Part 31 (2/2)
”Hang the luck,” he muttered, kicking viciously at a loose stone. ”If that's the man I fear, then Jasper Lamotte would be glad to know him.
Why!” starting suddenly erect, ”I can find out, and I will. I must, for my own safety,” and John Burrill faced about and retraced his steps.
Cautiously this time, he went over the ground, heeding where he set his foot, lest some misstep should betray his presence in Mill avenue still; more and more cautiously as he neared the house from which he had so lately fled.
Closer and closer he crept, until at last he was under the window of the kitchen, and here he crouched, listening. He heard the mingled confusion of voices, then the firm tones of Clifford Heath, clear above the rest.
Hearing this, he moved quickly away, for he was in instant danger of detection, should the door open suddenly, as it might at any moment.
He crossed the street and standing under the shadow of a small tenement, waited.
It was not long before the door opened, and the light from within showed him the tall form of Clifford Heath, clearly outlined against the darkness.
Out strode Heath, walking so rapidly, that the not yet quite sober, John Burrill, found himself compelled to exercise care, and expend some breath, in keeping him within sight.
On and on, went the pursued and the pursuer, and presently, out of the darkness, came a third form, gliding shadow-like; as if every step of the way were too familiar to render caution necessary; this third form, drew nearer and nearer to Burrill, who, all unconscious of its proximity, labored on after Doctor Heath.
Straight to his own cottage went the doubly shadowed young physician; he opened the door with a latch key, and the followers lost him in the darkness of the unlighted vestibule. Presently, however, a light was seen to glimmer through the partially closed blinds, and then John Burrill crept cautiously nearer, and feeling his way carefully, lest some obstacle at his feet should cause him to stumble; he gained the window, pressed his face close to the shutters and peered through.
Clifford Heath was pacing up and down his cosy sitting room, seemingly lost in perplexed thought, and, as again and again his face was turned to the light, the watcher studied it closely; finally he seemed satisfied with his scrutiny, for he turned away and groped back to the street once more.
”It's the other one,” he muttered, drawing a long breath of relief. ”I might have known it from the first; so he is the young Doctor they tell of! Well, it's a rum game that brings him here, and it's certain he don't want to be known. He can't know me, and--Jove, I'd like to pay him for the hits he gave me,” and he fell to pondering as he turned his steps, not the way he had come, nor yet toward Mapleton, but in the direction of ”Old Forty Rods.” But long before he reached his destination, the creeping, stealthy shadow, had ceased to follow, and had vanished down a side street.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”It's the other one,” he muttered.]
A few lights were glimmering, here and there, as he turned down the, not very elegant, street on which was located the haven of ”Forty Rods,” and when he was within a block of the place, a man, coming suddenly around the corner, ran square against him.
Burrill uttered an oath, as he with difficulty regained his balance, but the new-comer called out in a voice, a little unsteady from some cause:
”h.e.l.loa! B--Burrill, that yer, ole feller? Didn't mean ter knock against yer, give-ye my word I didn'. Give us a tiss, ole man, an' come-long to Forty's!”
”Brooks,” said Burrill, taking him sociably by the arm, and facing toward the saloon in question. ”Brooks, you're drunk; you're beastly drunk; drunk as a sailor by all that's sober.” And together they entered ”Old Forty Rods.”
CHAPTER XX.
CONSTANCE AT BAY.
”It is impossible, sir! utterly impossible! and, pardon me for saying it, most absurd! This matter has been dragged on too long already. And on such evidence I utterly refuse to follow up the case. You have done well, undoubtedly, but it was only at the urgent request of Mr. Lamotte that I have allowed it to continue, and now I wash my hands of the whole affair.”
It is Constance Wardour who speaks, standing very straight and with head very firmly poised, and wearing upon her face what Mrs. Aliston would have called her ”obstinate look.” Her words were addressed to a well dressed, gentlemanly looking personage, who is neither young nor yet middle aged, and who might pa.s.s for a solicitor with a good run of clients, or a bank cas.h.i.+er out on special business. He is looking somewhat disconcerted just now, but recovers his composure almost as she ceases speaking.
”But, madam,” he expostulates mildly, ”this is unheard of, really. You employ me upon a case which, just now, has reached a crisis, and when success seems almost certain you tell me to drop the case. I never like to drag forward my own personality, Miss Wardour, but really this is a blow aimed directly at my professional honor.”
There is an ominous flash in the eye of the heiress, but her voice is smooth and tranquil, as she replies:
”I am sorry if this should injure _you_, Mr. Belknap, but, pardon me, I scarcely see how it can; you, as I understand, are a '_private detective_,' answerable to no one save yourself and the one employing you. I, as that one, p.r.o.nounce myself satisfied to drop the case. I decline to use the circ.u.mstantial evidence you have brought against a man who is above suspicion, in my mind, at least. Let the Wardour diamonds rest in oblivion. Mr. Belknap, I am ready to honor your draft for any sum that you may deem sufficient to compensate you for the trouble you have taken, as well as for the _hurt_ done your professional pride.”
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