The Opal Serpent

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  The Opal Serpent

  By

  Fergus Hume

  AUTHOR OF

  "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE RAINBOW FEATHER," "A COIN OF EDWARD VII.," "THE PAGAN'S CUP," "THE SECRET PASSAGE," "THE RED WINDOW," "THE MANDARIN'S FAN," ETC.

  G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

  COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.

  _Issued July, 1905._

  "LOOK! LOOK!" CRIED SYLVIA, GASPING--"THE MOUTH!"]

  CONTENTS

  CHAP. PAGE

  I. DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON 7

  II. DEBORAH JUNK, DUENNA 19

  III. DULCINEA OF GWYNNE STREET 32

  IV. THE UNFORESEEN 44

  V. TROUBLE 56

  VI. A NOISE IN THE NIGHT 68

  VII. A TERRIBLE NIGHT 80

  VIII. THE VERDICT OF THE JURY 91

  IX. CASTLES IN THE AIR 103

  X. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE 115

  XI. A CUCKOO IN THE NEST 126

  XII. THE NEW LIFE 137

  XIII. THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS 148

  XIV. MR. HAY'S LITTLE DINNER 161

  XV. A NEW CLUE 172

  XVI. SYLVIA'S THEORY 185

  XVII. HURD'S INFORMATION 196

  XVIII. AT CHRISTCHURCH, HANTS 208

  XIX. CAPTAIN JESSOP 219

  XX. PART OF THE TRUTH 228

  XXI. MISS QIAN'S PARTY 241

  XXII. FURTHER EVIDENCE 254

  XXIII. WHAT PASH SAID 266

  XXIV. MRS. KRILL AT BAY 278

  XXV. A CRUEL WOMAN 291

  XXVI. A FINAL EXPLANATION 306

  CHAPTER I

  DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON

  Simon Beecot was a country gentleman with a small income, a small estateand a mind considerably smaller than either. He dwelt at Wargrove inEssex and spent his idle hours--of which he possessed a daily andnightly twenty-four--in snarling at his faded wife and in snappingbetween whiles at his son. Mrs. Beecot, having been bullied into old agelong before her time, accepted sour looks and hard words as necessary toGod's providence, but Paul, a fiery youth, resented useless nagging. Heowned more brain-power than his progenitor, and to this favoring ofNature paterfamilias naturally objected. Paul also desired fame, whichwas likewise a crime in the fire-side tyrant's eyes.

  As there were no other children Paul was heir to the Beecot acres,therefore their present proprietor suggested that his son should waitwith idle hands for the falling in of the heritage. In plain words, Mr.Beecot, coming of a long line of middle-class loafers, wished his son tobe a loafer also. Again, when Mrs. Beecot retired to a tearful rest, herbully found Paul a useful person on whom to expend his spleen. Shouldthis whipping-boy leave, Mr. Beecot would have to forego this enjoyment,as servants object to being sworn at without cause. For years Mr.Beecot indulged in bouts of bad temper, till Paul, finding twenty-fivetoo dignified an age to tolerate abuse, announced his intention ofstorming London as a scribbler.

  The parents objected in detail. Mrs. Beecot, after her kind, dissolvedin tears, and made reference to young birds leaving the nest, while herhusband, puffed out like a frog, and redder than the wattles of aturkey-cock, exhausted himself in well-chosen expressions. Paulincreased the use of these by fixing a day for his departure. The femaleBeecot retired to bed with the assistance of a maid, burnt feathers andsal volatile, and the male, as a last and clinching argument,figuratively buttoned up his pockets.

  "Not one shilling will you get from me," said Beecot senior, with thegraceful addition of vigorous adjectives.

  "I don't ask for money," said Paul, keeping his temper, for after allthe turkey-cock was his father. "I have saved fifty pounds. Not out ofmy pocket-money," he added hastily, seeing further objections on theway. "I earned it by writing short stories."

  "The confounded mercantile instinct," snorted paterfamilias, only heused stronger words. "Your mother's uncle was in trade. Thank Heavennone of my people ever used hands or brains. The Beecots lived likegentlemen."

  "I should say like cabbages from your description, father."

  "No insolence, sir. How dare you disgrace your family? Writing talesindeed! Rubbish I expect" (here several adjectives). "And you took moneyI'll be bound, eh! eh!"

  "I have just informed you that I took all I could get," said Beecotjunior, quietly. "I'll live in Town on my savings. When I make a nameand a fortune I'll return."

  "Never! never!" gobbled the turkey-cock. "If you descend to the gutteryou can wallow there. I'll cut you out of my will."

  "Very good, sir, that's settled. Let us change the subject."

  But the old gentleman was too high-spirited to leave well alone. Hedemanded to know if Paul knew to whom he was talking, inquired if he hadread the Bible touching the duties of children to their parents,instanced the fact that Paul's dear mother would probably pine away anddie, and ended with a pathetic reference to losing the prop of his oldage. Paul listened respectfully and held to his own opinion. In defenceof the same he replied in detail,--

  "I am aware that I talk to my father, sir," said he, with spirit; "younever allow me to forget that fact. If another man spoke to me as you doI should probably break his head. I _have_ read the Bible, and findtherein that parents owe a duty to their children, which certainly doesnot include being abused like a pick-pocket. My mother will not pineaway if you will leave her alone for at least three hours a day. And asto my being the prop of your old age, your vigor of language assures methat you are strong enough to stand alone."

  Paterfamilias, never bearded before, hastily drank a glass of port--thetwo were enjoying the usual pleasant family meal when the conversationtook place--and said--but it is useless to detail his remarks. They wereall sound and no sense. In justice to himself, and out of pity for hisfather, Paul cut short the scene by leaving the room with hisdetermination unchanged. Mr. Beecot thereupon retired to bed, andlectured his wife on the enormity of having brought a parricide into theworld. Having been countered for once in his life with common-sense, hefelt that he could not put the matter too strongly to a woman, who wastoo weak to resent his bullying.

  Early next day the cause of the commotion, not having swerved ahair's-breadth from the path he had marked out, took leave of hismother, and a formal farewell of the gentleman who described himself asthe best of fathers. Beecot senior, turkey-coc
k and tyrant, was moresubdued now that he found bluster would not carry his point. But thewave of common-sense came too late. Paul departed bag and baggage, andhis sire swore to the empty air. Even Mrs. Beecot was not available, asshe had fainted.

  Once Paul was fairly out of the house paterfamilias announced that theglory of Israel had departed, removed his son's photograph from thedrawing-room, and considered which of the relatives he had quarrelledwith he should adopt. Privately, he thought he had been a trifle hard onthe lad, and but for his obstinacy--which he called firmness--he wouldhave recalled the prodigal. But that enterprising adventurer was beyondhearing, and had left no address behind him. Beecot, the bully, was nota bad old boy if only he had been firmly dealt with, so he acknowledgedthat Paul had a fine spirit of his own, inherited from himself, andprophesied incorrectly. "He'll come back when the fifty pounds isexhausted," said he in a kind of dejected rage, "and when he does--" Aclenched fist shaken at nothing terminated the speech and showed thatthe leopard could not change his spots.

  So Paul Beecot repaired to London, and after the orthodox fashion beganto cultivate the Muses on a little oatmeal by renting a Bloomsburygarret. There he wrote reams on all subjects and in all styles, and forsix months assiduously haunted publishers' doors with varying fortunes.Sometimes he came away with a cheque, but more often with a bulkymanuscript bulging his pocket. When tired of setting down imaginarywoes he had time to think of his own; but being a cheerful youth, withan indomitable spirit, he banished trouble by interesting himself in thecheap world. By this is meant the world which costs no money toview--the world of the street. Here he witnessed the drama of humanityfrom morning till night, and from sunset till dawn, and on the wholewitnessed very good acting. The poorer parts in the human comedy wereparticularly well played, and starving folks were quite dramatic intheir demands for food. Note-book in hand, Paul witnessed spectacularshows in the West End, grotesque farces in the Strand, melodrama inWhitechapel and tragedy on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. Indeed, he quitespoiled the effect of a sensation scene by tugging at the skirts of astarving heroine who wished to take a river journey into the next world.But for the most part, he remained a spectator and plagiarised from reallife.

  Shortly, the great manager of the Universal Theatre enlisted Paul as anactor, and he assumed the double _role_ of an unappreciated author and asighing lover. In the first capacity he had in his desk ten shortstories, a couple of novels, three dramas and a sheaf of doubtfulverses. These failed to appeal to editor, manager or publisher, andtheir author found himself reduced to his last five-pound note. Then thefoolish, ardent lad must needs fall in love. Who his divinity was, whatshe was, and why she should be divinised, can be gathered from aconversation her worshipper held with an old school-fellow.

  It was in Oxford Street at five o'clock on a June afternoon that Paulmet Grexon Hay. Turning the corner of the street leading to hisBloomsbury attic, the author was tapped on the shoulder by a resplendentBond Street being. That is, the said being wore a perfectly-fittingfrock-coat, a silk hat, trousers with the regulation fold back andfront, an orchid buttonhole, grey gloves, boots that glittered, andcarried a gold-topped cane. The fact that Paul wheeled without wincingshowed that he was not yet in debt. Your Grub Street old-time authorwould have leaped his own length at the touch. But Paul, with a cleanconscience, turned slowly, and gazed without recognition into theclean-shaven, calm, cold face that confronted his inquiring eyes.

  "Beecot!" said the newcomer, taking rapid stock of Paul's shabby sergesuit and worn looks. "I thought I was right."

  The voice, if not the face, awoke old memories.

  "Hay--Grexon Hay!" cried the struggling genius. "Well, I am glad to seeyou," and he shook hands with the frank grip of an honest man.

  "And I you." Hay drew his friend up the side street and out of the humantide which deluged the pavement. "But you seem--"

  "It's a long story," interrupted Paul flushing. "Come to my castle andI'll tell you all about it, old boy. You'll stay to supper, won't you?See here"--Paul displayed a parcel--"a pound of sausages. You loved 'emat school, and I'm a superfine cook."

  Grexon Hay always used expression and word to hide his feelings. Butwith Paul--whom he had always considered a generous ass at Torringtonschool--a trifle of self-betrayal didn't matter much. Beecot was toodense, and, it may be added, too honest to turn any opportunity toadvantage. "It's a most surprising thing," said Hay, in his calm way,"really a most surprising thing, that a Torrington public school boy, myfriend, and the son of wealthy parents, should be buying sausages."

  "Come now," said Paul, with great spirit and towing Hay homeward, "Ihaven't asked you for money."

  "If you do you shall have it," said Hay, but the offer was not sogenerous a one as would appear. That was Hay all over. He always saidwhat he did not mean, and knew well that Beecot's uneasy pride shied atloans however small.

  Paul, the unsophisticated, took the shadow of generosity for itssubstance, and his dark face lighted up. "You're a brick, Hay," hedeclared, "but I don't want money. No!"--this in reply to an eloquentglance from the well-to-do--"I have sufficient for my needs, andbesides," with a look at the resplendent dress of the fashion-platedandy, "I don't glitter in the West End."

  "Which hints that those who do, are rich," said Grexon, with an arcticsmile. "Wrong, Beecot. I'm poor. Only paupers can afford to dress well."

  "In that case I must be a millionaire," laughed Beecot, glancingdownward at his well-worn garb. "But mount these stairs; we have much tosay to one another."

  "Much that is pleasant," said the courtly Grexon.

  Paul shrugged his square shoulders and stepped heavenward. "On yourpart, I hope," he sang back; "certainly not on mine. Come to PovertyCastle," and the fashionable visitor found his host lighting the fire inan apartment such as he had read about but had never seen.

  It was quite the proper garret for starving genius--small, bleak, bare,but scrupulously clean. The floor was partially covered with scraps ofold carpet, faded and worn; the walls were entirely papered withpictures from illustrated journals. One window, revealing endless rowsof dingy chimney-pots, was draped with shabby rep curtains of a dullred. In one corner, behind an Indian screen, stood a narrow campbedstead, covered with a gaudy Eastern shawl, and also a large tin bath,with a can of water beside it. Against the wall leaned a clumsy dealbookcase filled with volumes well-thumbed and in old bindings. On oneside of the tiny fireplace was a horse-hair sofa, rendered less slipperyby an expensive fur rug thrown over its bareness; on the other was acupboard, whence Beecot rapidly produced crockery, knives, forks, acruet, napkins and other table accessories, all of the cheapestdescription. A deal table in the centre of the room, an antique mahoganydesk, heaped high with papers, under the window, completed thefurnishing of Poverty Castle. And it was up four flights of stairs likethat celebrated attic in Thackeray's poem.

  "As near heaven as I am likely to get," rattled on Beecot, deftly fryingthe sausages, after placing his visitor on the sofa. "The grub will soonbe ready. I'm a first-class cook, bless you, old chap. Housemaid too.Clean, eh?" He waved the fork proudly round the ill-furnished room. "I'ddismiss myself if it wasn't."

  "But--but," stammered Hay, much amazed, and surveying things through aneye-glass. "What are you doing here?"

  "Trying to get my foot on the first rung of Fame's ladder."

  "But I don't quite see--"

  "Read Balzac's life and you will. His people gave him an attic and astarvation allowance in the hope of disgusting him. Bar the allowance,my pater has done the same. Here's the attic, and here's mystarvation"--Paul gaily popped the frizzling sausages on a chipped hotplate--"and here's your aspiring servant hoping to be novelist,dramatist, and what not--to say nothing of why not? Mustard, there youare. Wait a bit. I'll brew you tea or cocoa."

  "I never take those things with meals, Beecot."

  "Your kit assures me of that. Champagne's more in your line. I say,Grexon, what are you doing now?"

  "What other West-End
men do," said Grexon, attacking a sausage.

  "That means nothing. Well, you never did work at Torrington, so how canI expect the leopard to change his saucy spots."

  Hay laughed, and, during the meal, explained his position. "On leavingschool I was adopted by a rich uncle," he said. "When he went the way ofall flesh he left me a thousand a year, which is enough to live on withstrict economy. I have rooms in Alexander Street, Camden Hill, a circleof friends, and a good appetite, as you will perceive. With these I getthrough life very comfortably."

  "Ha!" said Paul, darting a keen glance at his visitor, "you have thestrong digestion necessary to happiness. Have you the hard heart also?If I remember at school--"

  "Oh, hang school!" said Grexon, flushing all over his cold face. "Inever think of school. I was glad when I got away from it. But we weregreat friends at school, Paul."

  "Something after the style of Steerforth and David Copperfield," wasPaul's reply as he pushed back his plate; "you were my hero, and I wasyour slave. But the other boys--" He looked again.

  "They hated me, because they did not understand me, as you did."

  "If that is so, Grexon, why did you let me slip out of your life? It isten years since we parted. I was fifteen and you twenty."

  "Which now makes us twenty-five and thirty respectively," said Hay,dryly; "you left school before I did."

  "Yes; I had scarlet fever, and was taken home to be nursed. I never wentback, and since then I have never met an old Torrington boy--"

  "Have you not?" asked Hay, eagerly.

  "No. My parents took me abroad, and I sampled a German university. Ireturned to idle about my father's place, till I grew sick of doingnothing, and, having ambitions, I came to try my luck in town." Helooked round and laughed. "You see my luck."

  "Well," said Hay, lighting a dainty cigarette produced from a gold case,"my uncle, who died, sent me to Oxford and then I travelled. I am now onmy own, as I told you, and haven't a relative in the world."

  "Why don't you marry?" asked Paul, with a flush.

  Hay, wary man-about-town as he was, noted the flush, and guessed itscause. He could put two and two together as well as most people.

  "I might ask you the same question," said he.

  The two friends looked at one another, and each thought of thedifference in his companion since the old school-days. Hay wasclean-shaven, fair-haired, and calm, almost icy, in manner. His eyeswere blue and cold. No one could tell what was passing in his mind fromthe expression of his face. As a matter of fact he usually wore a mask,but at the present moment, better feelings having the upper hand, themask had slipped a trifle. But as a rule he kept command of expression,and words, and actions. An admirable example of self-control was GrexonHay.

  On the other hand, Beecot was slight, tall and dark, with an eagermanner and a face which revealed his thoughts. His complexion was swart;he had large black eyes, a sensitive mouth, and a small moustachesmartly twisted upward. He carried his head well, and looked rathermilitary in appearance, probably because many of his forebears had beenArmy men. While Hay was smartly dressed in a Bond Street kit, Paul worea well-cut, shabby blue serge. He looked perfectly well-bred, but hisclothes were woefully threadbare.

  From these and the garret and the lean meal of sausages Hay drew hisconclusions and put them into words.

  "Your father has cut you off," said he, calmly, "and yet you propose tomarry."

  "How do you know both things?"

  "I keep my eyes open, Paul. I see this attic and your clothes. I sawalso the flush on your face when you asked me why I did not marry. Youare in love?"

  "I am," said Beecot, becoming scarlet, and throwing back his head. "Itis clever of you to guess it. Prophesy more."

  Hay smiled in a cold way. "I prophesy that if you marry on nothing youwill be miserable. But of course," he looked sharply at his open-facedfriend, "the lady may be rich."

  "She is the daughter of a second-hand bookseller called Norman, and Ibelieve he combines selling books with pawnbroking."

  "Hum," said Hay, "he might make money out of the last occupation. Is hea Jew by any chance?"

  "No. He is a miserable-looking, one-eyed Christian, with the manner of afrightened rabbit."

  "One-eyed and frightened," repeated Hay, musingly, but without change ofexpression; "desirable father-in-law. And the daughter?"

  "Sylvia. She is an angel, a white lily, a--"

  "Of course," said Grexon, cutting short these rhapsodies. "And what doyou intend to marry on?"

  Beecot fished a shabby blue velvet case out of his pocket. "On my lastfive pounds and this," he said, opening the case.

  Hay looked at the contents of the case, and saw a rather large broochmade in the form of a jewelled serpent. "Opals, diamonds and gold," hesaid slowly, then looked up eagerly. "Sell it to me."