Fatal fingers

“I don’t know what you call it but bribery,” growled the thin, white-bearded old man seated in the easy chair by the fireplace. “I’ve really got nothing more to say to you. I wish you’d go--go away and leave me in peace.”

The other, a rather stout, red-faced, well-dressed man of about fifty, with a distinctly business-like air, made a quick gesture of impatience as he stood upon the shabby hearthrug opposite the old man.

“You’ve surely been left in peace long enough. For eighteen years you’ve lived in this stuffy little hole, hidden away from everybody. Everyone believes you to be dead--that you died, and carried your secret to the grave.”

“And if I did, what, in the name of Fate, does it matter to you--eh?” croaked old Mr. Goodrick.

“Well--are you acting honestly and fairly towards Gordon--or Maidee, and the rest?” queried his visitor.

“Fairly!” echoed the other, laughing. “That’s really capital--you, George Ravenscourt, talking of fairness and honesty! You offer me fifty thousand if I will--well, act in such a manner as will give a distinct advantage to your friends--eh? Ah! my dear sir, your reputation for honesty is well known--to me, at least, if not to some others.”

“It seems you are in a somewhat insulting mood to-day,” exclaimed the other hastily. “Some dealer has got the better of you, perhaps--sold you a bit of faked silver or spurious china.”

“Dealers, I think, know me a little too well to attempt fraud upon me,” snapped the old man in a thin, hoarse voice.

“But will nothing soften your heart towards those who have suffered by this long self-effacement of yours?” asked his visitor, appealing to him in a changed tone.

“No,” replied the yellow-faced, keen-eyed old fellow. “I dropped out of life purposely. I’ve lived here all these years in the back streets of Pimlico, because I had a motive.”

“What was your motive?”

“That’s my own affair,” was the sharp response; and the old man spread out his thin hands to warm them by the fickle flame of the meagre fire. “By a silly error, because I thought myself safe from recognition, I betrayed my continued existence. But even you, Ravenscourt, shall not tempt me to return to life--to face the past.”

“My dear Mr. Goodrick, after eighteen years the whole affair is forgotten. The public have very short memories. Try to recall the cause célèbre of the year before last, and you’ll have difficulty in recollecting the names of the parties concerned. You’re just a little too sensitive. Think, if you returned--what a difference in your position!”

“Yes,” croaked the old man; “here in Pimlico I’m known as Nosey Goodrick, of Charlwood Street. The boys in the street call after me, and the neighbours regard me, I think, as a harmless crank. What would they say if they knew--if they knew the truth?”

“What would the world say if they knew that you, whose great talents are perpetuated by that marble statue in Westminster, and whom thousands followed to the grave; you, for whom the whole country mourned, are here, still alive and active!”

“Hush!” cried the old fellow, glancing apprehensively at the closed door. “Mrs. Ayres may overhear! Please do not recall the past, Ravenscourt. It is all too painful. I’ve long ago forgotten it. Nowadays I am plain Richard Goodrick, and soon I shall die and be buried in some suburban cemetery in the name under which I have chosen so long to live.”

“No,” declared his visitor; “you don’t mean that. You’ll return. It is your duty to the nation. An excuse can easily be made.”

“Return--never, I tell you!” cried the old man fiercely, starting to his feet, exhibiting the fact that he was unusually tall and straight for his age. His white face was bony and narrow, with an exceptionally prominent nose, a shock of white hair, and long white whiskers. He was dressed in a loosely made suit of shabby grey whip-cord tweed, with a narrow stand-up collar and a seedy black cravat.