CHAPTER XXII REVELATIONS

"Don't go with him, miss," urged Mrs. Quail. "He's a bad one: look at his eyes."

Beatrice had no need to look at them. She knew well the evil that they held, and shrank, as she always did, from contact with this creature of the night. Certainly Waterloo was much better dressed than when she had seen him last. He wore a somewhat shabby frock coat, a pair of smart patent-leather boots, a fashionable collar, and a silk hat which glistened like the sun. The tramp actually reeked of some fashionable scent, and swung a dandy cane with a genteel air. He wore a wig, from under which his natural red hair peeped; and his false teeth looked aggressively white and new. On the whole, Waterloo evidently considered that he was now a perfect buck, and ogled the comely landlady and the shrinking girl with an assured air.

"You are not deceiving me?" asked Beatrice, forcing herself to be civil to the man, for obvious reasons.

"S'elp me Bob! no," leered the rejuvenated wreck. "Durban, he come up t'town t'other day, an' wos run h'over by a bus as wos drivin' motor-car fashions--more miles an hour than sense, miss. He ses t'me--an ole pal of his--as he wanted to see you, and tell you wot y'should know. He ses es he'll tell you who killed your par an' th' ole Alpenny bloke."

This remark decided Beatrice. Come what may, she determined to learn the truth at last. Also, Durban was her best and oldest friend, and from what Lady Watson had said he had evidently been a better friend to her than she knew. After a moment or two she made up her mind, and turned to Mrs. Quail, who was gazing disdainfully at the leering Waterloo.

"I must go, Mrs. Quail," she said decisively; "if Durban is ill I must help him."

"But with this man?"

"Oh! I'm saif, laidy. No 'arm about me. Oh no, not at all."

"If Mr. Paslow comes," said Beatrice, addressing the landlady, and taking no notice of Waterloo, "tell him I have gone with Waterloo to see Durban.--Where is he?" she asked the man.

"In a room in a 'ouse, Malta Street, Stepney--No. 50," said Waterloo quickly, and passed along a scrap of dirty paper to Mrs. Quail. "If the young laidy don't come back saif an' sound, you'll find me 'ere."

"If she's not back by nine to-night," retorted Mrs. Quail, putting the paper in her pocket, "I'll see the police about the matter.--And after all, miss, I wouldn't go with him."

"I must," said Beatrice quickly; "there is so much at stake." And giving the landlady no further time to remonstrate, she walked away with Waterloo, who swaggered like the buck he thought he was.

"How do we get to Stepney?" asked Beatrice while they walked along Kensington High Street.

"Underground," said Waterloo glibly. "Underground to Bishopgate, an' then we taike th' Liverpool Street train to Stepney, an'----"

"That is enough," said Beatrice, cutting him short, and walking very fast; "speak as little to me as you can."

Waterloo scowled, and his scowl was not a pleasant sight. However, he held his tongue until they were safe in a first-class underground carriage--Beatrice did not want to go with this creature in a third-class, and luckily there were three or four ladies in the compartment. While the train was steaming through the tunnels, Waterloo held a whispered conversation with Beatrice. At first she was inclined to stop him; but when she heard what he had to say, she listened attentively.

"I saiy," murmured the rogue confidentially, "you're a clipper; y'are tryin' to find out all about us. But y'won't. There's only one cove es can put things straight, an' thet is Waterloo Esquire."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Ah, thet's tellin's, miss. Don't you arsk any questing, an' no lies will be tole. But if y'meke it wuth me while, I'll git you the young gent all t'yourself."

"Mr. Paslow?"

"Thet's him. Not a bad cove--oh, by no means--but a greenhorn, miss, es anyone kin see. If he don't do wot the Major wants him to do, he's a goner--saime es your par an' the Alpenny cove."

"What does the horrible creature mean?" Beatrice asked herself half aloud, and he heard her.

"Don' call naimes, miss. Th' king comes the cadger's waiy sometime, es I knows, an' you may 'ave to meke use of me some daiy. It's all a questing of money."

"Of money?"

"Yuss"--he leaned forward and whispered hoarsely in her ear--"or of thet there necklace."

"It is not mine--it is----"

"But it are yours, miss, and you git it. Wen y'arsked everyone to try an' git t'know wot y'want t'know, and fail," said Waterloo, with great emphasis, "you pass along the necklace t'me, and then I'll tell y' wot's wot. I'm a oner, I am."

"But why do you wish to betray your friends for me?"

"Ah, their toime's acomin' to an end, miss, an' I don't want t'be in et th' finish, which is in th' dock. Wen ole Alpenny wos alive, he 'ad a 'ead, he 'ad; but this Major Ruck cove's spilin' things as quick es jimmy, oh."

"But in what way?"

"Oh, I ain't agoin' to saiy any more. Wen th' bust comes y'think of me, miss," and with this final remark, Waterloo lay back luxuriously against the soft cushions. Beatrice saw the necessity of enlisting this traitor on her side, and saw also that he was open to bribery, although the bribe of the necklace was a very costly one. But in spite of all her endeavours, she could not get the man to talk. Waterloo only winked and leered, and thrust his tongue in his cheek, much to the disgust of the ladies opposite, who apparently could not understand how such a quiet, ladylike girl came to be in the society of such a raffish animal.

With the utmost gravity Waterloo conducted Beatrice to the Liverpool Street Station, and placed her in another first-class carriage. This time he got the tickets himself, and she wondered where he had procured the money to do so. From what she had seen of the man, he was a genuine tramp, and more used to walking than to riding. But it was evident that he belonged to the Black Patch Gang, and apparently the gang had been successful lately. Waterloo himself declined to impart further information, but leered and winked as usual, so Beatrice held her peace, and tried to steel herself to the adventure. She recognised that she was acting foolishly in going into the slums with Waterloo, but since Vivian was lost to her, she felt that she cared very little what happened. Besides, desperate diseases require desperate remedies, and in that proverb she found ground for believing that she was acting rightly. Finally, she was certain that whatever was intended, her life would be safe, and while she lived she could always get out of any difficulty by exercising her strong will and undaunted spirit.

Alighting at Stepney Station, Waterloo conducted her to a four-wheeler, and this drove off down the street Then Waterloo engaged her in conversation, and hinted that he knew everything about the Black Patch Gang. Beatrice, listening to his half hints, became so interested that she did not notice that the cab was passing down a series of mean streets; and only when it drew up with a jerk before a most disreputable-looking house, did she see that she was in a very low and dangerous neighbourhood. However, she had gone too far to retreat, and therefore stepped out with great coolness. The cab drove off without payment. "One of us," said Waterloo, jerking his thumb over his shoulder with a wink.

They were admitted through a closely barred door into a narrow passage dimly lighted. On ascending the stairs Beatrice noted how foul the walls were with grime and grease. Various small rooms, some of which had open doors, revealed raffish individuals, and various states of disorder. The place was a den as foul as that inhabited by Mr. Fagin, and Beatrice, used to the fresh air of the country, felt ill with the tainted atmosphere. However, she suppressed all signs of disgust, as these would have made Waterloo angry, and for apparent reasons she wished to cultivate his good will.

He led her to the very top of the house, and came to another door sheeted with iron. In response to a touch on a button this opened, and pushing Beatrice in he closed it again, remaining on the outside. The girl, who was taken by surprise, tried to reopen the door, but it was fast closed, and she heard the little brute chuckle on the other side. She was caught, like a rat in a trap. It only remained for her to see if Durban was caught also--or if he exercised sufficient authority over the gang to release her when she wished to return to Kensington.

The surroundings amazed her. The corridor--it was not a narrow passage this time--was spacious, and decorated with velvet hangings. The carpet was velvet pile, and the ceiling was painted in a most delicate and artistic manner. While she was marvelling at this sight, so unexpected, a side door opened, and she beheld Major Ruck, as gigantic as ever, arrayed in a smart smoking suit.

"Just in time for afternoon tea," said the Major gallantly, and threw open the door. "Please to enter a bachelor's den, Miss Hedge."

"But Durban?" she asked, drawing back.

"I will tell you all about him," said the big man, with a bland smile. "In the meantime, as we have much to talk about and you must be faint after your long journey into these wilds, perhaps you will enter and accept my hospitality."

Beatrice cast one look at him, and entered without another word. The room was not large, but furnished with a splendour which startled her when she remembered the exterior of the house. The walls were hung with green silk, and the hangings were drawn back here and there by silver cords to show choice pictures. The ceiling was also painted, the floor was stained and covered with valuable Persian praying mats, and the furniture would have done credit to a West End drawing-room. It really looked rather like a woman's room, as there were plenty of flowers about, and on a tiny table of carved wood stood a tea equipage of silver and delicate egg-shell china.

"I have made ready for you," said the Major, drawing forward a chair to the table, and near a window which was filled in with stained glass. "I hope you like my crib. It is not so comfortable as that in the West End; but in these wilds"--he shrugged his big shoulders--"one has to put up with hardship. Will you have some tea?"

"No, thank you. I want to see Durban."

"He will be in presently."

Beatrice started to her feet. "Is he not ill?"

"He never was better in all his life. Pardon the ruse that was used to bring you here, but I knew well that you wouldn't come of your own free will."

"Allow me to go away," said Beatrice, walking towards the door,

"When we have had a talk and understand one another--not before," said Ruck, rising and standing before the fireplace. He was still smiling and bland and genial, and looked very spruce in his well-cut clothes. It was difficult to imagine such a man in such a room, when one recollected the vile neighbourhood.

"You will not dare to detain me against my will?"

"Oh yes, if it be necessary," said Ruck easily; "but I trust"--with a graceful bow--"that it will not be necessary."

"If you keep me here, my landlady in Kensington has the address of this place and will tell the police."

"I fear the police will waste their time, Miss Hedge. The address was a wrong one, with which Waterloo was purposely furnished."

"The address was Stepney----"

"But not Malta Street. This is in a different locality. Come, Miss Hedge, you must see that you are in my power. But I am a gentleman, so do not be afraid."

"Afraid!" The sound of the word made Beatrice fling back her head with a proud gesture. "I am afraid of nothing and no one, Major Ruck. I know how to protect myself."

"I hope you will know how to protect Mr. Paslow."

"What do you mean?"

"That can be explained after tea. Do pour out the tea, Miss Hedge; it is so pleasant to see a lady officiate."

Beatrice deliberately walked to the table and poured out a cup of tea for the Major, which she handed to him along with a plate of delicate cakes. "Will you not take one yourself?" said Ruck winningly; "it is not drugged."

Beatrice, although her heart was beating loudly, walked back to the table with a gay laugh. "You do not give me time," she said. "I am not at all afraid of drugs," and she filled herself a cup which she sipped with great enjoyment. When she also began to eat a cake, the Major smacked his leg with a look of admiration.

"Upon my word, Miss Hedge, you are plucky and no mistake. I wish you would marry me."

"Thanks; but I have no wish to."

"We should do great things together," urged Ruck.

"Doubtless; but you see I have an aversion to appearing in a police-court, Major Ruck. By the way, why did you not tell me that Mr. Paslow had appeared in one?"

"I very nearly did," said Ruck with great frankness, "as I thought it might frighten you into refusing him. But then I thought it would be better to send his wife along."

"Is she really his wife?" asked Beatrice doubtfully.

"Really and truly. Paslow always was a moral man. You can never marry him now."

"No. But I can always love him."

"The shadow without the substance," said Ruck, with a shrug; "you will find that unsatisfactory, Miss Hedge."

"That is entirely my affair, Major. And why don't you give me my proper name of Miss Hall?"

"Oh yes. I forgot that you knew all about that matter."

"I know more than you think, since I have seen Lady Watson."

Ruck started. "She told you nothing?" he said in vexed tones.

"Everything--even to the fact that she was about to run away with you on the night my father was murdered."

Ruck's brow grew dark, and he uttered something which was not exactly a blessing. However, he speedily recovered his good humour, and asked for a second cup of tea, which Beatrice just as good-humouredly handed to him. It was an odd interview.

"Well," said Beatrice after a pause, "and what do you wish to see me about, Major? I don't want to stay long."

"You seem to forget that you are in my power," said Ruck, nettled by this coolness.

"Oh no, I don't; but I am not afraid. Come now, Major, you can speak glibly enough when it suits you. I pay you the compliment of saying that you don't want to make love?"

"I don't. All the same, I admire you so much that I am mighty near insisting upon your becoming my wife. We have a clergyman who belongs to the Black Patch Gang, you know."

"Ah! Then you are a member of that Gang?"

"Yes," said the Major, with an embarrassed air. "I am a poor gentleman, who has taken to bad ways instead of earning an honest living."

"That is a pity," replied Beatrice, "for, in spite of your behaviour, Major, I like you. I wish you would turn over a new leaf."

"I doubt if I have one to turn," muttered Ruck, flushing a brick-red at her words. "However, if you will give me that necklace, I shall try and lead a better life. I have to," he confessed candidly, "as I don't mind telling you that the course of the Black Patch Gang is nearly run. The police have got to know too much, and at any moment may raid us."

"I have not got the necklace," said Beatrice coldly.

"I know that. Maud Carr had it, and told me how her father had found it. But instead of giving it to me, she passed it along to your mother."

"To whom," said Beatrice with emphasis, "it rightfully belongs."

"Well, yes; but also it belongs to me. Lady Watson will not give it to me, but she will to you. And, as a matter of fact, your father the Colonel left you the necklace."

"You contradict yourself, Major: you said it belonged to my mother."

"Possession is nine points of the law," said the big man, with a shrug, "and Lady Watson has the necklace, sure enough. But you can insist on her giving it to you, and then hand it to me. I'll vanish out of your life and trouble you no more. There is a wide field for the exercise of a gentleman's abilities in the States."

"And suppose I decline?" asked Beatrice disdainfully.

"In that case," replied Ruck, regarding her attentively, "I shall be compelled to accuse Mr. Vivian Paslow of having murdered Alpenny."

"That is a lie," cried Beatrice, starting to her feet. "It is the truth," retorted the Major, "the real truth."