Mr. Bozzle, though he had worked hard in the cause, had heard but a word or two. Eavesdroppers seldom do hear more than that. A porter had already told him who was Hugh Stanbury—that he was Mr. Hugh Stanbury, and that his aunt lived at Exeter. And Bozzle, knowing that the lady about whom he was concerned was living with a Mrs. Stanbury at the house he had been watching, put two and two together with his natural cleverness. “God bless my soul! what business is it of yours?” Those words were nearly all that Bozzle had been able to hear; but even those sufficiently indicated a quarrel. “The lady” was living with Mrs. Stanbury, having been so placed by her husband; and young Stanbury was taking the lady’s part! Bozzle began to fear that the husband had not confided in him with that perfect faith which he felt to be essentially necessary to the adequate performance of the duties of his great profession. A sudden thought, however, struck him. Something might be done on the journey up to London. He at once made his way back to the ticket-window and exchanged his ticket—second-class for first-class. It was a noble deed, the expense falling all upon his own pocket; for, in the natural course of things, he would have charged his employers with the full first-class fare. He had seen Colonel Osborne seat himself in a carriage, and within two minutes he was occupying the opposite place. The Colonel was aware that he had noticed the man’s face lately, but did not know where.
“Very fine summer weather, sir,” said Bozzle.
“Very fine,” said the Colonel, burying himself behind a newspaper.
“They is getting up their wheat nicely in these parts, sir.”
The answer to this was no more than a grunt. But Bozzle was not offended. Not to be offended is the special duty of all policemen, in and out of office; and the journey from Exeter to London was long, and was all before him.
“A very nice little secluded village is Nuncombe Putney,” said Bozzle, as the train was leaving the Salisbury Station.
At Salisbury two ladies had left the carriage, no one else had got in, and Bozzle was alone with the Colonel.
“I dare say,” said the Colonel, who by this time had relinquished his shield, and who had begun to compose himself for sleep, or to pretend to compose himself, as soon as he heard Bozzle’s voice. He had been looking at Bozzle, and though he had not discovered the man’s trade, had told himself that his companion was a thing of dangers—a thing to be avoided, by one engaged, as had been he himself, on a special and secret mission.
“Saw you there—calling at the Clock House,” said Bozzle.
“Very likely,” said the Colonel, throwing his head well back into the corner, shutting his eyes, and uttering a slight preliminary snore.
“Very nice family of ladies at the Clock House,” said Bozzle. The Colonel answered him by a more developed snore. “Particularly Mrs. T⸺” said Bozzle.
The Colonel could not stand this. He was so closely implicated with Mrs. Trevelyan at the present moment that he could not omit to notice an address so made to him. “What the devil is that to you, sir?” said he, jumping up and confronting Bozzle in his wrath.
But policemen have always this advantage in their difficulties, that they know to a fraction what the wrath of men is worth, and what it can do. Sometimes it can dismiss a policeman, and sometimes break his head. Sometimes it can give him a long and troublesome job, and sometimes it may be wrath to the death. But in nineteen out of twenty cases it is not a fearful thing, and the policeman knows well when he need not fear it. On the present occasion Bozzle was not at all afraid of Colonel Osborne’s wrath.
“Well, sir, not much, indeed, if you come to that. Only you was there, sir.”
“Of course I was there,” said the Colonel.
“And a very nice young gentleman is Mr. Stanbury,” said Bozzle.
To this Colonel Osborne made no reply, but again had resort to his newspaper in the most formal manner.
“He’s going down to his family, no doubt,” continued Bozzle.
“He may be going to the devil for what I know,” said the Colonel, who could not restrain himself.
“I suppose they’re all friends of Mrs. T.’s?” asked Bozzle.
“Sir,” said the Colonel, “I believe that you’re a spy.”
“No, Colonel, no; no, no; I’m no spy. I wouldn’t demean myself to be such. A spy is a man as has no profession, and nothing to justify his looking into things. Things must be looked into, Colonel; or how’s a man to know where he is? or how’s a lady to know where she is? But as for spies, except in the way of evidence, I don’t think nothing of ’em.” Soon after this two more passengers entered the train, and nothing more was said between Bozzle and the Colonel.
The Colonel, as soon as he reached London, went home to his lodgings, and then to his club, and did his best to enjoy himself. On the following Monday he intended to start for Scotland. But he could not quite enjoy himself—because of Bozzle. He felt that he was being watched; and there is nothing that any man hates so much as that, especially when a lady is concerned. Colonel Osborne knew that his visit to Nuncombe Putney had been very innocent; but he did not like the feeling that even his innocence had been made the subject of observation.
Bozzle
