The Pagan's Cup

"Then I can only say that young Haverleigh seems to be the most likely person. Only, the evidence against him is so plain that I believe him to be guiltless. I always mistrust too plain evidence, Raston. It shows signs of having been prepared. Well, I'll see this young man to-morrow, and have a chat. I go by the face a great deal. Have you a photograph of him?"

"No," said the curate on the spur of the moment. "Oh, yes, by the way! I took a group of our people at a picnic. It is not a bad picture, although small. You can see the whole lot at a glance."

Raston got out the photograph, and Marton went to the lamp to see it the more plainly. He glanced at first carelessly at it, then his eyes grew large, his attention became fixed. At that moment there was a ring at the door. Marton looked at the clock. "You have a late visitor," he said.

"A call to see some sick woman probably. Why do you look so closely at that picture, Marton?"

"There is a face here I know. Who is that?"

Raston looked. "That is the man with whom Haverleigh is staying. Pratt!"

"Pratt?" repeated Marton in a thoughtful tone. "Has he a tattooed star on his cheek just under the cheek bone?"

"Yes. And he is tattooed on the arm also – the right arm. I expect he had it done while he was a sailor."

"Oh!" said Marton, dryly, "he says he was a sailor."

"Not to my knowledge; but he has mentioned something of being an amateur one. Do you know him, Marton?"

"If he is the man I think he is, I know him better than you do, Raston!"

"Then who is – " Raston had just got thus far, when the landlady opened the door to announce Mr Pratt. "Here is the man himself, Marton."

"Marton!" echoed Pratt, who was standing in the doorway.

"Yes, Mr – Angel," said Marton, looking straight at him.

Pratt stood for just half a moment as though turned into stone. Then he turned on his heel, and went out of the door and down the stairs as swiftly as he was able. Without a word Marton darted after him. By the time he reached the street door Pratt had disappeared in the fog.

CHAPTER XII

A SURPRISE

Raston was astonished when Pratt disappeared so suddenly, and Marton rushed out after him. He went to the door, but his friend was not to be seen. It was little use following, for he did not know which direction the man had taken, and the fog was so thick that he could hardly see the length of his hand before him. The whole of the spur upon which Colester was built was wrapped in a thick white mist, and those who were abroad in the streets ran every chance of being lost. The village was small, but the alleys and streets were tortuous, so there would be no great difficulty in mistaking the way.

For over an hour the curate waited, yet Marton did not return. He could only suppose that the detective had followed Pratt, for what purpose he could not divine. Evidently Marton knew something not altogether to Pratt's advantage, and Pratt was aware of this, else he would hardly have disappeared so expeditiously. Moreover, Marton had addressed Pratt as "Angel," which hinted that the American was masquerading under a false name. Still wondering at what was likely to be the outcome of this adventure, Raston placed himself at the door and waited for the return of his friend. But, as time passed, he made sure that the detective, a stranger in the village, had lost his way.

"I can't leave him out of doors all night," soliloquised Raston, peering into the fog; "yet I do not know where to look for him. However, his own good sense must have told him not to go too far."

It was now after ten o'clock, and most of the villagers were in bed. Mr Raston then ventured upon a course of which he would have thought twice had the situation been less desperate. He placed his hands to his mouth and sent an Australian "cooe" through the night. This accomplishment had been taught to him by an Australian cousin. As this especial cry carried further than most shouts, Raston congratulated himself that he knew how to give it. It was the only way of getting into communication with Marton.

After shouting once or twice, Raston heard a faint cry in response. It came from the right. So the curate, feeling his way along the houses, started in that direction, shouting at intervals. Shortly the answering cry sounded close at hand, and after some difficulty and inarticulate conversation the two men met. With an ejaculation Marton grasped the hand of his friend. "Thank Heaven you have found me," said the detective. "I have been going round in a circle."

"Did you catch up with Pratt?" asked Raston.

"No; the rascal disappeared into the fog, and I lost myself in pursuit of him in about three minutes."

"Why do you call him a rascal?"

"Because he is one; I know all about him. But I never thought I should have stumbled on 'Mr Angel' in this locality. I feel like Saul, who went out to look for his asses and stumbled on a kingdom."

"Is his name Angel?"

"That is one of his names; he has at least a dozen. Why he should have chosen one that fitted him so badly I cannot say."

By this time Raston, holding on to Marton's coat sleeve, had guided the detective back to his lodgings. The man was shivering with cold, for he had gone out without coat or hat. He hastily swallowed a glass of port, and began getting his things to go out. "You're not going into that fog again!" protested Raston. "You'll only get lost."

"Not under your capable guidance," laughed the detective. "You must guide me to the house of this Mr Pratt. I intend to arrest him."

"Arrest him!" echoed the curate, staring. "Dear me, what has he done?"

"Ask me what he hasn't done," said Marton, with a curl of his lip, "and I'll be better able to tell you. It's a long story, Raston, and time is passing; I want to go to the man's house. Is it far from here?"

"Some little distance," replied the curate, wondering at this haste. "I can find my way to it by guiding myself along the walls. But you can't arrest him, Marton, whatever he has done, unless you have a warrant."

"I accept all responsibility on that score," replied Marton, grimly. "The police have wanted Mr Angel, alias Pratt, for many a long day. Now the rascal knows that I am here, he will clear out of Colester in double quick time. I want to act promptly and take him by surprise. Now don't ask questions, my dear fellow, but take me to the house. I'll tell you all about this man later on. By the way, he is the individual who gave your church this celebrated cup?"

"Yes. I really hope there is nothing wrong."

"Everything is wrong. I expect the cup was stolen – "

"It is stolen – "

"Pshaw! I don't mean this time. Pratt stole it himself. I wonder he dare present his spoils to the Church. The fellow must have very little religion to think such an ill-gotten gift could be acceptable."

"Stolen!" murmured Raston, putting on his coat. "But why – who is Pratt?"

"Simply the cleverest thief in the three kingdoms. Come along!"

Raston gasped, but he had no time to ask further questions. The detective had him by the arm and was hurrying him to the door. When outside he made the curate lead, and followed close on his heels. Raston, rather dazed by this experience, turned in the direction of The Nun's House, and, guiding himself along the walls and houses, managed to get into the street in which it stood – that is, he and Marton found themselves on the highroad which led down to King's-meadows. It was fully an hour before they got as far as this, for the fog grew denser every moment. Finally, Raston stumbled on the gate, drew his friend inside with an ejaculation of satisfaction, and walked swiftly up the path that led to the house. On the ground floor all was dark, but in the centre window of the second storey a light was burning. Marton did not wait for the curate, but ran up the steps and knocked at the door; he also rang, and he did both violently. For a time there was no response, then the light disappeared from the window above.

In a few minutes the noise of the bolts being withdrawn was heard, and the rattle of the chain. The door opened to show Leo in his dressing-gown standing on the threshold with a lighted candle in his hand. He looked bewildered and angry, as though he had just been aroused from his first sleep, which indeed was the case. "What the devil is the matter?" he asked crossly, peering out into the night. "You make enough noise to wake the dead! Who is it?"

"It is I, and a friend, Haverleigh," said the curate, pushed forward by the detective. "Is Mr Pratt within?"

"I suppose so," replied Leo, much astonished at this nocturnal visitation; "he is no doubt in bed. I can't understand why he did not hear the noise you made. Has he left anything at your place, Raston?"

"Ah! You knew he was going to see Mr Raston?" put in Marton, sharply.

"He left here over two hours ago, and I went to bed. Then I heard him come back just as I was falling asleep, but he did not come up to my room. If you will tell me what is the matter, I'll rouse him.

"Let us enter, Haverleigh," said the curate, who was shivering. "We have much to tell you."

Still much puzzled, Leo led the way to the library after shutting the door, and the two men followed him. He lighted the gas – Colester was not sufficiently civilised for electric light – and then turned to ask once more what was the matter. Raston thought the best way to bring about an explanation was to introduce his friend, who was already looking keenly round the well-furnished room. "This is Mr Marton," he said. "He is a London detective."

With a bitter laugh Leo set down the candle on the table. "What," he said, "are you the man with the bow-string, Raston? Scarcely worthy of your cloth! If you wanted to arrest me, you might have waited until morning!"

"Who is this young gentleman?" asked Marton, suddenly.