Roger Ingleton, Minor Part 44

"Never mind," said Tom cheerfully, "it would have been worse if he had turned up before the grub and the fireworks. They didn't miss them.

Keep it up, Jilly, I say; it's going off all right."

When it came to saying good night, every one remembered their genial entertainers, and Jill was a little consoled by the a.s.surances she received on all hands that the evening had been a delightful one.

"Try to think it was nice," said she, "and don't go saying it was horrid as soon as you get outside. It's Tom's and my first party, you know."

And she kissed all the gentlemen, from the Duke downward, and Tom, hovering in the hall, pressed his farewell refreshments, as far as they would go, upon them and gave them a "leg up" into their carriages.

Dr Brandram stayed till the end.

"I should have to come and see Mrs Parker in the morning in any case,"

said he, "so I have told Raffles to make me a shake down in Armstrong's room to-night. I may as well stay here."

The precaution, however, was unnecessary. Mr Ratman had vanished. He did not call on Mr Pottinger next morning, nor was he to be found at the hotel. He had returned by the early morning train to London.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A FEEBLE CLUE.

Mr Fastnet's lodgings were a good deal less imposing than Roger, who had hitherto only met the owner at the club, had pictured to himself.

In fact, the small sitting-room, with bedroom to match, commonly furnished, reeking of tobacco, and hung all round with sporting and dramatic prints, was quite as likely a refuge for an unfledged medical student as for a person of the swagger and presence of Mr Felix Fastnet.

"No use to me," he explained, interpreting his young guest's thought, "except as a dog-kennel. I live at the club--breakfast, lunch, dinner-- everything; but I was so disgusted with the performance of that young cad to-night that I even prefer the dog-kennel. Have a soda?"

Roger accepted, and sat down by the fire.

"Yes," growled on his host; "I'm father of that club, and I don't like to see it degraded. If he'd gone for you, and kicked you into the street, I shouldn't have lifted a finger to stop him. He could have made hay of you if I'd chosen, a sickly youngster like you."

"I wonder he did not," said Roger; "but, Mr Fastnet, now I have met you, I want to ask you a question."

"Ask away."

"My name, as you know, is Roger Ingleton. Have you never met any one of my name before?"

"Bless me, no. Why should I?"

"I had a namesake once who came to London, and I wondered if you possibly knew him."

"My dear sir, I don't know quite all the young men who have come to London during the last twenty years. What makes you think it?"

"My namesake was a brother--son of my father's first wife. He left home and disappeared. Rumour says he went to London, where he was last heard of in company of a companion named Fastnet."

Mr Fastnet put down his gla.s.s.

"Eh?" said he. "The Fastnets are not a big clan. Are you sure that was the name?"

"It was certainly the name that reached me."

"Must refer to some one else then. I never knew or heard of any one of the name of Ingleton in my life."

Roger's countenance fell. The new scent appeared likely to be a false one after all.

"How long ago is all this?" asked his host.

"More than twenty years. My brother left home in a pique, and, I'm afraid, went to the bad in--"

"Twenty years?" said Mr Fastnet, putting down his cigar beside the gla.s.s. "What sort of fellow was he? A harum-scarum young dog, with impudent eyes, and a toss of his head that would have defied the bench of bishops?"

"That is he," said Roger excitedly.

"Sit down!" continued Fastnet--"curly hair, arms like a young Hercules, as obstinate as a bulldog, with a temper like a tiger?"

"Yes, yes! that must be the same."

"Left his mother and father in a furious tantrum, with a vow to cut off his head before he showed face at home again? A regular young demon, as honest as the Bank of England--no taste for vice in any shape or form, but plunged into it just to spite his friends, civil enough when you got him on the weather side, and no fool? Was that the fellow?"

"I'm sure you describe the very man," said Roger.

"Man? He was a boy; a raw-boned green boy, smarting under a sense of injustice, a regular, thorough-paced young Ishmaelite as you ever saw.

I should fancy I did know him. But his name was not Ingleton."

"What was it?"

"Jack Rogers."

"No doubt he adopted his own Christian name as a disguise."

"Very likely. I could never get him to talk about his people. His one object was to lose himself--body and soul--it seemed to me. Bless you, I had little enough voice in his proceedings. I was wild enough, but I promise you I was a milksop to him. Neck or nothing was his motto, and he lived up to it. The one drawback to success in his particular line was that he would insist on being a gentleman. Fatal complaint to any one who wants to go to the bad."

"Have you any idea what became of my brother?"

"Not in the least. He knocked about with me for about a year, till he suddenly discovered he was living on me. Not that I minded; I had pots of money--it's been my curse. Never had to do a day's work in my life.

He pulled up short at that, p.a.w.ned his watch, and refused to take another crust of bread, and left me without a penny in his pocket. I only heard once of him afterwards. He wrote to enclose a five-pound note."

"Have you got his letter? Can you remember where he wrote from?" asked Roger excitedly.

"I don't believe there was a letter. The note was wrapped up in an old play-bill of some strolling company of actors. I remember it now,"

added Fastnet, laughing and re-lighting his cigar. "Yes, it was _Hamlet_. Rogers was cast for the ghost in one act, Polonius in another, and the grave-digger in another. I remember how I roared when I read it. Fancy that fellow as Polonius!"

"Can't you remember the town?"

"Not a ghost of an idea. Some little village in the Midlands probably, where _Hamlet_ would be appreciated. I remember, by the way, the bill-- pity I didn't keep it--mentioned that this enterprising company was going to give a performance in Boulogne, of all places. It occurred to me it would be a source of great consolation to our fellow-countrymen in that dismal colony to witness Jack Rogers in the ghost for one night only."

"That would be eighteen or nineteen years ago," said Roger, with a sigh at the hopelessness of his quest. "You have heard nothing since?"

"Not a syllable. Have some more sherry?"