The Hopkins Romance

by H. C. Bailey

 

THE
HOPKINS
ROMANCE

BY H•C•BAILEY••
Illustrated by
Steven Spurrier.

MR. HOPKINS gasped and sat up and surveyed the landscape. He was not a good cyclist. His extensive bones had a small endowment of muscle. If he had pushed the bicycle he would have come to the top of the hill more comfortably and sooner, but Mr. Hopkins had pride: bowed, palpitating and panting, he stayed in the saddle and so at length, and damply, arrived. You would not have supposed that he was out for pleasure. One Tree Hill is a bad road which leads to nowhere. But Mr. Hopkins had a chronic longing for hedgerows and green fields and a wide prospect. Within the radius of Mr. Hopkins's bicycle there is no prospect so wide as that which Stretches away from the northern slope of One Tree Hill. He free-wheeled down with a brake sternly in action, lest excess of speed should prevent him from absorbing all the beauty of the landscape. It was pretty enough. Soft evening light, suffused from the yellow western clouds, fell upon waves of meadow-land in which the trees glowed red and brown. Mr. Hopkins made a hissing noise and fell over a girl.

She lay in a lifeless and picturesque attitude. It was probably some part of her body which upset Mr. Hopkins, but he was hardly aware that she was human till he found himself part of a heap on the ground. The lowest layer was a bicycle, then came Mr. Hopkins, his own bicycle was on top. As he discovered this, he discovered the girl a few feet away.

“Lummy!” said Mr. Hopkins, and then, recovering self-control: “I say, miss.” The girl made no answer to this expostulation. Mr. Hopkins emerged from between the bicycles, lifted his own and stood it against the hedge, explaining to the silent twilight, “It wasn't my fault, you know.”

Then he attended to the girl. She lay on her left side with her face in the dust. She had not moved. Mr. Hopkins bent over her and touched her with very timorous hands and said, “I say, miss,” and shook her. She did not respond. “Oh lor,” said Mr. Hopkins and licked his lips.

He was suddenly aware of the throb and rush of a motor-car. He started up and flung out his arms and shouted to it. It seemed to be driving straight at them; it was making an illegal speed and only at the last moment it swerved to its right side. Of Mr. Hopkins and his shout it took no notice. It swept up the hill and vanished over the top. “Blooming things!” said Mr. Hopkins. “Jolly near finished us, that did. Ought to be put down.” He gazed malevolently after it, and remembered the girl again.

She stirred under his hand, and turned over and made a noise like snoring. She opened her eyes and said, “What time is it?”

Mr. Hopkins stared at her and fumbled for his watch, and hastily answered, “Ha'-past seven,” and stared again.

She was staring with equal amazement. “I thought I was in bed,” she explained and pushed back her tumbled hair. “Oh, I do feel funny.”

It suddenly occurred to Mr. Hopkins that she looked pathetic, and he said, with nervous sympathy: “I dessay. Don't wonder, I'm sure. But, I say, you know, it wasn't me, miss.”

“Wasn't you?” she repeated and sat up, and in a hurry spread her skirt over her ankles. Mr. Hopkins coughed. “Of course it wasn't you. It was a motor. Great big thing came booming down the hill and sent me flying. And I was on my right side. Beast!”

“Ought to be put down,” said Mr. Hopkins, with more ferocity. “There was one nearly corpsed us both, too. Matter of that, here's another.”

The girl gave a small scream and tried to get up.

Mr. Hopkins muttered hoarsely, “Allow me,” and cleared his throat and blushed and held out an awkward hand. The girl staggered to her feet and shrank to the side of the road.

But this motor-car was quite unlike its predecessors. It conducted itself admirably. Its pace down the hill was far below the legal limit. Its horn sounded again and again. When it came to Mr. Hopkins and the girl it drew up, and the one occupant, lifting his cap, was solicitous. “I beg pardon. Has there been an accident? Can I be of any assistance?”

“Oh, no. No, thank you,” the girl said hastily.

The man in the car lifted his cap again. “I hope the lady is not hurt, sir?”

Mr. Hopkins, unused to such respect, gave a severe non-committal cough. The girl said, “No, thank you, not at all.”

“Happy to be of any assistance,” the man in the car persisted. “Can I drive you home, mad2m?” The girl drew herself up and looked as haughty as damages and dust would allow. “I'm afraid your bicycle's out of action.”

“Not at all,” said the girl. “Hope we don't detain you.”

Mr. Hopkins came to her assistance. “Much obliged. Afraid you'll be late home.”

The man in the car accepted his dismissal gracefully. “Sorry I can't do anything. Good evening.” He lifted his cap again and his car went on down the hill.

“I hate motors,” the girl said, and went to pick up her bicycle.

Mr. Hopkins did not assist her. He was looking after the vanished car. “S'pose you didn't happen to see the number of the one that knocked you over?”

“Of course I didn't,” said the girl sharply.

“Silly,” said Mr. Hopkins.

“What?”

“What I mean”—Mr. Hopkins was in confusion—“what I mean—I didn't get the number of the one that nearly corpsed you.” He still allowed her to wrestle alone with her bicycle. “It's rummy, you know, it's very rummy.” He meditated deeply. “That's what it is, it's rummy.”

“What's rummy?” said the girl angrily. She found one of her pedals bent and considered Mr. Hopkins a useless nincompoop.

“Don't often see a motor along here. And here's three of 'em in no time. Beats me what they're doing.”

“If you want to be some use,” said the girl, “you might see what you can do to this pedal.”

[Illustration: “Can I drive you home, madam? ... I'm afraid your bicycle's out of action.” “Not at all,” said the girl. “Hope we don't detain you” (page 196).]

“Ah!” said Mr. Hopkins, still in the depths of speculation. “What say?” The girl thrust the bicycle upon him.

Mr. Hopkins found that the pedal was distorted beyond his strength. The girl was unreasonably annoyed, said peevishly, “I've got to ride it, anyway,” plucked the bicycle from him, got on and fell off. She was even a worse cyclist than Mr. Hopkins. That of course softened his heart. She said also that her leg hurt and thereby completed her conquest.

It is uncertain at what moment of the adventure I have thus minutely described Mr. Hopkins became aware that she was what he internally called “a fine gal.” A tall, very feminine creature, with a great deal of fair hair and a round, jolly pink-and-white face, she had also a bluff sincerity and candour which appealed to him profoundly.

What is certain is that after a little more talk Mr. Hopkins, feeling very hot, found himself saying, with a nervous derangement of aspirates, “If I might have the honour—” and began to push both the bicycles while she limped at his side. He was walking home with her—a terrific adventure.

On the way he discovered many things. To begin with one of the last, her name was Lucy Fuller. She was a nursery governess and did not much like it. She loved children in general, but the particular children whom she had to love were harassing. Or not so much the children as their mother, who spoilt them till they were both sick and sickening. They had any mortal thing they wanted and did any mortal thing they liked—except when their mother lost her temper and shut them up in the box-room to howl themselves hoarse in the dark. it was really a horrid house to be in, though the money was all right enough, and she wouldn't stay except that she had been rather unlucky in her places before and didn't want to get the character of always leaving at the end of a month.

As if Mr. Hopkins would think her rather servile, she explained apologetically that you had to think of things like that. Of course being nursery governess wasn't like being in service, but still you had to be careful. Once she never thought that she would have to go and earn her living in other people's houses. Her mother had had such a nice little stationery and fancy shop, but when mother died there was nothing left of the business after debts were paid.

Mr. Hopkins sighed sympathy. From his counting-house experience he knew something of the finances of little shops. “Father not living?” he suggested delicately.

It was funny, but she didn't know anything about her father. When she was little he had gone away to South Africa, promising to make his fortune and send for her mother and her. He had never done the second and, as they had never heard of him again, it was to be supposed that he had not done the first.

Mr. Hopkins shook his head, and by way of consolation told her of a commercial traveller who had found not orders but enteric fever in South Africa and died of it. This gave them a feeling of fellowship in misfortune, and they trudged on for a while enjoying silent intimacy. Then he began to talk about himself, how he was senior of the juniors in his counting-house and bore vast responsibilities, but was not as much honoured by the firm as he could wish. Solid ability, he considered, was less respected in modern business than push and bounce and brag. In those qualities he was, he owned, deficient. It sometimes made one feel fed up with the city to see how the hustlers got on. Mr. Hopkins did not like hustling, preferred the country—fields and all that: kind of open, kind of restful.

Miss Fuller took him up eagerly. She adored the country. From the little town where her mother's shop had been you could get up on the open downs in five minutes. Perfectly sweet—so free and windy, and smelt so nice.

“Ah!” said Mr. Hopkins in a wise ecstasy.

And walking on the turf was soft and springy, and she used to go barefoot for miles.

“I say!” said Mr. Hopkins, and felt that she was an exhilarating goddess, It does not seem to have occurred to him that she was either of great simplicity or a very coming-on disposition. He became very anxious to look into her eyes.

He did it as she stopped under a lamp, and in an idiotic rapture discovered that they were blue. “That's the house,” she said and seemed breathless. “Sure I'm much obliged to you, and thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” said Mr. Hopkins, and became very bold. “I say, could I have the pleasure—will you be out again sometime? Not a liberty, I hope?”

“This is my night out,” said Miss Fuller, and blushed. “I mean it's the same night next week,” and fled up the small, pretentious carriage drive.

Mr. Hopkins remained under the lamp feeling intoxicated, dizzy, blissful. And a motor-car came by.

He stared after it. He could almost be sure that it was the same car which had come to ask if it could take her home. There was surely no mistaking the way its driver crouched over the steering-wheel. Odd that he should seem to be following them.

Mr. Hopkins scratched behind his ear like a dog and turned to look at the house where his blue-eyed goddess lived. It was a high, shapeless mass of red brick, but to Mr. Hopkins it appeared a magnificent mansion, almost worthy of her ineffable charm. He sighed to think that he would never live in a house like that, could never offer her equal splendours, and then became hot all over at his boldness.

But he had a stolidly reasonable mind. As he cycled slowly to his lodgings he was not engrossed by the wonders of Miss Fuller. He had to puzzle over the mystery of the three motor-cars—the one which had knocked her down and stunned her, the one which had nearly run over them both, the one which had offered to drive her home and apparently followed her home. Three motor-cars on One Tree Hill! Such a portent was never known before. And all in about half-an-hour! Mr. Hopkins, who had almost no imagination, tried to imagine what on earth they could be doing, and was the more amazed. All of them somehow mixed up with his blue-eyed goddess! It was like a silly, aimless miracle. He found it almost as bewildering as herself. You may despise him, but Mr. Hopkins was made like that. He wanted things to be sensible.

During the week that passed before he saw his goddess again nothing of great significance happened to Mr. Hopkins, though one morning, as he went into the warehouse, he saw behind him the driver of the motor-car who had wanted to take Miss Fuller home. The man might obviously have respectable reasons for being in Wood Street, a thoroughfare not secluded, but his reappearance disturbed Mr. Hopkins, who began to think him mysterious and sinister and discover something extraordinary in his face and manner. The man was in fact of middle height and size, of a face rather flat, a long, low nose and a projecting black moustache—a little like a cat. Mr. Hopkins was probably right in considering that he looked at once furtive and fanatically intent, like a cat intending to steal.

Of the next meeting with Miss Fuller, of the evening out which sealed the doom of Mr. Hopkins, there is nothing particular to say. They cycled round the lonelier ways of their suburb, they had an ecstatic tea in a sweetstuff shop, they sat together, while the twilight passed into dark, on a seat in a tree-bordered road. And Mr. Hopkins, being unable to help himself, kissed her. He was nearly fool enough to apologise before he found that it would be unnecessary. Afterwards they discovered that they both believed the car of One Tree Hill had passed them again. But neither thought it worth mentioning at the time. Both had other things to think about.

Of course they promised themselves to spend their next night out together. Mr. Hopkins used all the leisure of the intervening week in writing her silly, sacred letters. The only practical thing in them was an arrangement that the evening should be spent, not cycling, but at a theatre. This they did, feeling, as I infer, wildly romantic and luxurious. It was, you see, equally wonderful to take a girl to a theatre and to go to a theatre with a man. The play which they saw is of no importance, though an immortal memory to the girl. It would be cruel to record the passages at which she wept. The only moment of the evening interesting to us occurred on the way home.

They travelled by train. As usual at the hour when theatres empty, the platform was crowded. Mr. Hopkins and Miss Fuller stood near the edge. Just before their train came in, there was the familiar stir and surge forward. Miss Fuller fell down upon the line. She screamed, others, of both sexes, screamed. Mr. Hopkins held out to her his umbrella. She lay on her face across the rails and the engine of their train was thudding closer and closer, already too near to be checked in time. Mr. Hopkins, saying he knew not what, jumped down from the platform and dragged her, half prone, half on her hands and knees, out of the way of the hissing engine on to the line beyond. There he helped her up and scolded her, and she cried, and they were surrounded by porters and inspectors angrily demanding how she dared give so much trouble.

She was frightened, not hurt, and hardly so frightened as Mr. Hopkins, who seems to have behaved very unreasonably. He spent a great deal of the journey home in proving that it was silly to fall down in front of a train and that she ought to be careful not to do so again. But Miss Fuller was not annoyed with him. She showed herself very gentle and submissive and clinging. She agreed that she had been very silly. No, dear, she couldn't tell in the least how it happened. Please don't let's talk about it. But as Mr. Hopkins insisted, she remembered that she had just looked round behind her—yes, she had certainly looked round, because she remembered seeing the man of the motor-car.

“Crikey!” said Mr. Hopkins. “Has he turned up again?”

“Oh yes, I saw him. Doesn't he look like a cat?” said Miss Fuller irrelevantly. “And then—well, then I was talking to you, Harold dear, and I felt just like a push and I was sort of gone.”

It was not very illuminating or satisfactory, and Mr. Hopkins said so, impressing upon her again the duty of taking care and being very careful, and demanding if she had ever done anything like this before. At first she eagerly denied, then under pressure remembered that there was, of course, being knocked down by the motor-car, and—Mr. Hopkins handsomely admitting that was not her fault—remembered also that two nights before, as she was trying to get on a Shenley tram in the usual evening crowd, somebody jostled her in front of a motor-bus and the driver only just pulled up, and he swore at her. So Mr. Hopkins, pointing out that she would be the death of him, lectured her more and more severely. She was fortunately a girl of sweet temper and she contrived to divert him at length into a more tender form of solicitude, so that they ultimately parted with yearning affection.

One of the best things I know of Mr. Hopkins is that he went home not in the least impressed with his exploit in saving her, but consumed by anxiety for her safety.

It is now for a time necessary to divert your attention from Mr. Hopkins to Miss Fuller. She entered upon a stormy period. The first cause of trouble was the hour at which she came home. She had delayed the train by getting in front of it, Mr. Hopkins had detained her further by his anxieties, and so she came to Homelea at least half-an-hour later than she should have been. Her employer, Mrs. Morley, was of a peevish disposition, and on that night more so than usual because her husband as well as her nursery governess had stayed out late.

So next day, to the extent of her considerable abilities, Mrs. Morley proceeded to revenge herself on everybody and everything. Her husband was safe at his office, but the servants, the nursery governess and her children were available, and they all suffered.

The end of the day brought no sign of the end of this bad weather. Mr. Morley, coming home to dinner, found his wife still irritable, and did not give the soft answers which turn away wrath. Miss Fuller, in the nursery, heard her mistress raging and trembled for the morrow.

In the morning there was a parcel for Miss Fuller. She had just time to see that it contained sweets—chocolate almonds and chocolate walnuts—when she was called to the dear children. That did not much trouble her, for she had no great appetite for sweets. But the coming of the parcel was a surprise. Mr. Hopkins knew that sweets did not appeal to her, and yet there was no other creature in the world likely to send her anything. It was odd that he had put no message inside. It was odd too that the address should be in capital letters, not his own dear writing, and that the postmark should be Strand. But no doubt the dear boy had made the people in the shop post it.

The children were terribly naughty over their lessons, and at last, driven to despair by them and their mother's anger at the noise they made, she bribed them to be quiet with some of the sweets. After dinner they were both taken ill.

It was a queer kind of illness. Almost at the same moment, both Wilfrid and Gwendolen discovered that they had pains. Miss Fuller did not much believe in them. The children were, like their mother, querulous. Then they began to get flushed, for all the world as if they were choking, and they complained that they could not breathe properly. Miss Fuller was frightened and went for their mother, who came, saw them and raved. The poor little creatures were breathing stertorously, their faces were dark and they made sudden convulsive movements.

[Illustration: “That's so natural,” the young doctor sneered, and felt himself a miracle of insight into villainy. “I must have these sweets, madam” (Page 202). ]

One of the less foolish habits of Mrs. Morley was to send for the doctor whenever one of her children had a finger-ache. She sent the parlourmaid on this occasion with such a message that the girl ran all the way, and the doctor's partner, a young man with the ruthless nonchalance of the medical student still upon him, walked round almost as quickly. I draw attention to this, because it seems to have been the only sane action of Mrs. Morley in the whole affair.

The youthful doctor came into the nursery with an airy “Good afternoon, Mrs. Morley. What's this little trouble?” Then he saw the children and his insouciance was stripped from him. They lay on their beds, fighting for breath, their eyes dark, their faces almost purple. He bent over them, and as he looked a sudden jerk of the boy's arm almost struck him. He made an exclamation.

Mrs. Morley clung to him screaming: “What is it, doctor? Oh, what is it?”

“Get some warm water and salt,” he snapped at her. “I shall want a bath and a lot of hot and cold water.”

Mrs. Morley still screamed for explanations, and from this moment was, I infer, merely a nuisance. Miss Fuller ran for what he wanted.

It was she who helped him through the next hour, with the emetic, with the douches, with the artificial respiration that won back the children's lives. Their mother took part in the battle by alternately demanding explanations and accusing him of brutality.

When at last the children were breathing easily and the horrible colour had gone from their faces and the little bodies lay still, he and Miss Fuller, rather wet and very tired, looked at each other across the beds: “They'll do now; they'll sleep—best for 'em,” he said and indulged in a wholly human smile. Then he recollected himself and coughed and became carelessly grim. “I must have a word with you, Mrs. Morley. Outside, please.”

Mrs. Morley, not approving of his tone, put on tremendous dignity and swept out. He shut the door behind them. “Now, Mrs. Morley, you asked what was the matter. Your children have been poisoned. Some poison attacking the nerve centres. Probably one of the prussic-acid family.”

“Prussic acid?” Mrs. Morley shrieked.

“Not prussic acid itself or I shouldn't have saved them. Something like it. What have they been eating to-day?”

From much incoherent raving he extracted that they had had breakfast with their parents and that the nursery dinner was also the servants' dinner and Mrs. Morley's lunch. “I thought so,” said the young doctor cheerfully. “Who's been giving them sweets?”

“It's that wicked girl!” said Mrs. Morley. “I know it is,” and with a shriek called Miss Fuller. “What have you been giving my children, you hateful, wicked creature? Oh, I'll make you pay for it! You——”

“Gently,” said the young doctor; “gently, please.” But Miss Fuller's behaviour did not commend itself to his vast knowledge of human nature. She had become very pale. She put a hand to her throat and swayed against the wall. “Now, madam,” he began magisterially.

“I did,” Miss Fuller gasped. “I did give them some sweets. Oh, I didn't know it would hurt them so.”

“You wretch!” Mrs. Morley screamed.

“I wonder if you have any more of those sweets?” said the doctor. “Ah, I see you have. Get them, please.”

“I don't know where they came from; indeed I don't,” Miss Fuller sobbed.

“That's so natural,” the young doctor sneered, and felt himself a miracle of insight into villainy. “I must have those sweets, madam.”

“Go and get them at once, you wicked thing! “Mrs. Morley screamed, and the girl fled.

“Better see what she does, Mrs. Morley,” the doctor suggested, and Mrs. Morley rushed after her.

Dragged back by her mistress, Miss Fuller put the box in the doctor's hands, sobbing: “I didn't mean any harm, indeed. It's terrible, terrible.”

The young doctor opened the box. “Chocolate. H'm. Walnuts and almonds!” His voice rose a tone. “And only two are gone. You haven't ventured on any, madam?”

“I just gave one to each of the children,” Miss Fuller sobbed.

“Well, I'll just find out why the effects were so curious,” said the doctor sardonically. “And till I do, I don't think you'd better see too much of the children, madam. In fact, I think you'd better keep to yourself.”

“I'll see that she does, doctor,” Mrs. Morley cried. “I'll lock her in her room. The wretch!”

So it was done. Miss Fuller, dazed with horror, was hauled away upstairs by a frantic woman who called her murderess and left her behind a locked door to try to think what all the misery meant. It is perhaps some consolation to remember that this mistress of hers was also suffering as much as a very selfish, very stupid woman can. For when the children waked and their mother wept over them passionately, they thrust her away and cried for their dear Miss Fuller.

In the evening there came a letter from the young doctor to say that the sweets contained nitro-benzol, a poison slower in its action than prussic acid, but no less deadly: it was inconceivable that its presence should be accidental; it must have been cleverly introduced into the sweets, which, as they all bore walnuts or almonds, had plainly been chosen to disguise the flavour. He was compelled to advise Mrs. Morley to place the affair in the hands of the police. Mrs. Morley read the letter in shrieks to her husband. He, who seems to have been merely dull, sent for a constable.

Miss Fuller, now almost in a trance of distress and amazement, was marched off to the police station. A police inspector reduced the ravings of Mrs. Morley and her husband's puzzle-headed narrative to a coherent charge, and Miss Fuller said feebly: “I don't know. I can't understand. I didn't mean it,” and was sent away to the cells.

When she was gone, the inspector turned to a large, sheepish man in plain clothes who had lounged in during the conversation. “That's the worst kind, to my thinking,” he pronounced. “Sentimental kind.”

“Ah,” the big man grunted heavily. “Well, it's a case. I'll be moving.”

At this point Mr. Hopkins re-enters the narrative. For two days Miss Fuller had been too harried and worried to write to him. He had received no letter from her for more than thirty-six hours. Therefore he was in a state of anxious fear which you will appreciate. As soon as he could, he hurried round to Homelea to ask if she was ill. He went, of course, to the servants' door, which is up a dark entry. It was a long while before the door opened. Then Gladys the housemaid looked round it furtively. “Is Miss Fuller in?” said Mr. Hopkins, with some impatience.

The housemaid gave a stifled scream. “Oh lor, it's you!” and fell back as the door was opened more widely and a large man appeared.

“Now, my girl, is that the fellow?” the large man said.

“Oh lor, no, sir,” the girl cried. “We know Mr. 'Opkins. A shorter man it was, and a black moustache. Kind o' look of a cat 'e 'ad, as you might say.”

“What! Has he turned up again?” said Mr. Hopkins.

“I don't know what you mean, turned up,” the girl complained. “Been 'anging about watching the 'ouse hours, 'e 'as. Till she was took up.”

“You talk too much, my girl. That's your trouble,” said the large man and pushed by her. “Now, young fellow my lad,” he took Mr. Hopkins powerfully by the arm, “you and me'll have a stroll.”

“I don't happen to know you,” Mr. Hopkins protested.

“I'm a police officer. Detective-Inspector McMonnies. Now then, why do you come asking for Miss Fuller?”

“I wanted to see her. I was afraid she might be ill.”

“Ill?” The big hand checked him sharply under a street lamp. “Why should she be ill?”

“Well, you see, sir, I'm engaged to Miss Fuller, and I hadn't had a letter from her. I wanted to know if it was all right.”

[Illustration: The detective stooped to the keyhole and listened. After a while he knocked sharply. There was no answer (page 207).]

“Ah. You been writing to her, though. Yes, you been sending her sweets.”

“Sweets?” Mr. Hopkins was amazed. “She don't like sweets. Course I haven't. What's the use? Look here, sir, what's all this mean?”

“You be straight with me, my lad, and I'll be straight with you. D'you know any other fellow might send her sweets?”

“She don't know any other fellows. She's not the kind of girl. Besides, where's the sense of it? I tell you, she don't like sweets. Don't touch 'em. Won't touch 'em.”

“Luck for her,“said the detective. “Now, young fellow——” and he told Mr. Hopkins of the box of chocolates and the poisoned children and the charge of attempted murder. The first effect was to stupefy Mr. Hopkins. The second was to make him rage furiously against Mrs. Morley. The detective, without irony, pointed out that whatever the mother's sins the children had certainly been poisoned. Then, it appears, Mr. Hopkins was raised to a higher power by affectionate rage. He insulted the detective without shame: a man who dared suspect Miss Fuller of guile against little children must be criminally an idiot: to any but a very genius of an idiot it must be plain that murder had been planned not against the children, but Miss Fuller herself. Why, a detective who was not a bleating goat would know that there was some devil after her: she had been followed everywhere—that man like a cat—once, twice, three times she had been all but killed. Call yourself a detective!

“Go easy, young fellow,” the big man said. “I like you. But go easy. What's this about being followed?”

So Mr. Hopkins told him of the man who first had accosted her from the motor-car, been seen again and again following her, and at last had watched the house on the day of the poisoning. Told him too of the accident and the three motor-cars on One Tree Hill, of the accident with the motor-bus and the accident with the train.

The detective did not conceal that he was impressed. “It's a deal of accidents for one girl, I must say. And your cat-faced gent is deuced attentive. But why, my lad? I ask you, why?”

“Ain't you a detective?” said Mr. Hopkins, with contempt.

“I like you, you know,” the big man chuckled. “I tell you what you ought to do. You come along and see your girl and tell her you haven't got cold feet. You get a solicitor—Billy Fish is your man—to speak for her in court to-morrow—perfect answer and a remand is the lay—and you be at the court and ask for me. If your cat-faced cove is so mighty keen he'll be there. Come along now. Tell me. Has she got any people of her own? You ain't quite her own yet, you know, though you seem to think so.” Then Mr. Hopkins told him how her mother was dead and her father had gone to South Africa long ago, never since been heard of and was supposed to be dead too. “Wonderful how they ain't dead when you never hear of them,” said the detective thoughtfully. With which conclusion they came to the police station.

There was not much that matters to you in the meeting of Mr. Hopkins and his Lucy. She cried in his arms, and he kissed her a good deal. She said that it was too dreadful, and he told her that she was not to be afraid because she was his little girl. He made other remarks about her which left her feeling much better. So that she had more sleep that night in the cell than you would expect.

Mr. Hopkins, I infer, slept less. As soon as the post offices were open, he telegraphed to his counting-house that he had a bad cold and could not come that day. Then he sped to Billy Fish the solicitor, excited the managing clerk and appeared to interest the great man himself, who accompanied him to the police court. The solicitor went in. Mr. Hopkins asked for Inspector McMonnies, and the detective appeared and conducted Mr. Hopkins to a place whence unobtrusively they commanded a view of the audience in court.

It was not large. Mr. Hopkins easily made sure that the mysterious cat-like man had not come, and said so with dismay. “Well, it's not the only way to get him, young fellow,” the detective said. “Go easy.” So they waited while the magistrate got into his stride over the routine of petty offences. “Hullo! Here's a gent with something on his liver! Not our man, eh?” Mr, Hopkins shook his head. But the new-comer was a little out of the ordinary. He entered noisily and in a great hurry. He appeared to have been on a journey, for he carried a kit-bag and a rug. He was obviously interested in some case, for as soon as he was in he began to ask his neighbours what had been happening, and it was a case still to come, for he set down his burdens and waited. He was sleek and small and very dark, with a sharp Jewish face. He looked round the court and his eyes were restless. “He's wanting some one, he is,” the detective murmured to Mr. Hopkins's hair.

But Mr. Hopkins paid no attention. His powers were engaged by Miss Fuller, who had just entered the dock. She looked pale and frightened and was obviously looking for him. Mr. Hopkins leaned forward to show her his cadaverous face, and at that moment received a blow from the rear. “What's this bit of goods?” the detective whispered. Slowly and reluctantly Mr. Hopkins turned again to the audience in the back of the court. He saw nothing new and said so. The detective wished his eyes an evil fate. As he looked again he made out, lurking in the back row, the flat, feline face of that furtive man of the motor-car. He gripped the detective's arm with a feverish “That's the chap! That's the chap!” Almost before he spoke the big man had begun to move towards the door of the court. But it happened that at the same moment the sleek little Jew had turned and found himself looking straight at the mysterious man. He laughed out loud. He said, quite audibly: “My dear old college pal! Now, fancy meeting you!”

The usher, of course, truculently demanded silence. The cat-like man had started back, his face exhibiting violent emotions. He plunged at the door and rushed out. The little Jew, abandoning his rug and his kit-bag, ran after him. They were both before Mr. Hopkins and the detective, who followed them zealously.

Thus Mr. Hopkins missed hearing the evidence of Mrs. Morley and the young doctor and the “just a few questions, sir,” with which that fat and bland solicitor Billy Fish conducted the lady into a most suspicious paroxysm of rage and converted the gentleman into a limp worm, writhing self-contradictions.

Outside the court the cat-like man sprang into a taxicab which was waiting for him, and crying, “Back to the hotel,” was borne off. The little Jew shouted to another taxi, and as it drew in to the kerb said incisively: “After that cab! Don't lose it for a dollar.”

He stepped in, he was just shutting the door, when Inspector McMonnies pulled it open again and jumped in, calling to Mr. Hopkins, “Come on, young fellow.” Mr. Hopkins sprang up. “Get on, cabby. After him!” And the cab shot forward.

“Don't mind me,” said the little Jew.

“By your leave, sir,” the detective explained. “I'm a police officer.”

“What a surprise!” said the little Jew, and laughed.

The detective was not pleased. “Inspector McMonnies, at your service. And your name, if you please?”

“Goldstein, of Gordon & Goldstein, solicitors, Johannesburg.”

The big man, with something of triumph in his eye, turned to Mr. Hopkins. “Which is in South Africa, young fellow my lad.”

“Scotland Yard been learning geography?” the little Jew said cheerfully.

“Ah,” said the big man. “And what might you call our friend in front?”

“Wanted at Scotland Yard, eh? Dr. Goldwyn Eaves. Also of Johannesburg. Which is still in South Africa, my lad.”

Inspector McMonnies made it clear that he disapproved of levity. “And what might be your business with Dr. Goldwyn Eaves, Mr. Goldstein?”

“What a lot you do know at Scotland Yard to be sure!” the little Jew laughed. “I don't mind, bless you. All my cards on the table. Ever hear of old Joe Fuller? Came to Jo'burg on his uppers twenty years ago. Made a cool hundred thousand keeping store, keeping pubs—— never mind. Never had a day's illness till he struck up with Dr. Goldwyn Eaves. We did his business, made his will. Everything to wife and daughter of Easton, Sussex, England, if still living. If not, everything to dear Dr. Eaves for his unremitting attention. Then he died. Everything in order. Only he died very quick and convenient after that will was signed. Then Dr. G. Eaves went on holiday. Rest cure for his poor health. And little Johnny Goldstein he took the next packet for England. Next train for Easton, Sussex. Found Mrs. Fuller was dead and Miss Fuller in service in London. Found Miss Fuller just arrested for poisoning babies. Strolled into court to see the fun. Found Dr. G. Eaves seeing it too. Passed the time of day and found him peevish. Ran after him and found Scotland Yard wanting him. I guess there's not so many flies on Scotland Yard as I thought. Well, it's up to you.”

The cab stopped before a Bloomsbury hotel. “It is up to me,” said the detective, and sprang out.

As they came into the hotel hall they saw Dr. Eaves stepping into the lift. The detective dashed at the stairs, but the little Jew passed him on the way up and was in time to catch Dr. Eaves before he reached his room.

“My dear old pal,” he panted, detaining his man by the elbow. “You're too hasty, you know. Here's some friends pining to know you.” As the man turned a dull white face, it occurred to Mr. Hopkins that there was something strangely horrible about it. But Mr. Hopkins had not before seen the fear of death. “Police officers, old friend,” said the little Jew cheerily.

Dr. Eaves cleared his throat. He said something like “Delighted to be of any service—matter of business,” and then more clearly, “Be with you in a moment. Must just go to my bed-room.” He plunged through a door and banged it behind him. A moment after they heard him laugh, and the laughter seemed to last a long time.

“What's he laughing at?” said Mr. Hopkins.

The detective was frowning. He stooped to the keyhole and listened. After a while he knocked sharply. There was no answer. He knocked again and again. He turned and rushed downstairs. The little Jew looked at Mr. Hopkins and gave a long mellow whistle.

The detective came back again with a very agitated manager and a porter. They beat upon the door and called Dr. Eaves by name. There was no answer. The porter put a stout screwdriver between door and door-post and heaved. The detective flung his bulk at the door. It burst open and they rushed in.

Dr. Eaves lay upon the bed quite still. He had torn his collar open. His face was very dark.

“They never have any nerve, those clever coves,” said the detective peevishly. “Done it neat, though, ain't he?” He picked up the empty glass on the cabinet by the bedside and smelt it. “Whisky. Wonder what he put in it? Some cyanide stuff by the look of him.” And with that he advised the porter to hold his tongue and bade the frightened manager go down and telephone to the police station. They fled.

Then Mr. Hopkins gasped out, “Oh, Lord, why did he laugh?”

“Seeing the humour of it,” said the little Jew cheerfully.

The detective sat himself down in the one easy chair. “Let's go back to the beginning. He struck up with old man Fuller in Johannesburg and coveted his dollars. Maybe if Fuller had left them to him, Fuller would be alive now. You said there was something fishy about the death. Well, Fuller put his wife and daughter first——”

“That was my governor,” said the little Jew. “Governor didn't like G. Eaves. Also the governor's a family man.”

“Well, so Fuller died quick, and Eaves came to Europe to see if wife and daughter couldn't die too. Wife was dead. Eaves found out the daughter and ran her down with a motor. There was only one motor on One Tree Hill that night, young fellow. If Eaves had had any luck he'd have killed her first shot. To make sure, he came back to run over her again. He didn't dare, with you waving your arms at him. I told you, these clever coves have no nerve. Then he came back again, quiet and respectable, to find out how much he had damaged her. No luck. So he tried to push her under a motor-bus. No luck again. Tried to chuck her under a train. Still no luck. And d'you see, if he had had a ha'porth, first to last, the girl would have gone out and Eaves collared her money and no one could say a word against him. No wonder he got jumpy. He tried a risky game at last. Sent her the poisoned chocolates. And all he got by that was having her arrested for attempted poisoning. That did him. That was domino. Whether she got off or whether she didn't, she'd live long enough to inherit under her dad's will. When he heard the charge in court this morning he knew he'd risked his neck for nothing. When he saw. our little friend from Johannesburg, he began to reckon it was neck as well as nothing. And police officers on the top of that broke him. No, they don't have any nerve, these chaps.”

“Wonder if he did see the humour of it?” said the little Jew.

“Ah!” said the detective. Then in a lighter manner: “Well, you young fellows ain't got any status quo here, as you might say. Missy ought to hear the news. Not but what you might tone it down a shade. And I wouldn't have any talk of her dad being murdered.”

In fact, Miss Fuller never did hear talk of her father's strange death. That remains the one secret between her and Mr. Hopkins. But as he was never very clear on the matter, it does not trouble him. They live very happily, with, at present, two children in a big house under the Sussex downs, and each of them dislikes London more than ever and loves the country better. But the country folk do not think Mr. Hopkins much of a sportsman.

H. C. Bailey.

All rights reserved. Copyrighted in the U.S.A. 1913.