Johnny Ludlow Sixth Series Part 35

Meanwhile the applicant amused himself by looking at the articles displayed under the gla.s.s frame on the counter. He seemed to be rather struck with some very pretty pencils.

"Are those pencils gold?" he inquired of Stephenson, when the latter came forward with the news that the brooch was certainly not in the shop.

"No, sir; they are silver gilt."

Lifting the gla.s.s lid, Stephenson took out the tray on which the pencils and other things lay, and put it right under the young man's nose, in the persuasive manner peculiar to shopmen. The pencils were chased richly enough for gold, and had each a handsome stone at the end, which might or might not be real.

"What is the price?"

"Twelve s.h.i.+llings each, sir. We bought them a bargain; from a bankrupt's stock in fact; and can afford to sell them as such."

"I should like to take this one, I think," said the young man, choosing out one with a pink topaz. "Wait a bit, though: I must see if I've enough change to pay for it."

"Oh, sir, don't trouble about that; we will put it down to you."

"No, no, that won't do. One, two, four, six. Six s.h.i.+llings; all I have in the world," he added laughing, as he counted the coin in his porte-monnaie, "and that I want. You can change me a ten-pound note, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir, if you wish it."

The purchaser extracted the note from a secret pocket of his porte-monnaie, and handed it to the shopman.

"The Squire's name is on it," he remarked.

Which caused Stephenson to look at the back. Sure enough, there it was--"J. Todhetley," in the Squire's own handwriting.

"Give me gold, if you can."

Stephenson handed over nine pounds in gold and eight s.h.i.+llings in silver. He then wrapped the pencil in soft white paper, and handed over that.

Wis.h.i.+ng the civil shopman good morning, the young man left. He stood outside the door for a minute, looking about him, and then walked briskly up the street. While Stephenson locked up the ten-pound note in the cash-box.

There it lay, snug and safe, for two or three weeks. One day Stephenson, finding he had not enough change for a customer who came in to pay a bill, ran over to the draper's opposite and got change for it there.

These were the particulars which Stephenson had furnished, and furnished readily, upon inquiries being made of him.

Squire Todhetley drove like the wind, and we soon reached Worcester, alighting as usual at the Star-and-Garter. The Squire's commotion had been growing all the way; that goes without telling. He wanted to take the bank first; Tom Chandler recommended that it should be the silversmith's.

"The bank comes first in the way," snapped the Squire.

"I know that, sir; but we can soon come back to it when we have heard what the others say."

Yet I think he would have gone into the bank head-foremost, as we pa.s.sed it, but chance had it that we met Corles, the lawyer, at the top of Broad Street. Turning quickly into High Street, on his way from his office, he came right upon us. The Squire pinned him by the b.u.t.ton-hole.

"The very man I wanted to see," cried he. "And now you'll be good enough to tell me, Edward Corles, what you meant by that rigmarole you wrote to Paul yesterday about my son."

"I cannot tell what was meant, Squire, any more than you can; I only wrote in accordance with my information," said Mr. Corles, shaking hands with the rest of us. "You have done well to come over; and I will accompany you now, if you like, to see Stephenson."

The Squire put his arm within the younger man's, and marched on down High Street to the silversmith's, never so much as looking at the bank door. Stephenson was in the shop alone: such a lot of us, it seemed, turning in!

The Squire, hot and impulsive, attacked him as he had attacked Edward Corles. What did Stephenson mean by making that infamous accusation about his son?

It took Stephenson aback, as might be seen; his eyes opened and his hair stood on end straighter than ever. Looking from one to the other of us, he last looked at Mr. Corles, as if seeking an explanation.

"The best thing you can do, to begin with, Stephenson, is to relate to Squire Todhetley and these gentlemen the particulars you gave me yesterday morning," said Mr. Corles. "I mean when you took the bank-note, a month ago."

Without more ado, Stephenson quietly followed the advice; he seemed of as calm a temperament as the Squire was the contrary, and recited the particulars just given. The Squire's will was good to interrupt at every second word, but Mr. Corles begged him to listen to the end.

"Oh, that's all very well," cried he at last, "all true, I dare say; what I want to know is, how you came to pitch upon that customer as being my son."

"But he was your son, sir. He was young Mr. Todhetley."

"Nonsense!" retorted the Squire. "Was this he?" drawing Tod forward.

"No, sir; certainly not."

"Well, this is my only son; except a little who is not yet much more than out of his petticoats. Come! what do you say now?"

Stephenson looked again at one and the other of us. His pale face took a sort of thoughtful haze as if he had pa.s.sed into a fog.

"It must have been young Mr. Todhetley," spoke he; "everything seemed to uphold the fact."

"Now don't you turn obstinate and uphold what is _not_ the fact,"

reproved the Squire. "When I tell you this is my only son, except the child, how dare you dispute my word?"

It should be stated that Stephenson had been with the silversmith since the beginning of the year only, and had come from Birmingham. He knew Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley by sight, from their coming sometimes to the shop, but he had never yet seen Tod or me.

"I don't suppose you want Squire Todhetley's word confirmed, Stephenson, but I can do so if necessary," said Mr. Corles. "This is his only grown-up son."

"No, no, sir, of course I don't," said Stephenson. "This gentleman,"

looking at Tod, "does not bear any resemblance to the one who changed the note."

"What was he like?" said Tom Chandler, speaking for the first time; and he asked it because his thoughts were full.

"He was fair, sir," replied Stephenson.

"What height?"

"About middle height. A young, slender man."

"Well dressed? Spoke like a gentleman?"

"Oh, quite like a gentleman, and very well dressed indeed."

"Just as MacEveril was that morning, on the strength of getting to the picnic," ran through Tom Chandler's thoughts. "Did he come off here first, I wonder?"

"He seemed to know all about you, sir, just as though he lived at your house," said Stephenson to the Squire; "and Mrs. Todhetley sent him for her brooch that day. Perhaps you may know, sir, who it was she sent?"

"Sent! why, n.o.body," spluttered the Squire. "It must have been a planned thing. The brooch is not broken."