon the fallen man’s cheek, “you wanted t’ see th’ weskit, did you; but you shan’t, for I’ll serve you as I served him. ’Taint loikely I’ll let you stand between me and two thousand pound.”
Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode had a faint notion that a broad Sheffield blade flashed in the silvery moonlight; but at this moment his senses grew confused under the iron grip of the “Softy’s” hand, and he knew little, except that there was a sudden crashing of glass behind him, a quick trampling of feet, and a strange voice roaring some seafaring oath above his head. The suffocating pressure was suddenly removed from his throat; someone, or something, was hurled into a corner of the little room; and Mr. Bulstrode sprang to his feet, a trifle dazed and bewildered, but quite ready to do battle again.
“Who is it?” he cried.
“It’s me, Samuel Prodder,” answered the voice that had uttered that dreadful seafaring oath. “You were pretty nigh done for, mate, when I came aboard. It ain’t the first time I’ve been up here after dark, takin’ a quiet stroll and a pipe, before turning in over yonder.” Mr. Prodder indicated Doncaster by a backward jerk of his thumb. “I’d been watchin’ the light from a distance, till it went out suddenly five minutes ago, and then I came up close to see what was the matter. I don’t know who you are, or what you are, or why you’ve been quarrelling; but I know you’ve been pretty near as nigh your death tonight as ever that chap was in the wood.”
“The waistcoat!” gasped Mr. Bulstrode; “let me see the waistcoat!”
He sprang once more upon the “Softy,” who had rushed towards the door, and was trying to beat out the panel with his iron-bound clog; but this time Mr. Bulstrode had a stalwart ally in the merchant-captain.
“A bit of rope comes uncommon handy in these cases,” said Samuel Prodder; “for which reason I always make a point of carrying it somewhere about me.”
He plunged up to his elbow in one of the capacious pockets of his tourist peg-tops, and produced a short coil of tarry rope. As he might have lashed a seaman to a mast in the last crisis of a wreck, so he lashed Mr. Stephen Hargraves now, binding him right and left, until the struggling arms and legs, and writhing trunk, were fain to be still.
“Now, if you want to ask him any questions, I make no doubt he’ll answer ’em,” said Mr. Prodder, politely. “You’ll find him a deal quieter after that.”
“I can’t thank you now,” Talbot answered hurriedly; “there’ll be time enough for that by-and-by.”
“Ay, ay, to be sure, mate,” growled the captain; “no thanks is needed where no thanks is due. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, a good deal presently; but I must find this waistcoat first. Where did he put it, I wonder? Stay, I’d better try and get a light. Keep your eye upon that man while I look for it.”
Captain Prodder only nodded. He looked upon his scientific lashing of the “Softy” as the triumph of art; but he hovered near his prisoner in compliance with Talbot’s request, ready to fall upon him if he should make any attempt to stir.
There was enough moonlight to enable Mr. Bulstrode to find the lucifers and candlestick after a few minutes’ search. The candle was not improved by having been trodden upon; but Talbot contrived to light it, and then set to work to look for the waistcoat.
The bundle had rolled into a corner. It was tightly bound with a quantity of whipcord, and was harder than it could have been had it consisted solely of the waistcoat.
“Hold the light for me while I undo this,” Talbot cried, thrusting the candlestick into Mr. Prodder’s hand. He was so impatient that he could scarcely wait while he cut the whipcord about the bundle with the “Softy’s” huge clasp-knife, which he had picked up while searching for the candle.
“I thought so,” he said, as he unrolled the waistcoat; “the money’s here.”
The money was there, in a small Russia-leather pocketbook, in which Aurora had given it to the murdered man. If there had been any confirmation needed for this fact, the savage yell of rage which broke from Stephen’s lips would have afforded that confirmation.
“It’s the money,” cried Talbot Bulstrode. “I call upon you, sir, to bear witness, whoever you may be, that I find this waistcoat and this pocketbook in the possession of this man, and that I take them from him after a struggle, in which he attempts my life.”
“Ay, ay! I know him well enough,” muttered the sailor; “he’s a bad ’un; and him and me have had a stand further, before this.”
“And I call upon you to bear witness that this man is the murderer of James Conyers.”
“What?” roared Samuel Prodder; “him! Why, the double-dyed villain: it was him that put it into my head that it was my sister Eliza’s chi—that it was Mrs. Mellish—”
“Yes, yes, I know. But we’ve got him now. Will you run to the house, and send some of the men to fetch a constable, while I stop here?”
Mr. Prodder assented willingly. He had assisted Talbot in the first instance without any idea of what the business was to lead to. Now he was quite as much excited as Mr. Bulstrode. He scrambled through the lattice, and ran off to the stables, guided by the lighted windows of the groom’s dormitories.
Talbot waited very quietly while he was gone. He stood at a few paces from the “Softy,” watching Mr. Hargraves as he gnawed savagely at his bonds, in the hope perhaps of setting himself free.
“I shall be ready for you,” the young Cornishman said quietly, “whenever you’re ready for me.”
A crowd of grooms and hangers-on came with lanterns before the constables could arrive; and foremost amongst them came
