BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

handing him back the flask, ‘that you’re very eccentric.’

      ‘Eccentric?’ replied the other, in an airy tone, ‘not at all, sir. I’m merely a civilized being with the veneer off. I am not hidden under an artificial coat of manner. No, I laugh—ha! ha! I skip, ha! ha!’ with a light trip on one foot. ‘I cry,’ in a dismal tone. ‘In fact, I am a man in his natural state—civilized sufficiently, but not over civilized.’

      ‘What’s your name?’ asked Mr Villiers, wondering whether the portly gentleman was mad.

      For reply the stranger dived into another pocket, and, bringing to light a long bill-poster, held it up before Mr Villiers.

      ‘Read! mark! and inwardly digest!’ he said in a muffled tone behind the bill.

      This document set forth in red, black, and blue letters, that the celebrated Wopples Family, consisting of twelve star artistes, were now in Ballarat, and would that night appear at the Academy of Music in their new and original farcical comedy, called ‘The Cruet-Stand’. Act I: Pepper! Act II: Mustard! Act III: Vinegar.

      ‘You, then,’ said Villiers, after he had perused this document, ‘are Mr Wopples?’

      ‘Theodore Wopples, at your service,’ said that gentleman, rolling up the bill, then putting it into his pocket, he produced therefrom a batch of tickets. ‘One of these,’ handing a ticket to Villiers, ‘will admit you to the stalls tonight, where you will see myself and the children in “The Cruet-Stand”.’

      ‘Rather a peculiar title, isn’t it?’ said Villiers, taking the ticket.

      ‘The play is still more peculiar, sir,’ replied Mr Wopples, restoring the bulky packet of tickets to his pocket, ‘dealing as it does with the adventures of a youth who hides his father’s will in a cruet stand, which is afterwards annexed by a comic bailiff.’

      ‘But isn’t it rather a curious thing to hide a will in a cruet stand?’ asked Villiers, smiling at the oddity of the idea.

      ‘Therein, sir, lies the peculiarity of the play,’ said Mr Wopples, grandly. ‘Of course the characters find out in Act I that the will is in the cruet stand; in Act II, while pursuing it, they get mixed up with the bailiff’s mother-in-law; and in Act III,’ finished Mr Wopples, exultingly, ‘they run it to earth in a pawnshop. Oh, I assure you it is a most original play.’

      ‘Very,’ assented the other, dryly; ‘the author must be a man of genius—who wrote it?’

      ‘It’s a translation from the German, sir,’ said Mr Wopples, taking a drink of sherry and water, ‘and was originally produced in London as “The Pickle Bottle”, the will being hidden with the family onions. In Melbourne it was the success of the year under the same title. I,’ with an air of genius, ‘called it “The Cruet Stand”.’

      ‘Then how did you get a hold of it,’ asked Villiers.

      ‘My wife, sir,’ said the actor, rolling out the words in his deep voice. ‘A wonderful woman, sir; paid a visit to Melbourne, and there, sir, seated at the back of the pit between a coal-heaver and an apple-woman, she copied the whole thing down.’

      ‘But isn’t that rather mean?’

      ‘Certainly not,’ retorted Wopples, haughtily; ‘the opulent Melbourne managers refuse to let me have their new pieces, so I have to take the law into my own hands. I’ll get all the latest London successes in the same way. We play “Ours” under the title of “The Hero’s Return, or the Soldier’s Bride”: we have done the “Silver King” as “The Living Dead”, which was an immense success.’

      Villiers thought that under such a contradictory title it would rather pique the curiosity of the public.

      ‘To-morrow night,’ pursued Mr Wopples, ‘we act “Called Back”, but it is billed as “The Blind Detective”; thus,’ said the actor, with virtuous scorn, ‘do we evade the grasping avarice of the Melbourne managers, who would make us pay fees for them.’

      ‘By the way,’ said Mr Wopples, breaking off suddenly in a light and airy manner, ‘as I came down here I saw a lovely girl—a veritable fairy, sir—with golden hair, and a bright smile that haunts me still. I exchanged a few remarks with her regarding the beauty of the day, and thus allegorically referred to the beauty of herself—a charming flight of fancy, I think, sir.’

      ‘It must have been Kitty Marchurst,’ said Villiers, not attending to the latter portion of Mr Wopples’ remarks.

      ‘Ah, indeed,’ said Mr Wopples, lightly, ‘how beautiful is the name of Kitty; it suggests poetry immediately—for instance:

      Kitty, ah Kitty, You are so pretty, Charming and witty, That ‘twere a pity I sung not this ditty In praise of my Kitty.

      On the spur of the moment, sir, I assure you; does it not remind you of Herrick?’

      Mr Villiers bluntly said it did not.

      ‘Ah! perhaps it’s more like Shakespeare?’ observed the actor, quite unabashed. ‘You think so?’

      Mr Villiers was doubtful, and displayed such anxiety to get away that Mr Wopples held out his hand to say goodbye.

      ‘You’ll excuse me, I know,’ said Mr Wopples, in an apologetic tone, ‘but the show commences at eight, and it is now half-past six. I trust I shall see you tonight.’

      ‘It’s very kind of you to give me this ticket,’ said Villiers, in whom the gentlemanly instinct still survived.

      ‘Not at all; not at all,’ retorted Mr Wopples, with a wink. ‘Business, my boy, business. Always have a good house first night, so must go into the highways and byways for an audience. Ha! Biblical illustration, you see;’ and with a gracious wave of his hand he skipped lightly down the path and disappeared from sight.

      It was now getting dark; so Mr Villiers went on his own way, and having selected a mining shaft where he could hide the nugget, he climbed up to the top of the hill, and lying down under the shadow of a rock where he could get a good view of Marchurst’s house, he waited patiently till such time as his wife would start for home.

      ‘I’ll pay you out for all you’ve done,’ he muttered to himself, as he lay curled up in the black shadow like a noisome reptile. ‘Tit for tat, my lady!—tit for tat!’

Chapter XII.

       Highway Robbery

       Table of Contents

      Dinner at Mr Marchurst’s house was not a particularly exhilarating affair. As a matter of fact, though dignified with the name of dinner, it was nothing more than one of those mixed meals known as high tea. Vandeloup knew this, and, having a strong aversion to the miscellaneous collection of victuals which appeared on Mr Marchurst’s table, he dined at Craig’s Hotel, where he had a nice little dinner, and drank a pint bottle of champagne in order to thoroughly enjoy himself. Madame Midas also had a dislike to tea-dinners, but, being a guest, of course had to take what was going; and she, Kitty, and Mr Marchurst, were the only people present at the festive board. At last Mr Marchurst finished and delivered a long address of thanks to Heaven for the good food they had enjoyed, which good food, being heavy and badly cooked, was warranted to give them all indigestion and turn their praying to cursing. In fact, what with strong tea, hurried meals, and no exercise, Mr Marchurst used to pass an awful time with the nightmare, and although he was accustomed to look upon nightmares as visions, they were due more to dyspepsia than inspiration.

      After dinner Madame sat and talked with Marchurst, but Kitty went outside into the warm darkness of the summer night, and tried to pierce the gloom to see if her lover was coming. She was rewarded, for M. Vandeloup came up about half-past eight o’clock, having met Pierre as arranged. Pierre had found out Villiers in his hiding-place, and was watching him while