“Eight days ago. You will see by the date, that it has been written more than two weeks.”
“Then I fear that any interference of the Government – either ours or that of Rome – would be too late to anticipate the steps that may have been taken, in the event of their having received your answer – I mean that sent by your son Nigel. There appears to be no alternative but wait till you get another communication from them. That will, at least, give you the means of writing to your son, and forwarding the ransom required. You could proceed with the other matter, all the same. Lay your case before the Government, and see what can be done.”
“I shall set about it this very day,” said the General. “This very day shall I go down to Downing Street. Can you go with me, Mr Lawson?”
“Of course,” replied the solicitor, rising from his desk and putting his spectacles into their case. “I’m at your service, General,” he added, as they walked towards the door; “I hope, after all, we shall not be called upon to have any dealings with brigands.”
“And I hope we shall,” returned the General, striking his Malacca cane upon the pavement; “better my boy be a captive of brigands than the plotter of a deception, such as I have been reproaching him with. May God forgive me, but I’d rather see his ears in the next letter sent me, than believe him capable of that.”
To this fervent speech from a father’s heart the solicitor made no answer; and the two walked side by side in silence.
Chapter Forty
A Furniture Picture
The man who can make his way out of Lincoln’s Inn Fields – whether to the east, west, north, or south – without travelling through some intricate courts and passages, must do it by mounting up into the air on wings, or ascending by means of a balloon. A splendid square – one of the largest and finest in the metropolis – gay with green trees, and showing some worn façades that might shame much of our modern architecture, it is nevertheless inaccessible, except by the dirtiest lanes in all London. Almost exclusively inhabited by lawyers who have attained to the highest eminence in their profession, these shabby approaches are emblematic of the means by which some of them have reached it.
In the purlieus that surround this great square, art struggles feebly for existence. Here and there is a picture shop, where the artist finds immortality in a cob-webbed window, or al fresco on stone flags outside the door. There is a particular passage where his works may be seen displayed with a conspicuousness, that if granted them by the rulers of the Royal Academy, fortune would be sure to follow.
Through this passage General Harding and his solicitor had to make their way, for the purpose of reaching the Strand, en route to Downing Street.
In this passage there is a woman, whose sharp glance and sharper voice has a tendency to keep it clear. On seeing the one, or hearing the other, the wayfarer will be disposed to hurry on. She is the proprietress of a furniture shop, of which the pictures in question are an adjunct – being usually what are called in the trade “furniture pictures.”
Neither General Harding, nor his solicitor had any idea of stopping to examine them. They were hurrying on through the passage, when one, so conspicuously placed that it could not escape observation, caught the attention of the old officer, causing him to halt with a suddenness that not only surprised his staid companion, but almost jerked the lawyer off his legs.
“What is it, General?” asked Mr Lawson. “Good God!” gasped the General. “Look there! Do you see that picture?”
“I do,” answered the astonished solicitor; “a sporting scene – two young fellows out shooting, accompanied by a gamekeeper. What do you see in it to surprise you?”
“Surprise me!” echoed the General; “the word is not strong enough. It astounds me!”
“I do not understand you, General,” said the lawyer, glancing towards the old soldier’s face to see whether he was still in his senses.
“The picture appears to be of very moderate merit – painted by some young hand, I take it; though certainly there is spirit in the conception, and the scene – what is it? One sportsman has his knife in his hand, and looks as if he intended to stab the dog with it; while the other seems protecting the poor brute. I can’t make out the meaning.”
“I can,” said the General, with a sigh, deeply breathed, while his frame seemed convulsed by some terrible agitation. “My God!” he continued, “it cannot be a coincidence; and yet how could that scene be here – here upon canvas? Surely I am dreaming!”
Once more Mr Lawson looked into the General’s face, doubtful whether he was not dreaming – either that or demented.
“No!” exclaimed the old soldier, bringing his cane down upon the pavement with an emphatic stroke. “There can be no mistake about it; it is the same scene. Alas! too real. Those figures, Mr Lawson, are portraits, or intended to be so. The costumes alone would enable me to recognise them. He, holding the knife, is my eldest son, Nigel, just as he was some five years ago; the other is Henry. The man in the background is, or was, my gamekeeper – since become a poacher and escaped convict. What can it mean? Who can have heard of the occurrence? Who painted the picture?”
“Perhaps,” suggested the solicitor, “this person can tell us something about it. I say, my good woman, how came you by this?”
“That picture ye mean? How should I come by it, but by buyin’ it? It’s a first-class paintin’; only thirty shillin’, an’ ’ud look spicy set in a frame. Dirt cheap, gentlemen.”
“Do you know who you bought it from?”
“In course I do. Oh, you needn’t be afeerd of its bein’ honestly come by, if that’s what you’re drivin’ at. I know all about its pedigree, for I know the painter as painted it; he’s a regular artist, he is.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“He’s a young un; they’re both young uns, for there be two on ’em. One appear to be a furrener – a Italyin, I think. The other ain’t so old – he’s English, I should say. Don’t know which paints the pictures. Maybe both takes a hand at it, for both brings ’em to sell. I had some more o’ them, but they’re sold. I dare say the old un’s the one as is the artist.”
“Do you know his name?” asked the General, with an eagerness that caused the woman to look suspiciously at him, and hesitate about making reply. “I am interested,” he continued, “in whoever painted this picture. I admire it, and will buy it from you. I’ll take more from the same hand, if you can furnish me with the name and address.”
“Oh, that’s it. Well, then, the black complected chap – that is the old un – his name is a furren’ one, an’ I’ve heard it, but don’t recollect it. The other’s name I never heard, an’ as for him, I ’spect he’s gone away. I ha’n’t seen him here lately – not for months.”
“Do you know the address of either – where do they live?”
“In course I do. I’ve gone there to fetch away some pictures. It’s close by here – just the other side of the Fields. I can give it you on one of my bill-heads.”
“Do so,” said the General. “Here is the thirty shillings for the picture. You can send it round to Messrs Lawson and Son, Number – , Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
The woman took the money, praising the picture throughout the transaction, by characterising it as “dirt cheap,” and worth twice as much as she asked for it. Then scratching out with an indifferent pen upon a soiled scrap of paper the promised address, she handed it to her purchaser, who, folding it between his fingers, hurried off out of the passage, dragging Mr Lawson along with him. Instead of going on towards Downing Street, he turned sharply round, and re-traversed the court in the opposite direction.
“Where now, General?” inquired the solicitor.
“To see the painter,” was the reply. “He may throw some light on this strange, this mysterious affair. It still appears to me like a dream. Perhaps he can interpret it.”
He could have done so, had he been found. But he was not. The address, as given by the woman, was correct enough. The General and his companion easily found the place – a mean-looking lodging-house in one of the back streets of High Holborn. Three days before they would have found the artist in it – whose description answered to that given by the picture-dealer, and was recognised by the keeper of the lodging-house. Three days before he had gone off in a great hurry – altogether out of London, as his former landlady supposed. She came to this conclusion, from the fact that he had sold off all his pictures and things to a Jew dealer at a great sacrifice. She did not know his name, or where he had gone to. He had settled his account, and that was all she seemed to care about.
Had she ever had another lodger, and associate of the one she spoke of? Yes, there had been another – also a painter – a younger one. He was English; but she did not know his name either, as the foreigner paid the bill for both. The young one had gone off long ago – several months – and the foreigner had since kept the apartments himself. This was all the woman could tell, beyond giving a description of the younger artist.
“My son Henry!” said General Harding, as he stepped forth into the street. “He has been living in these wretched rooms, when I thought he was running riot on that thousand pounds! I fear, Mr Lawson, I have been outrageously wronging him.”
“It is not too late to make reparation, General.”
“I hope not – I hope not. Let us hasten on to Downing Street.”
The Foreign Office was reached; the Foreign Secretary seen; and the usual promises given to interfere with all despatch in an affair of such evident urgency.
Nothing more could be done for the time; and General Harding set out for his country seat, to prepare for any eventuality that might arise. He was now ready to send the ransom, if he only knew where to send it; and in hopes that a Roman letter might have arrived during his absence, he had hurried home directly after his visit to Downing Street. In this hope he was not disappointed. On reaching Beechwood he found several letters upon his table that had been for several days there awaiting him. There were two that bore the Roman postmark, though of different dates. One he recognised in the handwriting of his son Henry. He opened and read it.
“Thank heaven!” he exclaimed, as he came to its close. “Thank heaven, he is safe and well.”
The second foreign letter was conspicuous, both in size and shape. It carried a multiplicity of stamps, required by its greater weight. The General trembled as he took hold of it. Its “feel” told that it contained an enclosure. His hands felt feeble as he tore open the envelope. There was still another wrapper with something substantial inside – something in the shape of a packet. The covering was at length stripped off, and revealed to the sight an object of ashen colour, somewhat cylindrically shaped, and nearly two inches in length. It was a finger cut off at the second joint, and showing an old scar that, ran longitudinally to the end of the nail.
A cry escaped from the lips of the horrified father, as in the ghastly enclosure he recognised the finger of his son!
Chapter Forty One
A Terrible Threat
It would be impossible to depict the expression on General Harding’s face, or the horror that thrilled through his heart, as he stood holding his son’s finger in his hand. His eyes looked as if about to start from their sockets, while his frame shook as though he had become suddenly palsied. Not for long did he keep hold of the ghastly fragment; and as he attempted to lay it on the table, it dropped out of his now nerveless grasp.
It was some time before he could command sufficient calmness to peruse the epistle that had accompanied the painful present. He at length took it up, and spreading it before him, read: —
“Signore, —