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<h3>Chapter Twenty Eight.</h3> <h4>Mr Preenham’s Visitor.</h4> There was a kind of civil war carried on at the old house over the nursing back of Paul Capel to health. He suffered much, but a strong constitution and youth were fine odds in his favour, and he recovered, after passing the crisis, rapidly and well. And during these days Lydia suffered a martyrdom, seeing, as she did, how Katrine took advantage of Capel’s weakness to tighten his bonds. The detective came, as he had promised, and saw the room and the window, making notes and a drawing thereof, and then going to the mews at the back, where he satisfied himself as to the means by which access had been obtained. The evidence of Paul Capel was taken by a magistrate at his bedside, as he was certified as unfit to be moved; and in due time the law meted out its punishment upon the two criminals left; but the detective was not at peace. The officer, who boasted of the name of Linnett, was a very sleuth-hound in his ways, and he came upon Mr Girtle at all manner of unexpected times while he was waiting for Paul Capel’s return to health, and tried to get information from him, without avail. “Must have been a bit of imagination on the old man’s part,” said Mr Linnett. “Some of these old fellows—half-cracked, as a rule—believe that they are extremely rich. I don’t know, though. Old boy was very rich. Wonderful! What a house! That young chap might very well be satisfied with what he has got.” In this spirit the detective turned his attention to the doctor, approaching him with a bad feeling of weakness, and not being satisfied with the dictum of the divisional surgeon. “He laughs at it, you see, sir,” said Linnett, in the doctor’s consulting room; “but I’m bad.” “Yes, yes. I see what is the matter with you, my man,” said Heston. “I’ll soon set you all right.” “Lor’, what humbugs doctors are,” said the detective, looking at his prescription, as he went away. “I suppose I must take this stuff, though, before I go and see him again.” “Curious thing, nature,” said Heston, as soon as the detective had gone; “that man thinks he’s ill, and there’s nothing whatever the matter with him. Fancy, brought on from hard thought and work.” The doctor was wiser than the detective thought; but in future visits the latter obtained a good deal of information, among which was the doctor’s theory that Ramo, the old Indian servant, had not died entirely from the struggle with Charles Pillar. It was just about that time that Gerard Artis swore an oath. That old Mr Girtle took Lydia’s hand gently between his, and said tenderly:— “No, no, my child. You must not go. I am very old, and if you were to go now, it would be like taking the light out of my life. I know all; I am not blind. But wait.” Lydia shook her head. “If you love him, my child, wait. It may be to save him, and you would sacrifice yourself to do that.” And that Mr Linnett went out of the area of the great gloomy house, laughing to himself, and casting up his total, as he termed it. “Ha! ha! ha!” he exclaimed; “only to think of them knocking their heads about here and there, and never so much as getting warm. Detectives are all fools, so the public say. Blind as bats. They want a better class of men.” He treated himself to a thoroughly good cigar, and rolled out the blue clouds of smoke as he strode along, wagging his umbrella behind him. “Always through all these years running down rogues! What a temptation to a man, to make a change and go the other way. Million and a half o’ money, in a shape as could be carried in a small black bag. Why, I could put my hand on it, and go and set up somewhere as a king, and never be found out. Shall I?” It was quite dark, and Mr Linnett took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and tucking his umbrella under his arm, playfully fitted them on his own wrists. “No,” he said; “they wouldn’t look well there.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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