“And to shew Thy pity upon
all prisoners and captives.” THE
LITANY
Mr. Hucks sat in his counting-house,
counting out his money or so much of it
as he had collected from his tenantry on his Saturday
rounds. It amounted to 12 pounds 2 shillings
and 9 pence in cash; but to this must be added a caged
bullfinch, a pair of dumb-bells, a down mattress and
an ophicleide. He had coveted the ophicleide
for weeks; but he knew how to wait, and in the end
it had fallen to his hand if the simile
may be permitted like a ripe peach.
The clock at the Great Brewery struck
ten, the hour at which the banks opened. Mr.
Hucks whistled to himself softly, but out of tune sure
sign that he was in a good humour as he
closed the neck of his money-bag and tied the string
with a neat knot. Just as he was reaching, however,
for coat and walking-stick, someone knocked at the
door.
“Come in!” he called,
and resumed his seat as a lady entered a
stranger to him. At first glance he guessed
she might be the wife of some impecunious musician,
come to plead for restitution of an instrument.
Such things happened now and again on Monday mornings;
nor was the mistake without excuse in Miss Sally’s
attire. When travelling without her maid she
had a way of putting on anything handy, and in the
order more or less as it came to hand. Without
specifying, it may be said that two or three articles
usually ranked as underclothing had this morning partially
worked their way up to the top stratum, and that by
consequence her person presented more than one example
of what geologists call a “fault” though
it is actually rather a misfortune. As for her
hat, she had started by putting it on sideways, and
then, since it would not “sit,” and she
had mislaid her hat-pins, had bound it boldly in place
with a grey woollen comforter, and knotted the ends
under her chin. What gave Mr. Hucks pause was,
first, the brusqueness of her entry, and next, the
high clear tone of her accost.
“Mr. Christopher Hucks?”
“At your service, ma’am.”
“I hope so, because I want your help.”
“As for that, ma’am, I
don’t know who sent you; but it ain’t generally
reckoned in my line.”
Miss Sally glanced round the counting-house.
“You have the materials for
doing quite a lot of miscellaneous good in the world.
But I’m not come to borrow money, if that makes
you easier ”
“It do, ma’am.”
“ and I don’t know a note of
music.”
“Me either,” murmured Mr. Hucks regretfully.
“That being so, we’ll come to business.
May I take a seat?”
“Where you ” He was going
to say “please,” but substituted “choose”
“Thank you. My name’s
Breward Sally Breward, and I live at a place
called Culvercoombe, on the Devon and Somerset border.
My business is that I’m interested in a couple
of children, about whom you know something.
They broke out, some days ago, from an Orphanage kept
here by one Glasson; and I gather that you gave them
a helping hand.”
“Whoever told you that ” began
Mr. Hucks.
“Nobody told me. I said
that I gathered it. The girl never gave you
away for a moment. We will agree, if you prefer
it, that I put two and two together. But look
here: you can be open with me or not, as you
please; I’m going to be open with you.
And first let me say that the boy is pretty certainly
the son of a neighbour of mine, and heir to considerable
estates.”
Mr. Hucks whistled softly to himself.
“As for the girl who helped
him to escape, she’s probably just what she
says a show-child who, happening to be laid
up lame in hospital, chanced on this scent, and has
held to it to make an addition of my own with
the pluck of a terrier.”
Mr. Hucks nodded, but would not commit himself.
“Where are they now?” he asked.
“In your keepin’?”
“That’s just the trouble.”
Miss Sally unfolded a scrap of pinkish-coloured paper.
“I left them in good keeping with an honest
farmer and his wife tenants of mine; I had
a telegram sent to the boy’s father, who is
abroad; and I posted up here by night mail to satisfy
myself by a few inquiries.”
“You’ve seen Glasson, then?” Mr.
Hucks interrupted.
“I have; but not in any way
you suspect. I haven’t called, for instance,
at the Orphanage though I intend to.
Glasson’s not at home. He was down in
my neighbourhood yesterday afternoon, nosing around
for information.”
“Then he knows the children are thereabouts?”
“No, he does not. But
has been pushing researches. He has learnt who
is the boy’s probable father, and where he lives at
a place called Meriton. He came to Meriton to
get the father’s foreign address, and when the
butler refused it, he called on me.”
“I see.” Mr. Hucks nodded.
“And you refused it too?”
“I did better. I gave it to him ”
“Eh?”
“ at the same time
taking care that the father his name is
Chandon, by the way, and he’s a baronet should
get a wire from me to come home by the first train
he can catch. By this means, you see, I not only
get Glasson out of the neighbourhood, where he might
have run against the children, or picked up news of
them, but I send him all the way to the South of France
expressly to find his bird flown. It’s
cruel, I grant you; but I’ve no tenderness for
blackmailers especially when they keep
Orphanages.”
“You’re right there.
You’ve no call to waste any pity on Glasson.
But the question is, Will he come? The father,
I mean.”
“Certainly, since I tell him,” Miss Sally
answered with composure.
“And him a bart a
bloomin’ bart what the Tichborne chap
used to call a bart of the B.K.!”
Mr. Hucks stared at his visitor with
rounded eyes, drew a long breath, puffed out his cheeks
and emitted it, and wound up by removing his hat and
laying it on the ledge of the desk.
“Well,” said he, “you’ve
done it clever. You’ve done it so mighty
clever that I don’t see why you come to me to
help. I can’t order barts about.”
“No,” said Miss Sally;
“in this part of the business I fear you cannot
help. Read that, please.”
She spread open the telegraph form
which she had been holding all this while, and laid
it on the desk before him.
“Breward, Grand Central Hotel, Bursfield.”
“’Regret to say children missing.
Supposed left
Inistow Cove Tossell’s boat
Saturday night. Boat
found ashore Clatworthy Beach.
Search parties along
coast. Will report any news. Chichester.’”
“When did you get this, ma’am, making
so bold?”
“At nine this morning.
If you look, you will see the telegram was handed
in at 8.37, and received here at 8.50 is
it not? The sender is a Mr. Chichester, a clergyman
and a friend of mine.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Hucks,
after slowly examining the telegram and the office
stamp. He raised his formidable grey eyes and
fixed them full on Miss Sally.
“Oh,” she said after awhile,
but without blanching, “I see what’s in
your mind.”
“No you don’t,”
he answered abruptly. “It did cross
my mind, but it’s not there any longer.
You’re straight. And you’re quality though
maybe your kind don’t answer to the pictcher-books.
. . . Well, about this wire now. . . . What’s
your opinion?”
“Why, that the children are lost.”
“Meanin’ by that drowned or
just missing?”
“From that message what must one conclude?”
“Well,” said Mr. Hucks
slowly, after another perusal of the telegram, “I
don’t conclude much from it; but from my knowledge
of the gal-child, I jolly well conclude that they’re
no more drowned than you or me. They’ve
just made another bolt for it, and the shipwrecked
boat’s no more than a blind.”
“They were comfortable enough
at Inistow Farm. Why should they want to bolt?”
Miss Sally urged.
“Because, ma’am, that
gal has a business conscience developed to a degree
I never struck yet in man or woman. You’ve
dealt open with me, and I’ll deal open with
you. I did help that pair to give Glasson
the slip; not from any kindheartedness, I’d
have you to know, if you’re thinkin’ to
accuse me of it; but as a kind of by-speculation.
For I saw that dirty thief Glasson was mad to get
the boy back, and it seemed to me there was likely
some money in it. I gave ’em their chance,
yes; because it happened so, and I couldn’t
see no other way. Now, observe me that
gal knew all the time I wasn’t doing it for my
health, as you might say; she knew well enough I was
just as hard as Glasson, though maybe in a different
way. She knew this, and as things turned out,
she might have run off with the boy and snapped her
fingers at me. But does she? Nothing o’
the sort. She freezes to her bargain, same as
if she’d all a lawyer’s knowledge and
none of his conscience. First, she clears me
back every penny I’ve invested in Mortimer, and
with interest; and I’m the first man that ever
invested on that scamp and saw his money again.
When that’s paid she strikes out on a trail
of her own but not to lose herself and
the boy: not she. At every halt she reports
herself and him; and by her last I was to write to
her at a place called Holmness, which I posted
a letter there yesterday.”
“Holmness!” ejaculated
Miss Sally. “Holmness, did you say?”
“That’s so. Might it be anywhere
in your parts?”
“Of course it is. But Holmness, my
good sir, is an island.”
“She mentioned that, now I come
to think of it. Island or not, she’ll
get there, if she bursts; and I won’t believe
other till I hear from the Dead Letter Office.”
“You addressed a letter to Holmness?
. . . But it’s too absurd; the place is
a mere barren rock, three good miles from the mainland.
Nothing there but rabbits, and in summer a few sheep.”
“Mayhap she didn’t know
it when she gave the address. But,” persisted
Mr. Hucks doggedly, “she’s there if she’s
alive. You go back and try.”
[He gave Tilda, as the reader knows,
more credit than she deserved; but from this may be
deduced a sound moral that the value of
probity, as an asset in dealing, is quite incalculable.]
Miss Sally considered for a full minute for
two minutes, Mr. Hucks watching her face from under
his shaggy eyebrows.
“It is barely possible,”
she owned at length. “But supposing they
have reached Holmness, it can only be to starve.
Good Lord! they may be starving to death there at
this moment!”
Mr. Hucks kept his composure.
“It’s plain to me you
haven’t measured that gal,” he said slowly.
“Is this Holmness in sight from the farm whatever
you call it where they were missed?”
“Right opposite the coast there.”
“And not more than three miles
away? Then you may take it she won’t have
started without provisions. It wouldn’t
be her way.”
[Again, the reader perceives, he gave
Tilda undeserved credit; but always in this world
the Arthur Miles’s will be left out of account
by men of business, to upset again and again their
calculations.]
“So,” he continued, “there’s
no need for you to be running and sending telegrams
to folks there to chivvy ’em. Take the
next train home and pick up the credit yourself.”
“Mr. Hucks,” said Miss
Sally after a pause, “you are a remarkable man.
I am half inclined to believe you; and if you should
prove to be right, I shall not know how to repay you.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hucks,
“it seems likely I’ve helped, after all.
I’m not pressing for payment; though, as between
persons of business, I’m glad you mention it.”
“If these children are recovered,
you shall name any price in reason. But there
is another matter in which you can help me, I hope.
I want admission to Glasson’s Orphanage.”
“The ’Oly Innocents?
It goes by nomination, and I’m not a subscriber,”
said Mr. Hucks with a grin, which Miss Sally ignored.
“Will it be enough if I call
and ask to be shown over the institution?”
“Quite enough to get the door slammed
in your face.”
“Well, I mean to have a look
inside, even though I get you to put me in a sack
and lower me into the coal-cellar.”
“That’s an idea, though,” said Mr.
Hucks rising.
He went to the door and, stepping
into the yard, emitted a loud roar like the bellow
of a bull. Apparently it was his method of telephoning
to his employees. After a moment a distant voice
called back, “Aye, aye, boss!”
“Where’s Sam Bossom?”
“In the stables.”
“Then send him along here, and
tell him to look sharp. He’s the man for
our job,” explained Mr. Hucks, returning to the
counting-house; “and maybe you’ll like
to make his acquaintance, too, after what you’ve
’eard.”
“Before he comes I should like
even better to hear your plan of campaign; for it
seems that you have one.”
“I have; but it being what you
might call a trifle ’igh-’anded, I wasn’t
proposin’ to drag a lady into it leastways,
not to make her an accomplice before the fac’.”
“I’ll risk that,” she assured him.
“Well, you see, Glasson owes
me for coal; thirteen ten on the last lot delivered,
and six pounds owin’ before that total
nineteen ten. I warned him he’d got the
last lot out o’ me by a trick; an’ I’m
goin’ to send Sam to see if there’s a
chance to recover it. That’ll be by the
back way same as the children got out.
Eh? Here’s the man,” he wound up
as Sam Bossom’s honest face appeared in the doorway.
“Good morning, Mr. Bossom.”
Miss Sally held out a hand. “I’m
proud to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank ye, ma’am.”
Sam looked at the hand, but rubbed his own up and
down the seat of his trousers. “What for,
if it’s not makin’ too bold?”
“The lady here,” explained
Mr. Hucks, “is a friend of two children that
broke out of ’Oly Innocents t’other day as
it maybe you’ll remember. What’s
more, she ‘s brought news o’ them.”
“Oh!” said Sam, his face
clearing. “Doin’ pretty well, I ’ope?”
“They were quite well when I
left them, two days ago. Come, shake hands and
tell me. How is everyone at the ’Four Alls’?”
“If it ’adn’t been
for them children ” blurted Sam, and
came to a full stop.
Miss Sally nodded.
“They are wonders, those Babes
in the Wood; and the funniest thing about ’em
is, while they went along asking their way, they were
all the time teaching it to others.”
“Well,” struck in Mr.
Hucks, while Sam scratched his head over this, “I
suggest the conspiracy may just as well get going at
once. Sam, I want you to step along to ’Oly
Innocents with us, and on the road I’ll fix
up your modest hopper’andy.”
Of this modus operandi the
opening move was made as the trio reached the confines
of the Orphanage premises. Here, by the angle
of the red brick wall, Mr. Bossom halted to strike
a match for his pipe. He struck it upon the
iron cover of the manhole, and thus made opportunity
to assure himself that the cover was still removable.
Satisfied of this, he lit his pipe and stood for
a minute puffing at it, and staring, now at the stagnant
canal water, now after the retreating figures of Miss
Sally and Mr. Hucks, as without a backward look they
passed down the towpath to the Iron Bridge.
At the bridge they turned, as Tilda
had turned, to the left, and came, as Tilda had come,
to the Orphanage gate with its box labelled, “For
Voluntary Donations.”
Mr. Hucks rang the bell; and after
a minute or so Mrs. Huggins, slatternly as ever, opened
the front door and came shuffling down the pathway.
“Eh?” said she, halting
within the gate, a pilaster of which hid Miss Sally
from her. “Mr. ‘Ucks?
And what might you be wantin’, Mr.
’Ucks?”
“Nineteen pound ten,” Mr. Hucks answered
tersely.
“Then you can’t ’ave it.”
“That’s a pity.”
He appeared to ruminate for a second or two.
“And I can’t offer to take it out in
orphans, neither. Very well, then, I must see
Glasson.”
“You can’t; ’e’s not at ’ome.”
“That’s a worse pity.
Hist, now!” he went on with a sudden change
of tone, “it’s about the runaways.
I’ve news of ’em.”
He said it at the top of his voice.
“For the Lord’s sake ”
entreated the woman, glancing nervously across his
shoulder at the traffic in the street. “The
Doctor don’t want it discussed for all the town
to ’ear.”
“No, I bet he don’t.
But it’s your own fault, missus. This
side o’ the gate a man can’t scarcely
hear hisself speak.”
“Come in, then, if you’ve
brought news. The Doctor’ll be glad enough
when ’e comes back.”
“Will he?” Mr. Hucks,
as she opened, planted his bulk against the gate,
pushing it back and at the same time making way for
Miss Sally to follow him. “Yes, I got
news; but here’s a lady can tell it better than
me ‘avin’ come acrost them
right away down in Somerset.”
Mrs. Huggins stepped forward, but
too late. “I don’t want no crowd
in ’ere,” she muttered, falling back a
pace, however, as Miss Sally confronted her.
“You’ll have one in two
two’s if you make any disturbance,” Miss
Sally promised her, with half a glance back at the
street. “Show me into the house, if you
please.”
“Shan’t.”
The woman placed herself in the pathway,
with arms akimbo, barring her passage.
“You behave very foolishly in
denying me,” said Miss Sally.
“Maybe; but I got my orders.
You never took no orders from a man, I should
say not by the looks o’ yer.”
“You are right there.”
Miss Sally regarded her with a smile
of conscious strength, stern but good-natured.
Her gaze wandered past the woman’s shoulder,
and the smile broadened. Mrs. Huggins saw it
broaden, and cast a look behind her, towards the house to
see Mr. Bossom, coal-grimed but cheerful, grinning
down on her from the front door-step.
“It’s a trap!” she
gasped, shooting a venomous look at Mr. Hucks.
“It looks like one,”
said Miss Sally, stepping past her; “and I shall
be curious to know, by and by, who baited it.”
“Where shall I take ye, ma’am?”
asked Sam Bossom.
“Show me the children first, if you please.”
He walked before her down the unsavoury
passage. He was unacquainted with the interior,
and knew only that the way through the kitchens, by
which he had come, led to the kitchen garden and missed
the children’s quarters. Avoiding this,
and opening a door at random a door on his
right he stepped into the bare drawing-room.
Miss Sally followed, and Mrs. Huggins at her heels,
protesting. Mr. Hucks brought up the rear.
Finding himself in an apartment which apparently led
nowhither, Sam would have turned and shepherded the
party back into the corridor; but Miss Sally strode
past him, attempted to fling up the window-sash, but
in vain, and looking over it, beheld what Tilda had
beheld the gravelled yard, the children
walking listlessly to and fro, the groups passing
and repassing with scarce a lift of the eyes, the boys
walking with the boys and the girls with the girls.
“But it is horrible horrible!”
cried Miss Sally. “Mr. Hucks, lend me
your stick, if you please. This window won’t
open.”
He passed his stick to her, supposing
that she meant in some way to prise the window open.
But she took it and deliberately smashed a pane two
panes all the six panes with their coloured
transparencies of the Prodigal Son. And the
worst was, that the children in the yard, as the glass
broke and fell, scarcely betrayed surprise. One
or two glanced furtively towards the window.
It seemed that they dared do no more.
“Save us!” exclaimed Miss
Sally. “They’re starving; that’s
what’s the matter!”
“They are not, ma’am!” still protested
Mrs. Huggins.
“Tut, woman, don’t talk
to me. I’ve bred cattle, and I know.
Fetch me a list of the pious persons that have lent
their names to this swindle. You, Mr. Hucks,
take me upstairs; I’ll explore this den from
garret to basement, though it cost my stomach all
that by the smell I judge it will. And you,
Sam Bossom here’s a five-pound note:
take it to the nearest pastry-cook’s and buy
up the stock. Fetch it here in cabs; hire every
cab you meet on the way; and when you’ve brought
’em, tell ’em to wait!”
An hour later a procession of fifteen
cabs drove up to the Grand Central Hotel, Bursfield,
to the frank dismay of hall-porters and manager; a
dismay which Miss Sally accepted with the lordliest
indifference.
“You see that they’re
stowed,” she advised Mr. Hucks shortly, as they
helped the dazed children to alight. “And
if there’s any difficulty, send the manager
to me. He’ll find me in the telegraph office.”
She consulted a prospectus of the Holy Innocents, extorted
from Mrs. Huggins. “I shall be there for
an hour at least. There are two dozen patrons
on this list besides a score of executive
committee, and I’m going bless you,
Mr. Hucks to give those philanthropists
the dry grins.”
“A telegram for you, ma’am,”
said the hall-porter, advancing with a nervous eye
on the children congregated, and still congregating,
in the hall.
Miss Sally took it and read:
“Coming Fair Anchor,
4.30 Tuesday. Chandon.”
She knit her brows and examined the
telegraph form carefully. The message was forwarded
from Fair Anchor. It had been handed in at the
Monte Carlo post office on Sunday night, addressed
to Culvercoombe, but at what hour she could not decipher.
The Fair Anchor office was closed on Sunday, and
opened on Monday at eight o’clock. The
telegram had been received there at 8.12; had been
taken to Culvercoombe, and apparently re-transmitted
at 12.15. All this was unimportant. But
how on earth had her telegram, to which this was evidently
a reply, reached Monte Carlo on Sunday evening last
evening?
She considered awhile, and hit on
the explanation. Parson Chichester last evening,
calling on the coast-guard in his search, must have
used their telephone and got the message through by
some office open on Sundays.