Part 13

"'Ere's a cheque."

So saying, he struck a match with feverish haste.

"'_Undred pounds_! My Sam! This is a bit o' luck. 'E didn't get this out o' Mount Street, I'll wager."

"Let's 'ave a squint at it," said the bandaged man. "Ay," he continued, after examining the pink and white slip, "this is a bit of orl right. 'Undred quid! That'll be nearly fifteen quid apiece."

"A bit o' paper like that ain't no good to us," growled one of the gang; "'ow can we change it? 'Ooever tries to will be nabbed."

The hunchback interposed. "Don't you make no mistake, Jerry. We can change it. Gentleman 'Arry 'll do it. 'E can get up just like a toff--he wasn't a valit six years for nuthink. It ain't crossed, and so 'e can get cash over the counter. 'E's told me that when 'e was in service 'e often changed cheques for the nobs wot employed 'im."

Thereupon the bandaged man arranged with the hunchback that "Gentleman 'Arry" was to be approached on the subject that night, and promised five pounds if he changed the cheque first thing in the morning.

"There ain't nuthink else on 'im, is there?" inquired the bandaged man, when this matter had been settled.

The hunchback went all through Jim's pockets again, but his search only yielded some keys, a pocket-handkerchief, and a few letters.

"No, nuthink else, mates."

"Then we'll clear."

As they all rose to their feet, the flower-seller again confronted the leader.

"'Ow about me?" she demanded. "Didn't I get 'im in 'ere? 'E'd 'ave cottoned something was wrong if 'e 'adn't been answered by a woman."

The Hooligans grinned at each other. The bandaged man had arranged this matter with the girl; it was no business of the others.

"Oh, you shall 'ave a new 'at, Sally," the bandaged man assured her, with a leer.

"Wot else?"

"Anyfink yer like, Sally. But I thought you did it out o' friendship for me, because I was so kind to your 'usband before they nabbed 'im," added the Hooligan, with an unpleasant grimace.

"I'll see I get my share," said the girl, showing her white teeth.

"Wot! Would you take the kind doctor's 'ard-earned welf? 'Im wot was so good to yore byby! For shame, Sally!"

'"E's done for now, and it doesn't matter to 'im. I'll 'ave my share, or know the reason why."

"You'll split on us?"

"Yes, on the 'ole lot of yer! I don't join in a dirty job like this for love. I've a baby to keep at 'ome, and I want money, so you watch it!"

The bandaged man winked at his fellows. "That'll be orl right," he said. "It's on'y 'er wye. Well, let's get out o' this, boys."

As the others moved towards the door the bandaged man and the girl stayed by Jim's side. As the former gazed upon the prostrate and silent figure, an evil smile distorted his countenance. "We're quits now," he muttered, shaking his fist at the white face, "you an' me. You 'urt me, and now I've 'urt you."

A twinge in the wound which he had come by through Jim's agency made him wince. He uttered an appalling oath.

"No, we ain't quite quits! I'll spoil your beauty for you, to end with, my pretty doctor."

He raised his iron-shod heel above Jim's face, but ere the foot could descend the flower-girl pushed the Hooligan aside with such force that he reeled against the wall.

"Leave 'im alone--ain't you satisfied?" she exclaimed sharply.

The man recovered himself with another oath, and smacked the girl across the face with his open hand.

"That's for you, you interferin' cat!"

With a snarl worthy of the creature she had been likened to, the girl hurled herself at her aggressor, and clawed his face with venomous finger-nails. In the struggle the Hooligan's bandage came off, revealing an unhealed wound. Crying out with pain, the rough threw the girl off with all his might, and, turning quickly, was hacking at Jim's head and body, when the girl, regaining her balance, flung herself across the motionless figure on the floor, and there remained while the Hooligan kicked and struck both at herself and Jim with ungovernable fury. Time and again he tried to drag her away, but she held staunch to her post in spite of his blows and execrations.

By this time the Hooligan had worked himself into a state of frenzy. Seeing that he could not get the girl away, he drew a knife from his belt, but, even as he poised it to strike, the door was kicked open and a man appeared.

Then a voice rang out commandingly; George Somers--for Koko it was--had never spoken so in his life before.

"Drop that knife or I fire."

With the howl of a maddened animal the Hooligan sprang to his feet and bounded forward. The blade flashed ominously in the lamplight. As it swept downwards towards Koko's heart, there was a sharp report, followed by a shriek from the Hooligan, who swayed, clutching at the air, and then toppled forward in a heap, shot through the brain.

Simultaneously came sounds of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The other members of the gang made a dash for the doorway, but as they reached it several stalwart forms barred their exit. The Hooligans, realising their position, fought like tigers to escape, but the police, having been forewarned of trouble by old Harris, had their truncheons ready, and used them without stint. Two of the Hooligans dropped to the floor; another, a big fellow, closed with one of the constables, and they went swinging and stumbling into the passage without. Taking his opportunity, the hunchback crept out on to the dark staircase, and was softly descending when suddenly two bony hands seized him by the neck, and next moment he and old Harris were rolling over and over down the rotten stairs, the Jew dealer hanging on to the half-strangled dwarf with a nervous grip which the other could not overcome, beat and tear as he would. Halfway down the stairs the writhing pair were met by another couple of policemen, by whom the hunchback was quickly secured and handcuffed.

The reinforcing police speedily settled the matter, and all the Hooligans were soon in custody.

When at length the police were able to draw breath more easily and look around, they found Somers kneeling by his friend. By Jim's side lay the insensible form of the flower-seller who had befriended him with such strange suddenness.

"Jim, old chap! Jim!" cried Koko. "Jim, speak to me."

No sound came from Jim's lips. He lay as he had fallen, with his white face upturned to the ceiling. But that face was without a mark, so well shielded had it been by the woman.

"Here, sir, try this," said one of the police, holding out a pocket-flask.

Quickly Koko unscrewed the top and forced the mouth of the flask between his friend's lips. The raw spirit trickled down Jim's throat, and, to Koko's unspeakable relief, Mortimer opened his eyes.

"Is that--you--old man?"

"Yes, Jim! Here, swallow some more. Oh, Jim," he added, in a trembling voice, "I'm so glad! I thought--you were dead!"

Jim gave a little sigh. "I think they've done for me. I can't move--they've hurt my back...."

Koko shivered, for he knew what Jim meant.

"We'll take you to the hospital, old man," he said, "and you'll soon be all right."

Jim's lips moved in reply, and Koko put down his ear.

"Take me home," said Jim--and fainted away.

*CHAPTER XXVII.*

*THE HOME-COMING.*

On the day preceding that fixed for her wedding, Dora Maybury purposely went down to breakfast later than usual, as she wished to be alone during the meal. She did not want to meet the prying eyes of her elder sister, or answer her still more prying questions.

Miss H. R. Maybury, however, was not easily put off. This was the last day that the two sisters would be spending under the same roof for some time to come, and H. R. intended to make the most of it.

When, therefore, Dora reached the breakfast-room, she found her sister seated behind the coffee-urn.

"It is rather provoking of you to be so late, Dora," said H. R. "We have had to keep breakfast on the table for an hour, just on your account."

"You needn't have done that," replied Dora, coldly; "I only want a cup of tea and some bread and butter."

"You won't look much like a bride to-morrow if you starve yourself to-day," observed H. R.

Dora made no rejoinder, but took her seat at the table.

"There isn't any tea--won't coffee do?" inquired H. R.

"_Any_thing will do," said Dora, shortly.

"Dear me!" cried H. R. "I hope you will be in a nicer mood when you sit down to breakfast for the first time with Harold."

"I expect he'll say pleasanter things to me than you do," returned Dora.

H. R. was taken somewhat aback. "Here is some coffee," she said, more amicably; "there is a plate of bacon and eggs for you in the fender," she added.

"I couldn't _touch_ it!" cried Dora.

"I don't see why you should lose your appetite because you're going to be married to-morrow," said H. R.

"Don't you? Well, perhaps you'll understand my feelings better when you find _yourself_ on the eve of _your_ wedding day!" snapped Dora.

H. R., having no reply ready, pretended to read the morning paper.

At length something occurred to her

"Oh, by the way, dear," she said, when Dora had sipped her coffee and nibbled a few mouthfuls of bread and butter, "some more presents have come for you."

"Oh!" said Dora, indifferently

"They are on the hall table--shall I get them for you?"

"If you like. I am in no hurry."

But H. R. had recognised Jim's writing on one parcel, and wanted to watch her sister's face when Dora opened the packet. Jim, it should be added had placed the presents from Koko and himself on the hall table very late on the previous night.

H. R. left the breakfast-room, and presently returned bearing three parcels in her arms.

"I think there must be one from Frank, too; he was wrapping up something very mysteriously before he went to school this morning."

Dora turned over the three parcels which H. R. set down on the table before her. After scrutinising the writing on each, she opened that addressed to her in Frank's irregular round-hand. Frank's present proved to be a volume of Tennyson's works in a handsome morocco leather cover.

"Dear Frank! what a nice present!" cried Dora. "He must have saved up his pocket-money for months!"

"He gets a good many tips," said H. R., drily.

"Pretty girls' brothers generally do," observed a harsh voice at the door.

Following the remark came Miss Bird herself. The maiden lady duly admired the Tennyson.

"The other two presents," said H. R., "are from Mr Somers and Dr Mortimer, and Dora _won't_ open them because she knows I'm burning to see them."

"And make nasty remarks about them when you've seen them?" suggested Miss Bird.

Before H. R. could think of a suitable retort, Dora had drawn Koko's present from its enclosing wrappers.

"A _work-box_--full of things!" she said, laughing; "everything I can possibly want, even down to matches!"

The three ladies all agreed that it was a very nice work-box.

"And now for the third parcel," said H. R., meaningly.

"It is a fan," said Dora, quietly opening Jim's parcel--"an ivory one."

She passed it on to Miss Bird.

"A beautiful present, my dear," said that lady. "I admire Dr Mortimer's taste."

"And look!" cried H. R., who next inspected the fan; "it has a sprig of rosemary upon it. How very sentimental! That means remembrance, doesn't it? Dora, I do believe Dr Mortimer likes you more than he cares to admit."

"Please don't talk such nonsense, H. R.," said Dora, holding out her hand for the fan.

"Come, now," said H. R., spreading out the fan and peeping over it, "tell me! Don't you think I'm right?"

"Right about what?" asked Dora, with trembling lips. "Oh, please give me my fan!"

"Give the child her fan and don't tease her," rasped out Miss Bird, who saw through the deliberate malice of H. R.'s question.

"Why doesn't she answer, then?" said H. R., examining the sprig of rosemary with renewed interest; "anybody would think that she liked _him_ by the way she goes on."

The blood rushed into Dora's face.

"See how she is blushing!" added H. R., unsparingly.

"I'm not blushing," cried Dora, whose cheeks sadly belied her words.

"You are--I believe you _do_ like him!"

Dora rose from her chair. The blood had died out of her face, and she was very white.

"And why," she demanded, her eyes flashing ominously, "_shouldn't_ I like him? Is there any sin in it? When he came you all condemned him, but he has been quite patient and nice and gentlemanly all the time, in spite of the things that have been said to him. Yes, I _do_ like him, and I shall always value this present from him. Please give it to me."

H. R. handed her the fan. "In _that_ case, Dora, dear," she said, cuttingly, "it seems a pity that you are marrying Mr Jefferson to-morrow."

Dora closed the fan and held it tightly to her bosom. Her sister's final remark had brought the blood surging into her face again. "Oh," she cried, "how I _hate_ you, H. R.--yes, _hate_ you!"

And with that she gave a piteous little cry and ran out of the room.

For a few moments there was silence, and then Miss Bird turned her stern, lined face towards the elder sister. "Miss Maybury," she said, "I am ashamed of you."

"Your opinion of me," said H. R., with a forced lightness of tone, "does not concern me at all."

"To think," Miss Bird went on, "that you should taunt that poor child with a fact that has been patent to every woman in this house for _weeks_ past! You have seen it--you know it. I repeat, I am heartily ashamed of you."

"Please spare me your lectures, Miss Bird."

"I will spare you nothing. I tell you to your face that you are a cruel, jealous woman. Dora is much younger than you, but is being married before you, and that is rankling in your mind. And so you bully her and tax her with liking Dr Mortimer when you _know_ she likes him--ay, likes him far better than she likes the man she is marrying."

"But," interrupted H. R.; "Mr Jefferson happens to be very well off, and so our dear little innocent Dora does not see her way to give him up."

Miss Bird rose from her seat and walked up to where H. R. was sitting.

"Do you really _know_ why Dora is marrying this young stockbroker?" she said.

"Because she is tired of working in the post-office, and wants to have a good time, I suppose," replied H. R.

"Oh! you suppose that! Well, I will tell you why. She is marrying him because she wishes to make your father's position secure in the Jeffersons' office, and, if possible, to improve it. She is deliberately marrying young Mr Jefferson with that object in view."

"Then she is very silly," said H. R., scornfully.

"_Silly_! Yes, she _is_ silly! But how old is she?--_nineteen_! And at nineteen aren't many girls _very_ silly--aren't their heads full of romantic ideas of self-sacrifice, and other nonsense! Yes, she _is_ silly! If she were your age--twenty-eight--she would be marrying Mr Jefferson for her own sake, but she is only nineteen, and so she is marrying him for her father's sake. Now you understand!"

"I simply don't believe you," said H. R.

"It matters little whether you believe me or not. I have told you the truth. I am a very much older woman than you, and it has been my recreation all my life--for want of a better--to watch the people round me and dissect their motives. Old maids are good judges of character. You yourself will find you are a better judge of character in a few years' time than you are now."

Then, with this final lash from her tongue, Miss Bird stalked out of the room, while Miss H. R. Maybury, feeling considerably crestfallen, made her way downstairs to commence her household duties.

Somehow or other Dora got through this miserable day. At lunch and tea and dinner she hardly spoke a word, but she brightened up when her father got home from the office, where he had been working later than usual in order to be free the next day. He had brought an evening paper with him, and read out the latest bulletin concerning the Earl of Lingfield's health.

"So," added the ex-merchant, "our friend Dr Mortimer was not sent for merely to assist. According to this bulletin he actually performed the operation--a very perilous one, I am told."

"It will make him," said Miss Bird, laying down her knitting needles.

"Yes," agreed Mr Maybury, "a man possessed of his nerve and skill will be in great demand. I am sorry in one way, because it will mean that he will leave us."

"I hope this success won't turn his head and drive him back to his vicious courses," said Mrs Maybury, somewhat severely.

Mr Cleave was scanning the new number of his favourite weekly.

"I should not be surprised," he conjectured, in his quavering tenor, "if alcohol proved Mortimer's stumbling-block in life. There is a sad case in the _Abstainer's_ list this week of a young naval doctor who has lately lost his post on account of his habitual drunkenness."

Miss Bird cast a lowering eye on her fellow-boarder, but before she could make any remark the door was opened with unexpected suddenness, and Mary came in.

"Oh, if you please, mum," she said, addressing Mrs Maybury, "there's some policemen at the door, and Mr Somers, and they've brought Dr Mortimer----"

But here the little maid broke down and burst into tears. Fortunately Koko appeared at this juncture to complete the announcement.

"Jim has been hurt by Hooligans," he said, quietly. "At first I wanted to take him to a hospital, but he told me he would like to be brought here."

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Mr Maybury.

"Yes," said Koko, "very seriously hurt. The police fetched a doctor----"

He paused, for he noticed that Dora had risen to her feet, and, white as death, was awaiting the doctor's verdict.

"The doctor pronounced him to be suffering from concussion of the brain and a fracture of the spine."

Mr Maybury walked out of the room, closing the door after him. The police ambulance containing Jim's unconscious form had been set down in the hall. By the ambulance stood Dr Taplow's representative--the bearded man.

"Please follow me," said Mr Maybury, and those in the drawing-room could hear ominously heavy footsteps on the stairs as the policemen bore their burden up to Jim's little room on the second landing. Koko slipped out of the drawing-room after giving Mrs Maybury and the others further details concerning the affair. Dora made as if to follow him.

"You had better stay in here, dear," said Mrs Maybury; "anybody else will only be in the way, at present."

"I am only going into the dining-room," said Dora.

How long she waited in the dining-room, Dora never knew. It seemed like a lifetime. She heard the police go out and shut the front door after them, and later she heard the front door opened and closed again, and yet again. At length, after what seemed an interminable period, Mr Maybury came into the dining-room. His face was very grave.

"Father--tell me the truth!"

Dora was looking at him with beseeching eyes that would brook no subterfuge.

"The doctor says," replied Mr Maybury, "that he will not live more than twenty-four hours."

Dora hid her face on his shoulder.

"Oh, father, father," she sobbed, "if he dies my heart will break!"

Mr. Maybury gently disengaged himself from her embrace, and looked steadily into her face.

"Dora, tell me! do you love him?"

She buried her face again in the kind shoulder.

"Yes," she said, "with all my heart."

For a long, tense minute no word was spoken. Then Mr Maybury broke the silence.

"If that is so," he said, "you must not marry Mr Jefferson, and I must go and tell him so."

Dora raised her head. Her eyes shone like stars because of the great love she bore for Jim Mortimer.

"Go, then," she said, "and I promise you I will be brave--now, and until the end."

*CHAPTER XXVIII.*

*A DELICATE MISSION.*

Mr Harold Jefferson lived in the Albany, where a long succession of well-to-do bachelors, good and bad, have occupied chambers since the days of the later Georges. The bachelor nests in the Temple--so beloved of young Bar students fresh from the 'Varsity--wax insignificant in comparison with the lofty, depressing spaciousness which characterises Albany chambers. The rents, too, differ widely, for whereas a man may cut quite a tenemental dash in the Temple for fifty or sixty pounds a year, in the Albany one's rental may run into anything between a hundred and forty and four hundred per annum.

A quaint nook is this Albany. As one paces the stone-flagged footway in the contemplative stillness which broods over the place, it is an easy feat of the imagination to put the clock back a hundred years, to people the lettered houses with bucks and bloods in Regency attire, and, with the fall of night, to set the gaunt old quarter ablaze with candles, and listen to the flick and rattle of cards and dice, the popping of corks, and the sound of those old-fashioned oaths which it was thought fit that gentlemen should use freely in the days when Byron and Macaulay lived in this aristocratic bachelor precinct.

But new times bring new men, and Harold Jefferson was of the newest. He lived in the Albany for the same reason that he drove a motor-car, ploughed the Thames in a steam launch, and frequented fashionable restaurants at fashionable hours--because it was expensive.

On this particular night--the eve of his wedding day--Jefferson was superintending the packing of his various possessions. This was his last night in the Albany, so much had to be done. Albert, his valet, was moving here and there with dapper, noiseless steps, folding, arranging, pressing down, strapping, and locking. Albert was, on the whole, a good valet. He was punctual, obsequious, diplomatic, and only stole odd sixpences and shillings--for his was a mean little nature, content with little thefts.

Albert put up with abuse that no honest man would have listened to in silence. Therefore he suited Jefferson. True, he had no respect whatever for his master, but Jefferson paid him more liberally than, say, a military gentleman would have done, so he stayed on with Jefferson, wore his left-off suits, annexed his small change, and was quite contented with himself in his negative, unambitious way.

Harold, this evening, was in a high good-humour. Everything had fallen out as he had desired that it should do. He was marrying a lovely girl, and would be envied for his prize far and wide. He would dress her in the prettiest attire obtainable for money, deck her out in costly jewels, and constantly bask in the reflected glory of her beauty. When they came back, he promised himself he would take precious good care she didn't pay many calls at No. 9, or have her starveling relations to see her more than twice a year.

At ten o'clock Albert, having completed his tasks, left the Albany. At eleven Jefferson was due at a farewell supper party which was to be given in his honour that night by some of his bachelor friends at the famous Whittingham restaurant, where they charge you eighteen-pence simply for hanging your hat up. The price of food and wine, reckoned on a similar scale, may be imagined. But then, Mr Jefferson and his friends set little store by a meal that did not cost them about six times more than it was worth.

Harold had adjusted his tie and put on his overcoat, preparatory to sallying forth, when there came a knock at his door. Albert having departed, he was obliged to answer the summons himself.

"Mr Maybury!"

Harold's tone smacked more of surprise than cordiality.

"Yes, I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Jefferson, but my errand is an important one. May I come in?"

"Of course, of course! I am afraid I cannot ask you to stay very long, as I have to be at the Whittingham at eleven. Some of my friends are giving me a send-off. Will you have a glass of champagne?"

"No, thank you."

"A cigar, then?"

"Again, no, thank you. Such things would not harmonise with my errand, for I have come, Mr Jefferson, to break some very unpleasant news to you."