Part 19 (1/2)

THE BLACK PACKET.

”M. De Bac? De Bac? I do not know the name.”

”Gentleman says he knows you, sir, and has called on urgent business.”

There was no answer, and John Brown, the ruined publisher, looked about him in a dazed manner. He knew he was ruined; to-morrow the world would know it also, and then--beggary stared him in the face, and infamy too. For this the world would not care. Brown was not a great man in ”the trade,” and his name in the _Gazette_ would not attract notice; but his name, as he stood in the felon's dock, and the ugly history a cross-examination might disclose would probably arouse a fleeting interest, and then the world would go on with a pitiless shrug of its shoulders. What does it matter to the moving wave of humanity if one little drop of spray from its crest is blown into nothing by the wind? Not a jot. But it was a terrible business for the drop of spray, otherwise John Brown, publisher. He was at his best not a good-looking man, rather mean-looking than otherwise, with a thin, angular face, eyes as s.h.i.+fty as a jackal's, and shoulders shaped like a champagne-bottle. As the shadow of coming ruin darkened over him, he seemed to shrink and look meaner than ever. He had almost forgotten the presence of his clerk. He could think of nothing but the morrow, when Simmonds' voice again broke the stillness.

”Shall I say you will see him, sir?”

The question cut sharply into the silence, and brought Brown to himself. He had half a mind to say ”No.” In the face of the coming to-morrow, business, urgent or otherwise, was nothing to him. Yet, after all, there could be no harm done in receiving the man. It would, at any rate, be a distraction, and, lifting his head, Brown answered:

”Yes, I will see him, Simmonds.”

Simmonds went out, closing the green baize door behind him. There was a delay of a moment, and M. De Bac entered--a tall, thin figure, bearing an oblong parcel, packed in s.h.i.+ny, black paper, and sealed with flame-coloured wax.

”Good-day, Mr. Brown;” and M. De Bac, who, for all his foreign name, spoke perfect English, extended his hand.

Brown rose, put his own cold fingers into the warm grasp of his visitor, and offered him a seat.

”With your permission, Mr. Brown, I will take this other chair. It is nearer the fire. I am accustomed to warm climates, as you doubtless perceive;” and De Bac, suiting his action to his words, placed his packet on the table, and began to slowly rub his long, lean fingers together. The publisher glanced at him with some curiosity. M. De Bac was as dark as an Italian, with clear, resolute features, and a moustache, curled at the ends, thick enough to hide the sarcastic curve of his thin lips. He was strongly if sparely built, and his fiery black eyes met Brown's gaze with a look that ran through him like a needle.

”You do not appear to recognise me, Mr. Brown?”--De Bac's voice was very quiet and deep-toned.

”I have not the honour----” began the publisher; but his visitor interrupted him.

”You mistake. We are quite old friends; and in time will always be very near each other. I have a minute or two to spare”--he glanced at a repeater--”and will prove to you that I know you. You are John Brown, that very religious young man of Battersea, who, twelve years ago, behaved like a blackguard to a girl at Homerton, and sent her to----but no matter. You attracted my attention then; but, unfortunately, I had no time to devote to you. Subsequently, you effected a pretty little swindle--don't be angry, Mr. Brown--it _was_ very clever. Then you started in business on your own account, and married. Things went well with you; you know the art of getting at a low price, and selling at a high one. You are a born 'sweater.' Pardon the word. You know how to keep men down like beasts, and go up yourself. In doing this, you did me yeoman's service, although you are even now not aware of this. You had one fault, you have it still, and had you not been a gambler you might have been a rich man. Speculation is a bad thing, Brown--I mean gambling speculation.”

Brown was an Englishman, and it goes without saying that he had courage. But there was something in De Bac's manner, some strange power in the steady stare of those black eyes, that held him to his seat as if pinned there.

As De Bac stopped, however, Brown's anger gave him strength. Every word that was said was true, and stung like the lash of a whip. He rose white with anger.

”Sir!” he began with quivering lips, and made a step forwards. Then he stopped. It was as if the sombre fire in De Bac's gaze withered his strength. An invisible hand seemed to drag him back into his seat and hold him there.

”You are hasty, Mr. Brown;” and De Bac's even voice continued: ”you are really very rash. I was about to tell you a little more of your history, to tell you you are ruined, and to-morrow every one in London--it is the world for you, Brown--will know you are a beggar, and many will know you are a cheat.”

The publisher swore bitterly under his breath.

”You see, Mr. Brown,” continued his strange visitor, ”I know all about you, and you will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that you deserve help from me. You are too useful to let drift. I have therefore come to save you.”

”Save me?”

”Yes. By means of this ma.n.u.script here,” he pointed to the packet, ”which you are going to publish.”

Brown now realized that he was dealing with a lunatic. He tried to stretch out his arm to touch the bell on the table; but found that he had no power to do so. He made an attempt to shout to Simmonds; but his tongue moved inaudibly in his mouth. He seemed only to have the faculty of following De Bac's words, and of answering them. He gasped out:

”It is impossible!”

”My friend”--and He Bac smiled mirthlessly--”you will publish that ma.n.u.script. I will pay. The profits will be yours. It will make your name, and you will be rich. You will even be able to build a church.”

”Rich!” Brown's voice was very bitter. ”M. De Bac, you said rightly. I am a ruined man. Even if you were to pay for the publication of that ma.n.u.script I could not do it now. It is too late. There are other houses. Go to them.”

”But not other John Browns. You are peculiarly adapted for my purpose.