Say an annuity of so many pounds of tea per annum--mixed--for so many years."

"Oh, no, Timson; it must be the money. The poor fellow was oppressed by poverty when he--er--er--took the money."

"Then why didn't he come like a man and ask me to advance him a few pounds, or let them have so much tea on credit?"

"The wrong sort of man, Timson--the wrong sort of man! But I'm sorry for him, very."

"So am I--so will everybody be," said Timson, gruffly; and then they had another long smoke.

"You won't tell him at the very last that he may stop on, I 'spose?"

said Timson,--"let him think, like, that he's going to be hanged, and then at the last moment send him a reprieve? My wig, sir, what a voluntary we should have the next Sunday!"

"No, Timson, no. Duty is duty, and I should not be doing mine if I looked over so flagrant an offence."

"But you won't alter your mind?--you won't prosecute?"

"No, sir, no," said the vicar. "In spite of all, I respect the man and the way in which he has brought up his family. I am sorry, deeply sorry, for Mr Pellet and his wife and daughter; and really, sir, I'd give a heavy sum to have proved him innocent--I would, indeed;" and to give emphasis to his a.s.sertion, the old gentleman brought his fist down heavily upon the table.

"Mind the gla.s.ses!" said the churchwarden, in a warning voice, and he pushed them a little farther from his friend.

"It's very sad, and with such a family, too!" said the vicar. "How many has he?"

"Scores!" said the churchwarden.

"Don't be absurd, Timson--don't be a fool," said the vicar; "this is no laughing matter. Suppose that you were in the poor man's position?"

"Shoo--shoo--shoo--shoo!" exclaimed Mr Timson. "What do you mean? who is absurd--who is a fool? I'm not one, am I? And what's the good of supposing me the thief? Absurd, indeed!"

"I only said don't be absurd, don't be a fool, Timson," said the vicar.

"I believe that's prevaricating," said Mr Timson. "I consider 'fool' a strange t.i.tle to call an old friend, Mr Gray."

"Sit still, Timson, and shake hands, and don't be an a.s.s," said the old gentleman, warmly; and as he spoke he held out his hand, with the accompaniment of a look that wiped away the epithet that had escaped inadvertently during his excitement; for the churchwarden shook the hand as warmly as it was offered.

"But," said Timson, just to show that it still rankled a little, "it seems too bad to pity the poor man now, when a little a.s.sistance would have kept him from what _you_ say he has done."

"What _we_; say he has done," replied the vicar; "for look at the proofs. Have I not my duty to perform as well as any other man?"

"But it does seem a very hard case," said Timson, "and I should let him off. I've none of your fine susceptibilities; they don't seem to go with tea-dealing."

"Won't do, Timson--won't do," said the vicar. "I'm a very homespun man, and have forgotten the greater part of my college polish. Half a life in rough Lincolnshire does not improve one; but I can't think as you do.

I would that I could go to the poor fellow and say, 'Mr Pellet, it's a mistake--forgive me.'"

"I should like to go with you," said Timson.

"But not a word to any one else," said the vicar; "we won't have the finger of scorn pointed at him. Let him stay till his time's expired, and then go where he will, and begin life afresh, with what we send."

Timson nodded.

"If it becomes known, let the onus rest on himself. It shall not come from us. And besides, if we put it about, people would blame us for letting him stay out his time. I don't want to do him a mortal injury.

Let him see the evil of his ways, and do better in future. Let him, as I said in my letter, seek forgiveness from Him whom he has sinned against!"

"Amen!" said Timson, solemnly; and then the two friends sat on far into the night smoking pipe after pipe, while the little kettle steamed away until it was quite dry, a fact discovered by Mr Timson just as he had placed more sugar and spirit in his tumbler, which he pushed aside with a sigh. The subject was brought up no more then, and there was no cribbage; but when Mr Timson rose and took his hat, and had shaken hands and said "good-night," he came hurrying back after taking half a dozen steps to tap softly at the door, which had the effect of bringing the vicar to the window.

Timson ran to the area rails and leaned over as far as he could, gesticulating furiously with one arm, as he exclaimed loud enough for his friend to hear--

"I couldn't go away without telling you I'm sure of it, sir. There!

I'll take my oath it's the Papist."

Volume 2, Chapter XXIII.

AT FAULT.

Harry Clayton was fortunate, for he was shown into the great Mr Whittrick's presence directly; and, as soon as seated, he had the pleasure of feeling that the private inquirer was mentally photographing him, though, all the same, his words were quiet and urbane. But it seemed as if Mr Whittrick made use of all his faculties at once; he talked to his visitor; he listened to him; he gazed at him tremendously at times; he seemed to be smelling him; and, from the motion of his fingers, he evidently had a strong inclination to feel his visitor, for purposes of future recognition.

"No, sir--at present, none; but we are doing all that is possible."

"But have you nothing definite to communicate?" said Harry, despondently.

"No, sir--at present, nothing," said Mr Whittrick. "But--if I might be so bold--there was an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the _Times_ this morning, placed there of course by Sir Francis Redgrave. I was not consulted over the matter. I think, you know, sir, that Sir Francis is wrong. I see that he has the Scotland Yard people at work. Not a good plan, I think, sir.

They are very able men there--Falkner's good; but too many cooks, you know, spoil the broth. Humble aphorism, but true, sir. However, Sir Francis may depend upon my doing my best."

Harry Clayton rose with a sigh and left the office, feeling very little hope of success in this direction. Jealousy was evidently at work, and he could not but own to himself that Sir Francis had taken a wrong step.

What should he do next? he asked himself. He had not been to Brownjohn Street the last day or two; why should he not go there again? He might obtain some news.

It was hardly worth while going, he thought, only it was possible he might see the bird-dealer himself, and perhaps obtain some little information likely to prove of use.

But D. Wragg was not in, when he reached Brownjohn Street; and in place of seeing either him or poor Janet, Clayton encountered the round pleasant playbill-rayed face of Mrs Winks, rising like a fleshy sun from behind the paint-cloudy counter, to the loud song of the larks; for Mrs Winks had just been stooping to hide the weakness which she kept for her own private use in a ginger-beer bottle. Mrs Winks' head was only to be seen without curl-papers when she attended the theatres by night, in the full-dress of curls and blue merino, ready to supply the mental and bodily wants of the frequenters of Drury Lane Theatre gallery. Upon this occasion, the playbill used had been one of the newest, the result being, that a good deal of ink had been transferred from the larger letters to Mrs Winks' forehead, giving it a somewhat smudgy look.

The good lady, though, was quite in ignorance of her personal aspect, and after laying aside her weakness, carefully corked, she was bringing out of a capacious pocket a saveloy, wrapped in another of the never-failing play-bills--the delicacy being intended for her lunch-- when the appearance of Harry Clayton arrested her, and, escaping from the paper, the saveloy slipped back to the depths of her pocket, to be kept warm till required.

Mrs Winks rose to meet the visitor with a smile, which gave place to a puzzled look upon his inquiring for D. Wragg, and then for Janet.

"I'll go and tell her, sir," said the old lady, and she puffed up-stairs to Janet's room, whence she returned in a few minutes, saying--

"She've got a bad 'eadache, sir, and ain't well; but if you'd leave any message?"

"No!" said Clayton, thoughtfully. "You might, though, tell the French gentleman that I called."

"Which he really is a thorough gentleman," said. Mrs Winks, enthusiastically; "as you'd say if you knowed more of him, and heard him paint and play on the fiddle. I mean--I beg your pardon, sir--seen him play on the fiddle and paint. He's a gentleman, every inch of him, if he do lodge in Decadia, which ain't nothing after all, is it, sir? But I'll tell him when he comes back; and your name too?"

Clayton gave her a card, and then walked thoughtfully back, but not without stopping in front of a blank wall, where a knot of rough-looking fellows were reading a placard, commencing--"Two hundred pounds reward!"

and then he shuddered, as one of the party said--"I 'spose they'd hand over all the same, if he happened to be a dead 'un?"

There was no news when he reached Regent Street, and though Sir Francis had but just concluded an interview with a police sergeant, the mystery seemed as far as ever from solution.

"I think I will go out now, Clayton," said the baronet, in an excited and feverish manner. "It is so hard to stay in, walking up and down, as if caged, and waiting eagerly for every knock and ring. You'll take my place--you won't leave--you won't leave, in case of a call while you are away."