The Man from Manchester E-Book

Dick Donovan

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The book, written in the 19 c. by British journalist and author of mystery and horror fiction J. E. Preston Muddock. For a time his detective stories were as popular as those of Arthur Conan Doyle. It is about a married gentleman, first accused of murder of his lover and later acquitted due to brilliant investigation by police in spite of alleged heavy evidence against the gentleman. The real murder, ex-husband of the victim, is pretty evident to the reader.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE LONDON EXPRESS

II. THE TWO LADIES

III. HOT BLOOD

IV. VINDICTIVENESS

V. A LITTLE MYSTERY

VI. ENDEAVOURS TO EXPLAIN IN WHAT WAY MR. HIPCRAFT WAS LIKE A SNAKE

VII. THE FAITHFUL SLEUTH-HOUND

VIII. 'ERRORS, LIKE STRAWS, UPON THE SURFACE FLOW!'

IX. 'WAS IT AN UNKIND FATE?'

X. DRIFTING ON THE SILENT TIDE TOWARDS THE MAELSTROM

XI. MRS. NEILSEN'S STORY

XII. 'TRULY, HUMAN NATURE IS A RIDDLE AND A MYSTERY!'

XIII. SOWING THE WHIRLWIND

XIV. THE STORM BREAKS

XV. THE MAN IN THE BOX AT THE THEATRE

XVI. MR. VECQUERARY AND MRS. NEILSEN PART FOREVER

XVII. 'THE ALARM BELL THAT WITH BRAZEN CLAMOURING PROCLAIMED SOME DIRE EVENT.'

XVIII. HATE

XIX. DESPAIR

XX. LOVE

XXI. EPHRAIM SLARK, THE CHRISTIAN!

XXII. A STRANGE AND STARTLING THEORY

XXIII. ENTER A NEW CHARACTER

XXIV. MR. RICHARD HIPCRAFT HAS A SOMEWHAT UNFLATTERING OPINION OF HIMSELF

XXV. EXPLAINS A GOOD DEAL

XXVI. PRIDE IS HUMBLED AND SORROW REIGNS

XXVII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

XXVIII. MASTER AND MAN

XXIX. STRIFE

XXX. THE RAVELLED SKEIN

XXXI. TELLS HOW CRAFT WAS BEATEN WITH ITS OWN WEAPON

XXXII. BETWEEN HOPE AND FEAR

XXXIII. STRIKING A NEW TRAIL

XXIV. A NEW THREAD

XXXV. 'THERE IS DESTINY IN ALL THINGS.'

XXXVI. FARABIN TINDAL'S TRIUMPH

XXXVII. TRUE LOVE ENDURETH FOREVER

I. THE LONDON EXPRESS

T was a dark November afternoon, and the time within a minute or two of a quarter-past four. The up-platform of the London Road Station, Manchester, presented a busy scene of confusion and bustle, as was usually the case at that hour, for the London express was timed to leave at 4.15. On this particular afternoon there seemed to be an unusual number of passengers, and the train was very crowded. Two gentlemen, however, who were comfortably ensconced in a first-class compartment near the engine, had managed so far to keep out intruders, a judicious tip to the guard having had a magical effect. Excited passengers had repeatedly rushed up to this compartment, but, finding the door locked, had growled out something naughty and gone to another carriage, much to the satisfaction of the two gentlemen, who smiled and seemed well-pleased at the success of their efforts to keep themselves isolated.

These two men were utter strangers to each other, and had come together for the first time in their lives. And it is in the highest degree probable that had a third party, gifted with the power of prophecy, ventured to tell those two men that their chance meeting in a railway carriage on that dark November afternoon was destined to be the beginning of a series of most astounding events that would bring them both into public notoriety, they would surely have laughed the prophet to scorn. In personal appearance the two men presented as striking a contrast as it is possible to conceive. One was a handsome, well-made, burly fellow, not more than thirty years of age. There was something about him–what it is not easy to accurately define–that at once stamped him as representing the better type of the true Manchester Man.’ He Lad a round, healthily-coloured face, clean-shaved, save for a somewhat heavy moustache, that was full and round, and curled under to his lips, while his expression was at once frank and pleasing, and gave one the idea that life went well with him, and he enjoyed it. He had dark-blue eyes, that beamed with laughter and contentment. His hair, which was lightish brown, clustered about his forehead in tiny curls, almost like a young boy’s. He was well-dressed, and though there was nothing in his dressing that was in the least degree offensive to good or artistic taste, it was obvious that he studied his appearance, and aimed at ‘dressing like a gentleman.’ His clothes were fashionably cut and fitted him accurately; and a heavy dark-green overcoat, trimmed with Astrakan, imparted to him rather a distingué air, that was further enhanced by his faultless kid gloves, and the crimson silk handkerchief that was allowed just to slightly display itself from the outside breast-pocket of his overcoat.

This gentleman was Mr. Josiah Vecquerary of Manchester. All his people had for many generations been natives of the busy city on the banks of the Irwell, and Mr. Vecquerary prided himself on the fact. And he seemed to take a special delight in making it known to strangers that he hailed from Cottonopolis. I suppose that all men are more or less proud of their birthplaces. But your Manchester man, above all others, seems proud of his. Nor is this pride unjustified, for Manchester in itself is a city to be proud of, and the average middle-class Manchester man is generally an upright, fair-dealing, thoroughly business-like, shrewd, and open-hearted fellow. Blunt of speech and frank-speaking, he strikes you at once as straightforward and reliable. And if you attempt any double-dealings with him you find that you have caught a tartar, for your true Manchester man hates chicanery. He is not suspicious as a rule. By instinct and nature he is very hospitable. He is a staunch friend, but can also be a bitter enemy.

Most of the traits here indicated were prominent in Mr. Vecquerary’s character, and he had troops of friends by whom he was highly esteemed.

The Vecquerarys were a very old Manchester family. They had originally come from France, and had then spelt their name Véquérie. But that was at such a remote period that it was no more than a dim tradition amongst the descendants, who had taken kindly to the soil, and become thoroughly imbued with the distinguishing Manchester spirit.

Mr. Josiah Vecquerary was the head of the firm of ‘Vecquerary and Sons,’ Manchester Warehousemen, whose place of business was in Fountain Street–a thoroughfare long associated with that particular class of business known as the ‘Manchester trade.’ The firm of Vecquerary and Sons was a very old-established one, and had been handed down from father to son through many generations. Josiah’s father had been dead for four years, and Josiah and his younger brother, Alfred, carried on the business. Alfred was single, but Josiah had been married for six years, and was the father of girl and a boy, the latter being five years of age and the girl three.

Mr. Vecquerary’s marriage had at first been productive of some little friction and unpleasantness in his family, for he had chosen to marry one of his father’s warehouse girls. A well-behaved and pretty enough girl, but as the Vecquerarys were not without pride of race they thought this was a mésalliance, and Josiah’s father and mother were particularly annoyed. Mr. Vecquerary, senior, went so far as to refuse to recognise his daughter-in-law; and though when he came to lie on his deathbed he showed some disposition to be reconciled, he died before the reconciliation could be effected. After that, Josiah’s mother took to his wife, especially when the first child was born. But most of the other members of the family still manifested a certain disdain for Mrs. Josiah Vecquerary, as they did not consider she was in any way their equal. There is reason to believe that this to some extent influenced Mr. Vecquerary, whose relations with his wife had not been altogether of a cordial character. Not that there had been any serious difference between the young couple, but the husband had occasionally given evidence that he did not consider his wife quite on a level with him. This, however, did not affect him appreciably, and life agreed with him. His business was prosperous, everything went smoothly; he had a perfect digestion, and he loved a good dinner, and knew how to appreciate a choice cigar, and a bottle of old wine.

As we make his acquaintance he is journeying to London on business in connection with his firm. He is in the habit of running up to town once every six weeks on these business matters, and is generally absent four or five days.

The gentleman who so far shares the compartment with him is a very striking contrast. He is a little man, apparently about forty-three. His figure is sparse and shrunken, so that his clothes fit him ill. His face is yellow, with high cheek bones, and he has a very scanty crop of grayish whiskers, and a thin, straggling moustache. His eyes are small and somewhat deep-set, and their expression is not altogether pleasing. He habitually wears spectacles, which tend to make him look a little older than he is. He is slightly bald on the top of his head, and his hair is thin and gray. His general appearance is not altogether calculated to beget the confidence of a stranger, who might in fact experience a sense of shrinking from him, without being able to tell why he did so. The two men have been seated together for several minutes, but with true British reserve neither has yet spoken, The little man at last breaks the ice.

‘There seems to be an immense number of passengers to-day.’

He speaks in a high-pitched voice–a thin and trebly voice that is harsh and unpleasant; and he rubs and twists his hands one about the other as if he was oiling them.

‘Yes, but it’s been market-day in Manchester, and there is generally a rush for this train on market-day.’

Thus spoke Mr. Vecquerary, and his voice was in no less striking contrast to his companion’s than his personal appearance was. It was a deep, round, mellow voice, with a pleasant Lancashire burr in it; while on the other hand his companion’s had an unmistakable Cockney twang about it.

‘Oh, I didn’t know it was market-day,’ answered the little man, oiling his hands again. ‘You Manchester folk are a busy people.’

‘Yes, we bear that character,’ answered Mr. Vecquerary with a pleasant little laugh. ‘But it’s evident you don’t belong to Manchester.’

‘Oh dear no. It is my first visit. I am connected with the law, and I came down here two days ago on a little matter of business, but I confess I am rather glad to get away.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s a dirty, gloomy sort of city, and the people are very boorish.’

‘As regards the city,’ answered Mr. Vecquerary quickly and decisively, as though resenting the remark, ‘you have seen it under every possible disadvantage, but any city would look gloomy in this filthy November weather. The people, however, are all right. They may seem boorish to a stranger, but when you come to know them you’ll find out how warm-hearted and hospitable they are.’

‘Ah,’ exclaimed the little man with a sceptical snigger.

At this moment the guard of the train hurriedly unlocked the door, and said apologetically: ‘Gentlemen, I am sorry I cannot reserve the compartment for you, as the train is so full.’

A porter came up carrying a hand-bag, a railway rug, bundle of umbrellas, and various odds and ends, and having deposited these things on the scat and in the rack, he got out and helped two ladies to get in. That done, the door was slammed to; the guard locked it; the shrill blast of the signal whistle resounded through the station; the engine uttered a shriek, and then the train went out into the fog on its way to London.

II. THE TWO LADIES

THE two ladies who had thus become fellow-passengers with Mr. Vecquerary and the lawyer were both of them singularly pretty women. The elder of the two could not have been more than seven or eight and twenty. She was a pronounced blonde, with a complexion like a ripe peach, and a most bewitching mouth, the lips of which, when parted, revealed teeth of the most perfect evenness and whiteness. Her hair, which lay on her forehead in graceful waves, was of that shade which may best be likened to old gold; and it was so abundant that it formed a large knob at the back of her well-shaped head. She had the soft blue and entrancing eves that generally accompany such complexions, and her figure was so shapely that not even a hypocritic could have found fault with it. A neat little boot displayed itself from beneath the snowy frill of her petticoat; and as she removed one glove to take a handkerchief from her satchel and wipe her face, she revealed an exquisitely-shaped hand, white as a lily, with perfectly trimmed and kept nails. Several diamond rings sparkled on her fingers, and she wore a diamond and ruby bracelet on her wrist.

Her companion would not be more than seventeen. She was a brunette, with keen bright eyes, and hair of a very dark shade of brown. There was an arch coquettishness in her expression which was rather an attraction than otherwise. They were both exceedingly well dressed, and conveyed the impression that they were favourites of fortune. They occupied the corner immediately opposite Mr. Vecquerary, and for some minutes that gentleman somewhat rudely stared at these two pretty women, and wondered what relation they bore to each other. They could not be mother and daughter, because the younger one was too old and the elder one too young for them to be so related. Mr. Vecquerary’s speculations were soon set at rest, however, by hearing the young girl address her companion as ‘Auntie.’

The little man, who had been seated on the same side as the ladies, seemed to be no less interested in them than Mr. Vecquerary was, and in a few minutes he changed to the opposite corner so that he might see them better.

Before reaching Stoekport there is a pretty long tunnel to be traversed, and as the train clashed into this tunnel the breaks were applied with such suddenness that the passengers were all but jerked off their seats. Then the engine whistled shrilly, and the train came to a standstill.

‘Oh dear, I hope nothing is wrong,’ exclaimed the elderly lady to her companion, in evident trepidation. This was Mr. Vecquerary’s opportunity to speak to them, and he availed himself of it. He hastened in the blandest tones to assure them that there was no danger. The train, he said, had stopped because the signals were against it, owing probably to there being another train in the station ahead. In a few moments the train began to move slowly, and in due time passed out of the tunnel all right.

This little incident had been an introduction for Mr. Vecquerary, and he made the best of it, and for a long time he chatted pleasantly with the ladies. He had a very pleasant, genial manner with him, and his conversation was of a kind welt calculated to interest the fair sex. In fact, he proved that he knew what most men nowadays do not know–the art of talking to ladies so as at once to engage their attention and interest them. For a considerable time he had the field to himself; but during that time his unknown male companion sat in his corner in a manner that was somehow suggestive of a tarantula spider, which sits huddled up in its nest, its glittering eyes fully extended on the look-out for prey. At length the unknown–still like a tarantula when it spies prey–darted forward, and opening a neat little hand-bag, he took therefrom a small round basket, in which, cosily nestled in immaculate cotton-wool, were five most tempting-looking peaches. Extending the basket towards the ladies, he said:

‘Permit me to offer you, ladies, a peach.’

His high-pitched, squeaky voice was an unpleasant contrast to the full, round tones of the Manchester man, and as he had not hitherto spoken to the ladies, and his movement and manner of making the offer were somewhat abrupt, his act, kindly meant perhaps, did not make the impression it otherwise might have done. The younger lady gave an uneasy glance at her aunt, who returned it; but at last said, with a gracious smile:

‘Oh, thank you, you are very kind, but really we cannot deprive you of them.’

‘I assure you, madam, you will afford me great pleasure if you will take them,’ urged the little man. Pray do.’

Thus pressed, the ladies each took a peach, and the little man, having got his introduction, followed it up and talked incessantly, although Mr. Vecquerary did not allow himself to be driven from the field, and quite held his own against his rival. I say ‘rival’ advisedly, because the little man, it was unmistakably evident, was anxious to make himself as agreeable and acceptable to the ladies as Mr. Vecquerary had done.

Thus, all the way to London, these four fellow-travellers chatted and laughed freely. The ladies alone were known to each other; the men had met for the first time, and they and the ladies were strangers, and yet these four, engaged in a pleasant little social comedy now, were by-and-by to become actors in a grim and tragic drama.

As the train steamed into Euston, Mr. Vecquerary ventured to inquire of the ladies if they expected any friends on the platform; and the elder lady answered somewhat hesitatingly, and, as it seemed, almost apologetically, saying that they did not expect anyone.

‘May I have the pleasure, then, of looking after your luggage and procuring you a cab?’

The offer was accepted with a gracious smile of thanks; and when the train came to a standstill, Mr. Vecquerary sprang out, handing the younger lady out, and the two went off to reclaim the luggage. That done, they returned to where they had left the elder lady. They found her already seated in a cab which the little man had got, and he had made himself useful by handing in the small packages, and was still standing talking to his fellow-passenger when the other two came up. As soon as the young lady had taken her seat beside her aunt, Mr. Vecquerary gracefully raised his highly-polished hat, saying:

‘You have made the journey up to London so exceedingly pleasant for me, and I have enjoyed your conversation so much, that I would venture on the liberty of asking to whom I am indebted for so much pleasure?’

The elder lady’s face crimsoned a little, and she seemed to hesitate; but it was only for a moment. Then she opened her satchel, took therefrom a pearl and silver card case, and gave him her card. The next moment he was waving his hat in adieu as the cab drove away, and as soon as it was out of sight he moved a little so as to catch the rays of a gas lamp, and he read on the lady’s card this name and address–Mrs. Sabena Neilsen, 28, The Quadrant, Regent’s Park.

‘Dear me, what an exceedingly pretty name!’ remarked someone in a squeaking little voice at his elbow.

The someone was his fellow-passenger. Mr. Vecquerary thrust the card into his waistcoat-pocket, and seemed annoyed.

‘Yes, it is,’ he answered grumpily.

‘Are you going to be in town long?’ asked the little man.

‘No, only for a few days.’

‘You stay at an hotel, probably?’

‘Yes; the Golden Star, Charing Cross. I always stay there when I come up.’

‘Strange,’ smiled the little man. ‘It’s a favourite house of mine, for I live in Craven Street, close by; and I often drop into the Star in the evening for a game of billiards. As we go in the same direction I’ll share a cab with you if you like. There’s my card.’

Mr. Vecquerary took the card, and found that his companion was ‘Mr. Richard Hipcraft, solicitor.’ It was a somewhat curious name, and Mr. Vecquerary could not help thinking somehow that the name was suited to the man. However, although he was not very favourably impressed with Mr. Hipcraft, he consented to share a cab with him; having got their luggage, they drove off together.

III. HOT BLOOD

FOR many hours after Mr. Vecquerary had parted from his lady travelling-companions, his thoughts were occupied with them, or, rather, with one of them; and perhaps it is needless to say that one was Mrs. Sabena Neilsen. Her charming manner, her sweetly pretty face, her engaging conversation, had made a very deep impression upon him, and he could not turn his thoughts from her, although he had a wife and two children in Manchester. But mixed up with his thoughts of the lady was the objectionable Mr. Hipcraft; and irrational, and inconsistent, and ridiculous as it may seem, Mr. Vecquerary actually felt jealous of the little lawyer. Wherefore jealous? it may be asked. Ah, you must know a good deal of the foibles and vanities of human nature to understand that. Mr. Vecquerary was not without a certain self-consciousness of his own superiority when compared with Mr. Hipcraft. That is, he was superior to him physically–in personal appearance, and he believed he was also superior mentally and morally. That, of course, was an assumption of vanity pure and simple; but does not every man think himself superior to someone else whom he may know? Mr. Vecquerary had been anxious to monopolize the attention and conversation of the ladies during the time they were journeying up to London; Mr. Hipcraft had, with a fellow-traveller’s privilege, intruded himself on the little party, and Mr. Vecquerary was annoyed and jealous accordingly. That was foolish, and also wrong; but Vecquerary was human.

Now what he should have done was this: after having parted from the lady he should have dismissed her from his mind once and forever. She was apparently a married lady, and he was a married man. Therefore his thinking of her with feelings akin to admiration was not compatible with the due regard he ought to have for his position and his honour. Not that he had any dishonourable intentions at this time; but he was labouring under the spell and fascination of the lady’s presence, and he had a strong desire to see her again. Many men would, under the circumstances, have resisted that desire; others would not, and perhaps could not, have done so. And in the latter category Mr. Vecquerary must Le classed. So he made a resolution, and having dined Well, he went to bed after smoking his nocturnal cigar, and slept soundly.

The next day Mr. Vecquerary was engaged in business up to four o’clock. Then being free, he returned to his hotel, washed some of the London grime off him, arrayed himself in a spotless shirt, and a brown velveteen coat–an article of attire he had a great partiality for–and looking very handsome, and very gentlemanly, he jumped into a hansom cab, and ordered the driver to take him to 28, The Quadrant, Regent’s Park. Arrived at his destination, he dismissed the cab; and then, with some small feeling that he was not justified in being there, he went up the steps of the house, and rang the bell. The door was speedily opened by a white-capped and white-aproned servant; and he was informed, in answer to his inquiries, that Mrs. Neilsen was at home; and being shown into the handsomely-furnished drawing-room, he requested the attendant Phyllis to take his card to the lady.

It was fully ten minutes before the lady appeared. If she had looked charming the previous day in the train, she looked doubly so now in an evening dress of delicate blush-rose silk, which admirably suited her complexion. He rose, and stammered forth an apology for his presence there.

‘Pray be seated, Mr. Vecquerary; she said, not without some embarrassment, and yet gracefully. ‘I did not think when I parted from you and the other gentleman yesterday, that I should see you both again so soon.’

‘Both of us!’ exclaimed Mr. Vecquerary, opening his blue eyes to their fullest possible extent.

‘Yes; Mr. Hipcraft–is not that his name?–called this morning to restore to us a tiny scent-bottle I left in the railway-carriage. He honestly confessed that he purposely kept it in order that he might have an excuse for calling upon me.’

‘He is a cunning rascal,’ returned Mr. Vecquerary, with something very much like a growl, while his brows were knit with a frown.

‘Indeed! Are you personally acquainted with him?’

‘Oh no; pardon me!’ and Mr. Vecquerary felt very embarrassed.

‘And may I venture to inquire if youhave any property of mine to restore, for I am very careless when I travel?’ asked the lady, with a touch of irony, and yet smiling sweetly.

Mr. Vecquerary felt foolish now, and he was conscious that Hipcraft had scored a point, and from that moment there arose in his breast a positive hatred for the lawyer.

‘No, I–I have not,’ he stammered; ‘but I will be no less candid than this Mr. Hipcraft;he emphasized the name contemptuously. I–I wished to see you again,’ the lady’s colour deepened, ‘and,’ Vecquerary went on, trying to excuse his conduct to his conscience, ‘I thought I might have the pleasure of making your husband’s acquaintance.’

Mrs. Neilsen’s face became scarlet, and her manners betrayed that she was greatly troubled and embarrassed. She seemed to become suddenly interested in an album on the table, but it was only an excuse to hide her face from him.

‘My husband,’ she faltered, ‘is–is not here. He is abroad.’ Then suddenly, and with the obvious intention of changing the subject, she asked: ‘Are you going to remain long in town, Mr. Vecquerary?’

‘For a few days only.’

Mr. Vecquerary did not altogether feel comfortable. He was conscious of two things–firstly, that he had no right to be there; secondly, that the beautiful woman before him had some mystery in connection with her life. He could not, on his slight acquaintance, venture to question her, and yet he felt he would give a great deal to know her story. She proved herself a diplomatist, however, for she talked delightfully about the theatres, concerts, music, etc., giving him no chance to do more than to get in a monosyllabic response now and again to what she said. And at last she rang the bell, and told the servant to ask Miss Muriel to come there. ‘Muriel is my niece–the young lady you saw yesterday.’ This to Mr. Vecquerary.

‘She lives with you, then?’

‘Yes, she is my constant companion, and is a very charming and dear girl.’

Mr. Vecquerary was about to give expression to some complimentary remark, when the door opened, and Muriel entered the room. She looked a picture of girlish sweetness and grace. She wore a cream-coloured dress trimmed with red, and a dark red rose was in her hair.

‘This is my niece, Miss Muriel Woolsey,’ said Mrs. Neilsen.

Muriel seemed surprised at Mr. Vecquerary’s presence, bit she shook his hand and smiled upon him. Then she sank down in an attitude of perfect grace on an ottoman at her aunt’s feet, and rested her white hands on her aunt’s knees. The two women were a study of grace and beauty, and Mr. Vecquerary was so carried away by his feelings that he paid them the most extravagant compliments. And then, having remained to the utmost limit of time that etiquette permitted, he reluctantly took his leave, having first asked for and obtained an apparently unwilling consent to call again.

Mr. Vecquerary drove straight back to his hotel, for he had invited two friends to dine with him. Usually a very lively and entertaining companion, he was so absorbed and absent-minded on this occasion as to call forth a mild protest from his companions. He pleaded some worrying business matter as an excuse, and at last livened up under the effects of the champagne. After dinner the three gentlemen adjourned to the billiard-room to smoke and take their coffee and liqueur.

‘Ah, good-evening, Mr. Vecquerary,’ exclaimed a squeaky little voice, as the three entered. The owner of the voice was Mr. Hipcraft, the lawyer.

‘Good-evening,’ returned Vecquerary with a scowl, and wishing the other at–Jerusalem, or somewhere else.

If the lawyer was conscious of the brusqueness–and no doubt he was–he did not allow it to affect him. But with a certain unctuous suavity he engaged Vecquerary in conversation, and as Vecquerary rather prided himself on his good breeding, he did not like to be positively rude to the man, for which line of Conduct he could not have found a shade of legitimate excuse. He was about to take a cigar from his own cigar-case, when the little lawyer quickly whippet out his own case, and said:

‘Will you pay me the compliment of accepting one of mine? I can recommend them. They are very choice Havannas, sent direct to me by a relative residing in Havanna.’

Vecquerary could not get out of it, so he accepted the cigar, and then Mr. Hipcraft offered his case to Mr. Vecquerary’s friends. And they also availed themselves of the offer. Thus the lawyer established a claim to be considered one of the party. A little later billiards were proposed, and Vecquerary and one of his friends played the lawyer and the other friend. They were an amicable and agreeable quartette for some time, and two or three games having been played, the four adjourned to the smoking-room, where more champagne was indulged in.

It would be useless to deny that each of the four men was more or less excited with what he had drunk during the evening, and in that condition when laughter may suddenly, by some injudicious remark, be turned to curses. Incidentally, during the conversation between Mr. Vecquerary and Hipcraft, their travelling companions of the previous day were referred to, and with a sneer, the lawyer said:

‘There is something queer about that Mrs. Neilsen.’

‘How do you know?’ asked the other sharply.

‘I guess it,’ said the lawyer coolly. ‘I called on her this morning’–this boastfully.

‘Yes, I know you did.’

‘How the deuce do you know?’

‘That’s my business. I know it anyway.’

The lawyer sniggered scornfully, as he replied:

‘I suppose you have been hanging round there?’

‘And what if I have?’

‘Oh, nothing. Only it rather tends to confirm my opinion that the lady is not quite what she seems.’

This was an ill-advised remark, although the lawyer did not mean exactly what the words seemed to imply.

‘You are an infernal cad to make any such insinuation,’ exclaimed Vecquerary hotly.

‘Well, if I’m a cad, it’s equally certain that you are a blackguard,’ answered the lawyer.

The friends interposed to allay the rising quarrel, but without avail. Wine and excitement deprived Mr. Vecquerary of his usual good sense, and he flicked the lawyer’s nose with his finger, saying at the same time:

‘You are an ass.’

Mr. Vecquerary was a big man, and the lawyer was a little one, but nevertheless he proved that he could resent such an insult as that, and rising to his feet he struck his opponent in the face. Vecquerary was maddened, and before he could be stopped he sprang up, and striking straight from the shoulder he sent his antagonist all in a heap into a corner.

Most of the men in the room cried shame on Vecquerary, who was secured. The lawyer was helped to his feet. His face was white as note-paper, and blood was pouring from a wound on his temple where a ring on Vecquerary’s finger had cut him. He was evidently excited, but also it was evident that he had the power of controlling his excitement, for he spoke coolly and with the air of one who was pronouncing a doom. And strangely enough, at that moment Big Ben, with his solemn, deep boom, began to toll the hour of midnight, and somehow the reverberating, sonorous strokes, as they shivered in the night air, seemed to lend force and point to the man’s words.

‘Vecquerary,’ he said, with a sibilant emphasis, ‘this blow shall cost you dear, and prove a curse to you as long as you live.’ Every word was deliberately uttered, and the man who uttered them might have stood as a model of concentrated hatred and revenge.

IV. VINDICTIVENESS

R. VECQUERARY was an impulsive and excitable man but, like most such men who are quick to resent an insult but as quick to forgive, he was generous and ready to admit an error. He saw at once that he had been too hasty, no less than too severe, in inflicting chastisement on Mr. Hipcraft, and, being neither frightened nor affected by that gentleman’s denunciatory and prophetic outburst, he put forth his hand, saying with frank honesty:

‘I am sorry for this. I have done wrong. I apologize, and will make what amends I can.’

As may be readily supposed, the quarrel had caused a great commotion in the room, which was crowded with gentlemen; and it is certain that at first the majority looked upon Vecquerary as a bully, and they were not slow to give expression to their feelings by loud cries of ‘Shame,’ but Vecquerary’s expression of regret and apology caused a revulsion of feeling in his favour generally, though there were still a few who took part with the lawyer. As for Mr. Hipcraft himself, his whole manner and his expression were indicative of concentrated rage and disgust. Some men under certain circumstances seem to show all their character at once and Mr. Hipcraft was one of that sort. If an observer had wanted something to have likened him to, it is almost certain that a snake would have suggested itself. It is not altogether easy to give a clearly logical reason why the lawyer was like a snake, unless it was in an unmistakable malignity that made itself manifest in his whole bearing, and a peculiarly wicked look in his eyes.

As Vecquerary put forth his hand the lawyer drew back, and fairly hissed out these words:

‘Take your hand, you brute! I should sully myself if I did. I never allow any man in this world to insult me with impunity, and I repeat, this blow shall cost you dear.’

Vecquerary saw at once that further argument would be but waste of time, and, irritated by his opponent’s manner, he retorted:

‘All right, do your worst. I defy you.’

This was perhaps an unfortunate remark, but he could not help it, and his friends deemed it wise to get him away. As he reached the passage leading from the billiard-room, a gentleman, who had followed him out, said politely:

‘Excuse me, sir, but if you take my advice you will try in some way to appease Hipcraft. I know the man of old, and he is one of the best haters I have ever met. He will ruin you if he can.’

In his then frame of mind Vecquerary somewhat resented this advice, coming from a perfect stranger, as a liberty, and he said snappishly:

‘I think you had better mind your own business, sir. What have my affairs got to do with you?’

‘Nothing,’ answered the gentleman with an ironical emphasis.

‘As for Hipcraft; continued Vecquerary with an expression of disgust, he is a toad.’

‘So he is–a poisonous one,’ added the gentleman who had spoken to him, and who with this utterance went back to the billiard-room.

Vecquerary was certainly not a bully, and it is no less certain he was not a quarrelsome man. He was, as a rule, an even-tempered, rather easy-going fellow, fond of the flesh-pots of Egypt, and not disposed to put too fine a distinction on what constitutes social virtue. Let it not be supposed that he was either a roue or a reprobate. He was fond of his wife and his children, and denied them nothing. But when away from his home he displayed a tendency to forget that he was no longer a bachelor. Being of the world he was worldly in the sense of thinking more of this life than of that which is to come. But then the same thing may be said of nineteen human beings out of every twenty. In so far, therefore, as Mr. Vecquerary could be judged by ordinary standards he was a good husband and father, an equally good citizen, and a highly respectable man; ambitious, too, and with an eye to the mayoralty in the city to which he belonged. As yet, however, he was young, but that would be corrected in time, and he was also good-looking, and of attractive manner–two qualities that are apt to be dangerous to their possessor unless counterbalanced by an absence of vanity and a large amount of self-denial and self-restraint.

His quarrel with Hipcraft troubled him sorely–so much so that for many hours he could not get to sleep. He did not attempt in any way to justify his conduct. He felt, in fact, that he had degraded himself, and gone astray from that line of gentlemanly conduct upon which he prided himself. He had with a generous impulse offered to shake his opponent’s hand and confess himself freely in the wrong. But that opponent had scornfully rejected the offer, leaving Vecquerary now no alternative but to stand on his dignity, and urge in his defence strong provocation. But what he really dreaded was publicity. He felt that he would rather give a thousand pounds than that this wretched and disgraceful squabble should become noised abroad. It was the thought of the probability of the affair becoming public property that kept him awake. Had his opponent been a less vindictive man all might have ended well, but Mr. Hip-craft was a totally different man to Mr. Vecquerary. Hipcraft had been for many years what is contemptuously termed an Old Bailey lawyer,’ and in this particular branch of his profession he had conspicuously distinguished himself, and any case which he took up he fought with a determination and a bitterness that made him dreaded as a foe.

It is said that no one can dabble in pitch without soiling his hands; and it is no less true that a man cannot habitually be dealing with criminals without, unconsciously it may be; catching up some of the mental characteristics that distinguish them. And so Mr. Hipcraft’s mind had moulded itself to his particular calling, and having to deal with cunning, craft, greed, and vindictiveness, he had become imbued in a greater or lesser degree with these qualities.