CHAPTER IV.

PRINGLE'S DISCOVERY.

Great was the glee of Jonas Pringle when he found himself left alone once more in Spur Alley. When he saw Van Duren off in a cab for Euston Square he mentally bade him good-bye for ever.

So elated was he, so sure did he now feel that the moment of success was at hand, that he went out and bought a tin of preserved lobster, and a bottle of rum, and there and then held high festival with Bakewell and his wife in their dungeon below stairs. He calculated that, at the very soonest, Van Duren need not be expected back for three or four days; and what might not be accomplished even in that short time! He could not labour much during the day at perfecting his duplicate key; he had too many interruptions; he was wanted too frequently in the office by people who called to inquire after Van Duren. But after business hours, when the hush of evening crept over the busy city, then he could work away as long as he liked without fear of interruption. And surely, after all that had gone before, a few short hours only would now be needed to place the long-coveted prize in his grasp.

All that day he remained very restless and unsettled, and seemed unable either to stay long in any one place, or to fix his mind on anything for more than a few minutes at a time.

Van Duren had left him several important letters to write, but after getting as far as the date and "Dear Sir," or "Gentlemen," with one or other of them, his ideas became so mixed up and confused that he could no longer disentangle the subject of one letter from that of another in his thoughts; so that at last he had to fling down his pen in disgust, and rush off for a quarter of an hour to a favourite haunt round the corner. Indeed, he seemed to be running in and out all day long.

Pringle made up his mind that, if requisite, he would work away at his key all night. When Bakewell and his wife were safe in bed--and they rarely sat up after ten o'clock--he would steal downstairs without his shoes, turn on the gas, and shut himself up in the strong room; and there, file in hand, and a fresh bottle of rum by his side, he could work on in safety till five or six o'clock next morning. But perhaps before that time the stubborn lock would yield and the great door fall back on its hinges, and then!---- But such a possibility was almost too much for calm consideration.

Before beginning his work for the night, he would go down to a little water-side tavern that he knew of, where the _Shipping Gazette_ could always be found, together with sundry lists of vessels about to sail from London and other ports. He had not yet decided on the spot to which he should direct his flight, but he could make up his mind on that important point to-night, and pick out the names and dates of sailing of some half-dozen ships, so as to be ready for starting at any minute.

As it happened, however, the evening turned out so wet and stormy that Pringle was obliged to put off his proposed visit to the river-side tavern till another day. This altered his plans a little. Instead of waiting till Bakewell and his wife were in bed, as soon as he had shut the office and hurriedly swallowed a cup of tea, he went to his own room and locked himself in, and set to work at once with his file. But he was afraid to go on working too long at a time without trying the key in the lock. At any moment his file might give the one last touch, which, Pringle felt convinced, was all that his key now needed to make him at once master of the situation. So, at intervals of half an hour or so, he stole downstairs to the strong room to try his key once more; and once more, on finding that the master-touch had not yet been given, he stole back to his own room and set to work again with a slow, quiet patience that would not know what it was to feel itself beaten.

To-night, for a wonder, it was nearly eleven before the Bakewells went to bed. As soon as he felt sure that there was no longer anything to fear from them, Pringle removed himself permanently downstairs for the night. Seating himself on a pile of books close by the iron door, he went quietly on with his work. At half-past eleven he tried the key in the lock, but, for aught he could tell to the contrary, he might have been no nearer success than he had been a month previously. He tried again as the clocks were chiming the quarter before midnight, and the wards of the lock yielded and fell back as readily and smoothly as ever they had done before Van Duren's own key. The master touch had been given at last.

Pringle, sitting on his heap of books, stared at the open door as though he could not believe the evidence of his senses. Was it, could it be possible that the golden prize for which he had laboured so long and so patiently was at last really within his grasp? His hands were all a-tremble, his head was burning, his mouth parched up. All at once it struck him that he felt very thirsty, and that it was close upon twelve o'clock. There would be time for one, or even for two last tumblers before the taverns closed. Where would he be before midnight should strike again? Not in London, he said to himself, but miles out at sea on his way to some far-off land.

With some such thoughts as these flitting fitfully through his mind, he mechanically lowered the gas, and then, leaving the safe-door still open, but closing and locking the door of the room, he crept cautiously up the stone staircase, with his shoes in his hand, and let himself out at the front door with as little noise as possible. He had made no attempt to examine the contents of the safe. A brief glance into it had satisfied him for the time being. He knew for an undoubted fact that the money he coveted was there, and he asked to know nothing more. There was no fear that it would take to itself wings while he went to have a final glass at his favourite tavern.

The final glass was duly imbibed, and at five minutes past twelve Jonas Pringle found himself in the streets again, and on his way back to Spur Alley. He was nearly at home, when suddenly his eyes fell on the figure of a woman who was standing full in the light of a street lamp, and apparently counting some money. There was something in the outline or attitude of the woman that sent a strange thrill to his heart. With a half-inarticulate cry, he hurried forward. Startled by his sudden movement, the woman looked up, and her haggard face became clearly visible in the lamplight.

"Jessie!--my daughter!" exclaimed Pringle, and he sprang forward as though he would clutch her.

"Father!" cried the woman, in a voice of shrill, sharp agony, as she suddenly flung up her arms. Then, before he could touch her, she turned and fled.

"Jessie! Jessie! Don't run away from me!" cried Pringle, as he hurried after her.

But he was no match for the fleet-footed woman in front of him. By the time he got to the corner of the street he was completely exhausted, and Jessie was already out of sight. He leaned for a moment or two against the wall, with a hand pressed to his side, while he gathered breath. Then, with a bitter sigh, he retraced his way slowly towards Spur Alley.

"Found at last," he muttered to himself, as he stumbled painfully along--"found at last, but only to lose her again at the moment of finding! I would have forgiven everything--yes, everything, if she would only have come back to me!"

During the last few minutes, he had forgotten all about the safe and its contents, and the treasure that lay ready to his hand; but now, as he proceeded to open the street door with his latch-key, the whole situation came back to his mind in a rush, but with a sense of strangeness as though it were something done by some other man, or by himself long years before.

The house was as dark and silent as a tomb. He groped his way downstairs, and presently he found himself in the strong-room again. He sat down on the heap of books to think. To-night, of all nights in his life, he had seen again the daughter for whom he had been searching for years. He had seen her one moment, but only to lose her the next. She had fled from him, desperately determined to avoid him; and the chances were that, in that great wilderness of London, they should never meet again. His heart yearned towards her as it had never yearned before, but all her desire seemed to be to shun him. The question with him now was, whether he should take this money which lay ready to his hand, and go away for ever; or whether he should relock the safe, leaving the money untouched, and go on living his old life as if this dream of sudden wealth had never haunted his mind, and devote all his spare hours, as he had done, years before, to searching for his lost child, who, as to-night had proved, was so near to him and yet so far away. The chances were that he should never see Jessie again; and even if he should succeed in finding her, he had no proof that she would not elude him again as she had done already. If only he could have felt sure of finding her, and that she would stay with him when found, not ten times the amount of money in Van Duren's safe would have tempted him to leave London, and with it his last chance of ever seeing her again.

His thoughts were all in a maze of confusion. He could not make up his mind what to do. Springing to his feet, he flung wide the door of the safe. He would at least feast his eyes on this treasure for which he had braved so much and laboured so long. There would still be time to decide afterwards what he should finally do.

There were several iron drawers in the safe, all of them unlocked. These he opened one after another. One of them was full of small bags of specie, each of which was neatly tied up and labelled, to show the value of its contents. Another drawer contained bank-notes, drafts, and bills of exchange. Other receptacles held promissory notes, bills of sale, and various documents having a bearing on Van Duren's business. Pringle paused for a moment or two while he made a rapid calculation. In gold and notes alone, the safe held upwards of three thousand pounds. His most sanguine hopes were more than realized. Should he take this money and go, or should he not? At six o'clock that very morning he could drop down the river in an outward-bound ship, and all trace of him would be lost for ever. But to leave Jessie!

There was one last drawer still to open. He drew it slowly out. It held neither gold, nor notes, nor bills of exchange. There was nothing in it but a small cedar-wood box, which box was locked. Pringle took it out of the drawer. It was very light, and not at all strong. What could there be inside it? Why should the contents of this box be held as of more account than the gold and notes that lay openly about? Perhaps within that little casket lay hidden some dark secret of Van Duren's life. With the aid of one of his files, which lay there on the floor, Pringle could force open the lid in a couple of minutes, and see with his own eyes what was shut up inside. No sooner thought than done--done without pausing to ask himself whether such an act would not shut him out from all possibility of retreat. So long as the box remained intact, so long as the gold and notes remained untouched, all that he had to do was to shut and relock the door of the safe, and Van Duren need never know anything of what had happened to-night.

But the lid of the box was forced even while this thought was floating vaguely through his mind. He forced it, breaking it into two pieces as he did so. To his intense disappointment, there was nothing inside but a parcel of old letters.

Yes, at the very bottom there was something more, and yet nothing of any great consequence: only a woman's portrait. He took it up with a sneer, and moved a few steps nearer the gaslight, so as to be able to examine it more closely.

For a full minute he stood staring at the portrait without moving a muscle, with no more apparent life in him than a waxen effigy. Then he let the portrait drop as suddenly as though it had burnt him, and putting his hands to his face, he sank on his knees beside it on the floor. But not long did he remain thus. With a low cry, he started to his feet as though suddenly struck by some overwhelming thought, and hurrying across the floor, he pulled out the drawer that held the letters, and went back with it to the light. Holding the drawer under one arm, he picked out a letter here and there, opened it, read a line or two, glanced at the signature, and then put it back and took up another. Last of all, he picked up the portrait, kissed it, laid it atop of the letters, and put the drawer back into its place in the safe. Then once more he sat down to think.

What a strange and terrible discovery was that which he had just made! The likeness was Jessie's likeness, and the letters were Jessie's letters. Max Van Duren was the villain who had robbed him of his child.

Nineteen men out of twenty would have destroyed the letters of a girl for whom they had ceased to care, and whom they had cast upon the world without compunction, to starve, or die, or to live on in a way that was worse than death. But here the letters were. They had been written in the days when this man called Jessie his "wild rose," when she believed him to be everything that was good and honourable; when, at his persuasion, and for love of him, she ran away from the drunken, disreputable father who seemed to value her so little, but who found out how dear the motherless girl was to his heart when he had lost her for ever. Yes; here were the letters, overflowing with sweet, girlish confidence and outspoken love. Who could tell why Van Duren had kept them? Not he himself, if any one had put the question to him.

Jonas Pringle had need to think. He heard the City clocks strike one, as he sat on the pile of ledgers by the open door of the safe, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He heard the City clocks strike two, and still he sat like a man turned to stone.

When, years before, he had first come to London, and had reason to believe that his daughter was hidden somewhere in the same huge wilderness, all his spare time for many weary months had been devoted to looking for her. But that could not go on for ever: and although he had long ago given up all active search for Jessie, the trick, acquired at that time, of peering up into the face of every woman who passed him in the streets, had never wholly left him. Thousands of times had he dwelt in imagination on the meeting which, he felt convinced, must one day take place between his daughter and himself--how he would snatch her to his heart and tell her that all the past was dead and forgiven. And now he had seen her, but only to find that she shunned him as though he were stricken with the plague. A thousand times had he sworn to himself that should he ever knowingly cross the path of the man who had destroyed his child, no power in heaven or on earth should baulk him of his revenge. And now that by a strange chance he had crossed the path of that man, should his oaths be all forgotten, and the revenge he had promised himself nothing but an empty dream? Not so, not so.

But what form should his vengeance take? Not the poor, paltry, insignificant form of robbing this man of his gold. After what he had learned to-night, rather than take a penny of his money, he would have begged from door to door. What he wanted was not Van Duren's money, but Van Duren's life. He would like to have seen him come home the worse for wine, and in that condition have gone to bed, and then he would have set fire to the house and have burnt him as he slept. He would like to have treated him as some savage tribes treat their prisoners--torturing them hour after hour, killing them by inches through a long summer day. A death that would come quickly was too good for him. Something slow and lingering, something that would make him long for death as a prisoner longs for the order for his release, would not be one whit more than he, and all such as he, deserved.

At length he heard the clocks strike four, and he knew that the bright May dawning was beginning to flood the streets with the grey and gold of another day. Then he stood up, stiff, cold, and weary, but with an intense fire burning at his heart that seemed to light him up from head to foot, and had already transformed him into another man. He put out the gas, and leaving the safe-door still unlocked, but locking the outer door, he crept upstairs to bed. He had matured his plan; he had thought out his scheme of vengeance; everything was clearly mapped out in his mind: he could now afford to take a few hours' sleep.

He came down at his usual hour, washed, shaven, and brushed more carefully than common, and had breakfast with the Bakewells. He was very chatty and affable over the meal, and entertained them with a long and elaborate narrative of the latest murder, so that they all enjoyed themselves greatly. An hour later, after the post letters had arrived, he called Bakewell into the office.

"I have just got a letter from the governor," said Pringle, "in which he tells me that he shall not be back home for a fortnight, or even longer. So, as you and your better half will have little or nothing to do during that time, he thinks you may as well take advantage of his absence and have a run out to the seaside, or down into the country, for a couple of weeks. And what do you think he has done? He has opened his heart as I never knew him to open it before, and has actually asked me to give you five pounds towards paying your expenses while you are away. Bakewell, what a lucky dog you are!"

Bakewell was staggered by the news of his good fortune, as Pringle had perhaps intended that he should be: nor was his wife less overcome when told of it. However, they were nothing loth to go for a holiday on such terms; and so well did Pringle work upon them, and hurry forward their arrangements, that at six o'clock that evening he had the satisfaction of seeing them drive away to the station, and of finding himself left the sole inmate of the big, gloomy house in Spur Alley.

This was what he wanted. He wanted to wait there, all alone, for the return of Van Duren. He went about his business as at ordinary times, but he hardly tasted drink at all. Neither did he sleep much. Of an evening he would sit all alone in Mrs. Bakewell's underground kitchen, smoking a long clay pipe, moistening his mouth now and then with a little cold tea, and now and then smashing a stray beetle. He would sit thus, his feet perched on the chimney-piece, listening to the clocks as they struck hour after hour, thinking his own dark thoughts, and waiting for the coming of Max Van Duren.