ARRIVAL OF BRENTIN—MY WEDDING-DAY—WE GO TO WHARTON—BAILEY THOMPSON AND COCHEFORT FOLLOW US—WE FINALLY DEFEAT THEM BOTH

Brentin was in “The French Horn” by a quarter to seven, and, rather to my surprise, he came alone. I thought Hines or Masters would surely have come with him; but no, he said, except for Forsyth, they had all parted company at Southampton. Masters and Miss Rybot had gone to Sea View, where they were to be married almost immediately, and Hines had gone off to stay with a married sister at Bournemouth. Forsyth alone had travelled up to town with him, and then gone on straight to Colchester to take up his neglected regimental duties. So I wrote out a telegram to be sent first thing in the morning, begging him to come over and be my best man.

And the boodle? Brentin winked and, with his hands on his knees, began to laugh, like the priest in the Bonne Histoire.

“Some of it has melted, sir,” he joyously cried. “Your friend Hines has got his, and Mr. Parsons, by this time, is toying with ay registered letter way up in Southport. I have handsomely recompensed Captain Evans and the crew; they have, no doubt, been tanking-up and painting Portsmouth red all the time. I have reimbursed myself for the yacht and other trifles, and there now remains the £30,000 for your young lady’s ancestral home, and some £20,000 for the hospitals and so on. To-morrow, sir, we will draw up a list of the most deserving of them.”

“You have the money with you?”

“Yes,” he said; it was all safe in what he called his grip, or hand-bag, and quite at my service. I told him of my desire to complete the purchase immediately before the marriage was solemnized, and then we fell to talking of Bailey Thompson and his strange silence.

“Why, the man is piqued, sir,” said Brentin; “that’s what he is, piqued. Beyond saying that, I do not propose to give him ay second thought. He is mad piqued, and that’s all there is to it!”

So I tried to feel completely at my ease, and managed to spend a very happy evening in the bar parlor, Lucy playing to us and Brentin occasionally bursting into raucous song. Now, when I think of him, I like best to remember him as he was that evening, forgetting his harder, commoner side, when he so outrageously proposed to desert poor Teddy; even refusing (as I forgot at the time to mention) to allow the cannon to be brought into play for his rescue by shelling the rooms. He was infinitely gay and amusing, only finishing up the evening, after dear Lucy’s retirement, with a long and violent dispute with Mr. Thatcher on the vague subject of the immortality of the soul. Thatcher believed he had a soul and would live forever, in another, happier sphere; Brentin denied it, could see no sign of Thatcher’s soul anywhere; so I left them trying to shout each other down, both speaking at once.

I retired to rest with many solemn, touching thoughts. The last night of bachelorhood gives rise to at least as much deep reflection as that of the young maiden’s; more, in fact, so far as the bachelor himself is concerned. I thought over it all so long and deeply I at last got confused, and when I woke, the bright February sun was streaming in on my best clothes and the bells from Nesshaven Church were ringing.

All the morning those bells rang out their happy, irregular peal.

Only, to be exact, Nesshaven Church has no spire, but a sunk, old, bird-haunted, ivy-clad tower.

It was Thatcher’s idea to set the bells going early and keep them at it all day; you see, they rang not only for the marriage of his only child, but for his return to their ancestral home; and, when they showed any sign of flagging, Thatcher listened with a pained expression, and cried, “Why, surely they’re not going to stop yet! Run, Bobby, or Harriet, or George, my man!”—or whoever happened to be handy—“and tell ’em to keep ’em going, and give ’em this from me. Here, Vincent, my boy, have you got half-a-crown?”

By ten o’clock we were all dressed and ready, waiting only for Forsyth. Soon after ten he came, and the procession started. It was a lovely day again, mild and sunny, and, in true country-wedding fashion, we all set out to walk. Lucy, looking perfectly sweet in gray, was on her father’s arm, and the old lady, in black silk, on mine; while Brentin, carrying his grip, with the boodle in it, and that good little chap, Forsyth, brought up the rear.

The old lady, who within the last three months seemed to me to have failed a good deal, mentally, at any rate, stepped out right well, hanging lightly on my arm. At first she thought we were going straight to the church, and couldn’t understand why we left it on our right and went on up to the big house. Then she seemed to think it quite natural, and that the place was hers again, and began talking of her early days, when first she was married and came to Wharton as a bride. Once or twice, indeed, she called me “Francis,” her husband’s name, who died in 1850, and drew my attention to the scandalous, weedy state of the walks.

“And this is what we pay good wages for!” she cried. “These men must be spoken to about it, my dear, immediately.”

The gardener’s wife, who opened for us the hall door, was astonished at our numbers.

“Why, what a crowd of you!” she said.

The old lady passed her haughtily.

“Come, Tom!” she cried to Mr. Thatcher. “We’ll go up-stairs and have tea in my room. Come, Lucy!”

And up-stairs, up the bare stone staircase, they went, for, as I whispered to Thatcher, it was just as well the ladies should be out of the way while we did our business.

In the great empty drawing-room we found old Crage ready waiting for us. He had dressed himself up in rusty attorney black for the occasion, and the plain kitchen-table was neatly spread with bundles of documents, title-deeds, and so forth.

As the woman showed us in, she told me he had been up all night rummaging in his old tin boxes, talking and mumbling to himself. Now he seemed quite spry and well again. I could scarcely believe, as he sat there alert and attentive, he was the same stricken, shambling old hunks I had seen the previous afternoon, dragging himself about, senile and dying. Such is the power of the will and the business instinct, prolonged even to the verge of the grave!

Brentin, who, as usual, took everything into his own hands, adopted the simplest method of dealing with him. Crage received us in complete silence, and no one spoke a word, while Brentin opened his grip and took out the notes and two or three little bags of gold. The gold he emptied into heaps and piled them round the notes.

Then, “Thirty thousand pounds,” he said, with a smile—“thirty thousand pounds! Is it a deal?”

Crage sat bolt upright, with his hand curved over his ear.

“For the entire property?” he asked.

“For the entire property. Is it a deal? Thirty thousand pounds, neither less nor more.” And he emptied the grip and shook it, to show that not a penny more remained.

“It’s worth more in the open market,” said Crage, cautiously.

“Then take it to the open market. We have no time to haggle. My client is on his way to be married. Good-day.” And with that he began to scrape the notes and gold together again.

“Hold hard!” cried Crage. “Don’t hurry an old man.”

“We’ll give the old man three minutes,” said Brentin, coolly pulling out his watch.

We were all three of us grouped round the table, watching Crage, with our backs to the door. The woman stood at his elbow, and we could, in the complete silence, hear the heavy, swinging tick-tick of Brentin’s large old-fashioned watch.

“Half time!” cried Brentin, when suddenly we heard steps outside in the hall. I had just time to recognize Bailey Thompson’s even, divisional tread, when he pushed the door open and stepped in. He was dressed as usual, and behind him came a gentleman in a tight black frock-coat, an evident Frenchman, thin, dark, and wiry, with a withered face, like a preserved Bordeaux plum.

“One moment, if—you—please, gentlemen!” cried Bailey Thompson, as he stepped up to the table.

My heart gave a bound, and Forsyth started and said, “Ho!” but the unabashed Brentin merely politely replied, “One moment to you, sir. We will attend to you directly.—Time’s up, Mr. Crage! is it or is it not a deal?”

Bailey Thompson laughed. “Cool as ever, Mr. Brentin, I see,” he said. “But don’t you think this amusing farce of yours has gone on long enough? It has been successful so far, as I always thought it would be!”

“You’re mighty good!”

“We have no desire to be unduly hard on you.”

“You are mighty particular good!”

“The Casino authorities are, on the whole, willing to regard you as eccentric English gentlemen of position, who have played a very cruel practical joke on them.”

“That so?”

“That is so. This is their representative, Mossieu Cochefort.”

“Enchantay!” cried Brentin, with a bow.

“He is charged to say that, on the due return of the money you have sto—ahem!—carried off, and an undertaking from you in writing that you none of you ever visit the place again, on any pretence, they are willing to forego criminal proceedings, and no further questions will be asked.”

“Oh, come off it!” cried Brentin, laughing.

“Otherwise,” continued Bailey Thompson, with great gravity, “I must ask you, Mr. Blacker, and Mr. Forsyth here, to follow me to the cab in waiting at the door, and return with us to London as our prisoners.”

“In short, sir,” said Brentin, swelling with indignant importance, “you invite us, eccentric gentlemen of recognized position, to compound a felony!”

Thompson shrugged his shoulders, and Mossieu Cochefort looked puzzled.

“Be ashamed of yourself, sir!” Brentin cried, his voice ringing scornfully through the empty room. “Be ashamed of yourselves, you and Mossieu Cochefort, and give over talking through your hat! Mr. Crage, if you will write out a formal receipt we will look upon the affair as settled. The formal transfer can be effected later.”

“Aye, aye!” mumbled Crage, and, with his eyes on the money, began fumbling in the inside pocket of his rusty black coat for the receipt.

“Gentlemen!” cried Thompson, with affected earnestness, “I warn you! I very solemnly warn you—”

“Oh, come off it, Mr. Bailey Thompson, sir!” was Brentin’s emphatic and withering reply; “come off it, and shut your head. We have long had enough of you and your gas. For my part, my earnest advice to you and Mossieu Cochefort is that you kiss yourselves good-bye and go your several ways. And tell your amazing Casino Company from us that the only undertaking we will give them is not to come and do it again in the fall. To repeat a success is always dangerous; and next time, no doubt, you will all be better prepared.—Now, Mr. Crage, the receipt!”

“Qu’est ce qu’il a dit?” asked the puzzled Frenchman, as Thompson, fuming and fretting, dragged him off to the window to explain.

Meantime old Crage had produced his receipt, already written and signed, and, handing it over, with trembling, eager fingers was beginning to count the notes.

“Ten fifties—ten thousands—ten twenties,” he was mumbling, “nice clean notes—beautiful crisp notes—he won’t get ’em back from me, if that’s what he’s after! No, no, not from Crage. Crage wasn’t in Clement’s Inn for forty years for nothing. Ten more fifties!—” So he went on mumbling to himself, and stuffing the notes away in a broken old pocket-book, while Brentin handed me over the receipt, and snapped his grip with a click.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ve bluffed ’em. Keep cool.”

“Hadn’t you better let me keep ’em for you!” whined the woman, bending over Crage’s chair. “You’ll only lose ’em. Give ’em me to take care of for you, there’s a dearie!”

To which pathetic appeal the old man paid no sort of heed, but pushed the pocket-book into his inside breast-pocket, with many senile signs of satisfaction and joy.

“And now!” cried Brentin, in imperturbable high spirits, “the wedding-procession will reform, and proceed to the church for the tying of the sacred knot. Mr. Bailey Thompson—Mossieu Cochefort—we shall be glad if you will join us, and afterwards, at ‘The French Horn,’ to a slight but high-toned repast. Good-day, Mr. Crage; take care of yourself and your money. Let us hope that when the robins nest they will find you in your usual robust health. Mossieu Cochefort—Mr. Bailey Thompson—if you will kindly follow us—”

But a sudden access of fury seemed to have seized the usually calm little detective; he was stamping his feet, waving his arms, almost foaming at the mouth.

In execrable French, Stratford-atte-Bow-Street French, he began to swear aloud he would have nothing more to do with it, that he had done his best, that he had never yet had dealings with the French police but they hadn’t muddled it; for his part, his work was finished, and he was going home.

“Here they are!” he cried, “three of them, all ready for you. Will you have them, or won’t you? Les voilar! Nong? Vous ne les voulay pas? Then if you don’t want them, why the ——” (dreadful bad word!) “did you bring me off down here?” he yelled, breaking into profane English.

“Mais, voyons! voyons!” murmured the startled and conciliatory Cochefort.

“Damn your voyons!” Bailey Thompson screamed. “If you don’t want them, and won’t take them, do the rest of it yourself, the best way you can. I wash my hands of it. Good-day, gentlemen, and thank your lucky stars for the imbecility of the French police!” and with that he rushed to the door, through the hall, and out into his cab. As he pulled the hall door open I heard the wedding-bells come surging in with a new burst of joy.

“Mais, mon ami!” cried Cochefort, as Thompson tore himself away, “ne me laissez pas comme Ça!” and with much gesticulation prepared to follow.

But Brentin sagely stopped him. “Restay, Mossieu Cochefort!” he said, graciously; “Restay avec nous. Tout va biang. Restay!”

“Mais, quel cochon!” cried the angry Cochefort, stretching out his black kid hands, and shaking them in Bailey Thompson’s direction. “Ma parole d’honneur! a t’on jamais vu un pareil sacrÉ cochon!”

“C’est vrai!” said Brentin. “Mais il est toujours comme Ça. Vous savvy, il n’est pas gentilhomme. Nous sommes tous gentilhommes. Nous vous garderong et vous traiterong tray biang. Restay!”

So Mossieu Cochefort allowed himself to be comforted, and restay’d. We took him with us to the church, and did him right well at lunch, and then, so forlorn and downcast the poor creature seemed, Lucy and I carried him off with us up to town, if only out of kindness, to put him on his way back to Monaco.

On the way up in the train he confessed to me his only instructions had been to try and get the money back, and that if he couldn’t manage that, or part of it, he was directed not to think of embarrassing the authorities by taking us all in charge. I could conceive, he said, that the authorities didn’t want to be made the laughing-stock of Europe by having to try us, nor to add to their already heavy expenses by keeping us in prison—nearly all quite young men—for the term of our natural lives. He hadn’t been able fully to explain all this to Bailey Thompson: the man was such a lunatic, he said, and so obstinate: and besides, from the moment of his arrival Bailey Thompson had ridden the high horse over him, and proudly declaring he didn’t require to be taught his duties by a foreigner, had immediately carried him off down to Nesshaven, scarcely allowing him once to open his mouth all the way.

At Liverpool Street he seemed more lost, poor wretch, than ever. He knew no single word of English, and looked at us so pathetically, as we stood on the platform together, our soft hearts were touched. So we made up our minds to carry him along with us to Folkestone, dine him at the “Pavilion,” and afterwards see him safe on board the night-boat for Boulogne.

It was droll, all the same, this carrying a French detective about with us on our wedding-day; but the man was so truly grateful I have never regretted it. We gave him a good dinner at the hotel, and at ten o’clock walked him out on to the pier for his boat. He made me a little speech at parting, declaring I had treated him “en vrai camarade,” and that if ever I wanted to come to Monte Carlo again I was to let him know and he would see I came to no harm. To Lucy he presented all his compliments and felicitations on securing the affection of “un si galant homme!” and then, with a twenty-pound note I slipped into his hand at parting, bowed himself away, and was soon lost to sight in the purlieus of the second cabin, whither he went prepared to be dreadfully sick, smooth and calm as the night was.

As Lucy and I strolled back to the hotel, arm-in-arm, we both were silent.

At last, just as we got back and heard the steamer’s final clanging bell and despairing whistle, “I can’t make out, really, whether you’ve all done right or wrong,” she whispered, softly; “but this I know, dearest, you have been most extraordinarily lucky.”

To which simple little speech I merely pressed her arm, by way of showing how thoroughly I agreed with her.