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The Master of the Ceremonies
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“And how came they there?”
“Chucked in, I s’pose,” growled the fisherman. “How should I know?”
“Stop!” cried Morton suddenly. “Let me think – my head is all confused, Mr Barclay – so much trouble lately, but I seem to recollect – yes. Dick Miggles, you know; some one – that night we were fishing down among the piles under the pier.”
“Yes, I recklect oftens fishing along o’ you there, Master Mort’n.”
“Yes, but one night – when I stole down, soon after that terrible business. Why, you recollect, Mr Linnell. You caught me.”
“Yes, of course. I recollect,” said Linnell eagerly.
“Dick Miggles and I were fishing that night under the pier, and a man came and threw something in.”
Claire turned ghastly pale, and Linnell stretched out his hand to catch her, but she waved him off and stood firm.
“You recollect, Dick?”
“No,” said the fisherman sulkily. “I don’t recklect.”
Claire uttered a low moan. It was horrible, and she suffered a martyrdom as she stood there, helpless now to speak or resist, only able, with her hearing terribly acute, to listen to her brother dragging out from this man perhaps some fresh token of her father’s guilt.
“You do recollect,” cried Morton fiercely. “You got up and looked between the planks, and you said he had thrown something into the sea.”
“Oh – ah – yes – I recollect now: some one come and threw a stone in.”
“Some one would not come down to the end of the pier to throw in a stone,” said Barclay drily.
“No,” said Morton; “and Dick looked up and watched and saw who it was. He pretended he couldn’t see – ”
Claire’s heart sank lower and lower. It was too horrible.
“But I’m sure he could.”
“No, Master Mort’n, I couldn’t see.”
“I noticed your manner then, Dick. I’m sure you did see, and that’s why you did not speak.”
“What’s why?” growled Dick, assuming a vacant air.
“You knew who it was, and that something was thrown in that you meant to dredge for, and you did and found those jewels.”
Fisherman Dick was posed, and he rubbed his boots together; but he looked more vacant than ever.
“You don’t want to be taken to prison and made to speak, Dick?”
“No!” shouted Mrs Miggles, “and he shan’t go.”
“Then speak out, Dick,” cried Morton; but the rough fisherman only frowned and tightened his lips.
“No; I don’t ’member,” he said, shaking his head.
“You do; and you saw who it was. Speak.”
“Morton!” gasped Claire, staggering to him, and throwing herself on his breast. “I cannot bear it. For God’s sake, stop!”
“No,” cried the lad; “for my father’s sake I’ll have the truth. You, Dick Miggles, I order you to speak.”
For the first time in his life, as Morton Denville stood there erect and stern, he looked a man.
“Can’t,” said Dick Miggles. “Don’t know.”
“You do, you coward!” cried Morton. “You will not speak for fear of getting into trouble. Look at the trouble we are in, and you might clear us.”
“Morton, dear Morton!” moaned Claire, with horror-stricken face.
“Silence, sister!” cried Morton, throwing her off. “He shall speak: if it was my own father who threw those things into the sea that night. But it was not. It was some man with a heavy tread; and he stopped and did what my father never did in his life. He was smoking as he stood above our heads, and he got a light and lit a fresh cigar.”
“Oh!”
It was a low, piteous wail, full of relief from Claire. It could not have been her father, then, and she leaned helpless on Barclay’s arm.
Morton tried to help his sister, but she smiled at him sadly as she endeavoured to rise, and he turned to Fisherman Dick.
“Come, Dick,” he said, “we used to be good friends and fishermen together.”
“Ay, lad, ay, so we did,” said the rough fellow, with a smile.
“Then will you not help me now I am in such trouble?”
“Ay, lad, I’d like to; but I don’t see how I can.”
“Dick Miggles, you’re a coward,” cried Morton. “When I was a boy – ”
“Nay, nay, Master Mort’n, take that back again. No coward.”
“Yes: a coward,” cried Morton angrily. “When I was a lad, how many times did I know about cargoes being run, and your house being crammed with spirits and tobacco and lace and silk?”
“How many times, my lad?”
“Yes, how many times? Wasn’t I always true to you as a mate I fished with?”
“Yes; that you was, Master Mort’n: that you was.”
“And now you see my poor old father condemned for a crime he did not commit, and that must have been done by the wretch who threw those jewels into the water. You know who did it. You saw him that night, and you will not speak.”
“Dursn’t, my lad, dursn’t,” growled Miggles.
“You did see him, then?”
Другие электронные книги автора George Fenn
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