Volume Ii Part 7 (1/2)
”We shall leave the case, Mr. Townshend, entirely in your hands,”
observed Mr. Gerard; ”and please to look to me for any expenses you may require.”
”Very good, sir,” replied the runner, rising as if to take his leave; ”but since two or three heads are always better than one, in cases of this sort, and the present company has their wits about them--which is by no means the case with many as I have to do with--I should be glad of a little a.s.sistance from yourselves.”
”Don't you think we ought to advertise the baronet as missing, and offer a reward?” suggested Mr. Clint.
”There will be no harm in that, of course,” replied Mr. Townshend carelessly; ”although I can't say as I have much confidence in advertis.e.m.e.nts; my own experience is, that parties who put them in derive some satisfaction from reading them over to themselves, but the advantage don't go much beyond that---except that it sometimes puts people upon their guard as one wants to be off it. I have got a little pressing business on hand to-morrow--in the forging line--and must now be off; but if one or two of you will be at the Bank to-morrow afternoon, at, let us say three o'clock, I shall be sure to be there to meet you.”
[1] Every lad in my position, not yet turned twenty-one, was a ”young gentleman” in these times; we were not so tenacious of our dignity as the young men of to-day.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BANK-NOTES.
It was arranged, to my infinite joy, before retiring to rest that night, that I was to make one of the Bank party. Marmaduke insisted on accompanying us, being above measure curious about the matter, and eager to know the worst (or the best) regarding it. Mr. Long had to return to Fairburn for his Sunday's duty, and Mr. Clint could not spare the time from his parchments; so Mr. Harvey Gerard and we two young men went forth upon the trail together. As the paper-chase is the most glorious pursuit undertaken by boys, as fox-hunting is the sport of sports for men, so man-hunting is the avocation fitted for heroes. I know nothing like it for interest and excitement--nothing. If I could only imbue my readers with one-tenth of the absorbing concern with which we, the subordinate actors in this drama of mystery, now began to be devoured, they would be sorry indeed when this narrative comes to a conclusion. We three were at the appointed spot some minutes before the hour which had been agreed upon for meeting the Bow Street runner; but before the chimes of the Old Exchange clock had ceased their ”_Life let us cherish_”--the tune which they always played on Fridays--the Bow Street runner appeared.
Pa.s.sing through a great room within the Bank, in which, to my unaccustomed eye, were displayed the riches of Croesus, and where the golden showers seemed unceasingly to rain, we were conducted into a private apartment, where sat some grey-headed official, uncommunicative, calm, like one who has had his glut even of wealth, and to whom money, whether in bullion or paper, was no longer any object.
”Well, Mr. Townshend, what can I do for you?” inquired he, sedately. ”I trust you are not come about any fresh wrongs against the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. I never see your face but I think of an imitation bank-note, and diminution of the stock in our cellar.”
”Thank you, sir,” responded the runner, cheerfully; ”I am afraid that I shall have to see you in a day or two respecting a matter of that very kind, but to-day I am come on a different business. A gentleman of high rank has been missing for three weeks, or more; and his absence has given the greatest anxiety to these, his friends. He was known to have in his possession certain one-pound Bank of England notes, twenty in all, of which the numbers are known. We wish to know whether they have been paid in hither in the meantime, and if so, by whom.”
”Have you any order from the deputy-governor?”
”Why, no, sir,” responded the runner, insinuatingly. ”I thought that would not be necessary between you and me.”
”Well, well, I suppose you must have your own way, Townshend. You're a dangerous man to cross.” And the old gentleman wagged his head in a blandly humorous manner, and made a little golden music with his bunch of seals. ”The numbers of the notes are here, are they? From 82961 to 80. Very good.” Here he rang a silver bell, which presently produced an official personage, something between a gentleman-usher and a pew-opener. ”You may show this party over the cancelled department, James; and let Mr. Townshend investigate anything he pleases.”
With a not over-courteous nod, the old gentleman resumed his study of a certain enormous volume, that looked, said Marmaduke, like the quarto edition of Chaucer, but which, it is reasonable to conclude, was something else. We were straightway conducted through several vast and echoing chambers, into a s.p.a.cious fire-proof vault, where the notes that had been paid into the Bank awaited the periodical cremation.
”A week later, and we might not have been in time,” remarked the Bow Street runner, ”since every bank-note is burned within a month of its having found its way home again. If Sir Ma.s.singberd has come to a violent end, and been robbed of his money, we shall probably find it all here, as those who despoiled him would be anxious to get the notes changed at once.” Our guide led the way to a certain department of the chamber, with the same accuracy which a student would evince with respect to a shelf in his own library, and took up in his hand a bundle of one-pound notes; they were for the most part very dirty and greasy, but he separated one from the other with a surprising ease and celerity, reading out the numbers as he did so. ”82900, 1, 2, 3--now we are getting near it,” observed the official. ”Let us see, 951, is it not?”
”82961,” gasped I, ”and the next nineteen.” I could scarcely frame the words, so great was my excitement. Marmaduke's eyes gleamed with anxiety and impatience; and even Mr. Gerard held his breath, while the clerk continued, in a dry, mechanical tone:
”51, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 wanting--7, 8, 9 all wanting. 82960---here you have it; 61 wanting; 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. There are none of them here.
Stop a bit. 82977--that's one, isn't it?”
”Yes,” cried I, ”that's one. Pray, let me look at it.”
”Certainly not, sir,” responded the official, severely. ”With regard to Mr. Townshend, I have my orders, but as respects him only.”
”Perfectly right,” remarked the Bow Street runner, approvingly. ”Then please to give it to me, my man. Are there any more?”
”Yes, there are--78, 79, 80.”
”Good. That is four in all, then.” The detective took them up, and showed them to me: of course, I could not identify them; but still I felt some awe to think what hands--hands imbued with blood, perchance--those notes might have pa.s.sed through since I had seen Sir Ma.s.singberd thrust them into his pocket.
”I cannot carry these away with me, my good friend, I suppose?” inquired Mr. Townshend, persuasively.