comes their comrade with a working-man in a clean blouse. He had done his work, and was going out, but has seized two or three hammers and a wedge, and hastens in aid of the law.
The smith is brought up to the door, and looks at it and at those who have sent for him, and delays operations for a minute or two, and then removes his blouse, with the air of a man who is master of the situation. But the police have little patience with sentiment, and a sharp word, which calls up an angry glance in the man’s dark eye, nevertheless quickens him, and he places his wedge on the hinge side of the door. An exclamation of approval from one of the officers brings a slight smile of contempt to the smith’s lips.
“I suppose that you would try there,” he says, pointing to the lock, “so that when you had broken the bolts, you might have the further pleasure of breaking the chain, if you could.”
“How do you know that there is a chain?”
“Because I put it up myself, and was desired to make it strong, as the house was left to women, who wished to be secure.”
“And are not the hinges secure?”
“I was not told to do anything to the hinges,” replies the blacksmith.
They stood his blows, however, very well, and it was some time before he could make an opening for the wedge. It was gained at last, and the man struck hard, and the strong door began to give way.
Hawkesley was watching eagerly as the upper part of the door seemed to be yielding, and was ready to be the first to rush into the house, when Aventayle said:
“Surely she should not have come.”
“She—who?” and Hawkesley turning, saw Mrs. Lygon making her way through the crowd.
He sprang away, and was by her side in a moment.
“I beg you not to come, Laura,” he said. “This is no place for you. For God’s sake stop away from the house. I will fetch you, if you will, when we have done.”
“I must come in with you, Charles.”
“You do not know what you are asking—”
“I must come in. You cannot understand why I say so—but you must let me come. All my life may hang on a moment’s speech with him.”
“With him,—with whom?” said Hawkesley, impatiently.
Before Laura could reply, Henderson hurried up.
“It is useless, it is wicked—you must not, madam, indeed you must not. It is too dreadful. Take her away, sir, for the love of Heaven. It is too dreadful!”
The girl’s face was pale with terror, and her bright keen eyes shone out with a ghastly effect. She clung to Laura, and with gesture and earnest words implored her to keep back.
“I must see him,” said Laura, in a low voice.
“You cannot, dear lady, you cannot. And if you—”
But a crash announced that under the blows of the smith, aided by the pressure of the other men, the door had given way.
Hawkesley was about to run back to the house, but paused to adjure Laura to wait his return.
“If you would only hear me for one moment, dear lady,” implored Henderson. “Run in, Mr. Hawkesley, run in. I am sure that Mrs. Lygon will give me one minute.”
He saw that the girl had something that she would say, saw that she would detain Laura, by force if needful, and he darted back, and hurried into the house.
The police had already rushed through the large room in front, and through the smaller chamber, and had found no one. Charles Hawkesley hastened up-stairs to the drawing-rooms, and as he reached the landing, a gendarme, followed by another, confronted him—they had ascended by the private stair from the room at the back, the stair down which Mrs. Lygon had been conducted to her hiding-place.
The next moment Hawkesley was in the front drawing-room. It was empty.
Not so the second room.
There were signs there that men had closed in a fierce struggle, and near the open window the carpet was torn from its fastenings as by the stamping and grinding of foot and heel—furniture had been dashed about in that wild strife.
But these were points for the police to note. Hawkesley saw none of them.
He saw only the dead body of Robert Urquhart.
There lay the strong man. Upon his lip was blood, but this had flowed, as was plain, from wounds self-inflicted, and when he had set his teeth grimly, in some access of fiery passion, now still for ever. But he had died by a single blow,—a blow that had been delivered truly, and home. It had been struck, and he had gone down. Across the place of the wound the fold of the loose coat had fallen, and it was not until one of the officers gently drew it back, that the tale was told. It was not told in the face, for upon the strong features had come a calm that gave them a loftiness they had rarely shown in life, and upon the bleeding lip there was almost a smile.
“That man has not died in the presence of his murderer,” said, in a low voice, one of the officers—a soldier who had seen other deaths. “What is that gold in his hand?”
The hand was stiffening, but it yielded easily as yet, and Hawkesley drew from its clasp a small locket. It had been worn on a ribbon, which was broken, and there were specks of blood upon the glass, as if it had been pressed to the wounded lips.
Hawkesley knew well the fair hair of Bertha.
“He has forgiven her—forgiven her his death—but that was the least he had to pardon,” said Hawkesley, his voice breaking with his tears.
But he spoke in presence of the dead only—the officers had dispersed on the traces of the assassin.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
