Three years pa.s.sed away, and Julia's disappearance remained a mystery to all, and it was calmly put away upon the dusty shelves of the past--by all save one.

Father had mourned for her, and time had somewhat a.s.suaged his grief; mother had wept in silence upon her weary couch; sister talked less often now of 'poor Julia'; brother, when he was seen, never mentioned her name. The whole matter had grown misty and pale in the distance of the bygone to all save James Magnus, and from that night he had never rested. Detectives had grown cold; other affairs had taken their attention; but nothing had checked the cold, stern, haggard man whose one aim in life now was to stand face to face with the ruffian who had made his life a wreck. Had Julia married Perry-Morton, he would have borne it in silence; but this was an outrage to his feelings that he could not bear, and taking sketching materials as an excuse, he had started off to find them, though he rarely put brush to paper now, for he was incessant in his searchings, and every likely nook and corner in London and the great cities was visited by him in turn.

Now he was wandering in the country, having had news that seemed to promise success; now away off to some out-of-the-way spot in the New Forest, or Herefordshire, where gipsies made their home; always on the scent, but never successful. He had tracked out scores of burly ruffians, but they were none of them the man he thought to meet.

Back again in London in the east, in the lowest purlieus of the south, in common lodging-houses, on waste grounds where caravans were drawn up for the winter; off to racecourses and fairs, and great markets where such men as Jock Morrison were to be found, but always in vain.

Once he heard of him, as he thought, at Horncastle, at another time at Newmarket, and again on Epsom Downs, but it was always some great idle ruffian bearing a slight resemblance to Jock Morrison, never the man himself.

And in all those solitary wanderings, James Magnus carried the pistol he had bought, and practised with it in his lonely walks. Hundreds upon hundreds of times those chambers were discharged, his marks being trees, fingerposts, saplings rising out of hedges; and though the artist seemed day by day to grow thin, careworn, and weak, his nerves were as if of steel, and each bullet flew upon its course with unerring aim.

"The law cannot touch him," he muttered, with a strange smile; "perhaps a bullet can."

It was on a bright afternoon in May that, seeing no beauty in the verdant spring and the return of sunny days, James Magnus, heartsick and worn out, crawled back to his chambers to find Burgess anxiously expecting him, for he had been away longer than was his wont.

"Oh, I am glad to see you back, sir," he said. "Set down, sir, and let me take off your dusty boots. You look worn out. Lord Harry has been here--not an hour ago."

A faint smile came upon the face of Magnus, as he heard the name of his friend, and taking up the card he rose to go.

"Going, sir, so soon?" exclaimed his man.

"Only to see Lord Artingale," said Magnus, wearily. "I'll soon be back."

On reaching his friend's house in Lowndes-square, the servant told him that his lordship had gone into the Park with her ladyship. They were in the open carriage; and wondering at his own weariness, Magnus followed, unconsciously walking straight to the very spot where, what seemed a lifetime back, he and Artingale had leaned over the rail, and first seen poor Julia's fate.

He did not recall the fact at first, but stood watching the carriages, thinking how much he would like to meet his old friend; and his face lit up with a smile that had been a stranger to it of late.

For a long time it seemed as if his journey had been in vain, and he was listlessly scanning the long lines of vehicles, when suddenly he heard his name uttered, and a carriage was drawn up close to the rails, with Artingale and Cynthia therein, both looking, if not so young, as bright and happy as ever.

"My dear old fellow," cried Artingale, grasping his friend's hand, as Cynthia possessed herself of the other, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. But jump in, and we'll go home at once. We'll have such a dinner, and those dining-room curtains shall be incensed, and no mistake, to-night."

"No, no, not now," said Magnus; and in spite of all his friend's pressure he declined.

"Then I shall come with you," cried Artingale. "Cynthy, may I go?"

"I suppose you must," she said merrily. "Mr Magnus, you are the only gentleman to whom I would give him up."

Then there was a pleasant chat for a time, the carriage drove on, and Artingale and his friend were left standing by the Park rails.

"Not one word," said Magnus to himself; "Julia is indeed dead."

"Why, Mag, old man, this is the very spot where--"

"Hush! Look!" cried Magnus, grasping his friend's arm. "G.o.d, I thank Thee. At last--at last!"

Artingale followed the direction of his eyes, and started, for there, on the other side of the drive, was the great picturesque ruffian, slowly sauntering along, quite unchanged, and with the same defiant air.

Artingale restrained his friend, who was about to leap over the railings.

"No, no," he whispered, "let's follow him, and see where he goes. We shall find her then."

It was a slow task, for Jock Morrison went first out on to the gra.s.s and lay down for an hour, but the watchers did not quit their post for a moment, but tracked him when he rose, step by step, and along the great highway due east, till he turned up Grey's-inn-lane, and then up one of the narrow courts.

It was as ill-favoured and vile as any there, and for the moment Magnus thought he had missed his man, but as, in spite of the scowling looks around, he hurried down the court, a heavy step on one of the staircases acted as his guide; and, closely followed by Artingale, he bounded up to the second landing, which he reached just as a door was slammed to, and he turned a countenance upon his friend that made him shudder.

"At last, Harry," he said in a low whisper. "At last! G.o.d of heaven, how I have prayed for this time!"

"Stop," cried Artingale, excitedly; "you shall not go in. Give me that pistol, Magnus. You shall not go."

He clung to his friend's arm, but Magnus threw him off.

That there was no mistake was evident, for from beyond the filthy paintless door came the hoa.r.s.e bullying tones of the fellow's voice, and, unable to contain himself longer, Magnus dashed open the door, and stepped in.

He was greeted by a volley of oaths, and the great ruffian started up from a bed upon the floor where he had evidently thrown himself down, and as he did so, with a face like ashes and his teeth set, Magnus covered him with his pistol.

Artingale was in the doorway, and saw it all, but stood paralysed at his friend's act. But another moment, and the bullet would have sped upon its deadly errand, when, with a cry, a woman threw herself between them, placing herself with her back against Jock's breast, and her arms thrown up to screen his face, as, with flaming eyes, she faced the intruders upon her home.

"Stand aside, Ju, I'm not afraid of his barker," roared the great ruffian, with a blasphemy; but the woman clung to him and held him back as the pistol dropped upon the floor, and Magnus staggered against his friend.

The recognition was mutual, but the woman's face remained unchanged. It was filled with the pa.s.sionate desire to protect the ruffian who treated her a little worse than he would have treated his dog; and as he read the history of her life in what he saw, Artingale stood speechless for a few moments, while Jock swung his defender on one side, strode forward quickly, and picking up the pistol, put it in his pocket.

"Julia," exclaimed Artingale, recovering himself and advancing, "do you not know me?"

She looked at him fixedly for a few moments. Her face began to quiver, and her hand was slightly raised to take the one he extended; but she became rigid directly after, and turned away to cling to Jock Morrison, who, with his hands in his pockets, looked mockingly on.

"No," she said, in a sharp, harsh voice, as changed as was her thin, worn, piteous face from that Artingale had known in better days. "No,"

she said, "I do not know you; the Julia you knew is dead."

"Well," said the great fellow, roughly, "have you any more to say to my wife? Because if not, go."

Artingale felt like one in a dream, as he fell back, and the door slammed to; then slowly descending, careless of the curious eyes and scowling looks directed at them, he joined his friend, and they went back to the studio, where Magnus threw himself wearily down and closed his eyes.

"But I must do something," exclaimed Artingale; and, rushing out, he had himself driven to Great Scotland Yard.

"What can you do, my lord?" said the officer he saw. "From what you say, the fellow has married her, and we can't undo that. I'll take what steps you like, my lord, but--"

_But_! There was a volume in that one word, for when afterwards effort after effort was made to win the wanderer back by father, mother, sister, all was in vain. She had spoken truly. The Julia whom Harry Artingale had known was dead.

It was close upon twelve that same night that, sick at heart, Artingale returned to his friend's chambers, to find that Burgess had been busy preparing supper, feeling sure that he would return.

"Where is your master?" said Artingale.

"He said he would go and lie down, sir, till you came. He thought you would be sure to come back to-night. But oh, my lord--oh sir," cried the poor fellow piteously, "can't you do something to make poor master what he was? This is weary work indeed!"

"I don't know, Burgess. I can't say. I'll try, but I hope he will be better now."

"I hope and pray he may, sir," said the man, fervently; and Artingale went on into the bedroom, to see that his friend had placed Julia's picture on the easel at the farther side of the bed in full sight from where he lay; and as the young man's eyes lighted upon the prostrate figure, he uttered a cry which brought in the man.

"Quick, Burgess, quick! The nearest doctor."