CHAPTER XV.

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.

"A letter is the way," Granger said, as they continued their discourse; "a little letter. Only, who is to write it? Your Anne--your wife," he added, observing Bufton wince, "knows your handwriting. You used to pen some charming _billets-doux_ to 'A. T.,' you remember. Unfortunately it was the wrong 'A. T.' But then we did not know that."

As he spoke, his eyes, which now missed nothing, saw Bufton's hands close on the knife and fork which were in each, as though he would commit murder with them--on one person, at least!--and he knew that the poison of madness which he was distilling was sinking into the rogue's soul. Sinking in, and doing its work!

"And," he continued, "although neither of our 'A's '--neither the true heiress, whom Barry has gotten; nor the false, whom you possess--know my handwriting, Barry himself does so, and he might find the precious thing when the women are gone. Yet, somehow, a letter--a lure--must be written."

"But how? How? Who is to write it, then?" and Bufton's voice seemed hoarse, raucous with emotion, as he spoke. "You have a clerk. Is he----"

"Bah! And let him know our secret! To sell it to Barry, and--and--land us at Execution Dock! No, let me think." Whereon he thought, or appeared to think, and to be sunk in meditation. Yet, if he were only now working out a further strain of his revenge, it was somewhat remarkable! Then, presently, he spoke again--

"There is," he said, "hard by here a man who keeps a small shop and sells necessaries to the sailors. And, because they are ignorant creatures--not one in fifty can read or write--he indites letters for them to their wives and mothers ere they sail; sends their fond love to their Mollys and Pollys. Since he knows me, I scarce can ask him to----"

"Write a letter for you," Bufton interrupted. "And can I, with a coat like this?" and he touched his sleeve. "With my appearance? He would suspect."

"I will prevent him from suspecting," Granger replied, his eyes upon the other. "You have finished your breakfast, I see. Therefore a little walk will refresh you. You shall go and ask him to write you a letter." Saying which, Granger rose from the table and, going to a sea-chest in the corner of the room, took out a large roll of linen for bandages, such as he sold amongst other things to skippers of ships and surgeons' mates. This he twisted into the usual shape of a sling for a wounded arm and bade Bufton bend his elbow, while the latter muttered, "I do not understand this tomfoolery."

"You will," said Granger, while, as he spoke, he enveloped the other's right hand in a swathing of the stuff.

"Now," he said, with an easily assumed smile, "away with you. The fellow's name is Gibbs, the place he lives in is Orange Row. And you are a gentleman who has arrived from Harwich, whose arm is injured. You have a sprained wrist--a whitlow on your thumb--anything will do. And you must have a letter written at once, since you cannot write it yourself. At once. You understand."

"My God, Granger!" the other exclaimed, "you are too clever." And there was such a look in the man's face as he spoke--a look almost of consternation at the other's scheming mind--that Granger began to fear Bufton would become alarmed at his astuteness, especially as the latter added, "What trick can you not devise?"

"Nay. Nay," cried Granger, with heartiness, "'tis for a friend, an injured friend--misjudge me not. Remember, too, the money that is to be repaid me at your mother's death. I work for that--friendship apart. Now be off to Gibbs."

"But what can I say? What to have written?

"Ha! I protest, almost had I forgotten. I am but a sorry schemer after all. Let me think." And again he pretended to be immersed in thought.

"Say," he went on, a moment or so later, "say--only mention no names--not one--my clerk shall address the letter; say that--that the captain's ship is aground near the Creek. That, also, he is injured sorely--an arm broken--a fracture--therefore that he cannot come nor write, but wishes--to--see--his wife. Tell her the road is through Plaistow Marshes; that if she follows it--the road that runs by the river bank--'twill bring her to where the ship is aground. That will be sufficient. She will take Anne with her for a surety; thus we nab both."

"But will she not know that Barry cannot yet be back?"

"Nay! We do not send it to-day. He will not be back until Tuesday or Wednesday, though to appease her qualms, he has told her he comes on Sunday. Dos't see? On Sunday afternoon she will get that letter. On Sunday night by dark--it still gets dark early, Bufton--she will be in the Marshes. We can easily silence their jarvey, and--and--by Monday morning, if the wind is good, they will be out to sea. While, if it is not, they will still be on their way. The tide--which I have studied--will take them."

"You forget nothing."

"I never forget anything. Now, since your wounds are dressed," and again Granger laughed, "and since you are equipped, as well go on to Gibbs. You know what to say. Can you remember?"

"Every word. Fear not my memory. And--no name mentioned."

"No. No. Gibbs. Orange Row. That's the man. And tell him to sign the letter in the name of Bertram Norris."

"Bertram Norris. Who is he?"

"The first lieutenant. The officer who would write in such a case."

Whereupon, having received his last instructions, Bufton departed.

When he was gone, Granger threw himself into a deep chair by the fireside, and, to his astonishment, found that he was in a slight tremor, that there was a palpitation going on within his frame.

"So!" he thought to himself, as he sat there, "this will not do. I, am a long, long way off success yet; a long, long way from the end of what I have set myself to do, and already my nerves are ajar. I must quiet them. In the old way, the old cursed way that grows on me day by day."

Whereupon, as he had done so frequently, he did again, and finding his bottle, drank a dram. "If I could do without it," he whispered to himself. "If I could do without it! Yet, why should I? It brings oblivion, forgetfulness. It shuts out the picture of my mother's grave, of Sophy's face."

It was now the time of day when few people visited his place of business--for in this region all the world dined at midday--and he sat on and on waiting for Bufton to return with the letter. Sat on meditating, thinking always.

"I did not like the look he gave me as I disclosed my ruse for getting that letter written," he reflected; "almost I feared I had scared him, alarmed him with my astuteness. I must not do that! No. No. For if he once takes fright I lose him and--the chance is gone forever. I must not do that."

He looked at the bottle eagerly--wistfully--then, strong in his determination, rose from his seat and thrust it almost violently away from him into the place where he kept it.

"Later, when all is accomplished," he muttered, "when there is no more to be done, I can drink myself to death. And--with satisfaction.

"Pity, pity," he continued now, still musing, "that it could not take place to-night or to-morrow night. Yet that must not be. Barry must be back, as he will be on Sunday night. It must be Barry whom he attacks in the Marshes, or, at least, thinks he will attack. That will make assurance double sure. Double sure. Oh! my God," he cried, "let me make no mistake now. None!" While as the unhappy man uttered this cry he sprang from the chair on which he sat, and commenced to pace up and down the room.

"If Anne aids me," he whispered, "if she is staunch, we have got him in the net. He is ours. She will be free, and I--no--no--not I!--but those two women whom I loved better than my life, avenged."

Later that evening, when Bufton had returned to his end of London, leaving in Granger's hands the letter which the writer, Gibbs, had penned at the former's request and for the sum of a shilling; and leaving also the entire management of the whole of their scheme to the other, Granger set out to walk towards the place where Ariadne and Anne were installed in their lodgings. He had not, however, let his confederate, or, for such he was--his victim--depart without a few words of impressive counsel to him.

"If," he said, "you fail to be back here again on Saturday night, and ready for your part in Sunday night's work, namely, to assist the Dutchman's sailors in carrying the women off in their boat--and also to assist in identifying them to his men--your last chance is gone. You will never get rid of Anne, and you will have had no revenge on Sir Geoffrey Barry. I shall be unable to help you farther."

"Never fear. I shall not fail if I am alive: Yet one thing troubles me."

"What is it?"

"This. Even though that wanton, Anne, goes to the colonies, it does not free me. She may live for years there if she falls into good hands--she might even live to return."

"Might she?" said Granger, in a low voice, while as he spoke he directed a glance into the other's eyes that spoke as plainly as a thousand words would have done. Then, sinking that voice lower, he said, "I know the master of the _Nederland_. I have had transactions with him before. You understand?"

"Yes," whispered Bufton, fascinated, as the eyes of the other seemed to pierce him with the fire they emitted. "Yes--my God!--I understand." Then, a moment later, after a pause, and while still held by that glance, "Yes--I understand. _How much?_"

"Bring," Granger said hoarsely, "a bag of fifty guineas; he shall know that you will hand it to the coxswain in command of the boat, and--and--and you will be a wid----"

"Soon?"

"The first dark night at sea. She will throw herself overboard in despair."

"Throw herself overboard! Throw herself over---- Ah! Yes. Yes. I comprehend. Throw herself overboard!" And, laughing and chuckling, Bufton departed, though not without muttering once more, "Throw herself overboard."

And now, rejoicing over the dust he had cast in the man's eyes--while wondering, too, how he could ever himself have been tricked and ruined by so easy a knave and fool as Bufton was, Granger went on towards Blackwall steps, and, when there, stood listening for eight o'clock to sound from Stepney Church. Then, as he heard the hour strike, he walked swiftly towards a woman dressed in black who was approaching him.

"Well!" she exclaimed, coming close up to him and letting her veil fall away from her face. "Well? Does he take? Is the trap set?"

"Ay, with his own bait, Anne. See here," and he took a paper from his pocket and held it out to her; "'tis his own ratsbane with which he has set his own springe. And he paid a shilling for it."

The girl took the paper and read it beneath the light of an oil lamp shining hard by, while laughing a little in that soft, musical voice of hers as she did so; then she gave it back to him, whereon he tore the letter into shreds and, walking to the quay-side, dropped it into the water. "It was a shilling wasted," she said, as he came back to her.

"Nay, a shilling well spent. While deluding him with the idea that he has set a snare for you and Lady Barry, it induces him to walk into it himself."

"And," she asked, her bright, wicked-looking eyes glistening beneath the sickly rays of the lamp, "what is to do next? What will happen?"

"Terrible things. Amongst others, you will be so overwhelmed with your horrid fate that you will fling yourself overboard one dark night at sea. Lady Barry, too, will become the prey of a licentious Southern planter. Sir Geoffrey will perhaps go mad with despair. Is it not terrifying?"

"Nay, do not bite," she answered, while still she laughed softly. "But tell me what is to be done--with him?"

"He will await you in the Marshes with the Dutch skipper's men. Only--you will not come. Instead, Sir Geoffrey will do so. At least, I hope he will do so. And our good friend, who will learn that by some ill fate you cannot meet him, must be content with having Barry set upon and transported to the colonies."

"A likely tale!" Anne said. "Can you make him believe that?"

"I think so. I can induce him to lead Sir Geoffrey to his doom. All depends, however, on Barry getting back. If he returns not by Sunday afternoon we may fail."

"He will return," Anne said. "A Redriff lugger which he met outside at sea has come in with a letter from him, saying that he has distributed almost all his men amongst the ships of war at the Nore and Chatham; that soon he will be back. Perhaps before Sunday."

"So! That is well. There is, however, one other thing to do. Namely, to get Barry to the Marshes, so that thereby we may secure the other. Or rather _keep_ him in them. For if you and your lady came not he might take alarm and thus depart himself."

"But will he not go there expecting us, and, waiting, be seized upon? Cannot that be done?"

"It is impossible. At once he would suspect. No, he must go with me to the Marshes; then, but not before, he must know that you are not coming, but that Barry is. And he must make sure of Barry before he will approach anywhere near where the boat's crew is. Anne, we must get your master there somehow. Remember, we have a coward to deal with; a man who, if he is half a fool, is also wholly knave. We know that."

"God knows we do," sighed Anne, laughing no more as she thought of her dead sister. "Well! how is it to be done? Neither Ariadne nor Sir Geoffrey would join in any further plot. She regrets the other one--the plot of the marriage."

"Somehow," said Granger, "it must be done. This is our chance. If we miss it now it will never come again. And we have three clear days still to meditate upon it. Meet me here again in forty-eight hours; by then I will have devised some means."