The Finger of Fate Part 26

The solicitor, readjusting his spectacles, read aloud--

"_April 4th, half-past 11 a.m._--Called at office, Mr Henry Harding, son of General Harding, of Beechwood Park, county Bucks. Business--to ask if any communication had been received from his father intended for self. Answer--None received."

"_April 6th, half-past 11 a.m._--Called again, Mr Henry Harding. Same question put, same answer given, as on April 4th. Young gentleman said nothing, but went away dissatisfied."

"Of course, General," said the lawyer apologetically, "we are obliged to make these remarks in the way of our profession. Are these the only entries, Mr Jennings--I mean that have reference to Mr Henry Harding?"

"There are no others in the book, sir--except one made six months ago, relating to a letter received from Mr Harding's father. Shall I find it, sir?"

"No, that is not necessary; you can take the book away."

"And so you never paid my son Henry that thousand pounds?" interrogated the General, after the clerk had gone out.

"_Never_--not a thousand pence; no money of any kind, as you see by the memoranda. He never asked for any. Of course, if he had done so, I should have been obliged to refuse him until I received your order. A thousand pounds, General, is too large a sum to be handed over to a young man--a minor, as your son then was--simply at his own request."

"But, Mr Lawson, you astonish me still more. Do you mean to tell me you never received any letter authorising you to give him a cheque for that amount?"

"Never heard of such a letter. Never, until this moment."

"Damme, this _is_ strange! He may be among the brigands, after all."

"I should be sorry if it were so."

"And I should be glad of it."

"Oh! General?"

"No, Lawson; you don't understand me. I'd be glad of it for a good reason. It would prove that the boy might not be so bad, after all. I thought he had spent the thousand pounds. Is it possible there can be any truth in this letter from Rome? Damme, I hope it _is_ true--every word of it!"

"But, General; you would not wish it true that your son is a captive in the hands of banditti?"

"Of course I would. Better that than the other. I hope he is. I'd willingly pay the five thousand pounds to think so. How shall we find it out? What's to be done?"

"What became of the messenger--my professional brother from the dominions of the Pope?"

"Oh, him! He's gone back, I suppose, to those who sent him--brigands, or whatever they were. I came nigh kicking him out of the house. I should have done so, or else given him in charge to the police, but refrained--solely to avoid creating a scandal. Think, Mr Lawson, what's to be done. I suppose there's no immediate danger?"

"I'm not so sure of that," answered the lawyer reflectingly; "these Italian bandits are cruel ruffians. There is no knowing how far they may go in execution of their threat. Did the man leave no clue by which he could be communicated with--no address?"

"None whatever. He only said I should hear from my son again, as the letter says. My G.o.d! they surely don't mean to carry out the threat it contains?"

"Let us hope not."

"But what had I better do? Apply to the Foreign Secretary; get him to write to Rome, and make a demand on the Pope's Government--that is, if the story of my boy's captivity be true?"

"Certainly, General; of course. But would all that not be too late?

When did you get the letter?"

"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 antic.i.p.ate 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sages, 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 _facades_ 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage General Harding and his solicitor had to make their way, for the purpose of reaching the Strand, _en route_ to Downing Street.

In this pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage, 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 G.o.d!" 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 G.o.d!" 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-cla.s.s paintin'; only thirty s.h.i.+llin', an' 'ud look spicy set in a frame. Dirt cheap, gentlemen."

"Do you know who you bought it from?"