Part 83 (1/2)

”How did they go away?”

The beadle deferred answering that second question until he had first pocketed his fee.

”You won't trace them from here, sir,” he said, when he had got his s.h.i.+lling. ”They went away on foot.”

”And that is all you know about it?”

”That, sir, is all I know about it.”

Left by himself, even the Detective of the Private Inquiry Office paused for a moment before he returned to his father at the gate. He was roused from his hesitation by the sudden appearance, within the church inclosure, of the driver of the cab.

”I'm afraid the old gentleman is going to be taken ill, sir,” said the man.

Bashwood the younger frowned angrily, and walked back to the cab. As he opened the door and looked in, his father leaned forward and confronted him, with lips that moved speechlessly, and with a white stillness over all the rest of his face.

”She's done us,” said the spy. ”They were married here this morning.”

The old man's body swayed for a moment from one side to the other. The instant after, his eyes closed and his head fell forward toward the front seat of the cab. ”Drive to the hospital!” cried his son. ”He's in a fit. This is what comes of putting myself out of my way to please my father,” he muttered, sullenly raising Mr. Bashwood's head, and loosening his cravat. ”A nice morning's work. Upon my soul, a nice morning's work!”

The hospital was near, and the house surgeon was at his post.

”Will he come out of it?” asked Bashwood the younger, roughly.

”Who are _you_?” asked the surgeon, sharply, on his side.

”I am his son.”

”I shouldn't have thought it,” rejoined the surgeon, taking the restoratives that were handed to him by the nurse, and turning from the son to the father with an air of relief which he was at no pains to conceal. ”Yes,” he added, after a minute or two; ”your father will come out of it this time.”

”When can he be moved away from here?”

”He can be moved from the hospital in an hour or two.”

The spy laid a card on the table. ”I'll come back for him or send for him,” he said. ”I suppose I can go now, if I leave my name and address?”

With those words, he put on his hat, and walked out.

”He's a brute!” said the nurse.

”No,” said the surgeon, quietly. ”He's a man.”

Between nine and ten o'clock that night, Mr. Bashwood awoke in his bed at the inn in the Borough. He had slept for some hours since he had been brought back from the hospital; and his mind and body were now slowly recovering together.

A light was burning on the bedside table, and a letter lay on it, waiting for him till he was awake. It was in his son's handwriting, and it contained these words:

”MY DEAR DAD--Having seen you safe out of the hospital, and back at your hotel, I think I may fairly claim to have done my duty by you, and may consider myself free to look after my own affairs. Business will prevent me from seeing you to-night; and I don't think it at all likely I shall be in your neighborhood to-morrow morning. My advice to you is to go back to Thorpe Ambrose, and to stick to your employment in the steward's office. Wherever Mr. Armadale may be, he must, sooner or later, write to you on business. I wash my hands of the whole matter, mind, so far as I am concerned, from this time forth. But if _you_ like to go on with it, my professional opinion is (though you couldn't hinder his marriage), you may part him from his wife.