Part 32 (1/2)

She seized her astonished father by the hand and led him unresisting from the room.

Having hurriedly related all she knew about Billy Towler, Morley Jones, and Nora, she looked up in his face and demanded to know what _was_ to be done.

”Done, my dear child,” he replied, looking perplexed, ”we must go at once and see how much can be undone. You tell me you have Nora's address. Well, we'll go there at once.”

”But--but,” said Katie, ”Nora does not know the full extent of her father's wickedness, and we want to keep it from her if possible.”

”A very proper desire to spare her pain, Katie, but in the circ.u.mstances we cannot help ourselves; we must do what we can to frustrate this man's designs and save the boy.”

So saying Mr Durant descended to the dining-room. He explained that some suspicious facts had come to his daughter's knowledge which necessitated instant action; said that he was sorry Mr Queeker felt it inc.u.mbent on him to maintain secrecy in regard to his mission, but that he could not think of pressing him to act in opposition to his convictions, and, dismissing his guests with many apologies, went out with Katie in search of the abode of Nora Jones.

Stanley Hall, whose curiosity was aroused by all that had pa.s.sed, went down to take a walk on the pier by way of wearing it off in a philosophical manner. He succeeded easily in getting rid of this feeling, but he could not so easily get rid of the image of Katie Durant. He had suspected himself in love with her before he sailed for India; his suspicions were increased on his return to England, and when he saw the burst of deep feeling to which she had so recently given way, and heard the genuine expressions of remorse, and beheld her sweet face bedewed with tears of regret and pity, suspicion was swallowed up in certainty.

He resolved then and there to win her, if he could, and marry her! Here a touch of perplexity a.s.sailed him, but he fought it off n.o.bly.

He was young, no doubt, and had no money, but what then?--he was strong, had good abilities, a father in a lucrative practice, with the prospect of a.s.sisting and ultimately succeeding him. That was enough, surely.

The lodging which he had taken for a few days was retaken that night for an indefinite period, and he resolved to lay siege to her heart in due form.

But that uncertainty which is proverbial in human affairs stepped within the circle of his life and overturned his plans. On returning to his rooms he found a telegram on the table. His father, it informed him, was dangerously ill. By the next train he started for home, and arrived to find that his father was dead.

A true narrative of any portion of this world's doings must of necessity be as varied as the world itself, and equally abrupt in its transitions.

From the lively supper-table Stanley Hall pa.s.sed to the deathbed of his father. In like manner we must ask the reader to turn with us from the contemplation of Stanley's deep sorrow to the observation of Queeker's poetic despair.

Maddened between the desire to tell all he knew regarding the secret mission to Mr Durant, and the command laid on him by his employers to be silent, the miserable youth rushed frantically to his lodgings, without any definite intentions, but more than half inclined to sink on his knees before his desk, and look up to the moon, or stars, or; failing these, to the floating light for inspiration, and pen the direful dirge of something dreadful and desperate! He had even got the length of the first line, and had burst like a thunderbolt into his room muttering--

”Great blazing wonder of illimitable spheres,”

when he became suddenly aware of the fact that his chair was occupied by the conchological friend with whom he had spent the earlier part of that day, who was no other than the man with the keen grey eyes.

”What! still in the poetic vein?” he said, with a grave smile.

”Why--I--thought you were off to London!” exclaimed Queeker, with a very red face.

”I have seen cause to change my plan,” said Mr Larks quietly.

”I'm _very_ glad of it,” replied Queeker, running his fingers through his hair and sitting down opposite his friend with a deep sigh, ”because I'm in the most horrible state of perplexity. It is quite evident to me that the boy is known to Miss Durant, for she went off into _such_ a state when I mentioned him and described him exactly.”

”Indeed,” said Mr Larks; ”h'm! I know the boy too.”

”Do you? Why didn't you tell me that?”

”There was no occasion to,” said the imperturbable Mr Larks, whose visage never by any chance conveyed any expression whatever, except when he pleased, and then it conveyed only and exactly the expression that he intended. ”But come,” he continued, ”let's hear all about it, and don't quote any poetry till you have done with the facts.”

Thus exhorted Queeker described the scene at the supper-table with faithful minuteness, and, on concluding, demanded what was to be done.

”H'm!” grunted Mr Larks. ”They've gone to visit Nora Jones, so you and I shall go and keep them company. Come along.”

He put on his hat and went out, followed by his little friend.