The Adventures of Romney Pringle/The Chicago Heiress
III.
THE CHICAGO HEIRESS
IT was a warm morning towards the end of June, and London, that is to say the West End, was fast becoming an arid wilderness. But although almost everybody who was anybody had long left town, there was one place which enjoyed a popularity unaffected by the flight of fashion or the seasons.
The weirdly zoological collection which frequents the reading-room of the British Museum was very much in evidence. The juvenile and cheerful lady who edited the magazine, the elderly and unhappy one who copied hymns, the retired tragedian in the cloak who spent the day in sleep, were all there. So, too, was the red-whiskered gentleman of uncertain age, who seldom rested, but perambulated the room in search of the book which some one had always taken from the lower shelves just when he wanted to consult it. He was still on patrol-duty; his shuffles across the hills and valleys of the linoleum being almost the only sounds which broke the stillness of the warm, leathery atmosphere.
Perhaps it was on account of the heat, at any rate the blue dome was free from echoes of the groans, grunts, and still more fearsome noises with which the staple reader is wont to accompany his literary studies.
The reading-room was a locality which appealed to Mr. Pringle with a two-fold concern. As a (supposititious) literary agent he was bound to be interested in the focal point of modern hack-writing; but it was rather as a student of human nature that he frequented the chamber which has succeeded to the heritage of Grub Street.
The room, then, was very full, and Pringle had made the circular tour twice over before he espied a seat which another reader was in the act of vacating. It was at the end of one of the long desks, and taking a volume of Froude's England from the nearest shelf he sat down, Next to him was a man whom he at first took to be asleep, but a closer inspection showed that he was merely leaning back regarding the dome with an abstracted air. His uncropped hair and beard, together with a large pair of spectacles, gave him the look of a student, which was heightened by the sombrero-looking wide-awake which reposed on the shelf in front of him. He was evidently in search of inspiration from the vault above, as several sheets of notepaper on the desk appeared to be copies of a half-written letter which he was unable to finish. Littered all about were books of ponderous size, many resplendent with gilding, Peerages and directories, from the reference library, mingled in confusion with more recondite works from the inmost recesses of the establishment. Burke jostled Debrett, and was in turn overlaid by Dod, while Burke's County Families and sundry genealogies and court-guides were smothered by Zeimssen's many-volumed Medicine. Here and there about the heap were scattered stained and dirty clippings of newspaper, carefully backed with postage-stamp edging at the well-worn creases.
The creator of all this chaos was by no means a fluent writer, for Pringle had curiously watched him for perhaps half-an-hour before he completed the letter to his satisfaction. He then made a fair copy, and folded it into an envelope, which he addressed with elaborate care. Rising, he chanced with his elbow to push one of the medical tomes, which fell to ground with a resounding thud. As he stooped to pick it up, Pringle leant across and read the address on the laborious composition:
"The Most Noble the Marquis of Lundy,
65 Clarges Street, Mayfair, W."
Sorting out his volumes, the unknown took some of them up to the central desk to redeem the vouchers, and Pringle made use of the opportunity to exchange blotting-pads. As it happened, the two were stained in a not very dissimilar manner, and he had just time to complete the manoeuvre before his neighbour returned. Pringle's intuition was remarkably prophetic, for tearing his tickets in half and flinging them under the desk, the letter-writer deliberately proceeded to remove the top sheet of the blotter with a paper-knife! The mere possibility of the substitution did not appear to even enter his mind, and carefully placing the sheet, together with his other papers, in a leathern pocketbook, he walked out of the room.
As soon as he was gone, Pringle groped under the desk for the torn fragments of the tickets. The signature on one of them was intact, and he read in long-looped characters the name "Julius Schillinghammer."
Schillinghammer—he was a German, then, reflected Pringle. No wonder he found English composition such a labour. He looked too respectable for a begging letter-writer; besides, it was evident he regarded the letter as an important one, or why had he been so careful to remove the blotting-paper? But Pringle had lived long enough to be surprised at nothing, and congratulating himself on his opportune exchange of the blotters, he hastily appropriated the incriminating top-sheet and followed the German out. When Pringle reached the cloak-room, the way was blocked by an irascible old gentleman who had lost the tally for a small black bag, and was expressing grave doubts as to the logic of the attendant's refusal to return him his property. "Words" were passing freely, and Pringle lost several minutes in the endeavour to recover his own walking-stick. At length he got off, but, as he expected, there was no sign of the stranger in the entrance-hall. As he ran down the steps, however, he caught a glimpse of him passing out of the front-gate, and hurried across the gravel-path in time to see the German turn into Museum Street.
Crossing Oxford Street, Mr. Schillinghammer kept straight on through Drury Lane and Wych Street, then, skirting St. Clement Danes, he turned into Essex Street, and suddenly disappeared about half-way down. Pringle, who had followed all the time at an unobtrusive pace, fixed the spot by its vicinity to a street-lamp, and after what he judged a discreet interval, walked past. The house into which Mr. Schillinghammer had disappeared proved to be one of the smaller ones in the street, and, like the majority, was let in offices—or, to be exact, an office; for there was but a single brass-plate upon the door, and it bore the inscription—
Essex Private Inquiry Agency.
British and Continental.
Pringle strolled on down the slope of Essex Street towards the flight of steps leading to the Embankment. But he never reached that thoroughfare, for, pausing a moment at the top of the flight to take a perspective view of the 'Inquiry Agency', he saw a figure abruptly emerge from the office and walk with quick step towards the Strand. Without a moment's hesitation Pringle turned back and started in pursuit, for although garbed in the frock-coat and tall hat of advanced civilization, there was no mistaking the identity of Mr. Julius Schillinghammer!
At the top of the street the German paused, and appeared to be in search of a conveyance, as he carefully scrutinized the procession of omnibuses. A vacant garden-seat at length invited him to one bound westward, and Pringle, who had feigned absorption in the literary contents of a shop-window which accurately reflected the other's movements, ran after it, and took an inside seat as far as possible from the door. Towards Piccadilly his watchfulness increased, and as they drew near the Green Park it was rewarded by seeing Mr. Schillinghammer dismount and walk up Clarges Street. He was evidently in a hurry, and by the time Pringle, who had followed, but on the other side of the street, was abreast of No. 65, the German was engaged in conversation with a man-servant, to whom he was handing a letter. Pringle walked on, and, turning the corner into Bolton Row, looked back at the house; but the door was already closed, and as he ventured a step back into Clarges Street, he was just able to see Mr. Schillinghammer amble round the corner into Piccadilly.
Returning to Furnival's Inn, Pringle commenced the work of deciphering the hieroglyphics on the blotting-paper.
Mr. Schillinghammer appeared to have used a 'J' pen—a course which had its disadvantages as well as its advantages. For if the individual words were bold and distinct, the thickness of the pen had only served the more thoroughly to run one word into another on the blotting-paper. After some thought, Pringle decided to hunt first for any semblance to the signature on the book-ticket, and, with the aid of a looking-glass to reverse the script, he was at length rewarded by the sight of a blurred lius Schilling in one corner. This was satisfactory in so far as it offered proof that the writer had signed the letter with his own name. But when Pringle endeavoured, amid the confused mass of blots and smudges, to decipher some additional words, or even letters, the task appeared well-nigh hopeless. But he was not the man to be daunted by obstacles, however insurmountable they might at first sight appear, and he patiently returned to the charge, using the book-ticket to verify and distinguish the German's handwriting from that of any previous user of the pad. Fortunately the upper sheet was almost unblemished, and at the cost of a racking headache, his eyes almost blinded by the use of a magnifying-lens, he made out a series of words from the boldest part of the writing—doubtless derived from the fair copy of Mr. Schillinghammer's literary effort.
When set out on paper this is how they appeared—
92 Lang, seeing, possession, brother, business, good, heard, you, obtained, concealed, history, repair, value, thousand, inform, require, family, notes, nothing, be, and the signature.
There were also numerous fragments of words with a fair quantity of scattered conjunctions and articles. These he copied on to a separate sheet of paper, and after a laborious study of their relative sequence on the pad, he constructed a skeleton of the letter, thus:
92 Lang—seeing—an—mis—Chic—repair—occurred—possession—y—history—be—value—y's—family—you—doc—evi—cide—brothers— concealed—unde—inform—e— Englbusiness—y—many—thousand—require—good—obtain—notes—nothing—heard—fully—Julius Schillinghammer.
Having completed this patchwork, Pringle lit a cigarette, and, sitting down, took up a newspaper in the desperate endeavour to give his brain a short respite. It was the Park Lane Review that he had picked up, and although it required no great intellectual effort for its perusal, his thoughts incessantly strayed to the skeleton letter.
Just as the faintest ray of light in a dark room is enough to indicate the position of an outlet, so a single syllable was the means of solving the riddle. Determined to concentrate his attention on the paper, he re-read a paragraph which his eye had skimmed without assimilating it.
An event which I predicted some weeks ago shows that alliances with the British aristocracy are still popular with our fair American cousins. It is now formally announced that the Marquis of Lundy is to be shortly married to Miss Petasöhn, the only child of the well-known Chicago millionaire, and who aroused so much interest by her beauty and graceful presence during the late season.
Flinging the paper aside, Pringle impulsively seized the skeleton letter. There it was, sure enough!—Chic—a fragmentary word which had hitherto baffled him completely. It stood for Chicago, of course! And, encouraged by the discovery, he sat down again, and studied the paper with avidity.
For many years the Lundy estates have been greatly impoverished, partly by bad seasons, but mainly by the extravagance and mismanagement of former owners; Thorpe Regis, the palatial family residence in Norfolk, having been long unoccupied. The present Marquis, as a younger son, had at one time little chance of succeeding to the title, had not the death of both his brothers opened the way for him. It is a curious fact that the late peer and his two sons all ended their lives by some misadventure; the eldest son being found dead in a wood as the result of a gun-accident when shooting; while the second, who bid fair to take a high position in the House of Commons, and had a brilliant future before him, took poison by mistake. The late Lord Lundy was drowned soon afterwards, having mistaken his way on a dark night. The present peer, better known as Lord William Pownall, has always been a favourite in society, and I understand he has been simply overwhelmed with congratulations on his approaching wedding, which will be one of the social events of the year.
Could Schillinghammer be a blackmailer, after all, Pringle pondered. There was notes plainly written, and also the significant term thousand. Were not the words almost enough to explain the whole letter? The German appeared to be asking for a thousand pounds in notes. That was a large sum to demand. It must be a valuable secret to have such a price put upon it. There was a hint at a family mystery to be read between the lines of the Park Lane Review. The riddle was certainly a very piquant one, and Pringle returned to his task with a renewed zest.
A little further search for disconnected words in the mazes of the blotting-paper, a little re-arrangement of the disjointed syllables, a happy guess or two, and he clothed the bare bones of the skeleton thus:—
92, Langbourne Street,
Leicester Square.
My Lord,
Seeing the announcement of your betrothal to Miss Petasöhn of Chicago, which I hope will repair your fortunes, it has occurred to me that I am in possession of facts concerning your family history which may be considered of value by the lady's family. When I tell you that I have documentary evidence of the suicide of your father and two brothers, facts which have been successfully concealed hitherto, you will understand my reasons for informing you that I wish to leave England and start a business in Germany. The sum of a thousand pounds is what I require, and should your lordship be good enough to assist me to obtain this sum in notes, I promise you nothing more shall be heard of the matter.
Yours respectfully,
Julius Schillinghammer.
This, then, or something very like it, must have been the letter which Mr. Schillinghammer had not thought fit to trust to the post, and Pringle contemplated his solution of the mystery with very pardonable pride.
Obviously the paragraphs in the Park Lane Review had struck the key-note of Mr. Schillinghammer's little plot, whilst the details might have been worked up from papers which had come under his notice, most probably in the offices of the 'Inquiry Agency', of which he must be a member, if not the principal. As to the address, Pringle was already acquainted with it as a notorious place where letters were received, and he had little difficulty in recognizing it in the fragmentary address of the skeleton.
The next step was to make sure of the valuable information he had acquired. He had spent all the afternoon over his task. It had now gone six. Mr. Schillinghammer, it is true, had been denied the Marquis when he called, but it was probable that the latter, even if not dining at home, would be returning to dress shortly. He must be interviewed immediately.
Pringle had never much difficulty in removing the port-wine mark on his cheek with a little spirit, and a smart application of chemicals soon darkened his fair hair. Then, putting on a 'bowler' and a light covert-coat, he turned his face westward.
"Can I see Lord Lundy?"
The footman was discreetly doubtful, but if Pringle would give his name he would make inquiries.
"Tell his lordship I have an important message from the German gentleman who called here this morning," Pringle added, and a few minutes later was following the servant up-stairs.
He was ushered into a room on the first-floor, half library, half smoking-room, with the solid mahogany door and elegantly-carved mantel of an eighteenth-century London mansion. A tall young man, with a closely-cropped beard, was sitting smoking in an easy-chair. He half rose as the door opened, and, without acknowledging Pringle's bow, waited until the servant had retired before speaking.
"I was not expecting you before tomorrow," he said curtly; "but since you are here, be good enough to state your business briefly, as my time is limited."
"I must first tell your lordship that I have no interest in any German you are expecting, beyond being desirous of arresting him."
"Arresting him!" exclaimed the Marquis.
"Yes; I am a member of the Criminal Investigation Department, and have charge of the case of some foreign anarchists who are wanted on the Continent."
"May I ask why you trouble to come here then?" inquired the peer, only a trifle less icily.
"One of those anarchists, Hödel by name, was traced to this street to-day in company with a man named Eppelstein, who was seen to call here.
"Only this. By a gross neglect of duty on the part of the officer who was observing them, Hödel was lost sight of, and in the hope that your lordship will assist the ends of justice, I have come to ask you for some information as to his companion who called here."
"Pray sit down. May I ask your name?" and Lord Lundy pushed a box of cigars across the table towards Pringle.
"My name is Fosterberry," said Pringle, as he took a chair, respectfully declining the cigars.
"Well, I should be very glad to help you if I could, but the man who called here this morning didn't give the name of Hödel."
"No; it was his companion, Eppelstein, who came here."
"That wasn't the name either. I didn't see the man, as I was out at the time, but he left a letter which I found waiting for me this afternoon, and he said he would call again at half-past ten to-morrow morning."
"What name did he leave behind?"
"Schillinghammer."
"Schillinghammer? An alias I was unacquainted with. May I ask what his object was in calling here?"
Lord Lundy coughed and fidgeted in his chair.
"Pray excuse me," apologized Pringle. "It is, of course, no business of mine. I merely asked the question, as I presume your lordship is not acquainted with him."
"Acquainted with him! I never heard of the scoundrel before to-day!" exclaimed the peer, as he dealt the table beside him a resounding blow with his fist. Then, his indignation getting the better of his caution, he drew a letter from his pocket, "This is a letter he left for me. It seems as if the blackguard has got hold of some information which I have the best of reasons for wishing to keep private, and he offers not to make any use of it, but to leave the country if I will give him a thousand pounds."
"Indeed," mused Pringle. "This is news to me. I had no idea he did anything in that line. Not but what he is quite capable of it, but he must be getting in rather low water if he has begun to play such a risky game."
"All I can say is that he appears to be a professional blackmailer."
"May I ask your lordship if you intend to pay?"
"Well, I need hardly say I don't like it, but, so far as I can see, I must either allow him to bleed me like this, or I must submit to the loss of a very much larger sum; together with other inconveniences which cannot be estimated quite so easily."
As he spoke his eye wandered to the mantelpiece. There, in a silver frame, stood the photograph of a strikingly handsome girl. Across one corner had been scrawled in a bold, almost masculine hand—"à vous, Bernice Petasöhn.".
Pringle, who had followed the direction of his glance, took in these details before the marquis, recovering himself with a start, exclaimed almost pettishly—"Can't you arrest this Schillinghammer, or whatever his name is, when he comes here again tomorrow?"
"It's rather unfortunate that he is not wanted. He is well known to both the London and Continental police as an associate of foreign anarchists, but Hödel is the man we are really anxious to arrest."
"You can't possibly arrest the other brute, then?"
"I'm afraid not. I have no doubt he is as great a scoundrel as Hödel, especially after what your lordship has just told me; but as the German police have not applied for his extradition, we have no grounds for interfering with him. Of course, my lord, if you are ready to proceed against him for attempting to blackmail you, the matter becomes a very simple one, and we shall be—"
"No, no, no! Publicity is the very thing of all others I want to avoid," exclaimed the peer hurriedly, adding, "and he knows it too."
"Then I'm afraid there's nothing for it but to pay."
Lord Lundy sighed and passed his hand wearily across his brow.
"You can't advise anything else?" he asked despondently.
"The case is really a very clear one," argued Pringle. "If, as you say, this man is able to do your lordship some substantial injury, which you are naturally anxious to avoid, and if at the same time you are unwilling to avail yourself of the protection of the law, what other course is open to you?"
The peer drummed an impatient tattoo on the table without speaking for a few minutes. "I thought," he remarked at length, "of giving him only half what he asks for now, and of sending the remainder to be paid to him personally by a German banker."
"A very excellent plan," agreed Pringle. "You will make certain at any rate that he is safely out of the country. Under the circumstances, I should advise you to give him cash, You see a cheque has obvious disadvantages if you wish to keep the affair private, and if you give him notes and he had any difficulty in passing them, as he might have, your object would be again defeated. I am sorry," he added, as he arose to go, "that I can be of no service to your lordship in the matter."
"Not at all," exclaimed the marquis, "your advice has been most valuable." And ringing the bell for the footman, he politely bowed Pringle out.
About half-past ten the next morning Lord Lundy was sitting in his study. A number of letters lay unopened on the desk, and he held a newspaper in front of him. But he did not read. His eyes were fixed upon the photograph on the mantelpiece. At length, as he continued to gaze, a tear slowly trickled down his cheek, and, as it pattered against the crisp sheet upon his knee, he started and, flinging the paper down, moved towards the desk. At this moment the distant rattle of an electric-bell ascended from the hall, and stopping short he turned away, and strode nervously up and down the room.
"Mr. Schillinghammer, my lord," the footman said, and ushered that gentleman in according to orders.
The marquis took up a position on the hearthrug, and Mr. Schillinghammer saluted him with a profound bow, which he supplemented by a sweep of the tall hat as the servant withdrew.
"I have de honour—" he began, but the peer cut him short.
"Have the goodness, sir," he exclaimed, "to dispense with any unnecessary formalities. I have read the letter which you left here yesterday. What is the information you have to sell?" He remained standing, as perforce did Mr. Schillinghammer.
"Some information which may be useful to Misder Petasöhn."
"Then why not take it to Mr. Petasöhn?"
"It is a madder of commerce. I coom to you. I have someding valuable to sell. You do not buy it. Very well, I go to Misder Petasöhn. I will tell him for noding. Berhaps he pay me after I tell him—berhaps not. But he will be gradeful. I have lived in America. I have been an employé of Misder Petasöhn in his great pig-business. I know the American fader. He is more particular than de English. I will tell Misder Petasöhn your fader killed himself, likewise your two broders. He will not led his daughter marry such a family-man. Dat is all. I coom to you first, den if you do not buy I go on to Misder Petasöhn and tell what I know. And den, my lord, and den, and den—you lose Miss Petasöhn, de great, great heiress!" Here he spread his arms expansively.
"How did you obtain this valuable information?" inquired Lord Lundy, with difficulty repressing his inclination to kick Mr. Schillinghammer downstairs.
"I am a brivate inquiry agent! It is my brofession to know everyding about everybody," and he smiled superciliously.
"But have you no documents or papers to give me if I consent to pay you? What proofs have you of your statement?"
The German produced his pocketbook, and extracted from it the bundle of papers and cuttings which Pringle had seen in his possession at the Museum.
"Here," said he, "you give me a tousand pounds and dey are yours."
He held the bundle towards Lord Lundy, who received it with an air of disgust which he took no pains to conceal, but sitting down at the desk, untied the piece of tape surrounding it, and fastidiously handling the uppermost paper, commenced to read. Tossing it contemptuously aside when he had done, he took up the next slip, and so on, till he had perused the whole budget.
"Are you aware of the value of this collection of papers'?" he asked, turning suddenly towards Mr. Schillinghammer, and laying his hand upon the scattered heap as he spoke.
"I have told you what is de brice I ask," replied the inquiry agent doggedly.
"You are insolent, sir! These papers are worth at the very most about half-a-crown, and you have the effrontery to ask me to give you a thousand pounds for them!"
"It is my silence I will sell you—not de pabers. Dey may be worth only half-a-crown, but de newspabers are out of brint, and de oders cost much money to collect. I do not desire to sell de pabers. I will give dem to you if you buy my silence."
"You are most generous," remarked the peer dryly.
"You say, where are my broofs?" continued Mr. Schillinghammer, without noticing the sarcasm. "You have dem dere beside you in black and white, Every one nearly who ever knew has forgot de matter, and Misder Petasöhn will not believe me if I cannot show him dose pabers. Dere are de accounts of de inquests on your broders and your fader. All died by deir own hand. De Doctor say your broder could not fire by accident de gun. De valet of your older broder say he bought de poison for him to take. Dere is copy of de corresbondence with de Insurance Office which refused to pay your fader's life-policy because he killed himself. Dese have cost much money and time to get, but I tink Misder Petasöhn will understand dat."
"I wonder you are not afraid to let such valuable documents leave your possession for a moment."
"Noplesse oplige," returned Mr. Schillinghammer, with another bow and wave of his hat, adding with a snigger, "Beside, dere is no fire in de grate."
Once again did Mr. Schillinghammer narrowly escape a rapid ejectment from the room; but Lord Lundy simply asked, "I consent to your terms, what will you do?"
"I will return to Germany. I desire to start a business in Hamburg."
"But what security have I that you will leave England?"
"De word of one gentleman to anoder!"
"I prefer to trust to something more tangible. I will send you the money as soon as I am sure you have actually reached Germany."
"But I cannot reach Germany widout de money!" Mr. Schillinghammer expostulated. "I have not de tariff! I have also money owing for rent, and food, and bills! I am a poor, very poor man, but I will not rob my creditors. I am honest!"
"I will pay you five hundred pounds now, and will send the rest to Germany as soon as I know you have arrived."
"No, it will not do," said the German decisively. "Misder Petasöhn shall help me return to Germany." And he made towards the door.
"Stop!" exclaimed the Marquis, taking something from the writing-desk. "See, here are five hundred sovereigns." He dropped a canvas-bag upon the table with a thud.
At the very threshold Mr. Schillinghammer paused, and Lord Lundy hastened to pursue his advantage.
"If you will return to Germany at once, an order shall be sent to a Hamburg banker to pay you another five hundred."
Painful was Mr. Schillinghammer's situation! Impelled in one direction by his innate distrust of his fellow-beings, in another by the sight, or, to be more accurate, by the sound of the specie, he wavered and stood irresolutely fingering the door-handle. At length the irresistible argument of a cash transaction prevailed, as the Marquis had calculated, over every obstacle, and drawn to the table by the magnetic attraction of the gold, Mr. Schillinghammer, oblivious of the pressing claims of his creditors, exclaimed with reckless generosity, "I will be fair wid you. Here are de pabers, my lord. I will start for Hamburg to-night."
Seizing the bag, he stuffed it into his coat-pocket. At the door he turned, "I wish your lordship all health and happiness;" and with a final bow and wave of the hat towards the photograph, added, "and her ladyship also!"
Despite the weightiness of the specie, it was with an elastic step that the blackmailer left the house. The street happened to be almost deserted, except for a four-wheeler which was waiting a few doors off. As Mr. Schillinghammer approached, he observed that a man was standing beside its open door; he was tall and clean-shaven, wore a bowler hat and a covert-coat, also he was shod in an uncompromisingly stout pair of boots: in short, it was Mr. Romney Pringle.
The German passed on unsuspectingly, but Pringle seized him by the arm.
"Mr. Schillinghammer, I believe?" And before the latter had regained sufficient presence of mind to deny his identity, Pringle continued—"I am Inspector Fosterberry, of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I arrest you on a warrant for obtaining money by threats and false pretences from the Marquis of Lundy. I must ask you to come with me quietly."
He gently but firmly urged Mr. Schillinghammer into the cab, and still grasping his arm, sat down beside him and closed the door. The cabman, who had received his instructions, drove up Clarges Street, and they had traversed Mayfair before Mr. Schillinghammer recovered from the astonishment which, for the moment, had rendered him speechless.
"Why do you arrest me?" he demanded, after several ineffectual efforts to speak.
"I have already told you. The warrant has been issued on the sworn information of the Marquis of Lundy."
"He is a liar! I am a respectable man."
"You will have every opportunity of explaining matters; in the meantime you must come with me."
"Where are we going? I will not go to de prison."
"I am taking you before the sitting magistrate at Marlborough Street police-court."
"I will not go! I warn you it is a serious madder. I am a German subject—I will write to de German ambassador! You will be severely punished!" And volubly protesting, he began to struggle violently, and endeavoured to reach the door-handle. But he was muscularly flabby and out of condition, and Pringle had little difficulty in overpowering him. They were crossing Bond Street, and Pringle had reasons of his own for wishing to avoid a scene just there.
"If you don't keep still I shall be compelled to handcuff you," warned Pringle. "What's this? A revolver! I must take it from you."
He had been feeling a hard lump in the breast of Mr. Schillinghammer's coat, and inserting his free hand, he drew out the bag of sovereigns and placed it in his own pocket. Mr. Schillinghammer's nerves, although severely tried, were not too shattered to quench all resentment at this high-handed proceeding had not the cab stopped at this moment.
"What's the matter?" asked Pringle, putting his head out.
"'Ere we are, sir," said the cabman, pointing ahead with his whip. The cab had traversed Regent Street and Argyll Place and was now drawn up at the end of Great Marlborough Street. Pringle stepped on to the pavement, and stared intently in the direction of the police-court a few yards further on, as if waiting for some one to appear. Meanwhile Mr. Schillinghammer, with an agility with which he could hardly have been credited, scrambled through the open window on the off-side of the cab. Alighting, he nearly fell into the arms of a constable who was crossing the road.
"Hulloa! What's the little game?" said the man.
But Mr. Schillinghammer, ignoring the question, dodged round the cab and raced frantically up Argyll Street.
The constable looked at Pringle, who was still regarding the police-court with undiminished interest, apparently quite unaware of Mr. Schillinghammer's movements.
"What did he want to get out of the window for?" said the gentleman in blue inquisitively.
"Window!" said Pringle, turning with a well-assumed start, and looking into the cab. "Do you mean the cab-window? By Jingo, so he has! Here, help me to stop him—he's my prisoner!"
The constable, with a condescending grin at Pringle's innocence, obligingly started in pursuit of Mr. Schillinghammer, who by this time was nearly in Oxford Street. Pringle slipped a half-sovereign into the cabman's hand, and followed at a pace scarcely commensurate with any great interest in the prospective capture. Halfway up Argyll Street he turned short off to the left, and entering Regent Street, hailed a cab.
As the policeman, having reached Oxford Street, stood hopelessly scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the blackmailer, Pringle drove by on his way to Furnival's Inn.