Perhaps he means to go on ahead and open the other locks for us. I wonder who he took us for, and what the poor wretches are 'wanted'

for--"

"It's a sinister word in that connection, isn't it?" said she. "Wanted!"

They pushed the boat toward the lower lock gate and held on to the lock-side, waiting till the lock gate should open and they should be able to pa.s.s out and begin their journey down the river to the Anchor.

But the gates did not open, and almost at once a tremor agitated the boat. Edward tightened his grip of the boat-hook as the incoming rush of water took the boat's nose and held it hard.

"The idiot!" he said. "The silly idiot! He's filling the lock."

He was, and the rush of the incoming water quite drowned any remonstrances that might have been addressed to him. Boat and water rose swiftly, the upper gates opened, and, as they pa.s.sed through, their deliverer laid his hand on the gunwale, as though to aid the boat's pa.s.sage. But, instead, he stopped it.

"See 'ere, gov'ner," he said, low and hoa.r.s.e and exactly like a conspirator, "I couldn't bleat it out for all the country to hear while yer was down in the lock, but I knows as you're wanted and yer may think it lucky it's me as come after yer and not the gov'ner nor yet the police."

"I do really think," said she, softly, "that you're making a mistake.

The police don't really want us."

"Oh, I got a bit of candle," was the unexpected rejoinder. "Get the young lady to hold the cloak up so as it don't shine from 'ere to Tunbridge to give yer away like, and yer light the dip and 'ave a squint at this 'ere."

He held out the candle and matches and a jagged rag of newspaper.

"'Ere," he said, "'longside where I'm 'olding of it."

She made a sort of screen of the cloak. Edward lit the candle, and when the flame had darkened and brightened again he read as follows:

MISSING--Young lady, height five feet six, slight build, dark hair and eyes, pale complexion. Last seen at Jevington, Suss.e.x. Wearing black chiffon and satin dress, black satin slippers, and a very large French circular cloak with st.i.tched collar. Has no money and no hat. Twenty pounds will be paid to any one giving information as to her whereabouts.

"Well," said Edward, blowing out the candle, "this lady has a hat, as you see, and she hasn't a black dress and satin slippers. Thank you for letting us through; here's something to get a drink with. Hand over the crowbar, please, and good night to you."

"Not so fast, sir," said the man, still holding on, "and don't make to jab me over the fingers with the boat-'ook, like what you was thinking of. I'm your friend, I am. I see that piece in the paper 'fore ever a one of them, but I never let on. That's why the gov'ner sent me, 'cause why--'e didn't think I knowed, and 'e means to 'ave that twenty pounds hisself."

"But," said she, "you see, I have got a hat and--"

"Yes, miss," said the man, "an' you've got the cloak, large and black and st.i.tched collar, and all; it's that what's give yer away."

"But supposing I _was_ the young lady," she said, grasping Edward's arm in the darkness, and signaling to him not to interfere with feminine diplomacy, "you wouldn't give me up to the police, would you? I wouldn't give you up if the police wanted you."

"'Course I wouldn't," he answered, earnestly. "Ain't that what I'm a-saying? I'm 'ere to 'elp yer do a bolt. The minute I saw that there bit in the paper I says to myself, 'It's them,' and why shouldn't I 'ave the twenty pounds as well as any one else?"

"There," said Edward, in a low voice, "you see! Let me deal with him."

But again her hand implored. "You're going to give us up to the police for twenty pounds?" she said, reproachfully.

He groaned. "'Ow yer do talk!" he said. "Women is all alike when it comes to talking. Stop talking and listen to me. Can't yer understand plain words? What yer got to do is to leave the boat at Mutton Worry Lock--that's three locks up--bunk across the fields to Tunbridge. If yer got money enough--and I'm sartain yer 'as, by the looks of yer--yer 'ire one of them motors and get away as fast as yer can. Get one at the Castle. Say yer going to Brighton, and when yer get away from the town tell the chap to drive t'other way."

"That's a good plan," said she.

"I mapped it all out as I come along," he said, with simple pride. "And, mind yer, I'm trusting yer like I shouldn't have thought I'd 'a' trusted n.o.body. 'Ave yer got the twenty pounds about yer?" he asked, anxiously.

"No," said she.

"Can't be helped, then." He breathed a sigh of resignation. "I'll just give yer my direction and yer send the ready to me. 'Oo says I don't trust yer?"

"You mean," said Edward, slowly, and would not be checked any longer by that hand on his arm--"you mean that you expect us to give you twenty pounds not to give us up to the police? The police have nothing to do with us. The whole thing's moonshine. Take your hand off the boat and get along home."

"Any man," said he who had been called Neptune--"any man as had the feelings of a man would think of this--young lady. Even if yer was to prove to Poad as yer wasn't wanted for nothin' criminal--it's none so easy to make Poad see anything, neither"--he ended, abruptly, and began anew. "Look 'ere, gov'ner, on account of your lady I say do a bolt. An'

why should I be the loser? I only got to stick to the boat, whichever way yer go--up and down--and soon as yer land where there's a copper, lagged yer'll be to a dead cart, and only yourself to thank for it.

Whereas I'm only trying to be your friend, if you'd only see it."

"I don't see why you should be so friendly," said Edward, now entirely losing control of the situation.

"Nor I shouldn't see it, neither, if it was only you," was the rejoinder.

"He's quite right," she whispered. "Promise what he wants and let's get away. I know exactly what Poad is like. We should never make him understand anything. I couldn't bear it. Let's go. If you've got twenty pounds, give it to him and let's go."

"Think of your young lady," repeated the voice out of the darkness. "If yer promise to let me 'ear by the post, I'll take your word for it. I'm your true friend, and I knows a gentleman when I sees one."

"If you were a true friend," said Edward, "you wouldn't want paying for minding your own business."

"Aw, naw," he said, "'old 'ard, gov'ner. Ain't it a man's own business when there's twenty pounds to be made? Says I to myself, if it's worth some one's while to pay the money to catch 'er, it's well worth the gentleman's while to sh.e.l.l out and keep 'er, and... ."

"Oh, hold your tongue!" said Edward. "Go on ahead and get the next lock ready. I'll give you the money. The lady wishes it."

"She's got her 'ead the right way on," said the friend in need. "Pull ahead, sir."

"But you can't, with your finger like that," she said. "I'll pull."

"Why not let me?" Neptune suggested. "We'd get there in 'alf the time,"

he added, with blighting candor.

So Neptune pulled the boat up to Mutton Worry Lock and the two crouched under the cloak. Charles, who might have been expected to be hostile to so strange a friend, received him with almost overwhelming condescension. At Mutton Worry Lock the deliverer said:

"Now 'ere yer deserts the ship, and 'ere I finds 'er and takes her back.

And look 'ere, sir, I'm n.o.body's enemy but my own, so I am. And of course if I was to 'ave the twenty pounds it's my belief I'd drink myself under the daisies inside of a week. Let me 'ear by the post--William Beale, care of the Anchor Hotel--and send me ten bob a week till the money's gone. It'll come easier to yer, paying it a little at a time like--and better for me in the long run. Yer ought to be a duke, yer ought. I never thought you'd 'a' ris' to the twenty. I'd 'a' been satisfied with five--and that'll show yer whether I'm a true friend or not."

"I really think you are," she said, and laughed gently. "Good-by."

"Good evening, miss, and thank yer, I'm sure. Never say good-by; it's unlucky between friends."

"Here's a sovereign," said Edward, shortly. "Good night. You're jolly fond of the sound of your own voice, aren't you?"

"Sort of treat for me, sir," said Beale, always eagerly explanatory.

"Don't often 'ear it. D'you know what they calls me at the Anchor, owing to me 'aving learnt to keep my tongue atween my teeth, except among friends? 'William the Silent's' my pet name. A gent as comes for the angling made that up, and it stuck, it did. Bear to the left till you come to the boat-'ouse, cater across the big meadow, and you'll hit Tunbridge all right, by the Printing Works. So long, sir; so long, miss."

Thus they parted.

"What an adventure!" she said; "and I believe William the Silent believes himself to be a model of chivalrous moderation. He would have been satisfied with five pounds."

"I believe he would, too," said Edward, with a grudging laugh. "It's your _beaux yeux_. The man has gone home feeling that he has as good as sacrificed fifteen pounds to a quixotic and romantic impulse. Wretched blackmailer though he is, he could not resist a princess."