Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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It was now two o'clock. The stranger said quietly to the clerk opposite
that he wanted gold.

"How much?" said the clerk, with the same blandness.

"Forty thousand pounds," answered the stranger.

"Sorry we can't accommodate you, Sir," returned the clerk.

Potts had heard this and came forward.

"Won't you take a draft on London?" said he.

"Can't," replied the man; "I was ordered to get gold."

"A draft on Smithers & Co.?"

"Couldn't take even Bank of England notes," said the stranger; "I'm only
an agent. If you can't accommodate me I'm sorry, I'm sure."

Potts was silent. His face was ghastly. As much agony as such a man
could endure was felt by him at that moment.

Half an hour afterward the shutters were up; and outside the door stood
a wild and riotous crowd, the most noisy of whom was the tailor.

The Brandon Bank had failed.

CHAPTER L.

THE BANK DIRECTORS.

The bank doors were closed, and the bank directors were left to their
own refections. Clark had been in through the day, and at the critical
moment his feelings had overpowered him so much that he felt compelled
to go over to the inn to get something to drink, wherewith he might
refresh himself and keep up his spirits.

Potts and John remained in the bank parlor. The clerks had gone. Potts
was in that state of dejection in which even liquor was not desirable.
John showed his usual nonchalance.

"Well, Johnnie," said Potts, after a long silence, "we're used up!"

"The bank's bursted, that's a fact. You were a fool for fighting it out
so long."

"I might as well. I was responsible, at any rate."

"You might have kept your gold."

"Then my estate would have been good. Besides, I hoped to fight through
this difficulty. In fact, I hadn't any thing else to do."

"Why not?"

"Smithers & Co,"

"Ah! yes."

"They'll be down on me now. That's what I was afraid of all along."

"How much do you owe them?"

"Seven hundred and two thousand pounds."

"The devil! I thought it was only five hundred thousand."

"It's been growing every day. Its a dreadful dangerous thing to have
unlimited credit."

"Well, you've got something as an offset. The debts due the bank."

"Johnnie," said Potts, taking a long breath, "since Clark isn't here I
don't mind telling you that my candid opinion is them debts isn't worth
a rush. A great crowd of people came here for money. I didn't hardly ask
a question. I shelled out royally. I wanted to be known, so as to get
into Parliament some day. I did what is called 'going it blind.'"

"How much is owing you?"

"The books say five hundred and thirteen thousand pounds--but it's
doubtful if I can get any of it. And now Smithers & Co. will be down on
me at once."

"What do you intend to do?"

"I don't know."

"Haven't you thought?"

"No, I couldn't."

"Well, I have."

"What?"

"You'll have to try to compromise."

"What if they won't?"

John shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing.

"After all," resumed Potts, hopefully, "it can't be so bad. The estate
is worth two millions."

"Pooh!"

"Isn't it?"

"Of course not. You know what you bought it for."

"That's because it was thrown away."

"Well, it'll have to be thrown away again."

"Oh, Smithers & Co.'ll be easy. They don't care for money."

"Perhaps so. The fact is, I don't understand Smithers & Co. at all. I've
tried to see through their little game, but can't begin to do it."

"Oh, that's easy enough! They knew I was rich, and let me have what
money I wanted."

John looked doubtful.

At this moment a rap was heard at the back door.

"There comes Clark!" said he.

Potts opened the door. Clark entered. His face was flushed, and his eyes
bloodshot.

"See here," said he, mysteriously, as he entered the room.

"What?" asked the others, anxiously.

"There's two chaps at the inn. One is the Italian--"

"Langhetti!"

"Ay," said Clark, gloomily; "and the other is his mate--that fellow that
helped him to carry off the gal. They've done it again this time, and my
opinion is that these fellows are at the bottom of all our troubles. You
know _whose son he is_."

Potts and John exchanged glances.

"I went after that devil once, and I'm going to try it again. This time
I'll take some one who isn't afraid of the devil. Johnnie, is the dog at
the Hall?"

"Yes."

"All right!" said Clark. "I'll be even with this fellow yet, if he is in
league with the devil."

With these words Clark went out, and left the two together. A glance of
savage exultation passed over the face of Potts.

"If he comes back successful," said he, "all right, and if be doesn't,
why then"--He paused.

"If he doesn't come back," said John, finishing the sentence for him,
"why then--all righter."

CHAPTER LI.

A STRUGGLE.

All the irresolution which for a time had characterized Despard had
vanished before the shock of that great discovery which his father's
manuscript had revealed to him. One purpose now lay clearly and vividly
before him, one which to so loyal and devoted a nature as his was the
holiest duty, and that was vengeance on his father's murderers.

In this purpose he took refuge from his own grief; he cast aside his own
longings, his anguish, his despair. Langhetti wished to search after his
"Bice;" Despard wished to find those whom his dead father had denounced
to him. In the intensity of his purpose he was careless as to the means
by which that vengeance should be accomplished. He thought not whether
it would be better to trust to the slow action of the law, or to take
the task into his own hands. His only wish was to be confronted with
either of these men, or both of them.

It was with this feeling in his heart that he set out with Langhetti,
and the two went once more in company to the village of Brandon, where
they arrived on the first day of the "run on the bank."

He did not know exactly what it would be best to do first. His one idea
was to go to the Hall, and confront the murderers in their own place.
Langhetti, however, urged the need of help from the civil magistrate. It
was while they were deliberating about this that a letter was brought in
addressed to the _Rev. Courtenay Despard_.

Despard did not recognize the handwriting. In some surprise how any one
should know that was here he opened the letter, and his surprise was
still greater as he read the following:

"SIR,--There are two men here whom you seek--one Potts, the other Clark.
You can see them both at any time.

"The young lady whom you and Signor Langhetti formerly rescued has
escaped, and is now in safety at Denton, a village not more than twenty
miles away. She lives in the last cottage on the left-hand side of the
road, close by the sea. There is an American elm in front."

There was no signature.

Despard handed it in silence to Langhetti, who read it eagerly. Joy
spread over his face. He started to his feet.

"I must go at once," said he, excitedly. "Will you?"

"No," replied Despard. "You had better go. I must stay; my purpose is a
different one."

"But do not you also wish to secure the safety of Bice?"

"Of course; but I shall not be needed. You will be enough."

Langhetti tried to persuade him, but Despard was immovable. For himself
he was too impatient to wait. He determined to set out at once. He could
not get a carriage, but he managed to obtain a horse, and with this he
set out. It was about the time when the bank had closed.

Just before his departure Despard saw a man come from the bank and enter
the inn. He knew the face, for he had seen it when here before. It was
Clark. At the sight of this face all his fiercest instinct awoke within
him--a deep thirst for vengeance arose. He could not lose sight of this
man. He determined to track him, and thus by active pursuit to do
something toward the accomplishment of his purpose.

He watched him, therefore, as he entered the inn, and caught a hasty
glance which Clark directed at himself and Langhetti. He did not
understand the meaning of the scowl that passed over the ruffian's face,
nor did Clark understand the full meaning of that gloomy frown which
lowered over Despard's brow as his eyes blazed wrathfully and menacingly
upon him.

[Illustration: "THE NEXT INSTANT DESPARD HAD SEIZED HIS THROAT AND HELD
HIM SO THAT HE COULD NOT MOVE."]

Clark came out and went to the bank. On quitting the bank Despard saw
him looking back at Langhetti, who was just leaving. He then watched him
till he went up to the Hall.

In about half an hour Clark came back on horseback followed by a dog. He
talked for a while with the landlord, and then went off at a slow trot.

On questioning the landlord Despard found that Clark had asked him about
the direction which Langhetti had taken. The idea at once flashed upon
him that possibly Clark wished to pursue Langhetti, in order to find out
about Beatrice. He determine on pursuit, both for Langhetti's sake and
his own.

He followed, therefore, not far behind Clark, riding at first rapidly
till he caught sight of him at the summit of a hill in front, and then
keeping at about the same distance behind him. He had not determined in
his mind what it was best to do, but held himself prepared for any
course of action.

After riding about an hour he put spurs to his horse, and went on at a
more rapid pace. Yet he did not overtake Clark, and therefore
conjectured that Clark himself must have gone on more rapidly. He now
put his own horse at its fullest speed, with the intention of coming up
with his enemy as soon as possible.

He rode on at a tremendous pace for another half hour. At last the road
took a sudden turn; and, whirling around here at the utmost speed, he
burst upon a scene which was as startling as it was unexpected, and
which roused to madness all the fervid passion of his nature.

The road here descended, and in its descent wound round a hill and led
into a gentle hollow, on each side of which hills arose which were
covered with trees.

Within this glen was disclosed a frightful spectacle. A man lay on the
ground, torn from his horse by a huge blood-hound, which even then was
rending him with its huge fangs! The dismounted rider's foot was
entangled in the stirrups, and the horse was plunging and dragging him
along, while the dog was pulling him back. The man himself uttered not a
cry, but tried to fight off the dog with his hands as best he could.

In the horror of the moment Despard saw that it was Langhetti. For an
instant his brain reeled. The next moment he had reached the spot.
Another horseman was standing close by, without pretending even to
interfere. Despard did not see him; he saw nothing but Langhetti. He
flung himself from his horse, and drew a revolver from his pocket. A
loud report rang through the air, and in an instant the huge blood-hound
gave a leap upward, with a piercing yell, and fell dead in the road.

Despard flung himself on his knees beside Langhetti. He saw his hands
torn and bleeding, and blood covering his face and breast. A low groan
was all that escaped from the sufferer.

"Leave me," he gasped. "Save Bice."

In his grief for Langhetti, thus lying before him in such agony, Despard
forgot all else. He seized his handkerchief and tried to stanch the
blood.

"Leave me!" gasped Langhetti again. "Bice will be lost." His head, which
Despard had supported for a moment, sank back, and life seemed to leave
him.

Despard started up. Now for the first time he recollected the stranger;
and in an instant understood who he was, and why this had been done.
Suddenly, as he started up, he felt his pistol snatched from his hand by
a strong grasp. He turned.

It was the horseman--it was Clark--who had stealthily dismounted, and,
in his desperate purpose, had tried to make sure of Despard.

But Despard, quick as thought, leaped upon him, and caught his hand. In
the struggle the pistol fell to the ground. Despard caught Clark in his
arms, and then the contest began.

Clark was of medium size, thick-set, muscular, robust, and desperate.
Despard was tall, but his frame was well knit, his muscles and sinews
were like iron, and he was inspired by a higher Spirit and a deeper
passion.

In the first shock of that fierce embrace not a word was spoken. For
some time the struggle was maintained without result. Clark had caught
Despard at a disadvantage, and this for a time prevented the latter from
putting forth his strength effectually.

At last he wound one arm around Clark's neck in a strangling grasp, and
forced his other arm under that of Clark. Then with one tremendous, one
resistless impulse, he put forth all his strength. His antagonist gave
way before it. He reeled.

Despard disengaged one arm and dealt him a tremendous blow on the
temple. At the same instant he twined his legs about those of the other.
At the stroke Clark, who had already staggered, gave way utterly and
fell heavily backward, with Despard upon him.

The next instant Despard had seized his throat and held him down so that
he could not move.

The wretch gasped and groaned. He struggled to escape from that iron
hold in vain. The hand which had seized him was not to be shaken off.
Despard had fixed his grasp there, and there in the throat of the
fainting, suffocating wretch he held it.

The struggles grew fainter, the arms relaxed, the face blackened, the
limbs stiffened. At last all efforts ceased.

Despard then arose, and, turning Clark over on his face, took the bridle
from one of the horses, bound his hands behind him, and fastened his
feet securely. In the fierce struggle Clark's coat and waistcoat had
been torn away, and slipped down to some extent. His shirt-collar had
burst and slipped with them. As Despard turned him over and proceeded to
tie him, something struck his eye. It was a bright, red scar.

He pulled down the shirt. A mark appeared, the full meaning of which he
knew not, but could well conjecture. There were three brands--fiery red
--and these were the marks:

[Illustration: ^ /|\ [three lines, forming short arrow]

R [sans-serif R]

+ [plus sign] ]

CHAPTER LII.

FACE TO FACE.

On the same evening Potts left the bank at about five o'clock, and went
up to the Hall with John. He was morose, gloomy, and abstracted. The
great question now before him was how to deal with Smithers & Co. Should
he write to them, or go and see them, or what? How could he satisfy
their claims, which he knew would now be presented? Involved in thoughts
like these, he entered the Hall, and, followed by John, went to the
dining-room, where father and son sat down to refresh themselves over a
bottle of brandy.

They had not been seated half an hour before the noise of carriage-
wheels was heard; and on looking out they saw a dog-cart drawn by two
magnificent horses, which drove swiftly up to the portico. A gentleman
dismounted, and, throwing the reins to his servant, came up the steps.

The stranger was of medium size, with an aristocratic air, remarkably
regular features, of pure Grecian outline, and deep, black, lustrous
eyes. His brow was dark and stern, and clouded over by a gloomy frown.

"Who the devil is he?" cried Potts. "D--n that porter! I told him to let
no one in to-day."

"I believe the porter's playing fast and loose with us. But, by Jove! do
you see that fellow's eyes? Do you know who else has such eyes?"

"No."

"Old Smithers."

"Smithers!"

"Yes."

"Then this is young Smithers?"

"Yes; or else the devil," said John, harshly. "I begin to have an idea,"
he continued. "I've been thinking about this for some time."

"What is it?"

"Old Smithers had these eyes. That last chap that drew the forty
thousand out of you kept his eyes covered. Here comes this fellow with
the same eyes. I begin to trace a connection between them."

"Pooh! Old Smithers is old enough to be this man's grandfather."

"Did you ever happen to notice that old Smithers hadn't a wrinkle in his
face?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing--only his hair mightn't have been natural; that's all."

Potts and John exchanged glances, and nothing was said for some time.

"Perhaps this Smithers & Son have been at the bottom of all this,"
continued John. "They are the only ones who could have been strong
enough."

"But why should they?"

John shook his head.

"Despard or Langhetti may have got them to do it. Perhaps that d----d
girl did it. Smithers & Co. will make money enough out of the
speculation to pay them. As for me and you, I begin to have a general
but very accurate idea of ruin. You are getting squeezed pretty close up
to the wall, dad, and they won't give you time to breathe."

Before this conversation had ended the stranger had entered, and had
gone up to the drawing-room. The servant came down to announce him.

"What name?" asked Potts.

"He didn't give any."

Potts looked perplexed.

"Come now," said John. "This fellow has overreached himself at last.
He's come here; perhaps it won't be so easy for him to get out. I'll
have all the servants ready. Do you keep up your spirits. Don't get
frightened, but be plucky. Bluff him, and when the time comes ring the
bell, and I'll march in with all the servants." Potts looked for a
moment at his son with a glance of deep admiration.

"Johnnie,--you've got more sense in your little finger than I have in my
whole body. Yes: we've got this fellow, whoever he is; and if he turns
out to be what I suspect, then we'll spring the trap on him, and he'll
learn what it is to play with edge tools."

With these words Potts departed, and, ascending the stairs, entered the
drawing-room.

The stranger was standing looking out of one of the windows. His
attitude brought back to Potts's recollection the scene which had once
occurred there, when old Smithers was holding Beatrice in his arms. The
recollection of this threw a flood of light on Potts's mind. He recalled
it with a savage exaltation. Perhaps they were the same, as John said--
perhaps; no, most assuredly they must be the same.

"I've got him now, any way," murmured Potts to himself, "whoever he is."

The stranger turned and looked at Potts for a few moments. He neither
bowed nor uttered any salutation whatever. In his look there was a
certain terrific menace, an indefinable glance of conscious power,
combined with implacable hate. The frown which usually rested on his
brow darkened and deepened till the gloomy shadows that covered them
seemed like thunder-clouds.

Before that awful look Potts felt himself cowering involuntarily; and he
began to feel less confidence in his own power, and less sure that the
stranger had flung himself into a trap. However, the silence was
embarrassing; so at last, with an effort, he said:

"Well; is there any thing you want of me? I'm in a hurry."

"Yes," said the stranger, "I reached the village to-day to call at the
bank, but found it closed."

"Oh! I suppose you've got a draft on me, too."

"Yes," said the stranger, mysteriously. "I suppose I may call it a
draft."

"There's no use in troubling your head about it, then," returned Potts;
"I won't pay."

"You won't?"

"Not a penny."

A sharp, sudden smile of contempt flashed over the stranger's face.

"Perhaps if you knew what the draft is, you would feel differently."

"I don't care what it is."

"That depends upon the drawer."

"I don't care who the drawer is. I won't pay it. I don't care even if
it's Smithers & Co. I'll settle all when I'm ready. I'm not going to be
bullied any longer. I've borne enough. You needn't look so very grand,"
he continued, pettishly; "I see through you, and you can't keep up this
sort of thing much longer."

"You appear to hint that you know who I am?"

"Something of that sort," said Potts, rudely; "and let me tell you I
don't care who you are."

"That depends," rejoined the other, calmly, "very much upon
circumstances."

"So you see," continued Potts, "you won't get any thing out of me--not
this time," he added.

"My draft," said the stranger, "is different from those which were
presented at the bank counter."

He spoke in a tone of deep solemnity, with a tone which seemed like the
tread of some inevitable Fate advancing upon its victim. Potts felt an
indefinable fear stealing over him in spite of himself. He said not a
word.

"My draft," continued the stranger, in a tone which was still more
aggressive in its dominant and self-assertive power--"my draft was drawn
twenty years ago."

Potts looked wonderingly and half fearfully at him.

"My draft," said the other, "was drawn by Colonel Lionel Despard."

A chill went to the heart of Potts. With a violent effort he shook off
his fear.

"Pooh!" said he, "you're at that old story, are you? That nonsense won't
do here."

"It was dated at sea," continued the stranger, in tones which still
deepened in awful emphasis--"at sea, when the writer was all alone."

"It's a lie!" cried Potts, while his face grew white.

"At sea," continued the other, ringing the changes on this one word, "at
sea--on board that ship to which you had brought him--the
_Vishnu_!"

Potts was like a man fascinated by some horrid spectacle. He looked
fixedly at his interlocutor. His jaw fell.

"There he died," said the stranger. "Who caused his death? Will you
answer?"

With a tremendous effort Potts again recovered command of himself.

"You--you've been reading up old papers," replied he, in a stammering
voice. "You've got a lot of stuff in your head which you think will
frighten me. You've come to the wrong shop."

But in spite of these words the pale face and nervous manner of Potts
showed how deep was his agitation.

"I myself was on board the _Vishnu_," said the other.

"You!"

"Yes, I."

"You! Then you must have been precious small. The _Vishnu_ went
down twenty years ago."

"I was on board of the _Vishnu_, and I saw Colonel Despard."

The memory of some awful scene seemed to inspire the tones of the
speaker--they thrilled through the coarse, brutal nature of the
listener.

"I saw Colonel Despard," continued the stranger.

"You lie!" cried Potts, roused by terror and horror to a fierce pitch of
excitement.

"I saw Colonel Despard," repeated the stranger, for the third time, "on
board the _Vishnu_ in the Indian Sea. I learned from him his story
--"

He paused.

"Then," cried Potts quickly, to whom there suddenly came an idea which
brought courage with it; "then, if you saw him, what concern is it of
mine? He was alive, then, and the Despard murder never took place."

"It did take place," said the other.

"You're talking nonsense. How could it if you saw him? He must have been
alive."

_"He was dead!"_ replied the stranger, whose eyes had never
withdrawn themselves from those of Potts, and now seemed like two fiery
orbs blazing wrathfully upon him. The tones penetrated to the very soul
of the listener. He shuddered in spite of himself. Like most vulgar
natures, his was accessible to superstitious horror. He heard and
trembled.

"He was dead," repeated the stranger, "and yet all that I told you is
true. I learned from him his story."

"Dead men tell no tales," muttered Potts, in a scarce articulate voice.

"So you thought when you locked him in, and set fire to the ship, and
scuttled her; but you see you were mistaken, for here at least was a
dead man who did tell tales, and I was the listener."

And the mystic solemnity of the man's face seemed to mark him as one who
might indeed have held commune with the dead.

"He told me," continued the stranger, "where he found you, and how."

Awful expectation was manifest on the face of Potts.

"He told me of the mark on your arm. Draw up your sleeve, Briggs, Potts,
or whatever other name you choose, and show the indelible characters
which represent the name of _Bowhani_."

Potts started back. His lips grew ashen. His teeth chattered.

"He gave me this," cried the stranger, in a louder voice; "and this is
the draft which you will not reject."

He strode forward three or four paces, and flung something toward Potts.

It was a cord, at the end of which was a metallic ball. The ball struck
the table as it fell, and rolled to the floor, but the stranger held the
other end in his hand.

"THUG!" cried he; "do you know what that is?"

Had the stranger been Olympian Jove, and had he flung forth from his
right hand a thunder-bolt, it could not have produced a more appalling
effect than that which was wrought upon Potts by the sight of this cord.
He started back in horror, uttering a cry half-way between a scream and
a groan. Big drops of perspiration started from his brow. He trembled
and shuddered from head to foot. His jaw fell. He stood speechless.

"That is my draft," said the stranger.

"What do you want?" gasped Potts.

"The title deeds of the Brandon estates!"

"The Brandon estates!" said Potts, in a faltering voice.

"Yes, the Brandon estates; nothing less."

"And will you then keep silent?"

"I will give you the cord."

"Will you keep silent?"

"I am your master," said the other, haughtily, as his burning eyes fixed
themselves with a consuming gaze upon the abject wretch before him; "I
am your master. I make no promises. I spare you or destroy you as I
choose."

These words reduced Potts to despair. In the depths of that despair he
found hope. He started up, defiant. With an oath he sprang to the bell-
rope and pulled again and again, till the peals reverberated through the
house.

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