Then the vapour shredded off into thin wisps, which floated
away in the summer sunshine, and all was quiet again in the Heartsease
mine. “And now, having carried out our plans so successfully, it only remained
to leave no trace behind us. Our little band of workers at the other end
had already ripped up the rails and disconnected the side line,
replacing everything as it had been before. We were equally busy at the
mine. The funnel and other fragments were thrown in, the shaft was
planked over as it used to be, and the lines which led to it were torn
up and taken away. Then, without flurry, but without delay, we all made
our way out of the country, most of us to Paris, my English colleague to
Manchester, and McPherson to Southampton, whence he emigrated to
America. Let the English papers of that date tell how thoroughly we had
done our work, and how completely we had thrown the cleverest of their
detectives off our track. “You will remember that Gomez threw his bag of papers out of the window,
and I need not say that I secured that bag and brought them to my
employers. It may interest my employers now, however, to learn that out
of that bag I took one or two little papers as a souvenir of the
occasion. I have no wish to publish these papers; but, still, it is
every man for himself in this world, and what else can I do if my
friends will not come to my aid when I want them? Messieurs, you may
believe that Herbert de Lernac is quite as formidable when he is against
you as when he is with you, and that he is not a man to go to the
guillotine until he has seen that every one of you is _en route_ for New
Caledonia. For your own sake, if not for mine, make haste, Monsieur
de ——, and General ——, and Baron —— (you can fill up the blanks for
yourselves as you read this). I promise you that in the next edition
there will be no blanks to fill. “P.S.—As I look over my statement there is only one omission which I can
see. It concerns the unfortunate man McPherson, who was foolish enough
to write to his wife and to make an appointment with her in New York. It
can be imagined that when interests like ours were at stake, we could
not leave them to the chance of whether a man in that class of life
would or would not give away his secrets to a woman. Having once broken
his oath by writing to his wife, we could not trust him any more. We
took steps therefore to insure that he should not see his wife. I have
sometimes thought that it would be a kindness to write to her and to
assure her that there is no impediment to her marrying again.”




                         THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER


My uncle, Mr. Stephen Maple, had been at the same time the most
successful and the least respectable of our family, so that we hardly
knew whether to take credit for his wealth or to feel ashamed of his
position. He had, as a matter of fact, established a large grocery in
Stepney which did a curious mixed business, not always, as we had heard,
of a very savoury character, with the riverside and seafaring people. He
was ship’s chandler, provision merchant, and, if rumour spoke truly,
some other things as well. Such a trade, however lucrative, had its
drawbacks, as was evident when, after twenty years of prosperity, he was
savagely assaulted by one of his customers and left for dead, with three
smashed ribs and a broken leg, which mended so badly that it remained
for ever three inches shorter than the other. This incident seemed, not
unnaturally, to disgust him with his surroundings, for, after the trial,
in which his assailant was condemned to fifteen years’ penal servitude,
he retired from his business and settled in a lonely part of the North
of England, whence, until that morning, we had never once heard of
him—not even at the death of my father, who was his only brother. My mother read his letter aloud to me: “If your son is with you, Ellen,
and if he is as stout a lad as he promised for when last I heard from
you, then send him up to me by the first train after this comes to hand. He will find that to serve me will pay him better than the engineering,
and if I pass away (though, thank God, there is no reason to complain as
to my health) you will see that I have not forgotten my brother’s son. Congleton is the station, and then a drive of four miles to Greta House,
where I am now living. I will send a trap to meet the seven o’clock
train, for it is the only one which stops here. Mind that you send him,
Ellen, for I have very strong reasons for wishing him to be with me. Let
bygones be bygones if there has been anything between us in the past. If
you should fail me now you will live to regret it.”

We were seated at either side of the breakfast table, looking blankly at
each other and wondering what this might mean, when there came a ring at
the bell, and the maid walked in with a telegram. It was from Uncle
Stephen. “On no account let John get out at Congleton,” said the message. “He
will find trap waiting seven o’clock evening train Stedding Bridge, one
station further down line. Let him drive not me, but Garth Farm
House—six miles. There will receive instructions. Do not fail; only you
to look to.”

“That is true enough,” said my mother. “As far as I know, your uncle has
not a friend in the world, nor has he ever deserved one. He has always
been a hard man in his dealings, and he held back his money from your
father at a time when a few pounds would have saved him from ruin. Why
should I send my only son to serve him now?”

But my own inclinations were all for the adventure. “If I have him for a friend, he can help me in my profession,” I argued,
taking my mother upon her weakest side. “I have never known him to help any one yet,” said she, bitterly. “And
why all this mystery about getting out at a distant station and driving
to the wrong address? He has got himself into some trouble and he wishes
us to get him out of it. When he has used us he will throw us aside as
he has done before. Your father might have been living now if he had
only helped him.”

But at last my arguments prevailed, for, as I pointed out, we had much
to gain and little to lose, and why should we, the poorest members of a
family, go out of our way to offend the rich one? My bag was packed and
my cab at the door, when there came a second telegram. “Good shooting. Let John bring gun. Remember Stedding Bridge, not
Congleton.” And so, with a gun-case added to my luggage and some
surprise at my uncle’s insistence, I started off upon my adventure. The journey lies over the main Northern Railway as far as the station of
Carnfield, where one changes for the little branch line which winds over
the fells. In all England there is no harsher or more impressive
scenery. For two hours I passed through desolate rolling plains, rising
at places into low, stone-littered hills, with long, straight outcrops
of jagged rock showing upon their surface.