Harry gave a fresh gesture of impatience.

"Slow and sure, sir, 's my motto," said the sergeant. "'Tain't always that one can make a dead swoop down. I should have liked to have brought you word that I had found next day after getting instructions; but a case of this sort is like hatching chickens--it takes time.

You've been thinking as the eggs are all addled, but p'raps you're wrong, sir. I don't know. I won't say but what I might have heard one little thing beginning to peck inside, and one may have a good brood yet--who knows!"

"But have you anything authentic you can tell me?" said Harry, who was wearied out with these many purposeless visits, the endless consultations, the trivial information demanded, and after all the small result.

"Nothing, sir, as yet. Only I tell you this, I think I shall have something for you directly."

"Hope deferred," said Harry, bitterly.

"Maketh the heart sick--eh, sir? Exactly so, and good news is the physic as makes it well again. Have a little more patience with me, and you may be satisfied yet."

Harry bent his head.

"Look here, sir," said the sergeant; "just another word before I go.

You've been very often to Decadia lately."

"Yes," said Harry.

"Well, sir, if you'll take my advice, you won't go there so often. Why not? you think. My answer to that is--We haven't found your friend yet; and my experience of some parts of London is, that there are men in it who think a deal more of a pound or two than they do of a man's life."

Here Sergeant Falkner fixed a bold clear eye upon that of the young man for a few seconds, nodded sagely, and then departed.

Left alone, Harry stood thoughtful and half startled for a few minutes before going up to Sir Francis' room, where the baronet still remained sleeping, evidently under the influence of some sedative, for there was a graduated bottle upon the little table by the head of his couch, and a faint odour that reminded Harry of visits to a photographer's pervaded the room.

"Must be ether!" he said, softly, as he went on tip-toe to the bedside, and anxiously looked down on the pallid troubled face, whose expression--even in sleep--told of the tortured mind, and the pangs which the old man was called upon to suffer.

"Let him sleep," said Harry to himself, and he stole gently from the room to sit and think for a while, when, the hour being far too early for bed, he lit a cigar, and went out for half-an-hour's stroll before retiring for the night.

"I wonder whether we shall ever see him again?" thought Harry, as he turned down one of the quiet streets, intending to make a circuit and return to the chambers by another route. His thoughts were busy now,-- he was running over in a half-troubled way the words of the sergeant that night, for they had left their impression; then he felt disheartened and sad, as he thought of Patty's intimacy with the Decadia people, and the way in which she was dragged into the affair, trembling, too, as it struck him that there might be legal inquiry, and she called upon to give evidence. At last he came to the conclusion that he would go and boldly beg of Jared Pellet to keep her away from the wretched district, and quickened his steps as if about to go at once, till he recollected the hour, and once more slackened his pace.

The street was perfectly empty, the lines of lamps looking in the distance like a vista of golden beads hung in the air.

Suddenly he was aroused from his musings, and, turning sharply, he was face to face with, and so close as to be even touching, his follower, who, with one arm upraised, was about to seize him by the neck, the gaslight falling full upon the features of Mr John Screwby.

Mr John Screwby had indeed been about to administer the garotter's hug, for he had followed Harry through the frequented streets till he had turned into one that was retired, and afforded an opportunity that this gentleman did not feel disposed to resist.

Times had been what he termed "hardish" lately. Buoyed up by the hope of obtaining the reward, he had fallen into the habit, while hope lasted, of boasting among his companions of the luck about to fall to his share. That luck, though, had never been his; and the failure of several little adventures had also tended to lower Mr Screwby's banking account. Hence, then, he had been on the look out for an unconsidered trifle or two.

The opportunity was excellent--the hour was late. A glance up and down the street had shown him that there was not a soul in sight, while as to the houses, for the most part the lights were now in the upper stories.

Mr John Screwby's teeth glistened brightly, and with rapid action he stepped forward, at the same time softly turning up his cuffs as if to strike.

It was a chance and no mistake, he thought. Nothing could have happened better--cash, a watch and chain, and a bit of revenge, all at one swoop.

For if it had not been for this swell, the old gentleman would have written his cheque for the reward, and it would have been cashed, and there would have been an end of it.

A quarter--one half of the street had been traversed, and Screwby told himself that it was time to close. He gave another glance behind him-- all right. If he had only had a mate now, how easy the job would have been. But then a mate would have wanted half the proceeds, and there might have been a row afterwards, and a split, so that it was better so.

Hunting--sporting of any kind--pooh! what could they be to such sport as this--so exciting, and dashed with a tinge of danger? And then the game was so profitable!

Mr Screwby licked his lips as, with head down and hands held in true pedestrian fashion, he pressed on.

Now was the time, he felt. He had closed to within a yard--a dash in and it would be done--the arm thrown round the victim's neck, a sharp twist, a kick at his legs, and he would be down upon the pavement, which would effectually stun him. Then a little rapid manipulation, and all would be right.

"Now for it, then!" he resolutely exclaimed, and he raised his arm.

Is there, or is there not, some instinct of coming danger--some strange, ethereal, electric wire of sympathy, along which, as rapidly as thought, speeds the warning "Look out!" What do psychologists say? Some are for, some against the possibility of such influences: take, then, your own experience and judge. See how often, as if feeling the _wind_ of the coming peril, people have been known to swerve aside, or halt, or hurry on, or stay away scores of times, and escape. Instances innumerable might be cited of where the preyer has been balked of his quarry, even as here, when, just as Screwby was in the act of making his spring, Harry turned and faced his enemy, and both stood for a brief minute without moving.

The next moment Screwby drew back to gather force, then, with fingers crooked like a beast's talons, he leaped at Harry's throat, but only to receive full upon that flat and ugly nose a tremendous blow sent right from a desperate man's shoulder.

In itself the stroke seemed hard enough to have made the organ flat; but, joined to it, there was the force with which Screwby was making at his destined prey--the two forces added forming a total whose result was a dull, unpleasant-sounding thud--a heavy, drunken stagger--and then Mr John Screwby seemed to collapse, his legs doubling beneath him, his whole body a.s.suming a wavy motion, and he was upon the pavement in a curious heap, emitting as he went down a groan that sounded as if the collapse were total.

"'Ullo! what's up now?" greeted Harry's ears, as he stood binding a handkerchief around his bleeding knuckles, and gazing at his fallen a.s.sailant.

Harry turned to find that a policeman had made his appearance.

"This man attacked me, and I struck him down," replied Harry.

"Then you must come on, and enter the charge," said the constable.

"Now, then rouse up here," he continued, giving Mr Screwby a shake which made his bull head tap the pavement in a most unpleasant manner, till in a confused fashion he rose to his knees, and then stood up, staring hard at the proximate area railings, as if he were in doubt as to where he was, and evidently took the iron bars for those of a very different place. A moment later, though, he saw more clearly his position, and, thrusting the constable back, he darted off, and would have escaped, but for the appearance of another officer from round the corner--the shouts of his fellow galvanising him into activity.

Then there was a rush, a struggle, and the rending off of b.u.t.tons, the loud bang of a heavy hat falling upon the pavement, and but for the coming up of Harry and the other constable, Mr Screwby would once more have been on the way to his den. The reinforcements, though, prevailed, and the next instant the ruffian was p.r.o.ne upon his back, and swearing powerfully.

This time the ignominious bracelets of the ill-doer were produced, and a sharp "click, click" told that they were ornamenting the wrists for which they were destined.

"I'd put a pair round his legs if I had my will," growled the first constable. "What d'yer mean by falling in that ere way?"

The man took a great cotton handkerchief from his hat, and with it mopped his head hard, for he was tightly b.u.t.toned up in his coa.r.s.e, heavy greatcoat.

"Yer might ha' known you'd ha' been ketched without coming these games,"

he growled again, taking it as a deep offence against his own dignity that the culprit had tried to escape after being "took."

But Mr Screwby did not condescend to reply with words. His responses were all looks, and those of a cla.s.s that the second constable, who had found a dent in his hat, stigmatised as "gallows;" but whether deserving of that appellation or no, they were sufficiently evil, heightened as they were by a stained countenance and eyes swollen sufficiently to startle any one who met their gaze.

Mr John Screwby was caught and handcuffed, but he was not caged; but lay upon the pavement sullen and heavy, refusing to hearken to the voice of the charmer when requested to rise; even a playful tap or two from a staff, and a sharp twist of the handcuffs had no effect; the result being that one constable had to seek the station for more help, and Mr Screwby rode off in triumph, his chariot being a stretcher, and the paean of praise the mutterings and growlings of the perspiring police.

It was too late for there to be much of a popular gathering; such as there was, though, was decidedly of a sympathetic cast. Fortunately the station was near at hand, in which place of security Harry saw his a.s.sailant safely lodged, and then sought his temporary home, wondering the while whether a similar attack had caused the disappearance of Lionel Redgrave, and also whether the man was taken who could bring the affair to light.

Volume 3, Chapter XV.

"COMING EVENTS."

The morning dawned before Harry Clayton fell asleep. After an early walk, he met Sir Richard at breakfast, to find him pale, but calm and composed.

It was very evident to the young man that the father was losing hope, and that he was having a hard struggle to resign himself to what had fallen to his lot. Two months had now elapsed, and not the faintest trace of a clue by which Lionel could be traced had been found.

"I have been thinking, Clayton," said Sir Francis, as they sat over their meal, "that it would be cruel and unjust on my part to retain you here any longer. You have your career mapped out, and every day that I keep you is to your injury."