CHAPTER XVIII.
THE OWL'S CRY.
Silence--and then Mr. Rogers's voice uplifted and shouting forHodgson!
But Hodgson, it seemed, had found out a way of his own. For a freshsound of hoofs smote on our ears--this time in the lane--a tunepounded out to the accompaniment of loose stones volleyed anddropping between the beats.
"Drat the man's impidence," said Miss Belcher coolly; "he's taken mymare!"
"What's that you say?" demanded Mr. Rogers's angry voice from theyard.
"You won't find another horse, Jack, unless you brought him.Whitmore keeps but one."
"Confound it all, Lydia!" He came sullenly back towards the window.
"You've said that before. The man's gone, unless Hodgson canovertake him--which I doubt. He rides sixteen stone if an ounce, andthe mare's used to something under eleven. So give over, my boy, andcome in and tell me what it's all about."
"Look here," he growled, clambering back into the room, "there'sdevilry somewhere at the bottom of this. The fellow's nag was readysaddled--I got near enough to see that: and the yard-gate postedopen: and--the devil take it, Lydia, I believe you opened that windowon purpose! Did you?"
"That's telling, my dear. But, if you like, we'll suppose that Idid."
"Then," said Mr. Rogers bitterly, "it may interest you to know thatyou've given him bail from the gallows. He's no priest at all: byhis own confession he's a forger: and I'll lay odds he's a murderertoo, if that's enough. But perhaps you knew this without my tellingyou?"
Miss Belcher took a step or two towards the fireplace and back.Her face, hidden for a moment, was composed when she turned it againupon us.
"Don't be an ass, Jack. I knew nothing of the sort."
"You knew enough, it seems," Mr. Rogers persisted sulkily, "to guesshe was in a hurry. And you'll excuse me, Lydia, but this is aserious business. Whether you knew it or not, you've abetted acriminal in escaping from the law, and I've my duty to do.What brought you here to-night?"
"Are you asking that as a Justice of the Peace?"
"I am," he answered, flushing angrily.
"Then I shall not answer you. Who is this boy?"
"His name is Harry Revel?"
"What? The youngster the hue-and-cry's after?"
"Quite so: and in a pretty bad mess, since you've opened the cage tothe real bird."
"Jack Rogers, you don't mean to tell me that he--that Mr. Whitmore--"
"Killed the Jew Rodriguez? Well, Lydia, I've no doubt of it in myown mind: but when you entered we were investigating another crime ofhis, and a dirtier one."
She swept us all in a gaze, and I suppose that our faces answeredher.
"Very well," she said; "I will answer your questions. You may putthem to me as a magistrate later on, but just now you shall listen tothem as a friend and a gentleman." With her hunting-crop she pointedtowards the door. "In the next room and alone, if you please.Thank you. You will excuse us, Rector?"
She bowed to the old man. Mr. Rogers stood aside to let her pass,then followed. The door closed behind them.
Mr. Doidge fumbled in his pockets, found his spectacles, adjustedthem with a shaking hand, and sat down before the bureau to searchfor the licence. The pigeon-holes contained but a few bundles ofpapers, all tied very neatly with red tape and docketed. (Neatness,at any rate, was one of Mr. Whitmore's virtues. Although the carpetlay littered with books, boots, and articles of clothing which bytheir number proclaimed the dandy, the few selected for the valisehad been deftly packed and with extreme economy of space.) In thefirst drawer below the writing flap the Rector found the register andparish account-books in an orderly pile. He seized on the registerat once, opened it, and ran his eyes down the later pages, mutteringwhile he read.
"There is no entry here of Miss Brooks's marriage," he announced."One, two, three, five marriages in all entered in his handwriting:but no such name as Brooks or Plinlimmon. Stay: what is the meaningof this?--a blank line between two entries--one of March 20th, theother of the 25th--both baptisms. Looks as if he'd left room for apost-entry. Let's have a look at the papers."
He tossed the bundles over and found one labelled "Marriages"; spreadthe papers out and rubbed his head in perplexity. Isabel's licencewas not among them.
Next he began to open the books and shake them, pausing now and againas a page of figures caught his eye.
"Accounts seem in order, down to the petty cash." He stooped, pickedup and opened a small parcel of coin wrapped in paper, which hiselbow had brushed off the ledge. "Fifteen and ninepence--right, to apenny. But where in the world's that licence?"
There were drawers in the lower half of the bookcase, and he directedme to search in these while he hunted again through the bureau.And while we were thus occupied the door opened and Miss Belcherre-entered the room with Mr. Rogers at her heels. Had it beenpossible to associate tears with Miss Belcher, I could have sworn shehad been weeping. Her first words, and the ringing masculine tone ofthem, effaced that half-formed impression.
"What the dickens are you two about?"
"We are searching for a licence," the Rector answered. "I am right,Mr. Rogers--am I not?--in my recollection that Whitmore indicated itto be here, in this room, and easily found?"
"To be sure he did," said Mr. Rogers.
"I cannot find it among his papers--which, for the rest, are inapple-pie order."
Thereupon we all fell to searching. In half an hour we had ransackedthe room, and all to no purpose; and so, as if by signal, broke offand eyed one another in dismay.
And as we did so Miss Belcher laughed aloud and pointed at the valiselying in the middle of the floor--the only thing we had leftunexplored.
Mr. Rogers flung himself upon it, tossed its contents right and left,dived his hand under a flap, and held up a paper with a shout.
The Rector clutched it and hurried to the bureau to examine it by thelight of the candles he had taken from the chimney-piece and placedthere to assist his search.
"It's the licence!" he announced.
The two others pressed forward to assure themselves. He put thepaper into their hands and, stepping to the rifled valise, bent overit, rubbing his chin meditatively.
"Now why," he asked, "would he be taking this particular paper withhim?"
"Because," Miss Belcher answered, with a glance at Mr. Rogers,"he was a villain, but not a complete one. He was a weak fool--oh,yes, and I hate him for it. But I won't believe but that he loathedthis business."
"I don't see how you get that out of his packing the paper, to carryit off with him: though it's queer, I allow," said Mr. Rogers.
"It's plain enough to me. He meant, if he reached safety, to sendthe thing back to you, Rector, and explain: he meant to set thisthing right. I'll go bail he abominated what he'd done, andabominated the man who compelled him."
"He called it damnable," said I.
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when my ears and sensesstiffened at a sound from the night without, borne to us through theopen window--the hoot of an owl.
The others heard it too.
"There he is!" I whispered.
"Who?" asked Miss Belcher. But I nodded at Mr. Rogers.
"Letcher: that's his call."
Mr. Rogers glanced at the window, and grinned.
"Now here's a chance," he said softly.
"Eh?"
"He hasn't seen us. Stand close, everyone--oh, Moses, here's agame!" He seemed to be considering.
"Let's have it, Jack," Miss Belcher urged. "Don't be keeping all thefun to yourself."
"Whist a moment! I was thinking what to do with you three.The door's in line with the window, and he'll spot anyone thatcrosses the room."
I pointed to the window-skirting. "Not if one crossed close underthe window, sir--hands and knees."
"Good boy! Can you manage it, Lydia? Keep close by the wall, tuckin your tuppeny and slip across."
She nodded. "And where after
that?"
"Under the bed or behind the far curtain--which you will: and notricks, this time! The near curtain will do for the Rector. Is thatyour hat, sir--there beside you, on the bureau?"
"No: I left mine in the next room. This must belong to Whitmore."
"Better still! Pass it over--thank you. And now, if you please,we'll exchange coats." Mr. Rogers began to strip.
The Rector hesitated, but after a moment his eye twinkled and hecomprehended. The coats were exchanged, and he, too, began to stealtowards the window.
"This will do for me, sir," said I, pointing to a cupboard under thebookcase.
"Plenty of room beneath the bed," he decided, as Miss Belcherdisappeared behind her curtain. And so it happened that better thaneither she or the Rector I saw what followed.
We were hiding some while before the owl's cry sounded again and (asit seemed to me) from the same distance as before. Mr. Rogers, inthe Rector's coat and the curate's hat, stepped hurriedly to thevalise and began to re-pack it, kneeling with his back to the window,and full in the line of sight. I am fain to say that he played hispart admirably. The suspense, which kept my heart knocking againstmy ribs, either did not trouble him or threw into his movements justthe amount of agitation to make them plausible. By and by hescrambled up, collected a heap of garments, and flung them back intoa wardrobe beside the bed; stepped to the bureau--still keeping hisface averted from the window--picked up and pocketed the licencewhich the Rector had left there; returned to the valise, and,stooping again, rammed its contents tighter. I saw that he haddisengaged the leather straps which ran round it, pulling them clearof their loops.
It was then that I heard a light sound on the cobbles outside, andknew it for a footstep.
"W'st!" said a voice. "W'st--Whitmore!"