# The Trail of the Serpent/Book 4/Chapter 6

Chapter VI. Mr. Peters relates how he thought he had a Clue, and how he lost it.
A week after the meeting of the Cherokees Richard Marwood received his mother, in a small furnished house he had taken in Spring Gardens. Mrs. Marwood, possessed of the entire fortune of her murdered brother, was a very rich woman. Of her large income she had, during the eight years of her son's imprisonment, spent scarcely anything; as, encouraged by Mr. Joseph Peters's mysterious hints and vague promises, she had looked forward to the deliverance of her beloved and only child. The hour had come. She held him in her arms again, free.
"No, mother, no," he says, "not free. Free from the prison walls, but not free from the stain of the false accusation. Not till the hour when all England declares my innocence shall I be indeed a free man. Why, look you, mother, I cannot go out of this room into yonder street without such a disguise as a murderer himself might wear, for fear some Slopperton official should recognise the features of the lunatic criminal, and send me back to my cell at the asylum."
"My darling boy," she lays her hands upon his shoulders, and looks proudly into his handsome face, "my darling boy, these people at Slopperton think you dead. See," she touched her black dress as she spoke, "it is for you I wear this. A painful deception, Richard, even for such an object. I cannot bear to think of that river, and of what might have been."
"Dear mother, I have been saved, perhaps, that I may make some atonement for that reckless, wicked past."
"Only reckless, Richard; never wicked. You had always the same noble heart, always the same generous soul; you were always my dear and only son."
"You remember what the young man says in the play, mother, when he gets into a scrape through neglecting his garden and making love to his master's daughter—'You shall be proud of your son yet.'"
"I shall be proud of you, Richard. I am proud of you. We are rich; and wealth is power. Justice shall be done you yet, my darling boy. You have friends——"
"Yes, mother, good and true ones. Peters—you brought him with you?"
​"Yes; I persuaded him to resign his situation. I have settled a hundred a year on him for life—a poor return for what he has done, Richard; but it was all I could induce him to accept, and he only agreed to take that on condition that every moment of his life should be devoted to your service."
"Is he in the house now, mother?"
"Yes, he is below; I will ring for him."
"Do, mother. I must go over to Darley, and take him with me. You must not think me an inattentive or neglectful son; but remember that my life has but one business till that man is found."
He wrung her hand, and left her standing at the window watching his receding figure through the quiet dusky street.
Her gratitude to Heaven for his restoration is deep and heartfelt; but there is a shade of sadness in her face as she looks out into the twilight after him, and thinks of the eight wasted years of his youth, and of his bright manhood now spent on a chimera; for she thinks he will never find the murderer of his uncle. How, after eight years, without one clue by which to trace him, how can he hope to track the real criminal?
But Heaven is above us all, Agnes Marwood; and in the dark and winding paths of life light sometimes comes when and whence we least expect it.
If you go straight across Blackfriars Bridge, and do not suffer yourself to be beguiled either by the attractions of that fashionable transpontine lounge, the "New Cut," or by the eloquence of the last celebrity at that circular chapel some time sacred to Rowland Hill—if you are not a man to be led away by whelks and other piscatorial delicacies, second-hand furniture, birds and bird-cages, or easy shaving, you may ultimately reach, at the inland end of the road, a locality known to the inhabitants of the district of Friar Street. Whether, in any dark period of our ecclesiastical history, the members of the mother church were ever reduced to the necessity of living in this neighbourhood I am not prepared to say. But if ever any of the magnates of the Catholic faith did hang out in this direction, it is to be hoped that the odours from the soap-boiler's round the corner, the rich essences from the tallow manufactory over the way, the varied perfumes from the establishment of the gentleman who does a thousand pounds a week in size, to say nothing of such minor and domestic effluvia as are represented by an amalgamation of red herrings, damp corduroy, old boots, onions, washing, a chimney on fire, dead cats, bad eggs, and an open drain or two—it is to be hoped, I say, that these conflicting scents did not pervade the breezes of Friar Street so strongly in the good old times as they do in these our later days of luxury and refinement.
​Mr. Darley's establishment, ordinarily spoken of as the surgery par excellence, was perhaps one of the most pretending features of the street. It asserted itself, in fact, with such a redundancy of gilt letters and gas burners, that it seemed to say, "Really now, you must be ill; or if you're not, you ought to be." It was not a very large house, this establishment of Mr. Darley's, but there were at least half-a-dozen bells on the doorpost. There was Surgery; then there was Day and Night (Gus wanted to have Morning and Afternoon, but somebody told him it wasn't professional); then there was besides surgery, day, and night bells, another brilliant brass knob, inscribed "Visitors," and a ditto ditto, whereon was engraved "Shop." Though, as there was only one small back-parlour beyond the shop into which visitors ever penetrated, and as it was the custom for all such visitors to walk straight through the aforesaid shop into the aforesaid parlour without availing themselves of any bell whatever, the brass knobs were looked upon rather in the light of a conventionality than a convenience.
But Gus said they looked like business, especially when they were clean, which wasn't always, as a couple of American gentlemen, friends of Darley's, were in the habit of squirting tobacco-juice at them from the other side of the way, in the dusky twilight; the man who hit the brass oftenest out of six times to be the winner, and the loser to stand beer all the evening—that is to say, until some indefinite time on the following morning, for Darley's parties seldom broke up very early; and to let the visitors out and take the morning milk in was often a simultaneous proceeding in the household of our young surgeon.
If he had been a surgeon only, he would surely have been a Sir Benjamin Brodie; for when it is taken into account that he could play the piano, organ, guitar, and violoncello, without having learned any of those instruments; that he could write a song, and compose the melody to it; that he could draw horses and dogs after Herring and Landseer; make more puns in one sentence than any burlesque writer living; make love to half-a-dozen women at once, and be believed by every one of them; sing a comic song, or tell a funny story; name the winner of the Derby safer than any prophet on that side of the water; and make his book for the Leger with one hand while he wrote a prescription with the other; the discriminating reader will allow that there was a good deal of some sort of talent or other in the composition of Mr. Augustus Darley.
In the twilight of this particular autumn evening he is busily engaged putting up a heap of little packets labelled "Best Epsom Salts," while his assistant, a very small youth, of a far more elderly appearance than his master, lights the gas. The ​half-glass door that communicates with the little back parlour is ajar, and Gus is talking to some one within.
"If I go over the water to-night, Bell—" he says.
A feminine voice from within interrupts him—"But you won't go to-night, Gus; the last time you went to that horrid Smasher's, Mrs. Tompkins's little boy was ill, and they sent into the London Road for Mr. Parker. And you are such a favourite with everybody, dear, that they say if you'd only stay at home always, you'd have the best practice in the neighbourhood."
"But, Bell, how can a fellow stay at home night after night, and perhaps half his time only sell a penn'orth of salts or a poor man's plaster? If they'd be ill," he added, almost savagely, "I wouldn't mind stopping in; there's some interest in that. Or if they'd come and have their teeth drawn; but they never will: and I'm sure I sell 'em our Infallible Anti-toothache Tincture; and if that don't make 'em have their teeth out, nothing will."
"Come and have your tea, Gus; and tell Snix to bring his basin."
Snix was the boy, who forthwith drew from a cupboard under the counter the identical basin into which, when a drunken man was brought into the shop, Gus usually bled him, with a double view of obtaining practice in his art and bringing the patient back to consciousness.
The feminine occupant of the parlour is a young lady with dark hair and grey eyes, and something under twenty years of age. She is Augustus Darley's only sister; she keeps his house, and in an emergency she can make up a prescription—nay, has been known to draw a juvenile patient's first tooth, and give him his money back after the operation for the purchase of consolatory sweetstuffs.
Perhaps Isabel Darley is just a little what very prim young ladies, who have never passed the confines of the boarding-school or the drawing-room, might call "fast." But when it is taken into consideration that she was left an orphan at an early age, that she never went to school in her life, and that she has for a very considerable period been in the habit of associating with her brother's friends, chiefly members of the Cherokee Society, it is not so much to be wondered at that she is a little more masculine in her attainments, and "go-ahead" in her opinions, than some others of her sex.
The parlour is small, as has before been stated. One of the Cherokees has been known to suggest, when there were several visitors present and the time arrived for their departure, that they should be taken out singly with a corkscrew. Other Cherokees, arriving after the room had been filled with visitors, ​had been heard to advise that somebody should go in first with a candle, to ascertain whether vitality could be sustained in the atmosphere. Perhaps the accommodation was not extended by the character of the furniture, which consisted of a cottage piano, a chair for the purposes of dental surgery, a small Corinthian column supporting a basin with a metal plug and chain useful for like purposes; also a violoncello in the corner, a hanging bookshelf—(which was a torture to tall Cherokees, as one touch from a manly head would tilt down the shelves and shower the contents of Mr. Darley's library on the head in question, like a literary waterfall)—and a good-sized sofa, with that unmistakable well, and hard back and arms, which distinguish the genus sofa-bedstead. Of course tables, chairs, china ornaments, a plaster-of-Paris bust here and there, caricatures on the walls, a lamp that wouldn't burn, and a patent arrangement for the manufacture of toasted cheese, are trifles in the way of furniture not worth naming. Miss Darley's birds, again, though they did spill seed and water into the eyes of unoffending visitors, and drop lumps of dirty sugar sharply down upon the noses of the same, could not of course be considered a nuisance; but certainly the compound surgery and back-parlour in the mansion of Augustus Darley was, to say the least, a little too full of furniture.
While Isabel is pouring out the tea, two gentlemen open the shop door, and the bell attached thereto, which should ring but doesn't, catching in the foremost visitor's foot, nearly precipitates him headlong into the emporium of the disciple of Esculapius. This foremost visitor is no other than Mr. Peters, and the tall figure behind him, wrapped in a greatcoat, is Daredevil Dick.
"Here I am, Gus!" he cries out, in his own bold hearty voice; "here I am; found your place at last, in spite of the fascinations of half the stale shell-fish in the United Kingdom. Here I am; and here's the best friend I have in the world, not even excepting yourself, old fellow."
Gus introduces Richard to his sister Isabel, who has been taught from her childhood to look upon the young man shut up in a lunatic asylum down at Slopperton as the greatest hero, next to Napoleon Buonaparte, that ever the world had boasted. She was a little girl of eleven years old at the time of Dick's trial, and had never seen her wild brother's wilder companion; and she looks up now at the dark handsome face with a glance of almost reverence in her deep gray eyes. But Bell is by no means a heroine; and she has a dozen unheroine-like occupations. She has the tea to pour out, and in her nervous excitement she scalds Richard's fingers, drops the sugar into the slop-basin, and pours all the milk into one cup of tea, ​What she would have done without the assistance of Mr. Peters, it is impossible to say; for that gentleman showed himself the very genius of order; cut thin bread-and-butter enough for half-a-dozen, which not one of the party touched; re-filled the teapot before it was empty; lit the gas-lamp which hung from the ceiling; shut the door which communicated with the shop and the other door which led on to the staircase; and did all so quietly that nobody knew he was doing anything.
Poor Richard! In spite of the gratitude and happiness he feels in his release, there is a gloom upon his brow and an abstraction in his manner, which he tries in vain to shake off.
A small, round, chubby individual, who might be twelve or twenty, according to the notions of the person estimating her age, removed the tea-tray, and in so doing broke a saucer. Gus looked up. "She always does it," he said, mildly. "We're getting quite accustomed to the sound. It rather reduces our stock of china, and we sometimes are obliged to send out to buy tea-things before we can have any breakfast; but she's a good girl, and she doesn't steal the honey, or the jujubes, or the tartaric acid out of the seidlitz-powders, as the other one did; not that I minded that much," he continued; "but she couldn't read, and she sometimes filled up the papers with arsenic for fear of being found out; and that might have been inconvenient, if we'd ever happened to sell them."
"Now, Gus," said Richard, as he drew his chair up to the fireplace and lit his pipe—permission being awarded by Bell, who lived in one perpetual atmosphere of tobacco-smoke—"now, Gus, I want Peters to tell you all about this affair; how it was he thought me innocent; how he hit upon the plan he formed for saving my neck; how he tried to cast about and find a clue to the real murderer; how he thought he had found a clue, and how he lost it."
"Shall my sister stop while he tells the story?" asked Gus.
"She is your sister, Gus," answered Richard. "She cannot be so unlike you as not to be a true and pitying friend to me. Miss Darley," he continued, turning towards her as he spoke, "you do not think me quite so bad a fellow as the world has made me out; you would like to see me righted, and my name freed from the stain of a vile crime?"
"Mr. Marwood," the girl answered, in an earnest voice, "I have heard your sad story again and again from my brother's lips. Had you too been my brother, I could not, believe me, have felt a deeper interest in your fate, or a truer sorrow for your misfortunes. It needs but to look into your face, or hear your voice, to know how little you deserve the imputation that has been cast upon you."
Richard rises and gives her his hand. No languid and lady​like pressure, such as would not brush the down off a butterfly's wing, but an honest hearty grasp, that comes straight from the heart.
"And now for Mr. Peters's story," said Gus, "while I brew a jugful of whisky-punch."
"You can follow his hands, Gus?" asks Richard.
"Every twist and turn of them. He and I had many a confab about you, old fellow, before we went out fishing," said Gus, looking up from the pleasing occupation of peeling a lemon.
"Now for it, then," said Richard; and Mr. Peters accordingly began.
Perhaps, considering his retiring from the Slopperton police force a great event, not to say a crisis, in his life, Mr. Peters had celebrated it by another event; and, taking the tide of his affairs at the flood, had availed himself of the water to wash his hands with. At any rate, the digital alphabet was a great deal cleaner than when, eight years ago, he spelt out the two words, "Not guilty," in the railway carriage.
There was something very strange to a looker-on in the little party, Gus, Richard, and Bell, all with earnest eyes fixed on the active fingers of the detective—the silence only broken by some exclamation at intervals from one of the three.
"When first I see this young gent," say the fingers, as Mr. Peters designates Richard with a jerk of his elbow, "I was a-standin' on the other side of the way, a-waitin' till my superior, Jinks, as was as much up to his business as a kitting,"—(Mr. Peters has rather what we may call a fancy style of orthography, and takes the final g off some words to clap it on to others, as his taste dictates)—"a-waitin,' I say, till Jinks should want my assistance. Well, gents all—beggin' the lady's parding, as sits up so manly, with none of yer faintin' nor 'steriky games, as I a'most forgot she was a lady—no sooner did I clap eyes upon Mr. Marwood here, a-smokin' his pipe, in Jinks's face, and a-answerin' him sharp, and a-behavin' what you may call altogether cocky, than I says to myself, 'They've got the wrong un.' My fust words and my last about this 'ere gent, was, 'They've got the wrong un.'"
Mr. Peters looked round at the attentive party with a glance of triumph, rubbed his hands by way of a full-stop, and went on with his manual recital.
"For why?" said the fingers, interrogatively, "for why did I think as this 'ere gent was no good for this 'ere murder; for why did I think them chaps at Slopperton had got on the wrong scent? Because he was cheeky? Lor' bless your precious eyes, miss" (by way of gallantry he addresses himself here to Isabel), "not a bit of it! When a cove goes and cuts another cove's ​throat off-hand, it ain't likely he ain't prepared to cheek a police-officer. But when I reckoned up this young gent's face, what was it I see? Why, as plain as I see his nose and his moustachios—and he ain't bad off for neither of them," said the fingers, parenthetically—"I see that he hadn't done it. Now, a cove what's screwed up to face a judge and jury, maybe can face 'em, and never change a hue of his mug; but there isn't a cove as lives as can stand that first tap of a detective's hand upon his shoulder as tells him, plain as words, 'The game is up.' The best of 'em, and the pluckiest of 'em, drops under that. If they keeps the colour in their face—which some of 'em has got the power to do, and none as never tried it on can guess the pain—if they can do that 'ere, the perspiration breaks out wet and cold upon their for'eds, and that blows 'em. But this young gent—he was took aback, he was surprised, and he was riled, and used bad language; but his colour never changed, and he wasn't once knocked over till Jinks, unbusiness-like, told him of his uncle's murder, when he turned as white as that 'ere 'ed of Bon-er-part." Mr. Peters, for want of a better comparison, glanced in the direction of a bust of the victor of Marengo, which, what with tobacco-smoke and a ferocious pair of burnt cork moustachios, was by no means the whitest object in creation.
"Now, what a detective officer's good at, if he's worth his salt, is this 'ere: when he sees two here and another two there, he can put 'em together, though they might be a mile apart to anybody not up to the trade, and make 'em into four. So, thinks I, the gent isn't took aback at bein' arrested; but he is took aback when he hears as how his uncle's murdered. Now, if he'd committed the murder, he'd know of it; and he might sham surprise, but he wouldn't be surprised; and this young gent was knocked all of a heap as genuine as—" Mr. Peters's ideas still revert to the bust of Napoleon—"as ever that 'ere forring cove was, when he sees his old guard scrunched up small at the battle of Waterloo."
"Heaven knows, Peters," said Richard, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and looking up from his stooping position over the fire, "Heaven knows you were right; I did feel my heart turn cold when I heard of that good man's death."
"Well, that they'd got the wrong un I saw was as clear as daylight—but where was the right un? That was the question. Whoever committed the murder did it for the money in that 'ere cabinet: and sold agen they was, whoever they was, and didn't get the money. Who was in the house? This young gent's mother and the servant. I was nobody in the Gardenford force, and I was less than nobody at Slopperton; so get into that house at the Black Mill I couldn't. This young gent was walked off to jail, and I was sent about my business—my orders ​bein' to be back in Gardenford that evenin', leavin' Slopperton by the three-thirty train. Well, I was a little cut up about this young gent; for I seed that the case was dead agen him; the money in his pocket—the blood on his sleeve—a cock-and-a-bull story of a letter of introduction, and a very evident attempt at a bolt—only enough to hang him, that's all; and, for all that, I had a inward conwiction that he was as hinnercent of the murder as that 'ere plaster-of-Paris stattur." Mr. Peters goes regularly to the bust for comparisons, by way of saving time and trouble in casting about for fresh ones.
"But my orders," continued the fingers, "was positive, so I goes down to the station to start by the three-thirty; and as I walks into the station-yard, I hears the whistle, and sees the train go. I was too late; and as the next train didn't start for near upon three hours, I thought I'd take a stroll and 'av a look at the beauties of Slopperton. Well, I strolls on, promiscuous like, till I comes to the side of a jolly dirty-looking river; and as by this time I feels a little dry, I walks on, lookin' about for a public; but ne'er a one do I see, till I almost tumbles into a dingy little place, as looked as if it did about half-a-pint a-day reg'lar, when business was brisk. But in I walks, past the bar; and straight afore me I sees a door as leads into the parlour. The passage was jolly dark; and this 'ere door was ajar; and inside I hears voices. Well, you see, business is business, and pleasure is pleasure; but when a cove takes a pleasure in his business, he gets a way of lettin' his business habits come out unbeknownst when he's takin' his pleasure: so I listens. Now, the voice I heerd fust was a man's voice; and, though the place was a sort of crib such as nobody but navvies or such-like would be in the habit of going to, this 'ere was the voice of a gentleman. I can't say as I ever paid much attention to grammar myself, though I daresay it's very pleasant and amusin' when you enter into it; but, for all that, I'd knocked about in the world long enough to know a gent's way of speakin' from a navvy's, as well as I know'd one tune on the accordion from another tune. It was a nice, soft-spoken voice too, and quite melodious and pleasant to listen to; but it was a-sayin' some of the cruelest and hardest words as ever was spoke to a woman yet by any creature with the cheek to call himself a man. You're not much good, my friend, says I, with your lardy-dardy ways and your cold-blooded words, whoever you are. You're a thin chap, with light hair and white hands, I know, though I've never seen you; and there's very little in the way of wickedness that you wouldn't be up to on a push. Now, just as I was a-thinkin' this, he said somethin' that sent the blood up into my face as hot as fire—'I expected a sum of money, and I've been disappointed of it,' he said; and before the girl he was a-talkin' ​to could open her lips, he caught her up sudden—'Never you mind how,' he says, 'never you mind how.'
"He expected a sum of money, and he'd been disappointed of it! So had the man who had murdered this young gent's uncle.
"Not much in this, perhaps. But why was he so frightened at the thoughts of her asking him how he expected the money, and how he'd bin disappointed? There it got fishy. At any rate, says I to myself, I'll have a look at you, my friend; so in I walks, very quiet and quite unbeknownst. He was a-sittin' with his back to the door, and the young woman he was a-talkin' to was standin' lookin' out of the winder; so neither of 'em saw me. He was buildin' up some cards into a 'ouse, and had got 'em up very high, when I laid my hand upon his shoulder sudden. He turned round and looked at me." Mr. Peters here paused, and looked round at the little group, who sat watching his fingers with breathless attention. He had evidently come to a point in his narrative.
"Now, what did I see in his face when he looked at me? Why, the very same look that I missed in the face of this young gent when Jinks took him in the mornin'. The very same look that I'd seen in a many faces, and never know'd it differ, whether it came one way or another, always bein' the same look at bottom—the look of a man as is guilty of what will hang him and thinks that he's found out. But as you can't give looks in as evidence, this wasn't no good in a practical way; but I says to myself, if ever there was anything certain in this world since it was begun, I've come across the right un: so I sits down and takes up a newspaper. I signified to him that I was dumb, and he took it for granted that I was deaf as well—which was one of those stupid mistakes your clever chaps sometimes fall into—so he went on a-talking to the girl.
"Well, it was a old story enough, what him and the girl was talkin' of; but every word he said made him out a more cold-blooded villain than the last.
"Presently he offered her some money—four sovereigns. She served him as he ought to have been served, and threw them every one slap in his face. One cut him over the eye; and I was glad of it. 'You're marked, my man,' thinks I, 'and nothin' could be handier agen I want you.' He picked up three of the sovereigns, but for all he could do he couldn't find the fourth. So he had the cut (which was a jolly deep un) plastered up, and he went away. She stared at the river uncommon hard, and then she went away. Now I didn't much like the look she gave the river, so as I had about half an hour to spare before the train started, I followed her. I think she knew it; for presently she turned short off into a little street, and when I turned into it after her she wasn't to be seen right or left.
​"Well, I had but half an hour, so I thought it was no use chasin' this unfortunate young creature through all the twistings and turnings of the back slums of Slopperton; so after a few minutes' consideration, I walked straight to the station. Hang me if I wasn't too late for the train again. I don't know how it was, but I couldn't keep my mind off the young woman, nor keep myself from wonderin' what she was agoin' to do with herself, and what she was agoin' to do with that 'ere baby. So I walks back agen down by the water, and as I'd a good hour and a half to spare, I walks a good way, thinking of the young man, and the cut on his forehead. It was nigh upon dark by this time, and foggy into the bargain. Maybe I'd gone a mile or more, when I comes up to a barge what lay at anchor quite solitary. It was a collier, and there was a chap on board, sittin' in the stern, smokin', and lookin' at the water. There was no one else in sight but him and me; and no sooner does he spy me comin' along the bank than he sings out,
"'Hulloa! Have you met a young woman down that way?'
"His words struck me all of a heap somehow, comin' so near upon what I was a-thinkin' of myself. I shook my head; and he said,
"'There's been some unfort'nate young girl down here tryin' to dround her baby. I see the little chap in the water, and fished him out with my boat-hook. I'd seen the girl hangin' about here, just as it was a-gettin' dark, and then I heard the splash when she threw the child in; but the fog was too thick for me to see anything ashore by that time.'
"The barge was just alongside the bank, and I stepped on board. Not bein' so fortunate as to have a voice, you know, it comes awkward with strangers, and I was rather put to it to get on with the young man. And didn't he sing out loud when he came to understand I was dumb; he couldn't have spoke in a higher key if I'd been a forriner.
"He told me he should take the baby round to the Union; all he hoped he said, was, that the mother wasn't a-goin' to do anything bad with herself.
"I hoped not too; but I remembered that look of hers when she stood at the window staring out at the river, and I didn't feel very easy in my mind about her.
"I took the poor little wet thing up in my arms. The young man had wrapped it in an old jacket, and it was a-cryin' piteous, and lookin', on, so scared and miserable.
"Well, it may seem a queer whim, but I'm rather soft-hearted on the subject of babies, and often had a thought that I should like to try the power of cultivation in the way of business, and bring a child up from the very cradle to the police detective line, to see whether I couldn't make that 'ere child a ornament to the ​force. I wasn't a marryin' man, and by no means likely ever to 'av a family of my own; so when I took up that 'ere baby in my arms, somehow or other the thought came into my 'ed of adoptin' him, and bringin' of him up. So I rolled him up in my greatcoat, and took him with me to Gardenford."
"And a wonderful boy he is," said Richard; "we'll educate him, Peters, and make a gentleman of him."
"Wait a bit," said the fingers very quickly; "thank you kindly, sir; but if the police force of this 'ere country was robbed of that 'ere boy, it would be robbed of a gem as it couldn't afford to lose."
"Go on, Peters; tell them the rest of your story."
"Well, though I felt in my own mind that by one of those strange chances which does happen in life, maybe as often as they happen in story-books, I had fallen across the man who had committed the murder, yet for all that I hadn't evidence enough to get a hearin'. I got transferred from Gardenford to Slopperton, and every leisure minute I had I tried to come across the man I'd marked; but nowhere could I see him, or hear of any one answering his description. I went to the churches; for I thought him capable of anything, even to shammin' pious. I went to the theayter, and I see a young woman accused of poisonin' a fam'ly, and proved innocent by a police cove as didn't know his business any more than a fly. I went anywhere and everywhere, but I never see that man; and it was gettin' uncommon near the trial of this young gent, and nothin' done. How was he to be saved? I thought of it by night and thought of it by day; but work it out I couldn't nohow. One day I hears of an old friend of the pris'ner's being sup-boned-aed as witness for the crown. This friend I determined to see; for two 'eds"—Mr. Peters looked round, as though he defied contradiction—"shall be better than one."
"And this friend," said Gus, "was your humble servant; who was only too glad to find that poor Dick had one sincere friend in the world who believed in his innocence, besides myself."
"Well, Mr. Darley and me," resumed Mr. Peters, "put our 'eds together, and we came to this conclusion, that if this young gent was mad when he committed the murder, they couldn't hang him, but would shut him in a asylum for the rest of his nat'ral life—which mayn't be pleasant in the habstract, but which is better than hangin', any day."
"So you determined on proving me mad," said Richard.
"We hadn't such very bad grounds to go upon, perhaps, old fellow," replied Mr. Darley; "that brain fever, which we thought such a misfortune when it laid you up for three dreary weeks, stood us in good stead; we had something to go upon, for we knew ​we could get you off by no other means. But to get you off this way we wanted your assistance, and we didn't hit upon the plan till it was too late to get at you and tell you our scheme; we didn't hit upon it till twelve o'clock on the night before your trial. We tried to see your counsel; but he had that morning left the town, and wasn't to return till the trial came on. Peters hung about the court all the morning, but couldn't see him; and nothing was done when the judge and jury took their seats. You know the rest; how Peters caught your eye——"
"Yes," said Dick, "and how seven letters upon his fingers told me the whole scheme, and gave me my cue; those letters formed these two words, 'Sham mad.'"
"And very well you did it at the short notice, Dick," said Gus; "upon my word, for the moment I was almost staggered, and thought, suppose in getting up this dodge we are only hitting upon the truth, and the poor fellow really has been driven out of his wits by this frightful accusation?"
"A scrap of paper," said Mr. Peters, on his active fingers, "gave the hint to your counsel—a sharp chap enough, though a young un."
"I can afford to reward him now for his exertions," said Richard, "and I must find him for that purpose. But Peters, for heaven's sake tell us about this young man whom you suspect to be the murderer. If I go to the end of the world in search of him, I'll find him, and drag him and his villany to light, that my name may be cleared from the foul stain it wears."
Mr. Peters looked very grave. "You must go a little further than the end of this world to find him, I'm afraid, sir," said the fingers. "What do you say to looking for him in the next? for that's the station he'd started for when I last saw him; and I believe that on that line, with the exception of now and then a cock-and-a-bull-lane ghost, they don't give no return tickets."
"Dead?" said Richard. "Dead, and escaped from justice?"
"That's about the size of it, sir," replied Mr. Peters. "Whether he thought as how something was up, and he was blown, or whether he was riled past bearin' at findin' no money in that 'ere cabinet, I can't take upon myself to say; but I found him six months after the murder out upon a heath, dead, with a laudanum-bottle a-lying by his side."
"And did you ever find out who he was?" asked Gus.
"He was a usher, sir, at a 'cademy for young gents, and a very pious young man he was too, I've heard; but for all that he murdered this young gent's uncle, or my name isn't Peters."
"Beyond the reach of justice," said Richard; "then the truth can never be brought to light, and to the end of my days I must bear the stigma of a crime of which I am innocent."