CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

Sam Brandon was more asleep than awake when he made his way into Westhall Station, and took a ticket for town. He had taken nearly an hour to get over the last mile, after struggling hard during the first part of the night to get as far as possible away from Furzebrough, haunted as he was by the belief that the theft would be discovered before many minutes had pa.s.sed, and that he would be pitched upon as the criminal. For though the struggle had been in the dark, and he had not spoken a word, he felt sure that Tom must have known him, and that some one would start very soon in pursuit. Hence, with his brain full of handcuffs, prison cells, magistrates, and other accessories of the law, he had toiled on through the night until utterly exhausted.

The early morning train soon came gliding into the station, and Sam took his place, trying in vain to look careless and indifferent, and as if he were occupied over his ordinary affairs; but it could not be done. He looked dusty as to his boots and trousers; there was a bloodshot appearance in his eyes; his cheeks were hollow, and his lips feverish and cracked.

Then the other pa.s.sengers kept on staring at him, and the more so because he looked uneasily at them. In fact, as one pa.s.senger said to himself, he looked "as if he been up to no good."

The drowsy sensation which had made him feel as if walking in a dream had now completely pa.s.sed away, and though he rested his head in a corner, and, after b.u.t.toning up his jacket tightly, tried to sleep, he could not lose consciousness, but sat there with every joint aching, and a miserable feeling of weariness in his back, listening to the rattle of the train, which kept up what sounded like some weird tune, always beginning and never ending.

There came minutes when he felt as if he were going to be seriously ill, for his head throbbed, and there was a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, while the events of the past night seemed as if they had happened a long time back.

Once when the train stopped--though stop it did at every station--Sam closed his eyes tightly and shammed sleep, feeling convinced that when the carriage door was opened, he would hear a rough voice ordering him to get out, consequent upon his description having been telegraphed all along the line; and then the door was opened and banged to again after a man had spoken in a rough voice, but only said jocularly--

"Got room for a little 'un?"

He then squeezed in close to Sam, and proved to be a huge fellow of about twenty stone.

Every one in the compartment laughed but Sam, who went through the same agony again and again, till the tickets were taken at Vauxhall, when the collector looked so much like a detective that the mental suffering was worse than ever.

Waterloo at last. He was parched with fever; his throat felt dry, and there was hot coffee waiting at the buffet, such as would relieve the faintness from which he suffered; but he dared not stop to partake of it. He hurried out of the great station, and walked fast across the bridge, and only began to feel more safe when he was amongst the crowd going and coming in the busy streets.

At last, after dodging in and out in all directions to baffle pursuit, he jumped into a cab to be taken home, but began to feel the next moment that if he were pursued it would be known where he had taken refuge.

Taken altogether, Sam Brandon began to taste very bitterly the agonies of those who break out of straight paths, never having realised till then how th.o.r.n.y the wrong course was, and how deep the pits and chasms in the way.

The cabman looked at him peculiarly when he got in, but that was nothing to the grin which overspread his face when the lad alighted and went up to the front door; while upon his summons being answered, the maid saluted him with the expressive words--"Oh, lor!"

"Is my father down yet?" asked Sam.

"No, sir, and it's lucky for you as he ain't. My! he would kick up a fuss, if he see you such a sight after being out all night."

"Bah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sam, and he ran up-stairs to his room.

"Bah! indeed," cried the indignant girl; "serve you right if I was to tell master what time you come home. But I won't."

And there was no need. For Sam had hardly shut himself in before there was a hand upon the lock of the door, and his father entered in his dressing-gown, looking haggard and pale, consequent upon a sleepless, anxious night.

He closed and locked the door, before turning excitedly to his son.

"Well?" he whispered in a husky voice.

"Got back," said Sam laconically.

"Yes; and you have not succeeded?" cried James Brandon.

Sam was silent.

"I say, you have not succeeded?"

"I heard what you said, father," replied Sam surlily.

"I knew it would be so," cried his father. "It's all because you would be so rash, and ready to believe that you know everything. Now if you had gone down as I advised, on a visit, everything would have been as easy as a glove. You could have stayed there two or three days with your cousin now your uncle is in London."

"Oh, then you knew Uncle Richard was in London?"

"Of course I did, or I shouldn't have let you go, sir. And then you could have come back with what we wanted decently, and not come crawling into the house as if you had been found out committing a theft, and the detectives were after you."

Sam gave a sudden jump and glanced at the door, but laughed it off directly with a sneer.

"Don't be absurd, father," he said. "Of course I only went on a very honest mission--for you."

It was James Brandon's turn to wince now, and as he saw his son's sneering laugh he turned upon him angrily.

"It's my own fault," he cried, "for trusting such an idiot. I might have known what would be the consequences; but I thought you were growing up into a man whom I could trust with important business."

"Legal business," said Sam sneeringly.

"Yes, sir, legal business," cried James Brandon. "You're worse than your cousin."

"Ever so much," retorted Sam. "Well, dad, have you done?"

"Yes, sir, I have done--done with you too. You might have saved me thousands, instead of--"

"How do you know I haven't?" said Sam sourly.

His father's mouth opened, and a curious change came over his countenance.

"Why, Sam, my boy!" he panted. "You don't mean to say--"

"That the idiot has been of some use to you? Yes, I do. There, when you've done rowing me let's get the business over, for I'm sick of it.

I want to go to bed."

"Then--then--you've--you've--" stammered James Brandon.

"Succeeded?--of course I have," said Sam coolly, as he lay back in a chair, heavy-eyed, nervous, and utterly exhausted by his night's work.

"If I wasn't so tired I should have something more to say."

"My dear boy!" cried James Brandon effusively; and his son uttered a low, unpleasant laugh. "Sam, you have the--the papers?"

"Yes."

"Quick then--give them to me."

Sam thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his closely-b.u.t.toned coat, and glancing in sidewise, he drew out a folded paper.

"That it?" he said coolly, as he handed it to his father, watching him keenly the while.

"That? Absurd!" said James Brandon, taking it and tossing it back.

"The agreement for letting a house. You don't mean to say--"