The Second Dandy Chater

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  THE SECOND DANDY CHATER

  BY TOM GALLON

  _Author of_ “Tatterly,” “The Kingdom of Hate,” et cetera.

  NEW YORK

  Dodd, Mead & Company

  _Copyright, 1900_, By TOM GALLON.

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  Contents

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. WHEREIN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD MEET 1

  II. ON THE TRACK OF A SHADOW 14

  III. BETTY SIGGS BECOMES ALARMED 27

  IV. A SUNDAY TO BE REMEMBERED 40

  V. AN HONEST SAILOR-MAN 53

  VI. AT THE SIGN OF “THE THREE WATERMEN” 66

  VII. MASTER AND SERVANT 80

  VIII. TELLS OF SOMETHING HIDDEN IN THE WOOD 93

  IX. A SUMMONS FROM SHYLOCK 106

  X. A BODY FROM THE RIVER 120

  XI. MISS VINT HEARS VOICES 133

  XII. WANTED—A DEAD MAN! 146

  XIII. INSPECTOR TOKELY IS EMPHATIC 159

  XIV. BETTY SIGGS DREAMS A DREAM 173

  XV. SHADY ’UN AS A MORAL CHARACTER 186

  XVI. WHO KILLED THIS WOMAN? 199

  XVII. CLARA FINDS A LODGING 212

  XVIII. A CHASE IN THE DARK 224

  XIX. HAUNTED 238

  XX. NEPTUNE TO THE RESCUE 252

  XXI. DR. CRIPPS IS INCOHERENT 265

  XXII. OGLEDON PLAYS HIS LAST CARD 279

  XXIII. DANDY CHATER COMES FROM THE GRAVE 293

  XXIV. A RACE FOR A LIFE 306

  XXV. GOING—GOING—GONE! 320

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  The Second Dandy Chater

  CHAPTER I

  WHEREIN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD MEET

  If there is one place, in the wide world, more dreary anddisconsolate-looking than another, on a gusty evening in March, it isthat part of Essex which lies some twenty miles to the north of theThames, and is bordered nowhere, so far as the eye can reach, byanything but flat and desolate marshlands, and by swampy roads andfields. For there, all the contrary winds of Heaven seem to meet, toplay a grand game of buffets with themselves, and everything else whichrises an inch or two above the ground; there, the very sun, if hehappen to have shown his face at all during the day, sinks moresullenly than anywhere else, as though disgusted with the prospect, andglad to get to bed; there, the few travellers who have been so unwise,or so unfortunate, as to be left out of doors, are surly inconsequence, and give but grudging greeting to any one they meet.

  On just such an evening as this a solitary man, muffled to the eyes,fought a desperate battle with the various winds, something to his owndiscomfiture, and very much to the ruffling of his temper, on the wayto the small village of Bamberton. The railway leaves off suddenly,some six miles from Bamberton, and the man who would visit thatinteresting spot must perforce pay for a fly at the Railway Inn, if hedesire to enter the place with any ostentation, or must walk.

  In the case of this particular man, he desired, for purposes of hisown, to attract as little notice as possible; and was, therefore,tramping through the mud and a drizzling rain, as cheerfully as mightbe. He was a tall, well-built man, of about eight-and-twenty years ofage; with strong, well-defined features, rendered the more so by thefact that his face was cleanly shaven; possibly from having led asolitary life, he had a habit of communing with himself.

  “A cheery welcome, this, to one’s native land—to one’s native place!”he muttered, bending his head, as a fresh gust of wind and rain droveat him. “Why—if the devil himself were in league against me, and hadmade up his mind to oppose my coming, he couldn’t fight harder thanthis! ’Pon my word, it almost looks like a bad omen for you, PhilipCrowdy—a devilish bad omen!”

  Despite the wind and the rain and the gathering night, however, the manpresently seated himself on a stone, near the roadside, and withinsight of the twinkling lights of the village, as though he hassomething weighty on his mind, which must be thrashed out before hecould proceed to his destination. Despite the wind and the rain, too,he took the matter quite good-humouredly, in putting a suppositiouscase to himself—even doing it with some jocularity.

  “Now Phil, my boy—you’ve got to be very careful. There’s no gettingaway from the fact that you are not wanted—and you certainly will notbe welcome. The likeness is all right; I’ve seen a picture of therespected Dandy Chater—and there’s nothing to be feared, from thatpoint of view. The only thing is, that I must feel my way, and knowexactly what I am doing. And, for the moment, darkness suits me betterthan daylight. My first business is to get as near to Dandy Chater aspossible, and observe him.”

  The tall man, bringing his ruminations to a close, sat for a moment ortwo, deep in thought—so deep in thought, indeed, that he did not hearthe sound of light steps approaching him, from the direction of thevillage; and was absolutely unaware that there was any other figure buthimself in all the landscape, until he felt a light touch on hisshoulder, and started hurriedly to his feet.

  Facing him, in the semi-darkness, was a young girl, who, even by thatlight, he could see was unmistakably pretty. She was quite young, and,although her dress was poor and common, there was an indefinable air ofgrace about her, which set her apart—or seemed to do, in the man’seyes—from any mere rustic girl. To his surprise, she stood quite stillbefore him, with her eyes cast down, as though waiting for him tospeak. After a moment or two of embarrassing silence, Mr. Philip Crowdyspoke.

  “What is the matter?” he asked, in a low voice.

  The girl raised her eyes—and very beautiful eyes they were, too,although they seemed haggard and red, and even then had the traces oftears in them—and looked steadily at him. Even though the man knewthat he had been mistaken by her for some one else, there was no startof surprise on her part; he knew, in an instant, that she thought shesaw in him the person she wanted.

  “Dandy, dear,” she said, appealingly—and her voice had a faint touchof the rustic in it—“you promised that you would see me againto-night.”

  The man had given a faint quick start of surprise, at the mention ofthe name; he turned away abruptly—partly in order to have time tocollect his thoughts, partly to hide his face from her.

  “Better and better!” he muttered to himself. “Nearer and nearer!Now—who on earth is this, and what is Dandy Chater’s little game?”

  “I can’t go down to the village, Dandy,” went on the girl piteously.“You know why I can’t go. You promised
to meet me to-night, in thelittle wood behind the mill—didn’t you, Dandy?”

  “Yes—yes—I know,” replied the man, impatiently. In reality, in thissudden surprising turn of events, his one object was to gain time—togive such replies as should lead her to state more fully who she was,and what her errand might be. “What then?”

  “Don’t be hurt, Dandy dear,” the girl went on, coming timidly a littlenearer to him. “You know how much it means to me—my goodname—everything. I was afraid—afraid you might—might forget.”

  How piteously she said it—and what depth of pleading there was in hereyes! She seemed little more than a girl, and the man, looking at her,felt a certain hot indignation growing in him against the real DandyChater, who could have brought tears to eyes which must once have beenso innocent. It was not his purpose, however, to undeceive her; he hadtoo much at stake for that; so he felt his way cautiously.

  “I shan’t forget; you need not fear. I will meet you, as I havepromised,” he replied slowly.

  “You are very good to me, Dandy,” said the girl, gratefully. “And youare going to take me to London—aren’t you?”

  This had evidently been promised by the real Dandy Chater, and PhilipCrowdy felt that he must deal delicately with the matter, as he hadstill much to learn. Accordingly, pitiful though the thing was, he tookit half laughingly.

  “To London? But what am I to do with you there. Where shall we go?”

  She laughed, to please his humour. “Why—Dandy dear—how soon youforget! Didn’t you promise that I should go with you to the oldplace—there, I can see you’ve forgotten all about it already—the oldplace at Woolwich—the Three Watermen—near the river; didn’t you saywe might wait there until to-morrow? And then——Oh, Dandy, the thoughtof it takes away my breath, and makes my heart beat with joy andgratitude—and then—we are to be married!”

  “There is some desperate game afoot here,” thought Philip Crowdy tohimself, as he stood in the dark road, looking at the eager face of thegirl. “Why—in Heaven’s name, does he want to meet her in a wood, ifhe’s going to take her to London? I must follow this up, if possible,at any cost.” Aloud he said, “Of course—how stupid of me; I’d quiteforgotten. And to-morrow Dandy Chater, Esq., and——”

  “Patience Miller,” broke in the girl, quickly—“will be man andwife—and Patience will be the happiest girl in England!”

  “Got her name, by George!” muttered the man to himself. “Poor girl—Ihope to goodness the man is dealing fairly with her.” Turning to thegirl again, he said carelessly—“Let me see, what time did I say wewere to meet in the wood?”

  “At half-past seven,” replied the girl. “You said we should have timeto walk across the fields, from there to the station, to catch the lasttrain, without any one seeing us—don’t you remember?”

  “Yes—yes, I remember,” replied the man. “I shan’t be late; tillthen—good-bye!”

  He had turned away, and had gone some few paces down the road towardsthe village, when the girl called piteously after him.

  “Dandy—you’re not going like that? Won’t you—won’t you kiss me?”

  The man retraced his steps slowly. As, after a moment’s hesitation, heput an arm carelessly round her shoulders, and bent his face towardshers, he looked fully and strongly into her eyes; but there was nochange in her expression—no faintest start of suspicion or doubt.

  “That was a trial!” he muttered, when he had started again towards thevillage, and had left her standing in the road looking after him. “Thelikeness must be greater even than I suspected. Now to find Mr. DandyChater—or rather—to keep out of his way, until I know what hismovements are.”

  Coming, in the darkness, into the little village—a place consisting ofone long straggling street of cottages, running up a hill—he found theroad flanked on either side by a small inn. On the one side—the righthand—was the Chater Arms; on the other—the Bamberton Head. Standingbetween them, and looking up the long straggling street, Mr. PhilipCrowdy could discern, in the distance, perched on rising ground, theoutlines of a great house, with lights showing faintly here and therein its windows.

  “That’s Chater Hall—evidently,” he said softly to himself. “Now thequestion is, where is Mr. Dandy Chater? Shall I go up to the Hall, andreconnoitre the position, or shall I try one of the inns? I think I’lltry one of the inns; if I happen to drop into the wrong one, and he’sthere, I must trust to making a bolt for it; if he’s _not_ there, Ithink the likeness will serve, and I may hear something which will beuseful. Now, then—heads, right—tails, left!”

  He spun a coin in the air—looked at it closely—returned it to hispocket—and turned to the left, into the Bamberton Head. Knowing thatany sign of hesitation might mean his undoing, he thrust open a doorwhich led into the little parlour, and boldly entered it. There wereone or two men in the room, and a big surly-looking giant of a fellow,who appeared to be the landlord. The men exchanged glances which, tothe man keenly watchful of every movement, seemed to be glances ofsurprise; the surly landlord put a hand to his forehead.

  “Evenin’, Muster Chater,” said the man. “’Tain’t of’en as we seesanything o’ you this side the way, sir.”

  “Wrong house,” thought Philip Crowdy. “So much the better, perhaps; Iam less likely to meet the real man, until I wish to do so.” Aloud hesaid, with a shrug of the shoulders—“Oh—anything for a change. Bringme some brandy, it can’t be worse than that at the other shop—and itmay be better.”

  “A deal better, Muster Chater, take my word for ’t,” replied thelandlord, hurrying away to execute the order.

  During the time that the stranger sat there, and had leisure to lookabout him, he became aware of one unpleasant fact. He saw that, howevergreat might be their respect for the mere position of the man theysupposed him to be, there was a curious resentment at his presence, anda distrust of him personally, which was not to be disguised. When,having leisurely drunk his brandy, he left the place, to their evidentrelief, and came again out into the darkness of the village street, heexpressed the opinion to himself, in one emphatic phrase, that DandyChater was a bad lot.

  In the strangeness of his position, and in his uncertainty as to whatfuture course he was to take, his interview with the girl, on the roadoutside the village, had gone, for the time, clean out of his mind;when he looked at his watch, he discovered, to his dismay, that it wasnearly eight o’clock. More than that, he did not even know where thewood of which she had spoken was situated, and he dared not ask the wayto it.

  Trusting to blind chance to guide him, and looking about anxiously overthe flat landscape, for anything at all answering the description of amill, or even of a wood, he lost more valuable time still; and at last,in sheer desperation, remembering that the last train for Londonstarted at a few minutes to the hour of nine, he set off, at a rapidrate, for the railway station—running along the road now and then, inhis anxiety not to miss it.

  “If the real Dandy Chater has kept his promise to the girl, even so faras taking her to London is concerned,” he muttered, as he ran on,“they’ve met in the wood long ago, and are well on their way to thestation. I’ll follow them; that’s the best course. Besides—I don’tlike the look of that business with the girl; her eyes seem to haunt mesomehow. If I miss them at the station, I can at least go on to thatplace she mentioned at Woolwich, and keep my eye on the man.”

  The wind and rain were less heavy and boisterous than they had been,and the moon was struggling faintly through driving clouds. As the manhurried along, seeing the lights of the station in the distance beforehim, a figure suddenly broke through the low hedge beside the road,scarcely more than a hundred yards in advance, and ran on in front, inthe same direction. Philip Crowdy, hearing the warning shriek of thetrain, hurried on faster than before.

  At the very entrance of the station-yard was a gas lamp, which servedto light feebly the dreary-looking muddy roads converging upon it. And,beneath this lamp, the figure which had broke
n through the hedge, andrun on before, had stopped, and was carefully scraping and shaking someheavy wet clay from its boots. Catching a glimpse of the face of thefigure, as he hurried past, Crowdy, with an exclamation, drew his hatdown well over his face, and pulled his coat collar higher.

  There was no time even to get a ticket; Crowdy raced across thebooking-office, and reached the platform just in time; wrenched open adoor, and jumped in. He heard a shout, and, looking out, saw a porterpulling open another door, while the man who had been so particularabout his boots sprang into the train. Then, the door was slammed, andthe train, already in motion, steamed out of the station.

  Philip Crowdy leant back in the compartment in which he found himselfalone, and whistled softly. “This is a new move,” he muttered, “DandyChater himself—and without the girl. Well, most respectable GreatEastern Railway Company,” he added, with a laugh, apostrophising thename of the Company staring at him from the wall of the carriage—“itisn’t often that you carry, in one train, two such queer people as youcarry to-night!” Then, becoming serious again, he said softly—“But I’dlike to know what’s become of the girl.”

  When the train reached Liverpool Street, Philip Crowdy remained in thecarriage as long as possible, in order to avoid meeting the other man;and, on getting out, discovered to his annoyance that the other man hadvanished—swallowed up in the restless crowds of people who were movingabout the platforms. However, having one faint clue to guide him, heset off for Woolwich.

  The Three Watermen is a little old-fashioned gloomy public-house,situated at the end of a narrow street, which plunges down towards theriver, and on the very bank of that river itself. Indeed, it is halfsupported, on the riverside, by huge baulks of timber, round which themuddy water creeps and washes; and it is the presiding genius, as itwere, over a number of tumble-down sheds and out-houses, used for thestorage of river lumber of one sort or another, or, in some cases, notused at all. And it is the resort of various riverside men; withoccasionally some stranger, who appears to belong to salter waters, andto have lost his way there, in getting to the sea.

  Outside this place, Philip Crowdy waited, for a long time, in theshadow of a doorway, debating with himself what to do. Beingpractically in strange quarters, he had had to enquire every step ofthe way, both as to his journey by train to Woolwich, and afterwards,when he had reached the place. In consequence, he had lost a veryconsiderable amount of time; and was well aware that, if the man hepursued had come to the place at all, he had had all the advantage,from the fact of knowing the way clearly, and being able to makestraight for his destination. Under these circumstances, it was quiteimpossible for Crowdy to know whether the man was in the place, or, ifso, how long he had been there—or even if he had not already left thehouse.

  Turning over all these points in his mind, Crowdy wandered, halfaimlessly, down a little alley, which led beside the Three Watermentowards the river. He had just reached the end of it, and was shiveringa little, at the melancholy prospect of dark water and darker mudbefore him, when a man, rushing hurriedly from the direction of thewater, almost carried him off his legs; snapped out an oath at him; andwas gone up the alley, and into the street, before Crowdy had recoveredhis breath.

  “People seem in a hurry about these parts,” he murmured to himself.“Now, I wonder what on earth that fellow was running away from?”

  Impelled, half by curiosity, and half by the restlessness whichpossessed him, he turned and walked some little distance, over a kindof dilapidated wharf, in the direction from which the man had come. Theplace was quite lonely and deserted, and only the skeleton-like framesof some old barges and other vessels, which some one, at some remoteperiod, had been breaking up, stood up gaunt against the sky. Somedarker object, among some broken timbers at the very edge of the water,attracted his attention; he went forward quickly, and then, with ahalf-suppressed cry, threw himself on his knees beside it.

  It was the body of a man, who had apparently fallen just where he hadbeen struck down; the hand which Philip Crowdy touched was quite warm,although the man was stone dead. But that was not the strangepart—that was not the reason why the living man, bending close abovethe dead, stared at the face as though he could never gaze enough.

  The faces that stared so grimly, in that desolate spot, into eachother—the dead and the living—were alike in every particular, down tothe smallest detail; it was as though the living man gazed into amirror, which threw back every line, even every faint touch ofcolouring, in his own face.

  “Dandy Chater!” whispered Crowdy to himself in an awed voice. “So, I’vefound you at last!”