Australia Revenged Part 7

REVENGE.

Reg had now fully determined to follow Wyck to Australia, and he lost no time in making his preparations. His first step was to go to a firm of die-sinkers, where he ordered a die to be cut in the shape of a broken heart, exactly similar to the device on Wyckliffe's letter-paper.

"Make it of the finest steel," he said, "and have its edges as sharp as that of a razor. Have a case made to fit it, so that it can be kept constantly sharp and bright, and ready for use at any time."

"It will be an expensive article, sir," said the shopman.

"Never mind, have it made exactly to order. Let me know when it will be ready, and I will call and pay the bill."

That done, he called a cab, drove to Finsbury Pavement, and got out at a large warehouse.

"Is Mr. Bridgland in?" he asked at the Inquiry Office, and was ushered into a small room on the door of which was painted the word "Manager."

"Good morning, Bridgland," he said, entering and shaking hands with a man sitting at a desk.

"What, Morris!" he replied. "You look like a ghost. Are you ill, man?"

"She's dead and buried, old chap."

"Who?--not Miss Johnson," almost gasped Bridgland.

"Yes, Amy Johnson is dead. She was murdered."

"Murdered!"

"Yes, murdered." And sitting down, Reg told Bridgland everything, omitting not the slightest detail from the day of the ball to the present.

Joseph Bridgland was the only man in London Reg had ever called a friend. He had met him through a business transaction shortly after his landing, and had taken a great fancy to him. Bridgland was a self-made man, and had started in life as the office boy to the large firm of whose business he was now manager. He was short and stout, with a full-moon-like face that was always twinkling with good-humour. He always faced his troubles with a smile; met all difficulties lightly, and generally conquered them in the end. But Reg's trouble was too serious to be smiled at, the sight of the pale, drawn face of the friend who had always been so gay and light-hearted was a shock to him, and when Reg had told his pitiful story, he found it difficult to restrain his tears. He was fairly intimate with Reg and Amy Johnson, and looked upon them as an ideal couple.

"My dear old chap, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. This fellow Wyckliffe must be a miserable scoundrel, but I think I can help you."

"You can, Bridgland?" said Reg, starting.

"Yes, sit down and I will tell you. Listeners are people I despise, but I was compelled to overhear a conversation, which has troubled me ever since, but now I see there must have been something in the fact that I was given this chance. One of the partners here leads the life of a man about town. His office is there, next to mine, and he frequently has a young fellow called Tommy drop in and have a chat with him."

"I know him," said Reg.

"Well, on this particular day the door I suppose was not closely shut, and I chanced to hear them talking about a certain secret club called the Detlij Club, or some such name. It is nothing more or less, I believe, than an a.s.sociation of youthful rakes who lay plans to ruin women. Tommy and he were apparently members, and they frequently spoke of Wyck."

"That's my man, Bridgland," said Reg, fiercely.

"From what I could gather, this Wyck boasts of the possession of a diabolical faculty for making girls fall in love with him. His next move is to throw them over and one more is added to his record, which is kept by means of notches on a stick. Now I distinctly heard Tommy say that Wyck had his fiftieth notch booked, and that she was an Australian."

"My G.o.d! that was Amy. Bridgland, I will see you again, but I cannot stay longer now. I begin to see my way clear. A thousand thanks and good-bye." To Bridgland's astonishment he left the office hurriedly, without another word.

Calling a cab, Reg drove to the Angora Club in Piccadilly, and asked for Mr. Thomas. Finding he was not in, he left a letter asking him to meet him on business of importance at a certain hotel at three o'clock the following afternoon.

That evening he and the Whytes discussed his project.

The old couple were bearing up well, and so deep was their indignation against the man who had ruined the peace of their home that they encouraged Reg in his revenge.

"You are young and strong, Reg. I wish I was too, then I would go with you," said Whyte; "but I am getting too old."

"Leave it to me, Whyte. I have sworn to brand him, and as long as I have breath in my body, I will not give in."

The following day, Reg engaged a private room in the hotel, and gave instructions that Mr. Thomas was to be shown up immediately on his arrival, an event which soon happened.

"How do you do, Morris?" said Tommy, genially coming towards him.

"Awfully good of you to think of me."

"Yes, I wanted to have a chat with you."

"You don't look well, old fellow. Nothing wrong, I hope."

"I have a little trouble, but--"

"Then let me share it, old fellow."

"What will you have to drink?" asked Reg, disregarding the invitation.

"Ah! the best way to kill trouble. Drink, and put your care in the grave."

The liquor was brought, and the waiter dismissed with instructions that they were not on any account to be disturbed.

"Do you mind my drawing the curtains?" said Reg, "the light affects my eyes."

"Not at all, old man. Here's good luck to you," answered Tommy, filling his gla.s.s.

Reg did not reply, but going to the door, he locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Tommy looked on in amazement. The little man had not much pluck, and he felt his knees tremble.

"What's the joke, old chap!" he asked, in a voice intended to be jocular.

"Thomas Thomas, listen to me. Amy Johnson is dead."

"Dead!" gasped Tommy, upsetting his gla.s.s in astonishment.

"Yes, she is dead. Your friend Wyck murdered her."

"Murdered her!"

"Yes, murdered her," reiterated Reg.

"My G.o.d, old chap, I'm----"

"Silence!" cried Reg, in a stern voice. "You were the man who introduced her to him, and it is to you I look for some explanation. Who is this Villiers Wyckliffe, and what is his power?"

"My dear Morris, really I don't know. I always thought he was a straight chap."