This Man's Wife. Fenn George Manville

were painful to old Gemp. If any one had propounded a riddle, and gone away without supplying the answer, he would have been terribly aggrieved.

      He was still frowning, and trying to get over the mystery of why James Thickens should be at Miss Heathery’s when that lady was out, and his ideas were turning in the direction of the little maid, when a wholesome stimulus was given to his thoughts by the arrival of the London coach, the alighting of whose passengers he had hardly once missed seeing for years.

      Hurrying up to the front of the “George,” he was just in time to see a dashing-looking young fellow, who had just alighted from the box-seat, stretching his legs, and beating his boots with a cane. He had been giving orders for his little valise to be carried into the house, and was staring about him in the half-light, when he became aware of the fact that old Gemp was watching him curiously.

      He involuntarily turned away; but seeming to master himself, he turned back, and said sharply, “Where does Mr Hallam live?”

      “Mr Hallam!” cried Gemp eagerly; “bank’s closed hours ago.”

      “I didn’t ask for the bank. Where is Mr Hallam’s private residence?”

      “Well,” said Gemp, rubbing his hands and laughing unpleasantly, “that’s it – the ‘Little Manor’ as he calls it; but it’s a big place, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, he lives there, does he?” said the visitor, glancing curiously at the ivy-covered house across the way.

      “Not yet,” said Gemp. “That’s where he is going to live when – ”

      “He’s married. I know. Now then, old Solomon, if you can answer a plain question, where does he live now?”

      “Mrs Pinet’s house, yonder on the left, where the porch stands out, and the flower-pots are in the window.”

      “Humph! hasn’t moved, then. Let’s see,” muttered the visitor, “that’s where I took the flower-pot to throw at the dog. No: that’s the house.”

      “Can I – ?” began Gemp insidiously.

      “No, thankye. Good evening,” said the visitor. “You can tell ’em I’ve come. Ta ta! Gossipping old fool!” he added to himself, as he walked quickly down the street; while, after staring after him for a few minutes, Gemp turned sharply on his heel, and made for Gorringe’s – Mr Gorringe being the principal tailor.

      Mr Gorringe’s day’s work was done, consequently his legs were uncrossed, and he was seated in a Christian-like manner – that is to say, in a chair just inside his door, smoking his evening pipe, but still in his shirtsleeves, and with an inch tape gracefully hanging over his neck and shoulders.

      “I say, neighbour,” cried Gemp eagerly, “you bank with Dixons’.”

      Mr Gorringe’s pipe fell from his hand, and broke into a dozen pieces upon the floor.

      “Is – is anything wrong?” he gasped; “and it’s past banking hours.”

      “Yah! get out!” cried old Gemp, showing his yellow teeth. “You’re always thinking about your few pence in the bank. Why, I bank there, and you don’t see me going into fits. Yah! what a coward you are!”

      “Then – then, there’s nothing wrong?”

      “Wrong? No.”

      “Hah!” ejaculated the tailor. “Mary, bring me another pipe.”

      “I only come in a friendly way,” cried Gemp, “to put you on your guard.”

      “Then there is something wrong,” cried the tailor, aghast.

      “No, no, no. I want to give you a hint about Hallam.”

      “Hallam!”

      “Ay! Has he ordered his wedding-suit of you?”

      “No.”

      “Thought not,” said Gemp, rubbing his hands. “I should be down upon him if I were you. Threaten to withdraw my account, man. Dandy chap down from London to-night to take his orders.”

      “No!”

      “Yes. By the coach. Saw he was a tailor in a moment. Wouldn’t stand it if I were you.”

      Mrs Pinet, who came to the door with a candle, in answer to a sharp rap with the visitor’s cane, held up her candle above her head, and stared at him for a moment. Then a smile dimpled her pleasant, plump face.

      “Why, bless me, sir! how you have changed!” she said.

      “You know me again, then?” he said nodding familiarly.

      “That I do, sir, and I am glad. You’re the young gentleman Mr Hallam helped just about a year ago.”

      “Yes, that’s me. Is he at home?”

      “Yes, sir. Will you come this way?”

      Mrs Pinet drew back to allow the visitor to enter, closed the door, set down her candle, and then tapped softly on the panel at her right.

      “Here’s that gentleman to see you, sir,” she said, in response to the quick “Come in.”

      “Gentleman to see me? Oh, it’s you,” said Hallam, rising from his seat to stand very upright and stern-looking, with one hand in his breast.

      “Yes, I’ve come down again,” said the visitor slowly, so as to give Mrs Pinet time to get outside the door; and then, by mutual consent, they waited until her step had pattered over the carefully-reddened old bricks, and a door at the back closed.

      Meanwhile Hallam’s eyes ran rapidly over his visitor’s garb, and he seemed satisfied, though he smiled a little at the extravagance of the attire.

      “Why have you come down?” he said at last. “Because I didn’t want to write. Because I thought you’d like to know how things were going. Because I wanted to see how you were getting on. Because I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

      “Because you wanted more money. Because you thought you could put on the screw. Because you thought you could frighten me. Pish! I could extend your list of reasons indefinitely, Stephen Crellock, my lad,” said Hallam, in a quiet tone of voice that was the more telling from the anger it evidently concealed.

      “What a one you are, Robby, old fellow! Just as you used to be when we were at – ”

      “Let the past rest,” said Hallam in a whisper. “It will be better for both.”

      “Oh-h-h-h!” said his visitor, in a peculiar way. “Don’t talk like that, Rob, old chap. It sounds like making plans, and a tall, handsome man in disguise waylaying a well-dressed gentleman from town, shooting him with pistols, carrying the body in the dead of the night to the bank, doubling it up in an iron chest, pouring in a lot of lime, and then shutting the lid, sealing it up, and locking it in the far corner of the bank cellar, as if it was somebody’s plate. That’s the game, eh?”

      “I should like to,” said Hallam coolly.

      “Ha – ha – ha – ha!” laughed his visitor, sitting down; “but I’m not afraid, Rob, or I should not have put my head in the lion’s den. That’s not the sort of thing you would do, because you always were so gentlemanly, and had such a tender conscience. See how grieved you were when I got into trouble, and you escaped.”

      “Will you – ”

      “Will I what? Speak like that before any one else? Will I threaten you with telling tales, if you don’t give me money to keep my mouth shut? Will I be a sneak?” cried Crellock, speaking quite as fiercely as Hallam, and rising to his feet, and looking, in spite of his ultra costume, a fine manly fellow.

      “Well, yes, you cowardly cur; have you come down to do this now?” said Hallam menacingly.

      “Pish!” said the other contemptuously as he let himself sink back slowly into his chair. “Don’t try and bully, Rob. It did when I came down, weak and half-starved and miserable, after two years’ imprisonment; but it won’t do now. I don’t look hard