Mr. George Rabbit looked me up and down with a new expression of countenance. I noticed, too, that some of his alertness was gone, and that his narrow, shifty eyes avoided mine. He had no reason to think that I should suspect him of the murder of my Uncle Zabdiel; nevertheless, he looked at me resentfully, as though, before even I had spoken, he knew I was going to accuse him of it.

"Wotjer mean by follerin' a honest man about like this 'ere?" he demanded savagely. "If I 'ad my rights, I ought to be follerin' you, Mr. Jail-bird—seein' wot I know abaht yer." Then, as I said nothing, but looked at him steadily, he broke out more fiercely: "W'y don't yer speak? Wot 'ave yer got against me, eh?"

I took him by the arm, and suddenly wrenched his hand round, so that I could look at the palm of it; then I bent forward, and whispered to him swiftly: "There's blood on your hands!"

He struggled faintly for a moment to get free; his face had gone to a sickly green colour. "You're mad—stark, starin', ravin' mad!" he exclaimed. "Don't you say sich things against me, or I'll blab—sure as death!"

"Death's the word," I retorted. "Now, George Rabbit, we've got to talk over this thing, and we may as well do it quietly. Take me to some place where I can say what I have to say."

He hesitated for a moment, undecided whether to treat the matter with defiance, or to accede to my demands; at last he shrugged his shoulders, spat emphatically on the ground, and turned to lead the way. He turned back again a moment later, and looked at Andrew Ferkoe with a new resentment.

"Wot's this chap got to do wiv it?" he asked. "'Ave you bin blabbin' to 'im abaht it?"

"There was no necessity to do that," I replied quietly. "He saw you do it. Now, don't stand talking here; it might be dangerous."

He stood in an amazed silence for a moment, and then turned and walked away. We followed him rapidly, noticing that every now and then he turned to look back over his shoulder, as if undecided whether, after all, he would not turn back altogether, and refuse to go further. But he went on, nevertheless, and at last brought us to a little public house in a side street. Thrusting open a door with his shoulder, he went in, leaving us to follow; and we presently found ourselves in a little room with a sanded floor—a species of bar parlour. There the three of us sat down round a little beer-stained table, and after I had ordered refreshments (with a double quantity for George Rabbit, because he took the first at a gulp), I began to say what was in my mind.

"When I saw you first to-day you were looking at a house where an old man was murdered a few days back," I began.

"Wot of it?" he demanded. "A lot of people 'ave bin lookin' at that 'ouse; they always does w'en anythink like that's 'appened."

"You were obliged to go back to it—the man who commits a murder always must, you know. You wanted to see if any one had suspected you."

The man glanced nervously round the room, and then thrust his face towards mine across the table. "Wot's this 'ere talk abaht a murder?" he whispered. "Wot's this 'ere talk abaht this chap 'aving seen me do it? Wot's this business abaht takin' away a honest man's character?"

"When you broke into the house the other night, and came face to face with Zabdiel Blowfield, and got the stick out of his hand and killed him, someone was watching you," I answered steadily.

"Watchin' me! W'y, the ole chap lived alone!" he exclaimed incautiously. Then, seeing the smile on my face, he went on hurriedly, "Leastways, so I've bin told, on'y I don't know nothink abaht it."

"You were sent there first by Martha Leach. My uncle wanted to see you, because he thought your evidence might be useful in getting me back to my prison," I went on remorselessly. "That gave you the idea of robbing the old man; you didn't stick at murder when you were pushed to it. This lad here"—I indicated Andrew Ferkoe as I spoke—"was asleep in the house at the time, as you would have heard, if you had been at the inquest. He got out of bed and saw you. How else do you suppose he was able to point you out to-day as the man he saw in the house?"

George Rabbit looked from one to the other of us narrowly; then he began to speak almost as if to himself. "Now I comes to think of it, I did 'ear a noise up above in the 'ouse. So it was you, was it?" he said, turning wrathfully on Andrew Ferkoe. "My God! it's a lucky thing for you I didn't find you; I'd 'ave put your light out!"

"I know that," answered Andrew quietly. "That was why I didn't make a noise."

"Well, an' wot's the little game now?" asked Rabbit impudently, as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Mr. Jail-bird, let's 'ear wot you've got to say. You can't bring a charge like this against a honest man without some proof. I 'ave 'eard that no finger prints 'ave bin discovered, so that you won't git much that way."

"I can find a dozen ways of running you to earth," I replied. "On the other hand, it may not pay me to do so."

"Yus, that's the trouble, ain't it?" he said with a sneer. "They might ask you awkward questions, or I might 'ave a word to say abaht the gent wot's takin' my character away. Then again, wot's 'is nibs 'ere bin sayin' at the inquest?"

I was bound to confess that Andrew had stated that he had slept soundly on the night of the murder, and had heard nothing and seen nothing. George Rabbit, growing more confident with every moment, grinned and kissed his grimy finger-tips in the direction of Andrew.

"An' now 'e'll 'ave to tell anuvver tale!" he exclaimed. "If it comes to that, 'oo's to say 'e didn't do the job 'imself; 'e was in the 'ouse."

It was not my purpose to bring the man to justice; it would go hard with me, as well, perhaps, with Andrew Ferkoe, if I made any attempt to slip a noose about the fellow's neck. Yet, much as I loathed the man, I realised that the killing of my Uncle Zabdiel had not been any premeditated affair; it had been a blow struck, brutally enough, for his own liberty by this man who now sat before me. My purpose was to use him, if possible, as an instrument for myself, to trade upon my knowledge of what he had done, and so bind him first to silence about myself and who I was, and next to assist me in the finding of Debora and the destruction of Bardolph Just's plans. I set about that now without more ado.

"As I have said, it would be easy enough to prove the matter," I answered, "and I should have the satisfaction of seeing you hang; but that's not my plan. We are the only people who know the truth, and we shall not speak."

I saw Andrew Ferkoe glance at me swiftly for a moment; as for Rabbit, he sat gaping at me as though he had not heard aright. "You mean it?" he gasped.

"Of course I do; I'm a man of my word," I answered him. "But there is a condition attaching to it, and that condition must be respected. I'm not the man to be played with, and I've got you in a tighter place than you think. Play with me, and you'll play with fire; of that I warn you."

"Now, look 'ere, guv'nor," answered the man in an altered tone, "am I likely to play any tricks, seein' 'ow I'm placed? Gents both, I give yer my solemn word I never meant to put the old gent's light out. I jist meant to git wot I could quietly. I 'ad a sort of idea that 'e might keep money on the premises. As it was, I got next to nuffink, an' wot I did git I don't dare part wiv, for fear I should be nabbed. I never thought 'e'd wake up, but w'en 'e come out there, an' tried to 'it me wiv the stick, I jist jerked it out of 'is 'and, an' gave 'im one for 'imself to keep 'im quiet. I ain't excusin' meself; I know I done it, an' that's all there is to it."

"In the first place, you will know me, if you know me at all, always as John New; the other man, once a fellow-prisoner of yours, lies buried in that prison. Am I right?" I asked the question sternly.

"I'll take my oath of it," he asserted solemnly. "W'y, now I come to look at yer," he added, with a grin, "you ain't no more like Norton 'Yde than wot I am."

"Don't overdo it," I suggested. "Now, in the second place, you remember a young lady—a ward of Dr. Just?"

"Yus, I know 'er; wot of it?" he asked.

"She has left the doctor's house—has run away," I answered. "She doesn't know where to find me, and I don't know where to find her. She may be wandering about London friendless and without money. Can you help me to find her?"

"Do yer mean it?" he asked incredulously.

I nodded. "Under ordinary circumstances you are the last man in the world that I would select for such work, but I must use the tools ready to my hand," I said. "If you play tricks with me, you'll know what to expect, because our friend here"—I indicated Andrew—"will be only too ready to speak and to tell what he knows, without bringing me into the matter at all. But I think, for your own sake, you'll play the game fairly."

In his eagerness he began to take all manner of strange oaths as to what he meant to do, and as to the absolute dependence that was to be placed upon his word. I interrupted him sharply by telling him that I looked for deeds, and not words, and quite humbly and gratefully he promised to do all in his power. I gave him an address at which I could be found, and presently saw him go lurching away, with his head turned every now and then to look back at me. I seemed to picture him going through life like that, remembering always the dead thing he had left lying on certain stairs in a dismal old house.

And now I come to that point in my story when my own helplessness was, for a time at least, borne in upon me more strongly than ever. I had no very great hopes that where I had failed George Rabbit would succeed, and I blamed myself for having placed any reliance on him. I wandered about London restlessly for a day or two, as I had done before, hoping always that any slight girlish figure going on before me might in a moment turn its head and show me the face of Debora; but that never happened. What did happen was that I had an unexpected meeting with Bardolph Just.

The newspapers had, of course, given my address, as an important witness at the inquest on Uncle Zabdiel, so that I was not altogether surprised to find, one evening when I went back to my little lodging, tired out, and weary, and dispirited, that Bardolph Just was waiting for me. I was aware of his presence in my room before ever I got to the house, for as I came up the street I happened to raise my eyes to the window, and there he was, lounging half out of it, smoking a cigar and surveying me. I wondered what his visit might portend. I hoped that he might have discovered something about Debora, and that I might get the information from him.

On opening the door of the room and going in I saw that he was not alone; Harvey Scoffold sat there, quite as though he had come, in a sense, as a protector for his patron. I put my back against the closed door, and looked from one man to the other, and waited for what they had to say. Harvey Scoffold smiled a little weakly, and waved a hand to me; Bardolph Just said nothing, but looked me up and down with a fine air of contempt. I judged that he had news for me, and that, for the moment at least, he felt that he had triumphed. Almost I seemed to read into his mind, and to know what that news was. But though I thought I knew the man well, I was not prepared for the vindictiveness he now displayed.

"You must excuse this intrusion," he said quietly, "but I felt sure that you would be anxious concerning my ward, and I thought it best to let you know at once that she is quite safe. I did you an injustice in suggesting that she was with you; for that I apologise most humbly."

"Where is she?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Is it likely that I shall tell you?" he asked. "I won't tell you where she is; for your satisfaction, however, you may understand that you have been the cause of her passing several miserable nights and days penniless in London——"

"You were the cause of that!" I broke in hotly.

"Pardon me; had you never appeared upon the scene she would have been quite content to remain under my care," he retorted.

"Had I never appeared upon the scene, she would before this have been in her grave," I said.

He showed his teeth for a moment in a grin, but said nothing to that. "She was discovered in almost a dying condition. I was communicated with and went to her at once," he proceeded. "She is now in a private nursing home, and so soon as she has recovered I intend to take her abroad. I need not assure you that she is receiving, and will receive, every possible attention and luxury that money can command."

"And you came to tell me this?" I enquired bitterly.

"Out of pure kindness," he answered with a grin. "I knew you would be anxious, and I knew that you took a deep interest in the young lady." He rose to his feet, and carefully polished his hat upon his sleeve, holding the hat in his right hand, and turning it dexterously round and round against the arm he still carried in a sling. "But I came also to say," he went on in a sterner tone, "that with this ends your connection with her and with me. I am not to be trifled with again; keep out of my way."

"One moment, Dr. Just," I interposed, keeping my place before the door. "As you have been so frank with me, it is fair that I should be as frank with you. I warn you that I shall take not the faintest notice of your request, and that I shall, if possible, discover the lady. My power is a greater one than yours, because my power is from the heart. I shall beat you yet; I shall save her yet!"

He laughed and raised his eyebrows, and turned towards Harvey Scoffold. "Did you ever see such a fellow?" he asked. "He is as full of words as ever, although he knows that he can do nothing."

I opened the door, and saw the two men pass out and go down the street. I watched them gloomily for a moment or two from the open window. I was almost in a mood to follow them, but I realised that they were scarcely likely to lead me to Debora. I must be patient; I must hope for a miracle to happen to show me the way to Debora.

After all, it was no miracle that happened, for one could scarcely connect a miracle with the prosaic figure of Andrew Ferkoe. As I looked from my window I saw Andrew coming down the street, reading a newspaper, and reading it so intently that he was continually knocking against people on the same pavement, and continually, as I could see, muttering apologies, and then resuming his reading. I was not best pleased to see him at that time; for although he still lodged with me until such time as I could decide what to do with him, he spent a great part of the day abroad in the streets. Now, however, after knocking at the door and being admitted, he came upstairs at a great rate, and burst into my room with the newspaper in his hand.

"I've found her!" he exclaimed, excitedly waving the paper. "I've found her!"

I snatched the paper from him, and began to read it eagerly at the place where his trembling finger had pointed. The paragraph was headed, "Strange Loss of Memory," and referred to a young lady bearing the name of Debora Matchwick, who had been found in an almost unconscious condition from privation, on a seat in a public park, and had been conveyed to the Great Southern Hospital. For a time it had been impossible to discover who she was, as she appeared to have entirely forgotten any of the past events of her life, or even her own name; but at last she had given the name, and enquiries had elicited the fact that she had a guardian living in the neighbourhood of Highgate. This gentleman—the famous scientist and retired physician, Dr. Bardolph Just—had been communicated with, and had at once visited the young lady. So soon as she had recovered she would go abroad for rest and change. There seemed to be no doubt that she would ultimately recover completely.

I almost hugged Andrew Ferkoe in my delight. I laughed to think how easily the discovery had been made. I laughed also at the remembrance of how Dr. Just had spoken of the "private nursing home," and how now I was, after all, to take the wind out of his sails. I rushed off at once to the Great Southern Hospital.

Every sort of difficulty was placed in my way. It was not an ordinary visiting day, and I could not be admitted. The young lady had been placed in a private ward, it was true, but the regulations were very strict. More than that, it was imperative that she should not be excited in any way.

"I will not excite her; I am her greatest friend, and I know that she has been longing to see me," I pleaded.

"But she has a visitor with her now," the young doctor urged. "That visitor is her guardian."

I was now more than ever determined that I would see Debora; I pleaded again that one extra visitor, under the circumstances, could surely make no difference. "Besides," I added, "I know Dr. Just very well."

So at last I had my way, and I followed the young doctor through the quiet place until I came to the little private room where Debora lay—a room formed by raising walls nearly to the ceiling in a great ward, leaving a corridor down the centre. I went in, with my heart beating heavily; and the first person I faced was Dr. Just.

I never saw a man so astonished in all my life; I was afraid he was going to lose his presence of mind, and have me bundled out then and there, after making something of a scene. But I will do him the justice to say that his conduct was admirable; he accepted the inevitable, and bowed slightly in my direction as the doctor left me inside the little room and closed the door.

Then, for the first time, I saw Debora, lying white-faced among her pillows. I noted with gratitude how her eyes lighted up as she turned slightly in my direction, and held out a white hand towards me. I could not help it; I fell on my knees beside the bed, and put the hand to my lips as the tears sprang to my eyes.

"Thank God!" I said, "thank God!"

"So you don't heed warnings," said the doctor, in a sarcastic tone. "It is only for the sake of this dear girl that I have not had you turned out of the place; I can't understand how in the world you found out where she was."

I took no notice of him. I turned to the girl, and, still holding her hands, began to speak earnestly.

"Debora," I said, "my sweet Debora, I want you to listen to me, and not to this man. I have found you, and I do not mean to lose sight of you again. You will soon be well and strong, and then you will go away from this place—with me."

"Yes, with you," she answered, with her eyes turned to mine, and her hands gripping mine convulsively. "With you!"

I knew that the time was short, and that at any moment the young doctor or a nurse might appear, and might cut short our interview. I saw, too, that Debora was getting excited, and I judged that Bardolph Just might take it upon himself to act the part of doctor as well as guardian, and have me turned away. Therefore I said what I had to say quickly.

"You will wait for me here, Debora; you will not let anyone take you away without letting me know. See, I am writing my address here, and that I will give to the doctor I saw just now—he can send for me if necessary. You are not to go away with anyone else."

"I promise," she said, weakly.

"And now listen to me," broke in the harsh voice of Bardolph Just. "This is a crisis in the lives of the three of us, and I am not to be set aside. When the time comes that you can be removed, Debora, you are going away with me!"

"I am not! I am not!" she cried, still clinging to my hand.

"You are going away with me, or else your friend there goes back to his prison. Choose!" He stood looking at her, and I saw as well as she did that now his mind was made up.

"You wouldn't do that?" she said breathlessly.

"I would," he said. "You go away with me, or I follow this man when he leaves this place, and I give him in charge to the first constable I meet, as the escaped convict, Norton Hyde. And I follow that charge up until I see him back within his prison walls, with something more than nine years of servitude before him. If you want him to keep his liberty, send him away now."

She began to weep despairingly, while I, on the horns of this new dilemma, did my best to comfort her. And suddenly, with all her heart set on my welfare, she announced her decision.

"I promise that I will go with you," she said to Bardolph Just in a whisper.

"No—no! you must not promise that!" I urged, springing to my feet, and facing the other man. "You shall not!"

"I must, I must, for your sake!" she answered. "My dear, it will all come right in time, if you will be patient. We shall meet when all this is over and done with. Good-bye!"

I would have said more then, but at that moment the door opened, and the young doctor came in. One glance at the girl was sufficient; with an impatient gesture he ordered Bardolph Just and myself to go, and hastily summoned the nurse. So we marched out, side by side, without a word until we reached the street.

"Understand me," said Bardolph Just quietly, "I shall keep my word."

"And I shall keep mine," I retorted, as I turned on my heel and left him.

Brave words, as you will doubtless think; yet even as I said them I realised how helpless I was. Debora, for my sake, would go back to that horrible house, there to live, perhaps, in safety for a time, until the doctor could devise some cunning death for her. And I supposed that in due course I should hear of that; and should know the truth, and yet should be able to say nothing. Almost I was resolved to risk my own neck in saving her; almost I determined to put that old threat into execution, and kill the man. But I had no stomach for murder when I came to think of the matter: I could only beat my brains in a foolish attempt to find some way out of the tangle.

Thus nearly a week went by—a miserable week, during which I haunted the neighbourhood of the hospital and wandered the streets aimlessly, turning over scheme after scheme, only to reject each one as useless. Then, at last, one day I went to the hospital, and enquired for Miss Debora Matchwick, and asked if I might see her.

I was told that she was gone. Her guardian had called on the previous day with a carriage, and had taken her home; he had made a generous donation to the funds of the hospital, in recognition of his gratitude for the kindness the young lady had received. So I understood that he had succeeded, and that I had failed.

The man had succeeded, too, in putting the strongest possible barrier between the girl and myself, in invoking that bogey of my safety. I knew that he could hold her more strongly with that than with anything else; I felt that she would refuse, for my sake, to have anything to do with me. Nevertheless, I came to the conclusion that I must make one last desperate effort to see her, or to see Bardolph Just. In a sense, I was safe, because I knew I was always a standing menace to the man, and that he feared me.

I went straight from the hospital to the house at Highgate. I had no definite plan in my mind; I determined to act just as circumstances should suggest. I rang the bell boldly, and a servant whom I knew appeared at the door. He was in the very act of slamming it again in my face, when I thrust my way in and closed the door behind me.

"Don't try that game again," I said sternly, "or you'll repent it. Where's your master?"

"I have my orders, sir," he began, "and I dare not——"

"I'll see you don't get into trouble," I broke in. "I want to see Dr. Just."

"But he's not here, sir," said the man, and I saw that he was speaking the truth. "Dr. Just and the young lady have gone away, sir."

"Do you know where they've gone?" I asked; but the man only shook his head.

I stood there debating what to do, and wondering if by chance the doctor might have carried out his original intention of going abroad. Then a door opened at the end of the hall, and Martha Leach came out and advanced towards me. She stopped on seeing who the intruder was; then with a gesture dismissed the servant, and silently motioned to me to follow her into another room. It was the dining-room, and when I had gone in she shut the door, and stood waiting for me to speak. I noticed that she seemed thinner than of old, and that there were streaks of grey in her black hair. She stood twisting her white fingers over and over while she watched me.

"I came to see the doctor," I said abruptly. "Where is he?"

"Why do you want to know?" she demanded. "You've been turned out of this place; you ought not to have been admitted now."

"I do not forget the assistance you rendered in turning me out," I said. "Nevertheless I am here now, and I want an answer to my question. I want to find the girl Debora Matchwick."

She stood for a long time, as it seemed to me, in a rigid attitude, with her fingers twining and twisting, and with her eyes bent to the floor. Then suddenly she looked up, and her manner was changed and eager.

"I wonder if you would help me?" was her astonishing remark.

"Try me," I said quietly.

"I suppose you love this slip of a girl—in a fashion you call love," she flashed out at me. "I can't understand it myself—but then, my nature's a different one. You would no more understand what rages here within me"—she smote herself ruthlessly on the breast with both hands—"than I can understand how any man can be attracted by a bread-and-butter child like that. But, perhaps, you can grasp a little what I suffer when I know that that man and that girl are together—miles away from here—and that I am here, tied here by his orders."

"I think I can understand," I said quietly, determined in my own mind to play upon that mad jealousy for my own ends. "And I am sorry for you."

"I don't want your sorrow, and I don't want your pity!" she exclaimed, fiercely brushing away tears that had gathered in her eyes. "Only I shall go mad if this goes on much longer; I can't bear it. He insulted me to my face before her on the day they left for Green Barn together—yesterday that was."

"And yet you love him—you would get this girl out of his hands if you could?"

"I would kill her if I could," she snarled. "I would tear her limb from limb; I would mark her prettiness in such a fashion that no man would look at her again. That's what I'd do."

"You want me to help you," I reminded her.

"Why don't you have some pluck?" she demanded fiercely. "Why don't you tear her out of his hands, and take her away?"

"There are reasons why I cannot act as I would," I said. "But I'll do this; I'll go down to Green Barn, and I'll try to persuade her to go away with me. You've fought against that all the time, or I might have succeeded before."

"I know—I know!" she said. "I hoped to please him by doing that; I hoped that some day he might get tired of her, and might look at me again as he looked at me in the old days. But now I'm hopeless; I can do nothing while she is with him. I'm sorry—sorry I fought against you," she added, in a lower tone.

"I'll do my best to help you—and the girl," I said. "It may happen that you may get your wish sooner than you anticipated; I believe that Bardolph Just means to kill her."

"If he doesn't, I shall!" she snapped at me as I left the house.

So far I had done no good, save in discovering where Bardolph Just and Debora had gone. It was a relief to me to know that they had not gone abroad; for then I should have been helpless indeed. I determined that I would go at once down into Essex; it would be some satisfaction at least to be near her.

I was walking rapidly away from the house when I heard someone following me; I turned suspiciously, and saw that it was the man Capper. He came up to me with that foolish smile hovering over his face, and spoke in that strange, querulous whisper I had heard so often.

"Forgive an old man speaking to you, sir," he said—"an old man all alone in the world, and with no friends. I saw you come from Dr. Just's house—good, kind Dr. Just!"

I felt my suspicions of him beginning to rise in my mind again, despite the fact that the face he turned to me was that of a simpleton. I recalled Debora's words to me when she had wondered if this man would ever speak.

"What do you want?" I asked him, not ungently.

"I want to find Dr. Just—good, kind Dr. Just," he whispered. "I have followed him a long time, but have been so unfortunate as to miss him. I missed him in a crowd in a street; now I find that he is not at his house."

"You are very devoted to Dr. Just," I observed. "What do you hope to gain by it?"

"To gain?" He stared at me with that curious smile on his face. "What should I gain?"

"I don't know," I answered him, "but it seems to me that you may some day gain what you want."

"God grant I may!" The answer was given in an entirely different voice, and I looked at him in a startled way as I realised at last the truth that for some time at least he had been shamming. I dropped my hand on his shoulder, and spoke sternly enough.

"Come now, let this pretence be ended," I said. "You're as sane as I am—you have all your wits about you. Your brain is clear; you remember everything."

We were in a quiet lane near the house, and there was no one in sight. He clasped his hands, and raised his face—a changed face, stern-set, grim and relentless—to the sky. "Dear God!" he exclaimed passionately, "I do remember! I do remember!"

"What?" I asked.

He looked at me for a moment intently, as if debating within himself whether to trust me; then at last he laid a hand tremulously on my arm, and stared up into my face.

"I have shammed, sir," he said. "I have lied; I have plotted. I shall not fail now; I have come out of the darkness into the light. I have come to life!"

His excitement, now that he had once let himself go, was tremendous; he seemed a bigger and a stronger man than I had imagined. He stood there, shaking his clenched fists above his head, and crying out that he was alive, and almost weeping with excitement.

"What are you going to do?" I asked him, breathlessly.

"I am going to kill Bardolph Just, as he killed my young master, Mr. Gregory Pennington! I have tried twice; the third time I shall succeed!" he replied.