Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  GATHERING CLOUDS.

  "There's trouble coming, there's trouble coming." This was thedominant thought in Dick's mind as he emerged from the court.Reporters, hurriedly gathering their sheets of notes and sketches,were hastening to their respective offices, and persons who had beenunable to obtain admission were eagerly asking for news of what hadtaken place. The jurymen filed out, with a judicial weight on theirbrows, and the man who had put and prompted so many questions gaveDick a searching look as he passed. "I beg your pardon, Mr.Remington," said a cheery interviewer, "I belong to 'The HourlyInquirer,' and if you would give me a few minutes----" "No time forinterviewing--nothing to say," interrupted Dick, and hurried on. Ofwhich the interviewer made a quarter of a column. Dick was not in themood to impart information or impressions; he had more serious mattersto think of. It seemed to him as though sinister forces were at workinimical to Florence and Reginald. "I wonder," he thought, "what kindof evidence Lady Wharton has to give--she seems terribly in earnest."

  Clear of the crowd he felt a light touch upon his arm; looking down hesaw it was Florence.

  "Reginald sent me," she said; "he is very anxious. Is it over?"

  "Not by a long way," he replied. "People are staring at us. Let uswalk on."

  "What has been done, Dick?"

  "Evidence of identification has been taken, and a lot of stupid andunnecessary questions asked. You will read all about it in the papers,one part true, and three parts fiction." He spoke with a light air torelieve her mind. "Reporters make the most of everything; it is theirbusiness to lay on colour pretty thickly. There is one rathervexatious thing--your visit to Catchpole Square on the night of thefog."

  "Has my name been mentioned?" asked Florence, in alarm.

  "No, but it may be, and we must consider what we ought to do. Don'tlook distressed; a straightforward explanation will set it right. DoesUncle Rob know you went there?"

  "No."

  "Aunt Rob?"

  "No. There was no harm in my going----"

  "None whatever, dear."

  "And none in my not speaking of it. There has been so much else tothink of."

  "Indeed there has, and you have done everything for the best; but inthis unfortunate matter Uncle Rob is very delicately and peculiarlyplaced; he is not only privately but officially connected with it. Yousee that, don't you?"

  "Yes, Dick."

  "People are so uncharitable that a false step, though taken quiteinnocently, may lead to trouble. I am afraid you will read manyunpleasant thing in the papers, and I want you to be prepared forthem." She gave him a startled look. "You must have courage,Florence."

  "I will."

  "That's right. Now go home and tell them about your visit to CatchpoleSquare, and why you went. I will be there in an hour or so. And don'tfor one moment lose heart. There are some unhappy days before us, butbefore long the clouds will clear, and all will be well."

  She left him at the entrance to Deadman's Court, and he gave her abright smile to cheer her; but when she was out of sight he murmuredagain, "There's trouble coming, there's trouble coming." He feared heknew not what; every hidden danger seemed to grow, and the dark cloudsto deepen. How to ward this danger from Florence? This was his aim andhope, and to this end he was continually nerving himself.

  Up to the present nothing but perplexity and mystery had attended hissearch in the house of the murdered man. There were the bottles ofwine. On the first occasion he had mechanically counted seventy-sixbottles, on the second occasion seventy-five, and now there were butseventy-four. "Either I am out of my senses," he thought, "or someperson has been twice in the house since I forced an entrance intoit." Wildly improbable as was the suggestion he found it impossible toreject it. True, he was not the only person who had been there theselast two days. Scotland Yard was astir, and had sent detectives andpolicemen, to whom free access was granted by Dick. These officialsmade themselves very busy, but for the most part kept a still tongue.Plans of the room were drawn, and every inch of the walls and floorsand staircases was examined. When it was proposed to photograph theblood-stained footprints made by Dick, he looked on calmly, andassisted in the preparations.

  On this Monday afternoon the undertaker's men were waiting for Dick inthe Square, and they followed him upstairs with the coffin. It hadbeen a gruesome task, and he felt as if he could not breathe freelytill the body was taken to its last resting place.

  Then there was the safe, of which he had found the key. During hisservice with Samuel Boyd this safe had been the receptacle of all thedocuments of value and of all the record books belonging to the deadman--bank book, bill book, ledger, mortgage deeds, undue bills, etc.;he expected to see these articles in the safe, but to his astonishmentit contained only a few unimportant papers.

  At five o'clock the undertaker's men had departed, and Dick with alast look around also took his departure. As he pulled the street doorbehind him he heard a familiar cough, and a little hand was slid intohis. Gracie's hand.

  "Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Dick," she said, clinging to him. "I'vebeen everywhere to find you."

  "Has your father come back?" he asked, in sudden expectation that shebrought him news of the missing man.

  "No such luck. You didn't come to see us yesterday."

  "I was too busy, Gracie. Are you any better?"

  "Ever so much." Her pallid face and the sunken rims round her largeblack eyes did not confirm the statement. "I can't rest, Dick, I can'trest. Is he caught?"

  "Who, Gracie?"

  "The man that murdered Mr. Boyd?"

  "No; and God knows when he will be."

  "If God don't catch him," said Gracie, slowly, "and you don't, _I_will. You just see if I don't. I've got to, because of what they'resaying of father. Dick, if I was a man I'd tear 'em to pieces. Poorfather! It's too bad, ain't it?"

  "Altogether too bad."

  "There's mother fretting herself to skin and bone. She gets up in thenight, and goes down to the Mews, and when she thinks nobody sees hershe cries and cries fit to break her heart; but _I_ see her, and Ifeel like killing somebody!"

  Not a trace of emotion in her dark little face; no kindling light inher eyes; no tremor in her voice. The passion which agitated her wasexpressed only in the clinging of her fingers to the hand of thefriend in whom she trusted and believed.

  "I dreamt of father last night, Dick," she continued. "He was runningas hard as he could, and there was a mob of people after him. I kept'em back. 'If you dare,' I cried, 'if you dare!' So we got awaytogether, and where do you think we got to?"

  "Couldn't say for my life, Gracie, dreams are such funny things."

  "Yes, they are, ain't they? We got into Mr. Boyd's house in CatchpoleSquare, and we went all over it, into every room, creeping up and downthe stairs, looking for the murderer. 'You didn't do it, father?' Isaid. He swore a big oath that he was innocent, and he cried to me tosave him and catch the murderer. I'm going to. I promised I would, andI'm going to."

  "It was only a dream, Gracie."

  "It was real. I can hear him now, I can see him now. I've promised tocatch the murderer, and I'm going to."

  They had reached Aunt Rob's house, and Dick stopped.

  "I must leave you now, Gracie. My friends live here."

  "You won't throw us over, will you? You'll come and see us?"

  "Yes, I will come."

  She raised her face; he stooped and kissed her and she went away witha lighter heart.