The Policeman shook Stephen Walker's hand, and went away. Even had he wished it, he could have urged nothing which would have availed with the old man; and, indeed, relieved from his fears of bloodshed, he was glad to hear that justice of some kind was to be done.
That evening, after dinner, Captain Bradshaw was still sitting in the dining-room with Alice, when he heard a ring at the bell. After a short conversation in the hall, the servant entered the room.
“If you please, sir, there is a man in the hall wants to speak to you particular.”
“Well, sir, a decent-looking man—an old man, sir—not a gentleman—but he looks strange; rather, I should say, as if he had been drinking. Wild about the eyes, you know, sir.”
“No, sir; all he will say is that his name is Stephen Walker.”
“Stephen Walker?” Captain Bradshaw repeated to himself once or twice. “Stephen Walker? I seem to know the name; yes, I remember, now. Stephen Walker, tobacconist. The man Frank picked up—the broken-down gentleman with the pretty daughter. What the deuce can he want?” Then aloud, for this had been muttered to himself, “Show him into the library, James. You may as well wait here till I come back, Alice; I don't suppose I shall be a minute.”
“If the man is drunk, Uncle, had you not better tell James to wait at the door?”
“Pooh! my dear,” the old officer laughed. “I fancy he's nearly as old as I am. If I want James, I can ring the bell.”
Then he rose and went into the library, into which the visitor had already been ushered.
Stephen Walker was standing by the table. He was silent for a minute after the door was shut, looking steadily at Captain Bradshaw, as if to read his character. Captain Bradshaw, in return, looked at him. He saw at once that the footman's surmise was unfounded, but he saw too by the compressed lips and flashing eye that the man was from some cause in a state of extreme agitation and fury; indeed for a moment the thought occurred to him that his visitor was mad. This idea was at once dismissed when Stephen Walker began to speak.
“Captain Bradshaw, I have come to tell you a story. It is a sad one, sir, but not an uncommon one—not an uncommon one. I, such as you see me, was once a gentleman. My circumstances changed, and I took a very small shop in New Street, where I sold tobacco. I was not, as you see me now, a determined man—perhaps even a dangerous one. I was a broken-down, nervous old man, with only one stay, one hope, one pleasure in the world. I had a daughter, sir; a bright, happy, innocent girl. A man came to us, over and over again, and he won her heart. The old story, Captain Bradshaw, of love and trust. He promised her marriage—over and over again he promised it. But he had an uncle”—Captain Bradshaw started violently; he saw what was coming now. He remembered the conversation he had had with Frank upon this very subject of the tobacconist's daughter. He remembered the warning he had given, and Frank's promise not to go there again, and he grew very pale and faint as his visitor went on—“he had an uncle, sir—an uncle from whom he expected to inherit great wealth—and he dared not risk his anger by an open marriage with my child. He told her that the uncle could not live long, that at his death he would marry her openly, but that if he lived he would at any hazard marry her privately in a short time. Accidentally I gained her secret, and to test the truth of the story I watched for days outside that uncle's door, until I saw the man enter there; then, seeing that the story was true so far, I hoped for the best. You see what a poor, nervous, simple man I was. Even then he had ruined her. I never dreamt of it, or I, old and feeble as I am, would have killed him. A fortnight since, my child saw in the paper the marriage of this man with another. To-day, Captain Bradshaw, I have been down to Gravesend to identify the body of what was once my child. Were I a young man, I would take vengeance with my own hands; but I am old and helpless, and I call on you to give me justice. That man is your nephew, and he is a damned scoundrel!”