The Man of Silence.

Waipa Post, Volume VII, Issue 331, 17 July 1914, Page 2

The Man of Silence.

BY TOM GALLON,

(An Ricihts Resehted.)

Author of “ My Lady of the Ruins,” “ Fate’s Beggar Maid,” etc.

CHAPTER XIII. —(Continued.)

(The official, with another-glance at him, strolled away. Danny at once assumed an air of mystery. He had ben rapidly making up his mind what to say and what not to say; and the great thought in his mind at that moment was how much money could be got out of these people for such information as he might care to give them. It has to be understood that Danny Batson was working in the dark. He had merely heard rumours concerning Madeline Westley’s connection with the supposedy dead man. He knew nothing for certain. Above all things, he haa that wholesome fear of the power, of the law that is possessed by one that has been within its grip. He did not know how far he might be involved in that hideous business of the changing of clothes, and that general fraud practised upon a credulous public and an equally credulous Coroner’s jury. Danny Batson must perforce step warily. ‘‘lf we could go somewhere, lady, v’ere there was a charncc of our speakin’ togevver alone,” said Danny, ‘‘l could tell yer quite a lot you’d be glad to know.” Madeline glanced at the clock. She saw that there was but a matter of two minutes before the train would go. Even in that moment, when her brain was in a whirl with ail the events of the day, and with the coming of this shabby little stranger at the end of it all, she remembered that at Wood End Ferry she and Barbara would be expected to arrive by this particular train; so much her orderly mind made her aware dt. Nevertheless, that orderly mind was made up at once. She looked at Barbara, and nodded quickly. “We’ll take the next,” she said. “I can telegraph when this is gone that we have just missed it.-1 must know what this man has to say.” Some change seemed to have come over the girl; whatever sign of weakness she has ever displayed was gone. She it was that led the ■way towards the third-class wait-ing-room, readily understanding that the figure of Danny Batson might arouse suspicion in anything superior to that. There, in a corner of the room, where the shadows were deep, and where there was no one else within hearing, Danny Batson sat between Madeline and Barbara, and told so much of his story as could be forced from him. “What do you know about Mr. Vincent Avondale?” demanded Madeline.

“I don’t know nuflink that I ain’t paid ter know,” said Danny. “Everybody’s gittin’ summink aht o’ this, excep’ me, an’ I don’t see why I shouldn’t ’ave a share too. If I gits paid, lady, you’ll thank me on yer bended knees for wot I’ve bin able ter tell yer.” Danny Batson saw a purse being opened by trembling fingers; saw a couple of sovereigns in a gloved palm. He began to realise that there Wt>s more «in this than he had imagined. He determined to hold something in reserve —something on which other golden coins could be drawn at a later time. Had Madeline but known, that sudden anxiety to pay money to Danny Batson was about the worst policy she could have adopted. “This is all the money I have with me at’ the moment,” said Madeline, putting the coins into Danny’s hand. “But you shall have more if you can tell me anything of value.”

“I ain’t allowed ter tell yer much,” said Danny, slipping the money into his pocket. ‘‘lt’s a plot, lady, a plot to kill a man an’ a plot ter keep a man alive. Do you unnerstand that, lady?” ‘‘No, not in the least,” replied Madeline. ‘‘Are you trying to tell me that Mr. Vincent Avondale is alive?”

“As to that lady ,mum’s the ?(vord,” said Danny, putting a finger to the side of his nose and winking solemnly first at one sister and then at the other. “It might be bad for all parties if I said one fing or the uvver. But serpose I was to say ter you”-—here Danny leant forward mysteriously between the two eager girlish faces—“serpose I was ter talk ter yer abaht a man in the river and a man aht of it; abaht a man dead an’ a man alive; a man as could speak and a man as couldn’t. Serpose I was to arsk yer to go to a certain place an’ see somebody at a certain time :—would yer go?”

■“Yes, if it meant that I could learn the truth,” said Madeline, “Oh, whv can’t you speak more plainly. This lady here”—she indicated Babs with a sweep of her hand—-“believes that she saw Mr. Vincent Avondale this very day in London, at the entrance to the Albany. For Heaven’s sake tell me - —is that possible?”

This was news to Danny Batson; he had not thought it possible.that tfce man he had been set to guard got so far afield ns that. Besides, this was going too fast for

Danny; this was a spoiling of the game altogether. Therefore Danny shook his head, and smiled contemptuously. “It ain’t very likely, lady, that a gent should come aht of ’is grave an’ walk abaht London, is it?” he asked. ”1 put it ter you, lady, did I promise that I could bring back the dead, or any sich foolishness? All I said was I could tell yer more abaht Mr. Vincent Avondale than anybody else, an’ so I can. Though that ain’t sayin’ ’e’s alive, is it? All I says is that if you’ll come to a certain place at a certain time, there shall be somebody there ter meet yer —somebody, mark yer, lady”—Danny laid a grimy paw upon the girl’s arm —“somebody as you’ll be glad ter see, I’ll warrant.”

“And you won’t tell me anything more than that?’ ’asked Madeline.

“I can’t, lady, an’ that’s a fact, said Danny. “This is a plot, I tell yer, an’ there’s more in it than I can say. But if the dead should come alive—an’ I on‘y say ‘if, mind yer —don’t fergit that you’ve got ter thank Danny Batson for it.” “To what place am I to come, and at what hour?” asked Madeline, faintly. Danny considered the point carefully. He had a great deal to do; he must of necessity get hold of Vincent by some means or other, and must persuade him to this enterprise. Time was necessary, and Danny, with money in his pockets, could afford to wait.

“The day arter to-morrer —nine o’clock at night—Wood End Ferry, close to your ’ouse, lady/’ he said, after a pause. ‘There’s a place dahn by the river, a .shanty w ere two' men used ter live wot looked after the boats “I’ve seen the other man today,” broke in Madeline. “His name was Stark. And now, when I look at you, I remember your face also.”

“Don’t ’ave nuflink ter do wiv the uvver one, lady; ’e’s a wrong ’un,” said Danny. “I’m the m'an to ’elp you. Day after ter-morrer night, at nine o’clock, be down by that place by the river. I’ll be there, wiv someone else wiv me. Come alone. I don’t want ter run no risks.

Danny Batson got to his feet with an air of finality; Madeline laid a hand on his arm as he was moving away. ‘‘Can you tell me nothing else?” she asked, wistfully. “I can on’y tell yer that it’ll be good noos, lady—'if only yer don’t say a word, an’ don’t tell nobody w’ere yer goin ’ ter meet me.”

He was gone—drifting out of the station in the same slinking, forlorn fashion in which „he had entered it —and so was lost in the maze of streets. Madeline looked at her sister, and seemed to fumble for a moment for the girl’s hand, as though groping for some sort of support. “I don’t understand; I am frightened,” said Madeline, in a shaking whisper. “It can’t* be true that he’s alive; it can scarcely be true that I shall get any news of how he died. And yet you think, Babs dear, that you saw him to-day?” “I simply don’t think anything,” answered Barbara, wildly. “Now that I try to remember what he looked like, and what he said, it seems alt unreal —just like a dream, What will you do?”

“I shall go to that hut the night after to-morrow —and I shall go alone,” said Madeline, after a pause. “This man could scarcely come to me with such a tale if there were nothing behind it; he would not dare. 1 here is some plot here we don’t understand — some strange mystery. I shall go to the hut.”

“But at least you won’t be mad enough to go alone,” urged the other. “If there’s anything to be found out —why not tell father—or Reuben?” “Not father —and never Reuben,” exclaimed Madeline, almost fiercely. “Reuben is mixed up in this story in some saange way I don’t understand. The other man —the man who calls himself Stark —was with Reuben to-day; he came ■J.O see him while I was there. When I saw him first, at the time he looked after the boats, he was poor and shabby; to-day he was well dressed and blustering, and almost insolent. He is in the plot, too, in some fashion; perhaps he has even set this other man on to try and get money out of us.” They had to \('ail for some time for a train to take them to Wood End Ferry; and in that time, while they paced up and down the platform they discussed the matter from every possible standpoint. Despite her youth, Babs had a wise little head on her shoulders, and she strove her utmost to dissuade Madeline from going to the place alone. But all her arguments were futile; Madeline displayed an obstinacy that was new to her, and was not to be shaken in her resolve. Above all else, she bound the younger girl to secrecy about the matter, and at last extorted a promise from her that she would suv nothing concerning the events of the day to anyone. Mr. Clarence Westley was in a cheerful, albeit an anxious, mood that evening. He felt .mire that all was well with his scheme, and

that Madeline had given her definite promise, in her own way, to Reuben; but lie would have been glad to have had some particulars concerning- the actual meeting, and perhaps even some part of the conversation that had passed between them.

At dinner lie dropped little questions about here and there, in a cheerful, perky fashion—striving hard to make conversation, and to gain information at the Were his darlings tired with their journey? and what was London looking like? and where had they lunched? Also, how was his dear friend, Reuben Avondale, and had he, by any chance, taken them to lunch?' Furthermore, what did they think of his charming rooms?

Babs came to the rescue. “For my part, dad, I didn’t- see his charming rooms,” she said. “Madeline had something so important to say to him that 1 was requested to cool my heels down below, and make love to the porter. Also, he was too mean to ask us to lunch; Madeline had to pay for that herself. London was lovely, and we could scarcely tear ourselves away from the shops; that was how it happened that we missed our train. I daresay Madeline will tell you that your dear friend Reuben is extremely well; I hope she’ll also be able to inform you that he is less grumpy than usual. And that’s all, thank you!” Clarence Westley sighed. “You shouldn’t treat these things so frivolously,” he said to his younger daughter. “Madeline went to London wtih a definite and important purpose to-day; I am naturally anxious to know that that purpose has been accomplished.” Madeline looked at him quietly for a moment or two, until the poor gentleman began to fidget under the scrutiny of her eyes. “The purpose was accomplished,” she said, “and Mr. Reuben Avondale is quite satisfied. I understand that he will arrange matters with you a little later on. So far as the details are concerned, I don’t think we need to discuss them.”

Clarence Westley spread out his hands and shrugged his shoulders and arched his eyebrows. “Just as you will —just as you will,” he said. “1 should have imagined that I might have been treated with a little more consideration; I might have supposed that my daughter would ha\e been only too glad to give me any information concerning her meeting and her conversation with one who is a might say, a friend to us all. But no matter.”

He sulked during the remainder of the evening, and only cheered up a little when Madeline bade him “Good-night.” Then he patted her cheek, and told her that she was a good girl, and lie wondered a little wnat he should ever have done without her. Perhaps she wondered that also as she climbed the stairs slowlv to her room.

CHAPTER XIV

Meanwhile, Danny Batson, with one golden coin intact in his pocket, and the other one changed, set off for Crow’s Rents, Lambeth, with vague ideas in his mind as to how he was to carry out the plot that had already begun so auspiciously. To lure’ that poor creature with the. clouded brain out into the streets, and to set his feet on a journey that should end at the hut at Wood End Ferry, seemed easy of accomplishment; yet always the figure, grim and forbidding, of Noah Stark stood in the way, for Noah also had some scheme worked out in his mind, and was not a man likely to forego it. £>anny Batson felt that he had his work cut out if he was to do anything at fill.

He climbed the stairs, whistling cheerfully, the better to keep up his courage and also to show anyone who might be listening that he had nothing on his conscience, opened the door, and stepped into the room. Stark was lying prone upon the bed, as usual, snoring heavily; for the rest, the room was emptv.

Danny stood looking round about him in a dazed fashion, wondering what had become of the prisoner. In his heart of hearts he hoped that Vincent might have stepped out for a little time, as he had done once before that day, just to ramble round the streets and dr:ft back again. But a deadly fear was upon him that that was not the case. He tiptoed into the room, closing the door carefully, and watching the sleeper; that movement brought him to the table, and on that table he saw lying a scrap of paper torn from the edge of a newspaper. He bent quickly over,' and peered at it. A line of writing was scrawled upon it: “I want to try and remember. I nearly found out to-day—and then forgot again. You’ve both been good to me; thank you for that. But I can’t think in this place.” That was all, but it told enough. Dannv. in his oonsternabon, was whistling softly to himself through his teeth, when a movement on the bed roused him; he hastily hid the paper behind him. Stark sat up. growling and yawning, and stared at him.

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