| BOOKS BY “SAPPER” | |
| (H. C. McNeile) | |
| The Dinner Club | |
| The Black Gang | |
| Bull-Dog Drummond | |
| The Man in Ratcatcher | |
| Mufti | |
| The Human Touch | |
| No Man’s Land | |
| Men, Women, and Guns | |
| Sergeant Michael Cassidy | |
| The Lieutenant and Others | |
| HODDER & STOUGHTON, LTD. | |
| Publishers | London |
Made and Printed in Great Britain.
Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
Contents
| FOREWORD | |
| CHAPTER | |
| [I.] | THE ACTOR’S STORY, BEING THE PATCH ON THE QUILT |
| [II.] | THE BARRISTER’S STORY, BEING THE DECISION OF SIR EDWARD SHOREHAM |
| [III.] | THE DOCTOR’S STORY, BEING SENTENCE OF DEATH |
| [IV.] | THE ORDINARY MAN’S STORY, BEING THE PIPES OF DEATH |
| [V.] | THE SOLDIER’S STORY, BEING A BIT OF ORANGE PEEL |
| [VI.] | THE WRITER’S STORY, BEING THE HOUSE AT APPLEDORE |
| [VII.] | THE OLD DINING-ROOM |
| [VIII.] | WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK |
| [IX.] | JEMMY LETHBRIDGE’S TEMPTATION |
| [X.] | LADY CYNTHIA AND THE HERMIT |
| [XI.] | A GLASS OF WHISKY |
| [XII.] | THE MAN WHO COULD NOT GET DRUNK |
Foreword
On a certain day in the year of grace 1920, there came into being a special and very select club. There was no entrance fee and no subscription, in which respect it differed from all other clubs. Its membership was limited to six: the Actor, the Barrister, the Doctor, the Ordinary Man, the Soldier, and the Writer. And since each in his own particular trade had achieved what the world calls fame, except the Ordinary Man, who was only ordinary, it was decided that for purposes of convenience they should be entered in the list of members alphabetically according to their trade, and further that they should carry out the only rule of the club in the order of that entry. And the only rule of the club was, that on certain nights, to be mutually agreed on, the member whose turn it was should give to the remaining members an exceedingly good dinner, after which he should tell them a story connected with his own trade, that should be of sufficient interest to keep them awake.
And the only penalty of the club was that if the story was not of sufficient interest to keep the audience awake, the offending member should pay a sum of ten pounds to a deserving charity.
No rule was deemed necessary as to the quality of the dinner: the members had elected themselves with discretion.
| I | The Actor’s Story, being The Patch on the Quilt |
“The trouble in my game,” he began, “is that the greatest plays can never be staged. There would be no money in them. The public demand a plot—a climax: after that the puppets cease strutting, the curtain rings down. But in life—in real life—there’s no plot. It’s just a series of anti-climaxes strung together like a patchwork quilt, until there comes the greatest anti-climax of all and the quilt is finished.”
He passed his hand through his fast-greying hair, and stared for a moment or two at the fire. The Soldier was filling his pipe; the Writer, his legs stretched in front of him, had his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets.
“It’s one of the patches in one of the quilts that my story is about,” continued the actor thoughtfully. “Just an episode in the life of a woman—or shall I say, just the life of a woman in an episode?
“You remember that play of mine—‘John Pendlesham’s Wife’?” He turned to the Barrister, who nodded.
“Very well,” he answered. “Molly Travers was your leading lady.”
“I was out of England,” said the Soldier. “Never saw it.”
“It’s immaterial.” The Actor lit a cigarette. “The play itself has nothing to do with my story, except indirectly. But as you didn’t see it, I will just explain this much. I, of course, was John Pendlesham—Molly was my wife, and the third act constituted what, in my opinion, was the finest piece of emotional acting which that consummate actress has ever done in her career.”
The Writer nodded. “I agree. She was superb.”
“Night after night the fall of the curtain found her nearly fainting; night after night there was that breathless moment of utter silence followed by a perfect crash of applause. I am mentioning these old facts because her marvellous performance does concern my story directly—even though the play does not.
“We had been running about a month, I suppose, when my story begins. I had just come off after the third act, and was going to my dressing-room. For some reason, instead of going by the direct door which led into it from the stage, I went outside into the passage. There were some hands moving furniture or something. . . .
“I think you’ve all of you been behind at my theatre. First you come to the swing doors out of the street, inside which the watch dog sits demanding callers’ business. Then there is another door, and beyond that there are three steps down to my room. And it was just as I was opening my door on that night that I happened to look round.
“Standing at the top of the three stairs was a woman who was staring at me. I only saw her for a moment: then the watch dog intervened, and I went into my room. But I had seen her for a moment: I had seen her for long enough to get the look in her eyes.
“We get all sorts and conditions of people behind, as you’d expect—stage-struck girls, actors out of a shop, autograph hunters, beggars. And the watch dog knew my invariable rule: only personal friends and people who had made an appointment by letter were allowed inside the second door. But a rule cannot legislate for every case.
“Gad! you fellows, it’s many years now since that night, but I can still feel, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the message in that girl’s eyes. There had been hope and fear and pitiful entreaty: the look of one who had staked everything on a last desperate throw: the look of a mother who is fighting for her child. It was amazing: I couldn’t understand it. As I stood just inside my door I couldn’t have told you whether she was old or young, plain or pretty. And yet in that one fleeting second this vivid, jumbled message had reached me.” The Actor pressed out his cigarette, and there was silence while he lit another one.
“For a moment I hesitated,” he continued after a while; “then I rang the bell for the watch dog.
“ ‘Who is that lady I saw outside there?’ I asked, as he came in.
“ ‘Won’t give no name, sir,’ he answered. ‘Wants to see you, but I told her the rules.’
“Once again I hesitated; probably I’d exaggerated—put a totally false construction on her expression, probably she was looking for a job like the rest of them. And then I knew that I’d got to see that woman, and that I should have no peace of mind until I’d heard what she had to say. The watch dog was regarding me curiously; plainly he could see no reason whatever for my hesitation. He was a matter-of-fact fellow, was the guardian of the door.
“ ‘Show her in, I’ll see her now.’ I had my back to him, but I could feel his virtuous indignation. After all, rules are rules.
“ ‘Now, sir?’ he echoed.
“ ‘Now; at once.’
“He went out, and I heard him go up the steps.
“ ‘Mr. Trayne will see you. Come this way.’
“And then the door opened again, and I turned to face the woman. She was young—quite young, dressed in a kind of cheap suburban frock. Her shoes had been good ones—once, now—well, however skilfully a patch is put on it is still a patch. Her gloves showed traces of much needle and cotton; the little bag she carried was rubbed and frayed. And over the cheap suburban frock she had on a coat which was worn and threadbare.
“ ‘It was good of you to see me, Mr. Trayne.’
“She was nervous and her voice shook a little, but she faced me quite steadily.
“ ‘It’s a very unusual thing for me to do,’ I said. ‘But I saw you at the top of the stairs, and . . .’
“ ‘I know it’s unusual,’ she interrupted. ‘The man outside there told me your rule. But believe me’—she was talking with more assurance now—‘my reason for coming to see you is very unusual also.’
“I pulled up a chair for her. ‘What is your reason?’ I asked.
“She took a deep breath and began fumbling with her handkerchief.
“ ‘I know you will think me mad,’ she began, ‘but I don’t want to tell you my reason now. I want to wait until after the play is over, and I know you go on at once in the fourth act.’
“ ‘You’ve seen the play, then?’ I remarked.
“ ‘I’ve seen the play,’ was her somewhat astonishing answer, ‘every night since the first.’
“ ‘Every night!’ I stared at her in surprise. ‘But . . .’
“I must have glanced at her clothes or something and she saw what was in my mind.
“ ‘I suppose you think that I hardly look as if I could afford such luxuries,’ she smiled faintly. ‘I’ve only seen it from the gallery and pit, you know. And even that has meant that I’ve had to go without lunch. But—you see—it was necessary for me to see it: I had to. It was part of my plan—a necessary part.’
“ ‘I don’t want to seem dense,’ I said gently, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. How can seeing my play thirty odd times be a necessary part of your plan?’
“ ‘That’s what I don’t want to tell you now,’ she repeated, and once more her hands began twisting nervously. ‘I want to wait till afterwards, when perhaps you’ll—of your kindness—do as I ask you. Oh! Mr. Trayne—for God’s sake, don’t fail me!’ She leant forward beseechingly in her chair.
“ ‘My dear child,’ I answered quietly—I don’t think she can have been much more than twenty, ‘you haven’t told me yet what you want me to do.’
“ ‘I want you to come to a house in Kensington with me,’ she said steadily.”
Once again the Actor paused, and stared at the fire. Then he gave a short laugh.
“When she said that, I looked at her pretty sharply. Without appearing conceited or anything of that sort, one has occasionally in the course of one’s career, received certain flattering attentions from charming women—attentions which—er—one is tempted to conceal from one’s wife.”
“Precisely,” murmured the Ordinary Man. “Precisely.”
“And for a moment, I must confess that the thought passed through my mind that this was one of those occasions. And it wasn’t until the colour rose to her face and stained it scarlet, that I realised that not only had I made a mistake, but that I had been foolish enough to let her see that I had.
“ ‘My God!’ she whispered, ‘you don’t think—you couldn’t think—that I meant . . .’
“She rose and almost cowered away from me. ‘Why, I’m married.’
“I refrained from remarking that the fact was hardly such a conclusive proof of the absurdity of my unspoken thought as she seemed to imagine. I merely bowed, and said a little formally: ‘Please don’t jump to conclusions. May I ask why you wish me to come to a house in Kensington with you?’
“The colour ebbed away from her cheeks, and she sat down again.
“ ‘That’s the very thing I don’t want to tell you, until you come,’ she answered very low. ‘I know it sounds absurd—it must do, it seems as if I were being unnecessarily mysterious. But I can’t tell you, Mr. Trayne, I can’t tell you . . . Not yet. . . .’
“And then the call boy knocked, and I had to go on for the last act. In a way I suppose it was absurd of me—but life is made up of impulses. I confess that the whole thing intrigued me. When a woman comes and tells you that she has seen your play every night since it started; that she’s had to go without her lunch to do so; that it was a necessary part of some wonderful plan, and that she wants you to go to a house in Kensington, the least curious man would be attracted. And from my earliest infancy I’ve always been engrossed in other people’s business.
“ ‘All right,’ I said briefly. ‘I’ll come with you.’
“And then I had to put out my hand to steady her, I thought she was going to faint. Reaction, I thought at the time; later, it struck me that the reason was much more prosaic—lack of food.
“I stopped for a moment till she seemed herself again; then I told her to wait outside.
“ ‘I shall be about half an hour,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll take a taxi, and go down to Kensington. Tell them to give you a chair. . . .’
“And my last impression as I went on to the stage was of a white-faced girl clutching the table, staring at me with great brown eyes that held in them a dawning triumph.
“I think,” went on the Actor thoughtfully, “that that is where the tragedy of it all really lay. Afterwards she told me that the part of her plan which had seemed most difficult to her was getting my consent to go with her to Kensington. Once that was done, she knew all would be well, she was absolutely and supremely confident. And when I went on to the stage for the fourth act, she felt that success had crowned her efforts, that what was to come after was nothing compared to that which she had already done. The inaccessible stronghold had been stormed, the ogre had proved to be a lamb.
“Well, we went to Kensington. I sent my own car home, and we took a taxi. During the drive she was very silent, and I didn’t try to make her talk. Evidently no inkling of the mysterious plan was to be revealed until we arrived at the address she had given the driver. It was some obscure street that I had never heard of and the name of which I have completely forgotten. I know it was somewhere not far from Barker’s.
“The door was opened by a repulsive-looking woman who peered at me suspiciously. And then the girl took her on one side and whispered something in her ear. Apparently it had the desired effect, as the Gorgon retired grumbling to an odoriferous basement, leaving us alone in the hall.
“When she had shut the door the girl turned to me.
“ ‘Will you come upstairs, Mr. Trayne. I want you to meet my husband.’
“I bowed. ‘Certainly,’ I said, and she led the way.
“ ‘So the husband was in the plan,’ I reflected as I followed her. Was he a genius with a play that he proposed to read to me? I had suffered from the plays of genius before. Or was he some actor down on his luck? If so, why all the mystery? And then, when I’d made up my mind that it was a mere begging case, we arrived at the room. Just before she turned the handle of the door she again looked at me.
“ ‘My husband is ill, Mr. Trayne. You’ll excuse his being in bed.’
“Then we went in. Good Lord! you fellows,” the Actor leant forward in his chair. “I’ve been pretty hard up in the old days, but as I stood inside that door I realised for the first time what poverty—real poverty—meant. Mark you, the girl was a lady; the weak, cadaverous-looking fellow propped up in bed with a tattered shawl round his shoulders was a gentleman. And beyond the bed, and one chair, and a rackety old chest-of-drawers there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room. There was a curtain in the corner with what looked like a washstand behind it, and a shelf by the bed with two cups and some plates on it. And nothing else except an appalling oleograph of Queen Victoria on the wall.
“ ‘This is Mr. Trayne, dear.’ She was bending over her husband, and after a moment he looked up at me.
“ ‘It was good of you to come, sir,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ And then he turned to his wife and I heard him say: ‘Have you told him yet, Kitty?’
“She shook her head. ‘Not yet, darling, I will now.’ She left his side and came over to me.
“ ‘Mr. Trayne, I know you thought me very peculiar at the theatre. But I was afraid that if I told you what I really wanted you’d have refused to come. You get hundreds and hundreds of people coming to see you who think they can act. Asking you to help them get a job and that sort of thing. Well, I was afraid that if I told you that that was what I wanted, you’d have told me to go away. Perhaps you’d have given me a straw of comfort—taken my address—said you’d let me know if anything turned up. But nothing would have turned up. . . . And, you see, I was rather desperate.’
“The big brown eyes were fixed on me pleadingly, and somehow I didn’t feel quite as annoyed as I should have done at what was nothing more nor less than a blatant trick to appeal to my sympathy.
“ ‘Perhaps nothing would have turned up,’ I said gently, ‘but you must remember that to-day the stage is a hopelessly overstocked profession. There are hundreds of trained actors and actresses unable to obtain a job.’
“ ‘I know that,’ she cried eagerly, ‘and that’s why I—why I thought out this plan. I thought that if I could really convince you that I could act above the average . . .’
“ ‘And she can, Mr. Trayne,’ broke in her husband. ‘She’s good, I know it.’
“ ‘We must leave Mr. Trayne to be the judge of that, Harry,’ she smiled. ‘You see,’ she went on to me, ‘what I felt was that there is an opening for real talent. There is, isn’t there?’
“ ‘Yes,’ I agreed slowly. ‘There is an opening for real talent. But even that is a small one. . . . Have you ever acted before?’
“ ‘A little. In amateur theatricals!’
“I turned away. Amateur theatricals! More heart-burning and disappointment has been caused by those abominable entertainments than their misguided originators will ever realise.
“ ‘But don’t think I’m relying on that.’ The girl was speaking again, and I almost laughed. ‘I want you to judge me to-night.’
“I swung round and looked at her. So this was the mysterious plan: I was to witness an impromptu performance, which was to convince me that the second Sarah Bernhardt had been discovered.
“ ‘I couldn’t have shown you, you see, in your dressing-room. I shouldn’t have had time. That’s why I asked you to come here.’
“ ‘You have the courage of your convictions anyway,’ I said quietly. ‘I am perfectly ready to be convinced.’
“ ‘Then will you sit there.’ She took off her hat and coat as I sat down on the only available chair, and from underneath his pillow the man produced a paper-covered book.
“ ‘You’ll forgive me if I read my lines, Mr. Trayne,’ he said. ‘I find I can’t learn them—I can’t concentrate.’ He passed a thin, emaciated hand over his forehead. ‘And it’s her you want to see.’
“He turned over the pages weakly; then he began to read. And I—I sat up as if I’d been stung. At last everything was clear: the continual visits to the theatre—everything. The part of all others which they had selected to prove her ability, was the love-scene between Molly Travers and myself in the third act of ‘John Pendlesham’s Wife. . . .’ ”
For a while there was silence, while the Actor thoughtfully lit another cigarette.
“This unknown child,” he went on after a moment, “who had acted a little in amateur theatricals, had deliberately challenged London’s greatest emotional actress in her most marvellous success before, Heaven help us, me—of all people. I suppose if I was writing a story I should say that she triumphed; that as I sat in that bare and hideous room I realised that before me was genius—a second and greater Molly; that from that moment her foot was set on the ladder of fame, and there was no looking back.”
The Actor laughed a little sadly. “Unfortunately, I’m not writing a story, I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how I sat through the next twenty minutes. It was the most ghastly caricature of Molly that I have ever thought of; the more ghastly because it was so intensely unintentional. Every little gesture was faithfully copied; every little trick and mannerism had been carefully learnt by heart. And this, as I say, to me who acted with that divine genius every night. God! it was awful. That marvellous line of Molly’s, when, standing in the centre of the stage facing me across the table, she said: ‘Then you don’t want me back?’ that line which was made marvellous merely through the consummate restraint with which she said it, sounded from this poor child like a parlour-maid giving notice.
“And then, at last it was over, and I realised I had to say something. They were both staring at me, hope shining clear in the girl’s eyes and pride in the man’s.
“ ‘She’s great, isn’t she, Mr. Trayne?’ he said. ‘I’ve not had the privilege of seeing you and Miss Travers in the part—but I feel that now—why,’ he gave a little shaky laugh, ‘that it’s hardly necessary.’
“You see,” said the Actor slowly, “that was the devil of it all. They were both so utterly certain, especially the man. The difficulty had been to get me there; after that it had been easy. I glanced at the poor fellow in the bed, and his thoughts were plain to read. No more grinding poverty, no more unfurnished bed-sitting rooms, and—fame for the woman he loved! And then he spoke again.
“ ‘I’m such a hopeless crock, Mr. Trayne, and she’—he took one of her hands in both his own—‘she’s had to do all the work. Beastly, grinding work in an office, when she was capable of this.’
“The girl bent over him, and I looked away. It seemed to me that the ground on which I stood was holy.”
The Actor gave a short laugh which deceived no one. “I suppose I was an ass,” he went on, “but I’d do it again to-day. ‘It was wonderful,’ I said, ‘quite wonderful.’ And because I’m an actor they believed me. Not that he, at any rate, required much convincing—he only wanted his knowledge confirmed. Of course, when I spoke I didn’t realise what I was letting myself in for. I should have done, I suppose, but—I wasn’t left long in doubt. If she was wonderful—and had not I, Herbert Trayne, said so—what about a job? At once . . . With my backing it was easy. . . . Which was all quite true except for the one vital fact of my having lied. But, hang it, you fellows!” he exploded, “could you have told ’em it was the most appalling exhibition of utter futility you’d ever witnessed?”
“No, I couldn’t,” said the Soldier. “What happened?
“I can see them now,” continued the Actor. “He was holding her hand, and looking up into her face—as a dog looks at the being it adores. And she was smiling a little, and crying a little—tears of pure joy. The strain was over, the lunches had not been missed in vain. And I stood there like a dumb idiot racking my brains for something to say. They thought I was wondering what job to offer her; they were right, I was.” The Actor laughed shortly.
“But I’d gone into the morass, and there was nothing for it but to blunder in deeper. The one vital essential was that in no circumstances must the poor child ever be allowed to act. The other was money—and at once. So I offered her then and there a job as Molly Travers’ understudy at five pounds a week.”
“Great Scott!” The Doctor sat up with a jerk. “Understudy Molly?”
“I explained, of course,” went on the Actor, “that there was an understudy already, and that to save unpleasantness it would be better if she didn’t come to the theatre, unless I sent for her. That, of course, it was more than likely that Miss Travers wouldn’t be ill during the run of the play, and that in those circumstances I didn’t want to offend the present understudy. And when another play came along, we must see what we could do. That, thank Heaven, I knew was some way off yet! It gave me breathing space.
“I gave her a week’s salary in advance, and I got away—somehow. I think they were both a little dazed with the wonder of it, and they wanted to be alone. I heard his voice—weak and quavering—as I shut the door.
“ ‘Oh! my very dear girl,’ he was whispering—and she was on her knees beside the bed. And I blundered my way downstairs, cursing myself for a sentimental fool. There’s whisky on the table, you fellows. Help yourselves.”
But no one moved, and the Actor lit another cigarette.
“I saw her occasionally during the next two or three months,” he continued, “though I never went to their rooms again. They had moved—I knew that—because I used to post the cheque every week. But the few times I did see her, I gathered that her husband was not getting any better. And one day I insisted on Lawrence, the specialist, going to see him. I couldn’t have one of my company being worried, I told her, over things of that sort. I can see her face now as I said ‘one of my company.’ I don’t know what Lawrence said to her, but he rang me up at the theatre that night, and he did not mince his words to me.
“ ‘I give him a month,’ he said. ‘It’s galloping consumption.’
“It was just about a month later that the thing happened which I had been dreading. Molly went down with ’flu. Her understudy—the real one—was Violet Dorman, who was unknown then. And, of course it was her chance.”
“One moment,” interrupted the Barrister. “Did anyone at the theatre know about this girl?”
“Good God! no,” cried the Actor. “Not a soul. In this censorious world actions such as mine in that case are apt to be misconstrued, which alone was sufficient to make me keep it dark. No one knew.
“The first night—all was well. Molly went down in the afternoon, and it didn’t come out in any of the evening papers. Violet acted magnificently. She wasn’t Molly, of course—she isn’t now. But it was her chance, and she took it—and took it well. Next morning the papers, naturally, had it in. ‘Temporary indisposition of Miss Molly Travers. Part filled at a moment’s notice with great credit by Miss Violet Dorman.’ She had a press agent and he boomed her for all he was worth. And I read the papers and cursed. Not that I grudged her her success in the slightest, but I was thinking of the afternoon. It was matinée day and the girl must read it in the papers.
“There was only one thing for it—to go round and see her. Whatever happened I had to prevent her coming to the theatre. How I was going to do it without giving the show away I hadn’t an idea, but somehow or other it had got to be done. My blundering foolishness—even though it had been for the best—had caused the trouble; it was up to me to try and right it. So I went round and found her with a doctor in the sitting-room. He was just going as I came in, and his face was grave.
“ ‘Harry’s dying,’ she said to me quite simply, and I glanced at the doctor, who nodded.
“Poor child! I crossed over to her side, and though it seems an awful thing to say, my only feeling was one of relief. After what Lawrence had said I knew it was hopeless, and since the poor devil had to go he couldn’t have chosen a more opportune moment from my point of view. It solved the difficulty. If he was dying she couldn’t come to the theatre, and by the time the funeral was over Molly would be back. I didn’t realise that one doesn’t get out of things quite as easily as that.
“ ‘I’ve only just realised how bad he was,’ she went on in a flat, dead voice.
“ ‘Does he know?’ I asked.
“ ‘No. He thinks he’s going to get better. Why didn’t you send for me last night, Mr. Trayne?’
“It was so unexpected, that I hesitated and stammered.
“ ‘I couldn’t get at you in time,’ I said finally. ‘Miss Travers only became ill late in the afternoon.’
“With a strange look on her face she opened a paper—some cursed rag I hadn’t seen.
“ ‘It says here,’ she went on slowly, ‘that she was confined to her bed all yesterday. Oh! it doesn’t matter much, does it?’ She put the paper down wearily, and gave the most heartrending little sobbing laugh I’ve ever heard.
“ ‘What do you mean?’ I stammered out.
“ ‘I suppose you did it for the best, Mr. Trayne. I suppose I ought to be grateful. But you lied that night—didn’t you?’
“I was fingering a book on the table and for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she went on. ‘He still thinks I’m a God-sent genius. And he mustn’t know.’
“ ‘Why should he?’ I said. And then I put my hand on her arm. ‘Tell me, how did you find out?’
“ ‘You admit it then?’
“ ‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘I admit that I lied. I was so desperately sorry for you.’
“ ‘I mentioned it to someone—a man who knew the stage—about a week ago. He looked at me in blank amazement, and then he laughed. I suppose he couldn’t help it: it was so ridiculous. I was furious—furious. But afterwards I began to think, and I asked other people one or two questions—and then that came,’ she pointed to the paper, ‘and I knew. And now—oh! thank God—he’s dying. He mustn’t know, Mr. Trayne, he mustn’t.’
“And at that moment he came into the room—tottered in is a better word.
“ ‘Boy,’ she cried in an agony, ‘what are you doing?’
“ ‘I thought I heard Mr. Trayne’s voice,’ he whispered, collapsing in the chair. ‘I’m much better to-day, much. Bit weak still——’
“And then he saw the paper, and he leant forward eagerly.
“ ‘Ill,’ he cried. ‘Molly Travers ill. Why, my dear—but it’s your chance.’ He read on a bit, and she looked at me desperately. ‘But why weren’t you there last night? Who is this woman, Violet Dorman?’
“ ‘You see, Tracy,’ I said, picking up the paper and putting it out of his reach, ‘it was so sudden, Miss Travers’ illness, that I couldn’t get at your wife in time.’
“ ‘Quite,’ he whispered. ‘Of course. But there’s a matinée this afternoon, isn’t there? Oh! I wonder if I’m well enough to go. I’m so much better to-day.’ And then he looked at his wife. ‘My dear! my dear—at last!’
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pathetic pride and love shining in a man’s face before or since.
“ ‘I’m afraid you won’t be quite well enough to go,’ I muttered.
“ ‘Perhaps it would be wiser not to,’ he whispered. ‘But to think I shall miss her first appearance. Have you come to fetch her now, Mr. Trayne?’
“ ‘Yes, darling,’ the girl replied, and her voice sounded as steady as a rock. ‘Mr. Trayne has come to fetch me. But it’s early yet and I want you to go back to bed now. . . .’
“Without a glance at me she helped him from the room and left me standing there. I heard their voices—hers clear and strong, his barely audible. And not for the first time in my life I marvelled at the wonder of a woman who loves. I was to marvel more in a moment or two.
“She came back and shut the door. Then she stood facing me.
“ ‘There’s only one way, Mr. Trayne, though I think it’s going to break my heart. I must go to the theatre.’
“ ‘But—your husband . . .’ I stammered.
“ ‘Oh! I’m not really going. I shall be here—at hand—the whole time. Because if the end did come—why then—I must be with him. But he’s got to think I’ve gone; I’ve got to hide from him until after the matinée is over. And then I must tell him’—she faltered a little—‘of my success. I’ll keep the papers from him—if it’s necessary. . . .’ She turned away and I heard her falter: ‘Three hours away from him—when he’s dying. Oh, my God!’ ”
The Actor paused, and the Soldier stirred restlessly in his chair. “I left shortly after,” he went on at length, “I saw she wanted me to.
“All through the play that afternoon it haunted me—the pathos of it—aye, the horror of it. I pictured that girl hiding somewhere, while in the room above the sands were running out. Longing with all the power of her being to go to him—to snatch every fleeting minute with him—and yet condemned by my stupidity to forfeit her right. And then at last the show was over, and I went to her room again.
“She was by his side, kneeling on the floor, as I came in. As he saw me he struggled up on his elbow, and one could see it was the end.
“ ‘Dear fellow,’ I said, ‘she was wonderful—just wonderful!’
“And the girl looked up at me through her blinding tears.
“ ‘Just wonderful,’ I said again. Five minutes later he died. . . .”
The Actor fell silent.
“Did you ever see her again?” asked the Soldier thoughtfully.
“Never: she disappeared. Just a patch on the quilt as I said. But there was one thread missing. Three years later I received a registered envelope. There was no letter inside, no word of any sort. Just these.” He fumbled in his pocket. “There are twenty of them.”
He held out his hand, and the Soldier leaning forward saw that it contained a little bundle of five-pound notes.
| II | The Barrister’s Story, being The Decision of Sir Edward Shoreham |
“This morning,” he began, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “I mislaid my cigarette-case. I knew it was somewhere in the study, but find it I could not. Finally, having searched all over my writing table, I rang the bell, and somewhat irritably demanded its immediate production. The butler stepped forward and lifted it up from the centre of the blotting pad, where it had been the whole time, literally under my nose. What peculiar temporary kink in the brain had prevented my noticing the very thing I was looking for, when it was lying in the most conspicuous place in which it could possibly have been, I don’t know. I leave that to the Doctor. But the point of my parable is this—it decided in my mind the story with which I should bore you fellows to-night.”
He paused to light a cigar, then he glanced round at the faces of the other five.
“And if, as I get on with it, you think you recognise the real characters under the fictional names I shall give them, I can’t prevent you. But don’t ask me to confirm your thoughts.”
“Exactly,” murmured the Actor. “Fire ahead.”
“It was about four years before the war,” commenced the Barrister, “that I was stopping for a few nights at a certain house in Park Lane. It was in the middle of the season—June, to be accurate—and I was waiting to get in here. My wife was in the country, and, as I was more or less at a loose end, I accepted the offer of staying at this house. My hostess—shall we call her Granger, Ruth Granger—had been an old school pal of my wife’s; in later years she had become a real, intimate friend of us both.
“At the time of which I speak she was a lovely girl of twenty-six, with the suffering of six years of hell in her eyes. At the age of twenty she had married Sir Henry Granger, and that fatal mistake had been the cause of the hell. Henry Granger was one of the most loathsome brutes it has ever been my misfortune to run across. He had not one single instinct of a gentleman in him, though he did happen to be the tenth baronet. How her parents had ever allowed the marriage beat me completely. Perhaps it was money, for Granger was rich; but whatever it was she married him, and her hell began.
“Granger was simply an animal, a coarse and vicious animal. He drank heavily without getting drunk, which is always a dangerous sign, and he possessed the morals—or did not possess the morals, whichever you prefer—of a monkey. He was unfaithful to her on their honeymoon—my wife told me that; and from then on he made not the slightest attempt to conceal his mode of life.”
The Barrister carefully removed the ash from his cigar. “I won’t labour the point,” he went on with a faint smile. “We have all of us met the type, but I’d like to emphasise the fact that I, at any rate, have never met any member of that type who came within a mile of him. Most of ’em have some semblance of decency about ’em—make some attempt to conceal their affairs. Granger didn’t; he seemed to prefer that they should be known. Sometimes since then I have wondered whether he was actuated by a sort of blind rage—by a mad desire to pierce through the calm, icy contempt of his wife; to make her writhe and suffer, because he realised she was so immeasurably his superior.” He paused thoughtfully. “He made her suffer right enough.”
“Did she never try for a divorce?” asked the Soldier.
“No, never. We discussed it once—she, and my wife and I; and I had to explain to her our peculiar laws on the subject. His adultery by itself was, of course, not sufficient, and for some reason she flatly refused to consider a mere separation. She wouldn’t face the scandal and publicity for only that. I said to her then: ‘Why not apply for a restitution of conjugal rights. Get your husband to leave the house, and if he doesn’t return in fourteen days——’
“She stopped me with a bitter laugh.
“ ‘It seems rather fatuous,’ she said slowly, ‘getting a lawyer to ask my husband to do what he is only too ready to do—return to me.’
“ ‘But surely,’ I began, not quite taking her meaning.
“ ‘You see, Bill,’ she answered in a flat, dead voice, ‘my husband is very fond of me—as a stopgap. After most of his episodes he honours me with his attentions for two or three days.’
“That was the devil of it—he didn’t intend to let her divorce him. She formed an excellent hostess for his house, and for the rest there were always les autres. And he wanted her, too, because he couldn’t get her, and that made him mad.”
The Barrister leant forward, and the firelight flickered on his thin, ascetic face.
“Such was the state of affairs when I went to stay. The particular lady at the time who was being honoured by Henry Granger was a shining light in musical comedy—Nelly Jones, shall we call her? It is very far from her real name. If possible, he had been more open over this affair than usual; everyone who knew the Grangers in London knew about it—everyone. He had twice dined with her at the same restaurant at which his wife was entertaining, once deliberately selecting the next table.”
“What an unmitigated swine!” cried the Ordinary Man.
“He was,” agreed the Barrister briefly. “But even that was not sufficient to satisfy the gentleman. He proceeded to do a thing which put him for ever outside the pale. He brought this girl to a reception of his wife’s at his own house.
“It was the night that I arrived. She had fixed up one of those ghastly entertainments which are now, thank Heaven, practically extinct. Somebody sings and nobody listens, and you meet everybody you particularly want to avoid. Mercifully I ran into an old pal, also of your calling, Actor-man—Violet Seymour. No reason why I should disguise her name at any rate. She was not acting at the moment, and we sat in a sort of alcove-place at the top of the stairs, on the same landing as the reception-room.
“ ‘There’s going to be a break here soon, Bill,’ she said to me after a while. ‘Ruth is going to snap.’
“ ‘Poor girl!’ I answered. ‘But what the devil can one do, Violet?’
“ ‘Nothing,’ she said fiercely, ‘except alter your abominably unjust laws. Why can’t she get a divorce, Bill? It’s vile—utterly vile.’
“And then—well, let’s call him Sir Edward Shoreham, joined us. He was on the Bench—a judge, which makes the disguise of a false name pretty thin, especially in view of what is to come. I remember he had recently taken a murder case—one that had aroused a good deal of popular attention—and the prisoner had been found guilty. We were talking about it at the time Sir Edward arrived, with Violet, as usual, tilting lances against every form of authority.
“I can see her now as she turned to Sir Edward with a sort of dreadful fascination on her face.
“ ‘And so you sentenced him to death?’
“He nodded gravely. ‘Certainly,’ he answered. ‘He was guilty.’
“And then she turned half-away, speaking almost under her breath.
“ ‘And doesn’t it ever appall you? Make you wake in the middle of the night, with your mouth dry and your throat parched. All this—life, love—and in a cell, a man waiting—a man you’ve sent there. Ticking off the days on his nerveless fingers—staring out at the sun. My God! it would drive me mad.’
“Ned Shoreham smiled a little grimly.
“ ‘You seem to forget one unimportant factor,’ he answered; ‘the wretched woman that man killed.’
“ ‘No, I don’t,’ she cried. ‘But the punishment is so immeasurably worse than the crime. I don’t think death would matter if it came suddenly; but to sit waiting with a sort of sickening helplessness——’
“It was then Ruth Granger joined us. Some woman was singing in the reception-room and, for the moment, she was free from her duties as hostess.
“ ‘You seem very serious,’ she said with her grave, sweet smile, holding out her hand to Sir Edward.
“ ‘Miss Seymour is a revolutionary,’ he answered lightly, and I happened at that moment to glance at Ruth. And for the moment she had let the mask slip as she looked at Ned Shoreham’s face. Then it was replaced, but their secret was out, as far as I was concerned, though on matters of affection I am the least observant of mortals. If they weren’t in love with one another, they were as near to it as made no odds. And it gave me a bit of a shock.
“Shoreham was young—young, at any rate, for the Bench—and he was unmarried. And somehow I couldn’t fit Shoreham into the situation of loving another man’s wife. There had never been a breath of scandal that I had heard; if there had been, it would have finished him for good. A judge must be like Cæsar’s wife. And Shoreham, even then, had established a reputation for the most scrupulous observance of the law. His enemies called him cruel and harsh; those who knew him better realised that his apparent harshness was merely a cloak he had wrapped tightly round himself as a guard against a naturally tender heart. I don’t know any man that I can think of who had such an undeviating idea of duty as Shoreham, and without being in the least a prig, such an exalted idea of the responsibilities of his position. And to realise suddenly that he was in love with Ruth Granger, as I say, came as a shock.
“ ‘What was the argument about?’ she said, sitting down beside me.
“ ‘Morality versus the Law,’ chipped in Violet.
“ ‘The individual versus the community,’ amended Sir Edward. ‘Justice—real justice—against sickly sentimentality, with all due deference to you, Miss Seymour. There are hard cases, one knows, but hard cases make bad laws. There’s been far too much lately of men taking matters into their own hands—this so-called Unwritten Law. And it has got to stop.’
“ ‘You would never admit the justification,’ said Ruth slowly.
“ ‘Never—in any circumstances,’ he answered. ‘You have the law—then appeal to the law. Otherwise there occurs chaos.’
“ ‘And what of the cases where the law gives no redress?’ demanded Violet, and even as she spoke Granger came up the stairs with this girl on his arm.
“Ruth Granger rose, deathly white, and gazed speechlessly at her husband’s coarse, sneering face. I don’t think for a moment she fully grasped the immensity of the insult; she was stunned. The footmen were staring open-mouthed; guests passing into the supper-room stopped and smirked. And then it was over; the tension snapped.
“ ‘Have you had any supper, Sir Edward?’ said Ruth calmly, and with her hand on his arm she swept past her husband, completely ignoring both him and the girl, who flushed angrily.
“ ‘I suppose,’ said Violet Seymour to me, as Granger and the girl went into the reception-room, ‘that had Ruth shot that filthy blackguard dead on the stairs, Sir Edward would have piously folded his hands and, in due course, sentenced her to death.’
“And at the moment I certainly sympathised with her point of view.”
The Barrister got up and splashed some soda-water into a glass. Then he continued:
“I won’t weary you with an account of the rest of the reception. You can imagine for yourselves the covert sneers and whisperings. I want to go on two or three hours to the time when the guests had gone, and a white-faced, tight-lipped woman was staring at the dying embers of a fire in her sitting-room, while I stood by the mantelpiece wondering what the devil to do to help. Granger was in his study, where he had retired on the departure of Miss Jones, and I, personally, had seen two bottles of champagne taken to him there by one of the footmen.
“ ‘It’s the end, Bill,’ she said, looking at me suddenly, ‘absolutely the end. I can’t go on—not after to-night. How dared he bring that woman here? How dared he?’
“Violet had been right—the break had come. Ruth Granger was desperate, and there was an expression on her face that it wasn’t good to see. It put the wind up me all right.
“ ‘Go to bed, Ruth,’ I said quietly. ‘There’s no good having a row with Granger to-night; you can say what you want to say to-morrow.’
“And at that moment the door opened and her husband came in. As I said, he was a man who never got drunk, but that night he was unsteady on his legs. He stood by the door, swaying a little and staring at her with a sneer on his face. He was a swine sober; in drink he was—well, words fail. But, by God! you fellows, she got through him and into him until I thought he was going to strike her. I believe that was what she was playing for at the time, because I was there as a witness. But he didn’t, and when she finished flaying him he merely laughed in her face.
“ ‘And what about your own damned lover, my virtuous darling?’ he sneered. ‘What about the upright judge whom you adore—dear, kind Edward Shoreham?’
“It was unexpected; she didn’t know he had guessed—and her face gave her away for a moment. Then she straightened up proudly.
“ ‘Sir Edward Shoreham and I are on terms which an animal of your gross mind couldn’t possibly understand,’ she answered coldly, and he laughed. ‘If you insinuate that he is my lover in the accepted sense of the word, you lie and you know it.’
“Without another word she walked contemptuously by him, and the door closed behind her. And after a moment or two I followed her, leaving him staring moodily at the empty grate. I couldn’t have spoken to him without being rude and, after all, I was under his roof.”
The Barrister leant back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“Now that was the situation,” he continued, “when I went to bed. My room was almost opposite Lady Granger’s, and at the end of the passage, which was a cul-de-sac, was the door leading into Granger’s study. I hadn’t started to undress when I heard him come past my room and go along the passage to his study. And I was still thinking over the situation about ten minutes later when Lady Granger’s door opened. I knew it was hers because I heard her speak to her maid, telling her to go to bed. The girl said ‘Good night,’ and something—I don’t quite know what—made me look through the keyhole of my door. I was feeling uneasy and alarmed; I suppose the scene downstairs had unsettled me. And sure enough, as soon as the maid’s footsteps had died away, I saw through my spy-hole Ruth Granger go down the passage towards her husband’s study. For a moment I hesitated; an outsider’s position is always awkward between husband and wife. But one thing was very certain, those two were in no condition to have another—and this time a private—interview. I opened my door noiselessly and peered out. It struck me that if I heard things getting too heated I should have to intervene. She was just opening the door of his study as I looked along the passage, and then in a flash the whole thing seemed to happen. The door shut behind her; there was a pause of one—perhaps two seconds—and a revolver shot rang out, followed by the sound of a heavy fall. For a moment I was stunned; then I raced along the passage as hard as I could, and flung open the door of the study.
“On the floor lay Henry Granger, doubled up and sprawling, while in the middle of the room stood his wife staring at him speechlessly. At her feet on the carpet was a revolver, an automatic Colt. I stood there by the door staring foolishly, and after a while she spoke.
“ ‘There’s been an accident,’ she whispered. ‘Is he dead?’
“I went up to the body and turned it over. Through the shirt front was a small hole; underneath the left shoulder blade was another. Henry Granger had been shot through the heart from point-blank range; death must have been absolutely instantaneous.
“ ‘My God, Ruth!’ I muttered. ‘How did it happen?’
“ ‘Happen?’ she answered vaguely. ‘There was a man . . . the window.’
“And then she fainted. The butler, with a couple of footmen, by this time had appeared at the door, and I pulled myself together.
“ ‘Her ladyship’s maid at once,’ I said. ‘Sir Henry has been shot. Ring up a doctor, and ask him to come round immediately.’
“The butler rushed off, but I kept the two footmen.
“ ‘Wait a moment,’ I cried, picking up the revolver. ‘A man did it. Pull back the two curtains by the window, and I’ll cover him.’
“They did as I told them, pulled back the two heavy black curtains that were in front of the window. It was set back in a sort of alcove, and I had the revolver ready pointed to cover the murderer. I covered empty air; there was no one there. Then I walked over to the window and looked out. It was wide open, and there was a sheer drop of forty feet to the deserted area below. I looked upwards—I looked sideways: plain brickwork without footing for a cat.”
“ ‘Go down to the room below,’ I cried; ‘he may have got in there.’
“They rushed away to come back and tell me that not only were the windows bolted, but that they were shuttered as well. And I thought they looked at me curiously.”
He paused to relight his cigar; then he continued thoughtfully:
“I don’t quite know when I first began to feel suspicious about this mysterious man. The thing had been so sudden that for a while my brain refused to work; then gradually my legal training reasserted itself, and I started to piece things together. Ruth had come-to again, and I put one or two questions to her. She was still very dazed, but she answered them quite coherently:
“A man in evening clothes—at least, she thought he had on evening clothes—had been in the room as she came in. She heard a shot; the light went out and the window was thrown up. And then she had turned on the light just before I came in to see her husband lying dead on the floor. She knew no more. I suppose I must have looked a bit thoughtful, for she suddenly got up from her chair and came up to me.
“ ‘You believe me, Bill, don’t you?’ she said, staring at me.
“ ‘Of course, of course,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘Go and lie down now, Ruth, because we shall have to send for the police.’
“Without another word she left the room with her maid, and, after telling the footmen to wait downstairs till they were wanted, I sat down to think. Now, this isn’t a detective story; such as it is, it concerns a more interesting study than the mere detection of crime. It concerns the struggle in the soul of an upright man between love and duty. And the man was Sir Edward Shoreham.
“Unknown to me she sent for him—asked him to come at once—and he came. He was shown by the butler into the study, where I was still sitting at the desk, and he stopped motionless by the door staring at the body, which had not been moved. I was waiting for the doctor, and I got up surprised.
“ ‘The butler told me he had been shot,’ he said a little jerkily. ‘How did it happen?’
“ ‘I wasn’t expecting you, Sir Edward,’ I answered slowly. ‘But I’m glad that you’ve come. I’d like another opinion.’
“ ‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Is there any mystery?’
“ ‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened as far as I know the facts,’ I said. ‘Lady Granger and her husband had a very bad quarrel to-night. Then she came to bed, and so did I. Shortly afterwards her husband came along into this room. Now, my bedroom is in the passage you have just come along, and about ten minutes after Sir Henry came in here, his wife followed him. I opened my door, because I was afraid they might start quarrelling again, and he had been drinking. I saw her come in; there was a pause, and then a revolver shot rang out.’
“ ‘Was this door shut?’ he snapped.
“ ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘it was. I rushed along the passage and came in. I found her standing, with the revolver at her feet, staring at her husband, who was lying where he is now. She said: ‘There’s been an accident.’ And then she muttered something about a man and the window before she fainted. I went to the window, and there was no one there. I looked out; will you do the same?’
“I waited while he walked over and looked out, and after what seemed an interminable time he came back again.
“ ‘How long was it after the shot before you looked out?’ His voice was very low as he asked the question.
“ ‘Not a quarter of a minute,’ I answered, and we both stood staring at one another in silence.
“ ‘Good God!’ he said at length, ‘what are you driving at?’
“ ‘I’m not driving at anything, Sir Edward,’ I answered. ‘At least, I’m trying not to drive at it. But the man is dead, and the police must be sent for. What are we going to say?’
“ ‘The truth, of course,’ he answered instantly.
“ ‘Quite,’ I said slowly. ‘But what is the truth?’
“He turned very white, and leant against one of the old suits of armour, of which the dead man had a wonderful collection all over the house.
“ ‘Did Lady Granger see this man go out of the window?’ he asked at length.
“ ‘No, she only heard him open it. You see, she says he switched off the light. It was on when I rushed in.’
“ ‘A rope,’ he suggested.
“ ‘Impossible in the time,’ I said; ‘utterly impossible. Such a suggestion would be laughed out of court.’
“He came over and sat down heavily in a chair, and his face was haggard.
“ ‘Sir Edward,’ I went on desperately, ‘the doctor will be here shortly; the police must be sent for. We’ve got to decide something. This man didn’t go out by the door or I’d have seen him; only a fly could have gone out by the window. We’ve got to face the facts.’
“ ‘You don’t believe there was a man here at all,’ he said slowly.
“ ‘Heaven help me! I don’t,’ I answered. ‘It’s all so easy to reconstruct. The poor girl was driven absolutely desperate by what happened to-night, and by the last thing he said to her after their quarrel.’ I looked at him for a moment before going on. ‘He accused her of being in love with you.’ I said it deliberately, and he caught his breath sharply.
“ ‘Can’t you see it all?’ I continued. ‘She came in here, and she shot him; and when she’d done it her nerves gave, and she said the first thing to me that came into her head.’
“ ‘If you’re right,’ he said heavily, ‘it means that Ruth will be tried for murder!’ He got up with his hands to his temples. ‘My God! Stratton,’ he cried, ‘this is awful. Premeditated murder, too—not done blindly in the middle of a quarrel, but a quarter of an hour after it was over.’
“ ‘That’s how it would strike a jury,’ I answered gravely.
“ ‘Supposing she had done it suddenly, blindly’—he was talking half to himself—‘snatched the revolver off the table as he tried to make love to her, let’s say.’ And then he stopped and stared at me.
“ ‘Supposing that had happened, it would be better for her to say so at once,’ I said.
“ ‘But it didn’t happen,’ he answered; ‘it couldn’t have.’
“ ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It didn’t happen; it couldn’t have. But supposing it had, Sir Edward, what then?’
“ ‘Stop, Stratton,’ he cried. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop!’
“ ‘There’s no good stopping,’ I said. ‘We haven’t any time for argument. Your legal knowledge has suggested the same solution as occurred to me. If now, at once, when we send for the police, she says it was an accident—gives a complete story, chapter and verse——’
“ ‘Invents it, you mean,’ he interrupted.
“ ‘Call it what you like,’ I said, ‘but, unless she does that and substantiates the story, she will be tried for the premeditated and wilful murder of her husband. She’ll have to be tried anyway, but if she makes a voluntary confession—makes a story out of it that will appeal to sentiment—they will acquit her. It’s the only chance.’
“ ‘But it’s monstrous, man,’ he muttered—only now his eyes were fixed on me questioningly.
“ ‘Look here, Sir Edward,’ I said, ‘let’s discuss this matter calmly. Humanly speaking, we know what happened. Ruth came along that passage, opened this door, and shot her husband dead through the heart—that is the case as I should put it to the jury, the plain issue shorn of all its trappings. What is going to be the verdict?’
“Shoreham plucked at his collar as if he were fighting for breath.
“ ‘If, on the other hand, the shot was not immediate—and I am the only witness as to that; if I had heard his voice raised in anger; if he had sprung at her, tried to kiss her, and she blindly, without thought, had snatched up the first thing that came to her hand, the revolver, not even knowing it was loaded—what then? The servants can be squared. She was talking wildly when she mentioned this man—didn’t know what she was saying. And then, when she got back to her room she realised that the truth was best, and rang you up, a Judge. What better possible proof could any jury have of her desire to conceal nothing? And you with your reputation on the Bench——’
“ ‘Ah, don’t, don’t!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘You’re driving me mad! You’re—you’re——!’
“ ‘Why, Ned, what’s the matter?’
“We both swung round. Ruth had come in, unnoticed by us, and was staring at Shoreham with wonder in her eyes. Then, with a shudder, she stepped past her husband’s body and came into the room.
“ ‘They’ve just told me you were here,’ she said, and then she gave a little cry. ‘Ned, why are you looking like that? Ned! you don’t think—you don’t think I did it?’
“She cowered back, looking first at him and then at me.
“ ‘You can’t think I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I tell you there was a man here—the man who shot him. Oh! they’ll believe me, won’t they?’
“ ‘Ruth,’ I said, ‘I want you to realise that we’re both of us your friends.’ Which is the sort of fatuous remark one does make when the tension is a bit acute. She never even glanced at me as I spoke; with a sort of sick horror in her eyes, she was staring at Shoreham, and I blundered on: ‘When you talked about this man you were unnerved—distraught; you didn’t know what you were saying. We both realise that. But now we’ve got to think of the best way of—of helping you. You see, the police must be sent for—we ought to have sent for them sooner—and——’
“She walked past me and went over to Shoreham.
“ ‘Do you believe I did it, Ned?’ she said quietly. ‘If I swear to you that I didn’t—would that convince you?’
“ ‘But, Ruth,’ he cried desperately, ‘it isn’t me you’ve got to convince—it’s the police. A man couldn’t have got out of that window in the time. It’s a physical impossibility. If you told it to the police, they’d laugh. Tell us the truth, my dear. I beseech you. Tell us the truth, and we’ll see what can be done.’
“She stood very still, with her hands clenched by her sides. And then quite deliberately she spoke to Shoreham.
“ ‘If you don’t believe there was a man here,’ she said, ‘you must think I shot my husband. There was no one else who could have done it. Well—supposing I did. You acknowledge no justification for such an act?’
“I started to speak, but she silenced me with an imperative wave of her hand.
“ ‘Please, Bill——Well, Ned—I’m waiting. If I did shoot him—what then?’ ”
The Barrister paused to relight his cigar, and the others waited in silence.
“She was staring at Shoreham,” he went on after a while, “with a faint, half-mocking, wholly tender smile on her lips, and if either he or I had been less dense that smile should have made us think. But at the moment I was absorbed in the problem of how to save her; while she was absorbed in a very different one concerning the mentality of the man she cared for. And Shoreham—well, he was absorbed in the old, old fight between love and duty, and the fierceness of the struggle was showing on his face.
“There in front of him stood the woman he loved, the woman who had just shot her husband, and the woman who was now free for him to marry. He knew as well as I did that in adopting the line I had suggested lay the best chance of getting her acquitted. He knew as well as I did that the vast majority of juries would acquit if the story were put to them as we had outlined it. He could visualise as well as I the scene in court. Counsel for the defence—I’d already fixed on Grayson in my mind as her counsel—outlining the whole scene: her late husband’s abominable conduct culminating in this final outrage at her reception. And then as he came to the moment of the tragedy, I could picture him turning to the jury with passionate sincerity in his face—appealing to them as men—happily married, perhaps, but men, at any rate, to whom home life was sacred.
“I could hear his voice—low and earnest—as he sketched for them that last scene. This poor, slighted, tormented woman—girl, gentlemen, for she is little more than a girl—went in desperation to the man—well, he is dead now, and we will leave it at that—to the man who had made her life a veritable hell. She pleaded with him, gentlemen, to allow her to divorce him—pleaded for some remnant of decent feelings in him. And what was his answer—what was the answer of this devil who was her husband? Did he meet her half-way? Did he profess the slightest sorrow for his despicable conduct?
“No, gentlemen—not one word. His sole response was to spring at her in his drunken frenzy and endeavour to fix his vile attentions on her. And she, mad with terror and fright, snatched up the revolver which was lying on the desk. It might have been a ruler—anything; she was not responsible at the moment for what she did. Do you blame her, gentlemen? You have daughters of your own. She no more knew what she had in her hand than a baby would. To keep him away—that was her sole idea. And then—suddenly—it happened. The revolver went off—the man fell dead.
“What did this girl do, gentlemen, after that? Realising that he was dead, did she make any attempt to conceal what she had done—to conceal her share in the matter? No—exactly the reverse. Instantly she rang up Sir Edward Shoreham, whose views on such matters are well known to you all. And then and there she told him everything—concealing nothing, excusing nothing. Sir Edward Shoreham of all people, who, with due deference to such a distinguished public man, has at times been regarded as—well—er—not lenient in his judgments. And you have heard what Sir Edward said in the box. . . .”
Once again the Barrister paused and smiled faintly.
“I’d got as far as that, you see, before Shoreham answered her. And he had got as far as that, too, I think. He saw it all, built on a foundation of lies—built on the foundation of his dishonour. No one would ever know except us three—but that doesn’t make a thing easier for the Edward Shorehams of the world.
“And then he spoke—in a low, tense voice:
“ ‘If you shot him, dear,’ he said, ‘nothing matters save getting you off.’
“Some people,” pursued the Barrister, “might call it a victory—some people would call it a defeat. Depends on one’s outlook; depends on how much one really believes in the ‘Could not love you half so much, loved I not honour more’ idea. But certainly the murderer himself was very pleased.”
“The murderer?” cried the Ordinary Man sitting up suddenly.
“The murderer,” returned the Barrister. “That’s why I mentioned about my cigarette-case this morning. He had been standing behind the suit of armour in the corner the whole time. He came out suddenly, and we all stared at him speechlessly, and then he started coughing—a dreadful tearing cough—which stained his handkerchief scarlet.
“ ‘I must apologise,’ he said when he could speak, ‘but there was another thing besides shooting Granger that I wanted to do before I died. That was why I didn’t want to be caught to-night. However, a man must cough when he’s got my complaint. But I’m glad I restrained myself long enough to hear your decision, Sir Edward. I congratulate you on it.’
“ ‘You scoundrel!’ began Shoreham, starting forward, ‘why didn’t you declare yourself sooner?’
“ ‘Because there’s another thing I wanted to do,’ he repeated wearily. ‘In Paris, in the Rue St. Claire, there lives a woman. She was beautiful once—to me she is beautiful now. She was my woman until——’ And his eyes sought the dead body of Henry Granger.
“Ruth took a deep breath. ‘Yes—until?’ she whispered.
“ ‘Until he came,’ said the man gravely. ‘And God will decide between him and me. But I would have liked to look on her once more, and hold her hand, and tell her, yet again, that I understood—absolutely.’
“It was then Ruth Granger crossed to him.
“ ‘What is her name and the number of the house?’ she said.
“ ‘Sybil Deering is her name,’ he answered slowly, ‘and the number is fourteen.’
“ ‘Will you leave it to me?’ she asked.
“For a moment he stared at her in silence, then he bowed.
“ ‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Lady Granger, and I hope you will have all the happiness you deserve.’ He glanced at Shoreham and smiled. ‘When a man loves everything else goes to the wall, doesn’t it? Remember that in the future, Sir Edward, when they’re standing before you, wondering, trying to read their fate. Someone loves them, just as you love her.’ ”
The Barrister rose and drained his glass.
“And that is the conclusion of your suffering,” he remarked.
“Was the man hanged?” asked the Soldier.
“No, he died a week later of galloping consumption.”
“And what of the other two?” demanded the Actor.
“They married, and are living happily together to-day, doing fruit farming as a hobby.”
“Fruit farming!” echoed the Doctor. “Why fruit farming?”
“Something to do,” said the Barrister. “You see, Sir Edward has never tried another case. Some men are made that way.”
| III | The Doctor’s Story, being Sentence of Death |
“Sooner or later,” began the Doctor, settling himself comfortably in his chair, “it comes to most of us. Sooner or later a man or a woman comes to consult us on what they imagine to be some trifling malady, and when we make our examination we find that it isn’t trifling. And occasionally we find that not only is the matter not trifling, but that—well, you all have seen Collier’s picture, ‘The Sentence of Death.’
“It’s a thing, incidentally, which requires careful thought—just how much you will tell. Different people take things different ways, and where it might be your duty to tell one man the half-truth, to another it might be just as much your duty to lie. But broadly speaking, I, personally, have always maintained that, unless the circumstances are quite exceptional, it is a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth, however unpleasant it may be. What would a man say if his lawyer or his stockbroker lied to him?
“Which brings me to the opening of my story. It was in the May before the War that a man came into my consulting-room—a man whom I will call Jack Digby. I motioned him to a chair on the other side of my desk, so placed that the light from the window fell on his face. I put him down as a man of about three-and-thirty who was used to an outdoor life. His face was bronzed, his hands were sunburnt, and the whole way he carried himself—the set of his shoulders, the swing of his arms as he walked across the room—indicated the athlete in good condition. In fact, he was an unusual type to find in a Harley Street consulting-room, and I told him so by way of opening the conversation.
“He grinned, a very pleasant, cheery grin, and put his hat on the floor.
“ ‘Just a matter of form, Doctor,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. ‘I’m thinking of entering for the matrimonial stakes, and before saddling-up I thought I’d just get you to certify me sound in wind and limb.’
“Now he spoke very easily and naturally, but something—I don’t quite know what—made me look at him a little more closely. The study of human nature is a vital necessity if the study of human ailments is to be successful—and one gets plenty of opportunity for it if one is a consulting physician. And I suddenly wondered if it was ‘just a matter of form’ in his mind. The ordinary young, healthy man doesn’t usually take the trouble to be overhauled by a doctor merely because he is going to be married.
“However, at that stage of the proceedings my thoughts were my own, and I answered him in the same vein. And while he was taking off his coat and shirt we talked casually on various topics. Then I started my examination. And within half a minute I knew that something was very, very wrong.
“ ‘I would like you to take off your vest, please, Mr. Digby,’ I said, and for a moment he stared at me in silence. I was watching him quietly, and it was then I knew that my first surmise was correct. In his eyes there was a look of dreadful fear.
“He stripped his vest off, and I continued my examination. And after I’d finished I walked over to my desk.
“ ‘You can put on your clothes again,’ I said gravely, to swing round as I felt his hand like a vice on my shoulder.
“ ‘What is it?’ he muttered. ‘Tell me.’
“ ‘It was not altogether a matter of form with you, was it, Mr. Digby?’ I answered. ‘Put on your clothes; I want to ask you a few questions.’
“ ‘Hang it, man!’ he cried. ‘I can’t wait. What have you found?’
“ ‘I would like to have another opinion before telling you.’ I was fencing for time, but he was insistent.
“ ‘You can have another opinion—you can have fifty other opinions,’ he cried, still gripping me by the shoulder—‘but I want to know what you think now. Can I marry?’
“ ‘You cannot,’ I said gravely, and his hand fell to his side. Then he slowly walked across the room and stood with his back to me, staring out of the window. Once his shoulders shook a little, but except for that he stood quite motionless. And after a while he picked up his clothes and started to dress.
“I said nothing until he had finished; with a man of his type talking is a mistake. It was not until he again sat down in the chair opposite me that I broke the silence.
“ ‘You asked me a specific question, Mr. Digby,’ I said quietly, ‘and I answered as a man of your type would like to be answered. But I now want to modify my reply slightly. And I will put it this way. If I had a daughter, I would not allow a man whose heart was in the condition that yours is to marry her. It would not be fair to her; it would certainly not be fair to any possible children.’
“He nodded gravely, though he didn’t speak.
“ ‘You feared something of this sort when you came to me?’ I asked.
“ ‘My mother died of it,’ he answered quietly. ‘And once or twice lately, after exercise, I’ve had an agonising twinge of pain.’ And then, under his breath, he added: ‘Thank God, she doesn’t know!’
“ ‘But I would like another opinion,’ I continued. ‘There are men, as you know, who are entirely heart specialists, and I will give you the address of one.’
“ ‘Confirmation of the death sentence,’ he laughed grimly. ‘No saddling-up for me—eh, Doctor?’
“ ‘Not as you are at present, Mr. Digby.’ I was writing the address of the biggest heart man on a piece of paper, though I felt it was useless. It didn’t require an expert to diagnose this trouble.
“ ‘Is there any chance of getting better?’ he cried eagerly, and I stopped writing and looked at him. There was hope—a dawning hope in his eyes—and for a moment I hesitated.
“My own opinion was that there was no chance: that he might, with care and luck, live for two or three years—perhaps more—but that he might equally well drop dead at any moment. It was enough—that momentary hesitation; the eager look in his eyes faded, and he sat back wearily in his chair.
“ ‘Don’t bother,’ he said slowly; ‘I see how it is.’
“ ‘No, you don’t, Mr. Digby,’ I answered. ‘You see how I think it is. Which is an altogether different matter. There is always a chance.’
“ ‘That’s juggling with words,’ he said, with a twisted little smile. ‘The great point is that I’m not in a position to ask this girl to marry me.’
“He glanced at the slip of paper I handed to him, then he rose.
“ ‘I would like you to go and see him,’ I said quietly. ‘You see I feel the gravity of what I’ve had to tell you this morning very much, and in fairness to myself as well as to you, my dear fellow, I’d like you to go to Sir John.’
“For a few seconds he stood there facing me, then he grinned as he had done at the beginning of the interview.
“ ‘All right, Doctor,’ he cried. ‘I’ll go, and Sir John shall drive the nail right in.’
“ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said—‘infernally sorry. You’ve taken it, if I may say so, like a very brave man.’
“He turned away abruptly. ‘What the deuce is the good of whining?’ he cried. ‘If it’s the same as in my mother’s case, the end will be very abrupt.’
“The next moment he was gone—a man under sentence of death. And the pitiful tragedy of it hit one like a blow. He was so essentially the type of man who should have married some charming girl and have children. He was just a first-class specimen of the sporting Englishman, but——” The Doctor paused and looked at the Soldier. “The type that makes a first-class squadron-leader,” and the Soldier nodded.
“It was in the afternoon,” continued the Doctor after a while, “that Sir John Longworth rang me up. Digby had been to him, and the result was as I expected. Two years, or possibly two days, and as for marriage, out of the question entirely. He had merely confirmed my own diagnosis of the case, and there for a time the matter rested. In the stress of work Jack Digby passed from my mind, until Fate decreed that we should meet again in what were to prove most dramatic circumstances.
“It was two months later—about the beginning of July—that I decided to take a short holiday. I couldn’t really spare the time, but I knew that I ought to take one. So I ran down for a long week-end to stop with some people I knew fairly well in Dorsetshire. They had just taken a big house a few miles from Weymouth, and I will call them the Maitlands. There were Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, and a son, Tom, up at the ’Varsity, and a daughter, Sybil. When I arrived I found they had a bit of a house-party, perhaps a dozen in all, and after tea the girl, whom I’d met once or twice before, took me round the place.
“She was a charming girl, very, very pretty, of about twenty-two or three, and we chattered on aimlessly as we strolled through the gardens.
“ ‘You’re quite a big party,’ I laughed, ‘and I thought I was coming for a quiet week-end.’
“ ‘We’ve got two or three more arriving to-night,’ she said. ‘At least I think so. One of them is a most elusive person.’ She was staring straight in front of her as she spoke, and for the moment she seemed to have forgotten my existence.
“ ‘Male or female—the elusive one?’ I asked lightly.
“ ‘A man,’ she answered abruptly, and changed the conversation.
“But being an old and wary bird, I read into her harmless remark a somewhat deeper significance than was perhaps justified, and it struck me very forcibly that if I were the man I would not be elusive in the circumstances. She surely was most amazingly pretty.”
“With great deductive ability,” murmured the Actor, as the Doctor paused to refill his pipe, “we place the elusive man as Jack Digby.”
“You go to blazes!” laughed the teller of the story. “I haven’t got to that yet. Of course you’re quite right—he was; though when I found it out a little later it came as a complete surprise to me. I’d almost forgotten his existence.
“It was her father who first mentioned his name. I was having a sherry and bitters with him in his study before going up to dress for dinner, and the conversation turned on the girl. I think I said how extraordinarily pretty I thought she was, and remarked that I supposed somebody would soon be walking off with her.
“Joe Maitland’s face clouded a little.
“ ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘both her mother and I have been expecting it for some time. A most charming man, and Sybil is in love with him, I’m sure. We all thought that he was in love with her,’ and then he exploded—‘damn it, it isn’t a question of thinking, I know he’s in love with her! And for some extraordinary reason he won’t tell her so. He’s kept away from her for the last two months, after having lived in her pocket. And he’s not the type that monkeys round and makes a girl fond of him for no reason. He’s coming here to-night, and——’
“My host, still frowning slightly, lit a cigarette. So evidently this was the elusive man, I thought, putting down my glass. It was no business of mine, and then suddenly I stood very still as I heard him speak again.
“ ‘Jack Digby is as white as they’re made,’ he was saying, but I didn’t hear any more. Luckily my back was towards him, so he couldn’t see my face. Jack Digby! Poor devil! With Sybil Maitland, the girl, in his mind, the blow I’d given him must have been even crueller than I’d thought. And what a strange coincidence that I should be going to meet him again in such circumstances. Maitland was still rambling on, but I was paying no attention to him. I could, of course, say nothing unless Digby gave me permission; but it struck me that if I told him how the land lay—if I told him that not only was his silence being completely misconstrued, but that it was making the girl unhappy, he might allow me to tell her father the truth. After all, the truth was far better; there was nothing to be ashamed of in having a rotten heart.
“And it was just as I had made up my mind to see Digby that night that the door opened and Tom, the boy, came in. I hadn’t seen him since he was quite a child, and the first thing that struck me about him was that he was almost as good-looking as his sister. He’d got the same eyes, the same colouring, but—there was the devil of a but. Whereas his sister gave one the impression of being utterly frank and fearless, the boy struck me immediately as being the very reverse. That he was the apple of his mother’s eye, I knew—but that signifies nothing. Thank God! mothers are made that way. And as I stood watching him talking to his father I recalled certain vague rumours that I’d heard recently and had paid scant attention to at the time. Rumours of wild extravagance up at Oxford—debts well into the four figures. . . . They came back to my mind, those idle bits of gossip, and they assumed a definite significance as I studied the boy’s face. It was weak—utterly weak; he gave one the impression of having no mental or moral stamina whatever. He poured himself out a glass of sherry, and his hand wasn’t quite steady, which is a bad sign in a boy of under twenty-one. And he was a little frightened of his father, which is bad in a boy of any age when the father is a man like Joe Maitland. And that wasn’t all, either. There was something more—something much bigger on his mind: I was sure of it. There was fear in his heart; you could see it lurking round his eyes—round his mouth. I glanced at Joe, but he seemed quite oblivious of it, and then I left them and went up to dress for dinner. I remember wondering as I turned into my room whether the boy had got into another scrape—then I dismissed him from my mind. Jack Digby was a more interesting and more pressing problem.
“I met him in the hall as I came down, and he gave a sudden start of astonishment.
“ ‘Why, Doctor,’ he said quietly as we shook hands, ‘this is a surprise. I’d no idea you were to be here.’
“ ‘Nor I that you were coming,’ I answered, ‘until Mr. Maitland happened to mention it a little while ago.’
“ ‘You haven’t said anything to him, have you?’ he cried anxiously.
“ ‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘you ought to know that doctors don’t.’ He muttered an apology, and I went on: ‘You know, Digby, I can’t help thinking you’re making a mistake in not telling the truth.’
“He shook his head vigorously. ‘I’m sure I’m not,’ he answered. ‘The mistake I’ve made has been in coming here at all. I haven’t seen her since the day—when you told me. And I oughtn’t to have come now. It’s the last—I swear that. I couldn’t help it; I had to see her once again. I’m going to Africa in August—big game shooting.’
“I stared at him gravely, and after a while he went on:
“ ‘No one knows better than you,’ he said gravely, ‘my chance of returning. And when I don’t come back—she’ll forget me.’ I saw his hands clench at his side. ‘But if I tell her now—why, she’ll want me to stop in England—to go to specialists—to eke out life to the full two or three years. It’ll be hell—hell! Hell for both of us. Every day she’ll be wondering if she is going to hear I’m dead; it’ll ruin her life. Whereas Africa, if she doesn’t know about my heart, will be sudden. You see, Doctor, she is the only one to be considered—the only one.’
“I drew a deep breath; truly Joe Maitland had been right. This man was white clean through. And then he gave a little choking gasp, and, turning round, I saw the girl coming towards us across the hall.
“ ‘I didn’t know you’d come, old man,’ I heard her say, and then I moved away and left them. It was one of those occasions when you say it’s the smoke that has got into your eyes—and you lie.”
For a while the Doctor was silent; then he gave a short laugh.
“They sat next to one another at dinner, opposite me, and I’m afraid my partner must have thought I was a little wanting in intellect. They were such a perfectly ideal couple; and I noticed old Joe Maitland watching them every now and then. But gradually, as the meal progressed, a puzzled look began to creep into the girl’s eyes, and once she bit her lip suddenly and turned abruptly to the man on her other side. It was then that Digby looked across the table at me, and in that moment I realised that he was right. For him to remain in England would be impossible for both of them; the end, quick and sudden in an African jungle—if he ever got as far—was the only way out.
“ ‘My God! Doctor,’ he said as he came round and sat down next to me after the ladies had gone, ‘I knew I was a fool to come, but I didn’t think it was going to be as bad as this.’
“ ‘When are you going to start?’ I asked.
“ ‘As soon as I can get things fixed up at home, here, and make some sort of arrangements for carriers and people the other end. One must act, I suppose, even though it’s the last appearance.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I’ve always wanted to go South from Khartoum—I wonder how far I’ll get.’ Then he began to drum on the table with his fingers. ‘And what I wonder still more,’ he went on slowly, ‘is how in Heaven’s name I’ll get through this evening. You see, though I didn’t actually propose in so many words before I came to see you, I’d—I’d let things drift to such a position that a proposal was hardly necessary. That’s the devil of it. . . . She knows I worship the ground she walks on—and I know she cares too.’
“ ‘How long are you going to stop here?’ I asked.
“ ‘I accepted for the week-end,’ he said abruptly. ‘I shall go first thing to-morrow. I can’t stand it.’
“At that we left it, and I didn’t speak to him again until the thing occurred which even now—though seven years have slipped by—is as clearly imprinted on my brain as if it had happened last night.
“I couldn’t sleep very well that night, and at about two I switched on my light, with the idea of reading. I was just reaching out for a book when I heard the sound of voices from a room almost opposite. I listened for a moment, then I got up and went to the door. For the voices were excited and angry; something unusual was evidently happening. For a moment or two I hesitated; then I slipped on a dressing-gown and looked out. Across the passage the door of a room was open, and through it the light was streaming out. And then I heard Joe Maitland speak, and his words literally rooted me to the ground with amazement.
“ ‘So, Mr. Digby, you’re just a common damned thief. The gentleman crook—what? The amateur cracksman. That’s what they call them on the stage, I believe. Sounds better. But I prefer the more homely name of thief.’
“It was then that I appeared in the door, and Maitland swung round.
“ ‘Oh, it’s you, is it, Tranton?’ He had a revolver in his hand, and he lowered it when he saw who it was. ‘A pretty tableau, isn’t it? It appears that a second edition of—what was the gentleman’s name—Raffles, wasn’t it?—has been honouring me with his presence. Unfortunately, Tom and I both happened to hear him.’
“But I was paying no attention to what he was saying; my eyes were fixed on Digby and—Tom. Digby, with a quiet smile on his face and his hands in his pockets, was standing beside an open safe. He was still in evening clothes, and once he glanced my way. Then he looked back again at his host, and I looked at Tom. He was in his dressing-gown, and he was shivering as if he had the ague. He was standing close to his father, and a little behind him—and Joe Maitland was too engrossed with Digby to notice the condition he was in.
“ ‘Can you advance any reason, Mr. Digby,’ he demanded, ‘why I shouldn’t call up the local police?’
“ ‘None whatever, Mr. Maitland,’ he answered gravely. ‘Your son caught me fair and square.’
“And it seemed to me that Tom made an effort to speak, though no words came from his lips.
“ ‘You damned scoundrel!’ cried Maitland. ‘You come to my house—you make love to my daughter—and then you abuse my hospitality by trying to steal my wife’s jewellery!’
“It was at that moment that the girl came in. I saw Digby catch his breath and lean against the wall for support; then he straightened up and faced his host again. Just once had he glanced at her, with her glorious hair falling over her shoulders and a startled look of wonder in her great eyes. Then resolutely he looked away.
“ ‘What’s happened, Daddy?’ she whispered. ‘I heard your voice and——’
“ ‘This has happened, my dear,’ said Maitland grimly. ‘We have been privileged to discover Mr. Digby’s method of earning a livelihood.’ He pointed to the open safe. ‘He apparently ingratiates himself with people for the express purpose of stealing their valuables. In other words, a common thief.’
“ ‘I don’t believe it!’ she flashed out, imperiously. ‘Jack—a thief! How can you say such a thing?’
“ ‘Then may I ask what he was doing when your brother discovered him by the open safe? Besides, he admits it himself.’
“ ‘Jack!’ The cry seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. ‘Say it’s a lie!’
“For one second he hesitated; then he spoke quite steadily, though he didn’t look at her.
“ ‘I am afraid, Miss Maitland—that I can’t say it’s untrue.’
“And then there fell one of those silences that can be felt. She was staring at Jack Digby, was the girl—staring at him with a great amazement dawning on her face.
“ ‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘look at me!’
“He raised his eyes and looked at her, and a little pulse was beating just above his jaw. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, she gave a little laugh that was half a sob and turned away.
“ ‘I see,’ she said below her breath. ‘I see.’
“But what it was she saw, I didn’t at the moment realise. It was to be made clear a little later.”
The Doctor paused and threw a log on the fire.
“Yes, I found out later what she thought,” he went on after a while, “and for the first and probably the last time in my life I was guilty of a breach of professional confidence. It was about half an hour later that I went round to Jack Digby’s room. Maitland, after thinking it over—and it is possible that I had something to do with his decision—had dismissed the idea of sending for the police. Digby was to clear out by the first train next morning, and was never to make an attempt to communicate with the girl again. And Jack Digby had bowed in silence and gone to his own room. He wouldn’t look at me as he passed; I think he knew that he hadn’t deceived me.
“He was sitting by the open window when I went in, still in his evening clothes, and he looked round with a start as I entered. His face was drawn and grey.
“ ‘My dear chap,’ I said, before he could speak, ‘is it worth while?’
“ ‘I don’t understand what you mean, Doctor,’ he said slowly.
“ ‘Oh, yes, you do!’ I answered. ‘You deceived Mr. Maitland all right—you didn’t deceive me. It was Tom who opened the safe—not you.’
“For a moment I thought he was going to deny it; then he gave a little mirthless laugh.
“ ‘Perfectly correct,’ he said. ‘As you say, it was Tom who opened the safe. I caught him absolutely in the act. And then Mr. Maitland came.’
“ ‘But—good God!’ I cried, ‘what an unutterable young waster he must be to let you shoulder the blame!’
“Digby faced me steadily. ‘I made him. You see, I saw it was the chance I had been looking for.’
“ ‘You mean you told him about your heart?’
“ ‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘But I told him I was entangled with another woman, and that the best way of saving his sister’s feelings was to let her think——’
“And then the boy broke down utterly. With his hands on my shoulders he stood there facing me, and he made me swear I wouldn’t tell the girl.
“ ‘She must never know, Doctor. I’ve done it for her. She must never know.’
“And even as he spoke, the words died away on his lips, and he stood motionless, staring past me at the door. Without looking round I knew what had happened—I could smell the faint scent she used.
“ ‘What have you done for me, Jack, and why must I never know?’
“She came steadily up to him, and his hands fell to his side.
“ ‘Why, you’ve been crying, dear,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
“True to his purpose, he started some fantastic story about sorrow at having been found out, but she cut him short.
“ ‘Don’t lie, Jack—not now,’ she whispered. ‘I know it wasn’t you who opened the safe. I know it was Tom. But what I want to know is why you said you did it.’
“It was then I made up my mind.
“ ‘I’m going to tell her, Digby, whether you like it or not,’ and she looked at me quickly. He didn’t say anything; things had got beyond him. And very briefly I told her the truth about his heart.
“She listened to me in absolute silence, and when I’d finished she just turned round to him and held out both her arms.
“ ‘Thank God! I know, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was because you’d got fond of another woman. I thought—oh! Heaven knows what I thought! But now—oh! you stupid, wonderful boy!’
“I went to the window and looked out! It must have been five minutes later that I found the girl at my side.
“ ‘Is it absolutely hopeless?’ she asked.
“ ‘Humanly speaking,’ I answered, ‘yes.’
“ ‘How long?’ and she put her hand on my arm.
“ ‘Two days; two months; at the utmost, two years,’ I said gravely.
“ ‘And why shouldn’t I look after him for those two years?’ she demanded fiercely.
“ ‘I’m thinking of a possible child,’ I said quietly, and she began to tremble a little.
“ ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she cried—‘quite ridiculous.’ ”
The Doctor was carefully cleaning out the bowl of his pipe. “In the morning Jack Digby had gone, leaving behind him a note for her. She showed it to me later.
“ ‘The Doctor is right, my darling,’ it ran. ‘It’s just Fate, and there’s not much use kicking. I’m glad though that you know the truth—it helps. Good-bye, dear heart. God bless you.’ ”
The Doctor paused.
“Is that all?” said the Ordinary Man.
“Very nearly,” answered the Doctor. “I had been right when I said two months, only the cause of death was not what I expected. How he got across the water so soon I don’t know. But he did—in a cavalry regiment. And he stopped one—somewhere up Ypres way.”
“And the girl?” asked the Soldier.
“Has not got over it yet,” said the Doctor.
“And did she ever hear from him again?” demanded the Barrister.
“Once, from France. Written just before—the end. She didn’t show me that one. Pass the whisky, Actor-man. Talking makes one’s throat infernally dry.”
| IV | The Ordinary Man’s Story, being The Pipes of Death |
“Any of you know Burma?” asked the Ordinary Man, putting out his hand for the tobacco-jar.
“I’ve been there,” grunted the Soldier. “Shooting. Years ago. West of the Irawadi from Rangoon.”
“It’s years since I was there, too,” said the Ordinary Man. “More than a score. And if I wasn’t so beastly fat and lazy I’d like to go back for a visit. Only a visit, mind you. I’ve got to the time of life when I find that London is quite good enough for my needs. But the story which I propose to inflict on you fellows to-night concerns Burma, and delving into the past to get the details right has brought the fascination of the place back to me.
“I was about thirty-five at the time—and my benevolent Aunt Jane had not then expired and endowed me with all her worldly goods. I was working for a City firm who had considerable interests out there—chiefly teak, with a strong side-line in rubies.
“At that time, as you may know, the ruby mines in the Mandalay area were second to none, and it was principally to give my employers a report on the many clashing interests in those mines that I went back to England after a few months in the country. And it was in their office that I met a youngster, who had just joined the firm, and who, it turned out, was going out to Burma on the same boat as myself. Jack Manderby was his name, and I suppose he must have been ten or eleven years younger than I. He was coming to my district, and somewhat naturally I was a bit curious to see what sort of a fellow he was.
“I took to him from the very first moment, and after we’d lunched together a couple of times my first impression was strengthened. He was a real good fellow—extraordinarily good-looking and straight as a die, without being in the least degree a prig.
“We ran into a good south-westerly gale the instant we were clear of the Isle of Wight, which necessitated a period of seclusion on my part. In fact, my next appearance in public was at Gibraltar.
“And the first person I saw as I came on deck was Jack Manderby. He was leaning over the side bargaining with some infernal robber below, and at his side was a girl. In the intervals of haggling he turned to her, and they both laughed; and as I stood for a few minutes watching them, it struck me that Master Jack had made good use of the four days since we left England. Then I strolled over and joined them.
“ ‘Hullo, old man!’ he cried, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Is the rumour correct that you’ve been engaged in research work below, and had given orders not to be disturbed?’
“ ‘Your vulgar jests leave me unmoved,’ I answered with dignity. ‘At any rate, I appear to have arrived in time to save you being robbed. That man is a thief and the son of a thief, and all his children are thieves.’
“Jack laughed; then he swung round to the girl.
“ ‘By the way, you haven’t met Mr. Walton, have you? This is Miss Felsted, old boy, who is going out to Rangoon.’
“We shook hands, and no more was said at the time. But one thing was definitely certain. Whatever the girl was going to Rangoon for, the gain was Rangoon’s. She was an absolute fizzer—looked you straight in the face with the bluest of eyes that seemed to have a permanent smile lurking in them. And then, suddenly, I noticed her left hand. On the third finger was a diamond ring. It couldn’t be Jack she was engaged to, and I wondered idly who the lucky man was. Because he was lucky—infernally lucky.
“I think,” continued the Ordinary Man, pulling thoughtfully at his pipe, “that I first began to scent complications at Malta. We landed there for a few hours, and the idea was that Miss Felsted, Jack, and I should explore Valetta. Now, I don’t quite know how, but we got separated. I spent a pleasant two hours with a naval pal in the Union Club, while Jack and the girl apparently went up by the narrow-gauge railway to Citta Vecchia, in the centre of the island. And since no one in the full possession of their senses would go on that line for fun, I wondered. I wondered still more when they came back to the ship. Jack was far too open and above-board to be very skilful at hiding his feelings. And something had happened that day.
“Of course, it was no concern of mine. Jack’s affairs were entirely his own; so were the girl’s. But a ship is a dangerous place sometimes—it affords unequalled and unending opportunities for what in those days were known as flirtations, and to-day, I believe, are known as ‘pashes.’ And to get monkeying round with another fellow’s fiancée—well, it leads to complications generally. However, as I said, it was no concern of mine, until it suddenly became so the evening before we reached Port Said.
“I was talking to Jack on deck just before turning in. We were strolling up and down—the sea like a mill-pond, and almost dazzling with its phosphorescence.
“ ‘Is Miss Felsted going out to get married?’ I asked him casually.
“ ‘Yes,’ he answered abruptly. ‘She’s engaged to a man called Morrison.’
“ ‘Morrison,’ I repeated, stopping and staring at him. ‘Not Rupert Morrison, by any chance?’
“ ‘Yes. Rupert is his name. Do you know him?’
“I’d pulled myself together by this time, and we resumed our stroll.
“ ‘I know Rupert Morrison quite well,’ I answered. ‘As distance goes in that country, Jack, he’s a near neighbour of ours’; and I heard him catch his breath a little quickly.
“ ‘What sort of a fellow is he?’ asked Jack quietly, and then he went on, which saved me the trouble of a reply: ‘She hasn’t seen him for four years. They got engaged before he left England, and now she’s going out to marry him.’
“ ‘I see,’ I murmured non-committally, and shortly afterwards I made my excuse and left him.
“I didn’t turn in at once when I got to my cabin, I wanted to try and get things sorted out in my mind. The first point, which was as obvious as the electric light over the bunk, was that if Jack Manderby was not in love with Molly Felsted he was as near to it as made no odds. The second and far more important point was one on which I was in the dark—was the girl in love with him? If so, it simplified matters considerably; but if not, if she was only playing the fool, there was going to be trouble when we got to Burma. And the trouble would take the form of Rupert Morrison. For the more I thought of it the more amazed did I become that such a girl could ever have become engaged to such a man.
“Of course, four years is a long time, especially when they are passed in comparative solitude. I had no idea what sort of fellow Morrison had been when first he arrived in the country, but I had a very shrewd idea what manner of man he was now. Perhaps it had been the loneliness—loneliness takes some men worse than others—but, whatever the cause, Morrison, after four years in Burma, was no fit mate for such a girl as Molly Felsted. A brooding, sullen man, given to fierce fits of almost animal rage, a heavy drinker of the type who is never drunk, and——”
The Ordinary Man paused and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, it’s unfair to mention the last point. After all, most of us did that without thinking; but the actual arrival of an English girl—a wife—who was to step, blindly ignorant, into her predecessor’s shoes, so to speak, made one pause to think. Anyway, that was neither here nor there. What frightened me was the prospect of the girl marrying the Morrison of her imagination and discovering, too late, the Morrison of reality. When that happened, with Jack Manderby not five miles away, the fat was going to be in the fire with a vengeance.
“It was after Colombo that matters came to a head. We left the P. & O. there, and got into another boat going direct to Rangoon. The weather was glorious—hot as blazes by day, and just right at night. And it was after dinner one evening a couple of days before we were due in, that quite inadvertently I butted into the pair of them in a secluded spot on deck. His arms were round her, and they both sounded a bit incoherent. Of course, there was no use pretending I hadn’t seen—they both looked up at me. I could only mutter my apology and withdraw. But I determined, even at the risk of being told to go to hell, to have a word with young Jack that night.
“ ‘Look here, old man,’ I said to him a bit later, ‘you’ve got a perfect right to request me to mind my own business, but I’m going to risk that. I saw you two to-night, kissing to beat the band—confound it all, there wasn’t a dog’s earthly of not seeing you—and what I want to know is where Morrison comes in, or if he’s gone out?’
“He looked at me a bit shamefacedly, then he lit a cigarette.
“ ‘Hugh,’ he said, with a twisted sort of smile, ‘I just worship the ground that girl walks on.’
“ ‘Maybe you do, Jack,’ I answered. ‘But the point is, what are her feelings on the matter?’
“He didn’t answer, and after a while I went on.
“ ‘This show is not my palaver,’ I said ordering two whisky pegs from the bartender. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, except that you and I are going to share the same bungalow, which is within easy calling distance of Morrison’s. Now, Morrison is a funny-tempered fellow, but, apart from that altogether, the situation seems strained to me. If she breaks off her engagement with him and marries you, well and good. But if she isn’t going to do that, if she still intends to marry Morrison—well, then, old man, although I hold no brief for him, you’re not playing the game. I’m no sky pilot, but do one thing or the other. Things are apt to happen, you know, Jack, when one’s at the back of beyond and a fellow gets playing around with another fellow’s wife—things which might make an English court of justice sit up and scratch its head.’
“He heard me out in silence, then he nodded his head.
“ ‘I know it must seem to you that I wasn’t playing the game,’ he said quietly. ‘But, believe me, it’s not for want of asking on my part that Molly won’t marry me. And I believe that she’s as fond of me—almost—as I am of her.’
“ ‘Then why the——?’ I began, but he stopped me with a weary little gesture of his hand.
“ ‘She feels that she’s bound to him in honour,’ he went on. ‘I’ve told her that there can’t be much question of honour if she doesn’t love him any more, but she seems to think that, as he has waited four years for her, she can’t break her bargain. And she’s very fond of him; if it hadn’t been for fate chucking us together she would never have thought of not marrying him. To-night we both forgot ourselves, I suppose; it won’t occur again.’
“He sat back staring out of the port-hole. The smoke-room was empty, and I fairly let myself go.
“ ‘You very silly idiot,’ I exploded, ‘do you imagine I’ve been delivering a homily on the sins of kissing another man’s fiancée. What I want to get into your fat head is this. You’re going to a place where the only white woman you’ll see from year’s end to year’s end is that girl, if she marries Morrison. You can prattle about honour, and forgetting yourselves, and not letting it occur again, and it’s worth the value of that used match. Sooner or later it will occur again, and it won’t stop at kissing next time. And then Morrison will probably kill you, or you’ll kill him, and there’ll be the devil to pay. For Heaven’s sake, man, look the thing square in the face. Either marry the girl, or cut her right out of your life. And you can only do that by cabling the firm—or I’ll cable them for you from Rangoon—asking to be posted to another district. I shall be sorry, but I’d far rather lose you than sit on the edge of a young volcano.’
“I left him to chew over what I’d said and went to bed, feeling infernally sorry for both of them. But the one fact over which there was no doubt whatever in my mind was that if Morrison married Molly Felsted, then Jack Manderby would have to be removed as far as geographically possible from temptation.
“My remarks apparently had some effect, because the next day Jack buttonholed me on deck.
“ ‘I’ve told Molly what you said last night, old man, and we’ve been talking it over. Morrison is meeting her apparently at Rangoon, and she has agreed to tell him what has happened. And when he knows how the land lies it’s bound to be all right. Of course, I’m sorry for him, poor devil, but——’ and he went babbling on in a way common to those in love.
“I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention; I was thinking of Morrison and wondering whether Jack’s optimism was justified. Apart from his moroseness and drinking, there were other stories about the man—stories which are not good to hear about a white man. I’d never paid any heed to them before, but now they came back to me—those rumours of strange things, which only the ignorant sceptic pretends to scorn; strange things done in secret with native priests and holy men; strange things it is not well for the white man to dabble in. And someone had it that Rupert Morrison did more than dabble.”
The Ordinary Man paused and sipped his whisky.
“He met the boat at Rangoon,” he continued after a while, “and came on board. Evidently the girl wasted no time in telling him what had occurred, because it was barely ten minutes before I saw him coming towards Jack and myself. There was a smouldering look in his eyes, but outwardly he seemed quite calm. He gave me a curt nod, then he addressed himself exclusively to Jack.
“ ‘Miss Felsted has just made a somewhat unexpected announcement to me,’ he remarked.
“Jack bowed gravely. ‘I am more than sorry, Mr. Morrison,’ he said, ‘if it should appear to you that I have acted in any way caddishly.’ He paused a little constrainedly and I moved away. The presence of a third person at such an interview helps nobody. But once or twice I glanced at them during the next quarter of an hour, and it seemed to me that, though he was trying to mask it, the look of smouldering fury in Morrison’s eyes was growing more pronounced. From their attitude it struck me that Jack was protesting against some course of action on which the other was insisting, and I turned out to be right.
“ ‘Morrison has made the following proposal,’ he said irritably to me when their conversation had finished. ‘That Molly should be left here in Rangoon with the English chaplain and his wife—apparently he’d fixed that already—and that we—he and I—should both go up country for a month or six weeks. Neither of us to see her during that time, and at the end of it she to be free to choose. As he pointed out, I suppose quite rightly, he had been engaged to her for more than four years, and it was rather rough on him to upset everything for what might prove only a passing fancy, induced by being thrown together on board ship. Of course, I pointed out to him that this was no question of a passing fancy—but he insisted.’
“ ‘And you agreed?’ I asked.
“ ‘What else could I do?’ he cried. ‘Heaven knows I didn’t want to—it’s such awful rot and waste of time. But I suppose it is rather rough luck on the poor devil, and if it makes it any easier for him to have the agony prolonged a few weeks, it’s up to me to give him that satisfaction.’
“He went off to talk to the girl, leaving me smoking a cigarette thoughtfully; for, try as I would, I could not rid my mind of the suspicion that there was something behind this suggestion of Morrison’s—something sinister. Fortunately, Jack would be under my eye—in my bungalow; but even so, I felt uneasy. Morrison had been too quiet for safety, bearing in mind what manner of man he was.
“We landed shortly after and I went round to the club. I didn’t see Morrison—he seemed to have disappeared shortly after his interview with Jack; but he had given the girl full directions as to how to get to the chaplain’s house. Jack took her there, and I’d arranged with him that he should come round after and join me.
“The first man I ran into was McAndrew—a leather-faced Scotsman from up my part of the country—who was down in Rangoon on business.
“ ‘Seen the bridegroom?’ he grunted as soon as he saw me.
“ ‘Travelled out with the bride,’ I said briefly, not over-anxious to discuss the matter.
“ ‘And what sort of a lassie is she?’ he asked curiously.
“ ‘Perfectly charming,’ I answered, ringing the bell for a waiter.
“ ‘Is that so?’ he said slowly, and our eyes met. ‘Man,’ he added still more slowly, ‘it should not be, it should not be. Poor lassie! Poor lassie!’
“And then Jack Manderby came in, and I introduced him to two or three other fellows. I’d arranged to go up country that evening—train to Mandalay, and ride from there the following morning—and Jack, of course, was coming with me. He had said good-bye to the girl; he wasn’t going to see her again before he went up country, and we spent the latter part of the afternoon pottering round Rangoon. And it was as we were strolling down one of the native bazaars that he suddenly caught my arm.
“ ‘Look—there’s Morrison!’ he muttered. ‘I distinctly saw his face peering out of that shop.’
“I looked in the direction he was pointing. It was an ordinary native shop where one could buy ornaments and musical instruments and trash like that—but of Morrison I could see no sign.
“ ‘I don’t see him,’ I said; ‘and anyway there is no reason why he shouldn’t be in the shop if he wants to.’
“ ‘But he suddenly vanished,’ persisted Jack, ‘as if he didn’t want to be seen.’ He walked on with me slowly. ‘I don’t like that man, Hugh; I hate the swine. And it’s not because of Molly, either.’
“He shut up at that, and I did not pursue the topic. It struck me that we should have quite enough of Morrison in the next few weeks.”
The Ordinary Man paused and lit a cigarette; then he smiled a little grimly.
“I don’t know what I expected,” he continued thoughtfully: “I certainly never said a word to Jack as to my vague suspicions. But all the time during the first fortnight, while he was settling down into the job, I had the feeling that there was danger in the air. And then, when nothing happened, my misgivings began to go.
“After all, I said to myself, what could happen, anyway? And perhaps I had misjudged Rupert Morrison. On the two or three occasions that we met him he seemed perfectly normal; and though, somewhat naturally, he was not over effusive to Jack, that was hardly to be wondered at.
“And then one morning Jack came to breakfast looking as if he hadn’t slept very well. I glanced at him curiously, but made no allusion to his appearance.
“ ‘Did you hear that music all through the night?’ he said irritably, half-way through the meal. ‘Some infernal native playing a pipe or something just outside my window.’
“ ‘Why didn’t you shout at him to stop?’ I asked.
“ ‘I did. And I got up and looked.’ He took a gulp of tea; then he looked at me as if he were puzzled.
“ ‘There was no one there that I could see. Only something black that moved over the compound, about the size of a kitten.’
“ ‘He was probably just inside the jungle beyond the clearing,’ I said. ‘Heave half a brick at him if you hear it again.’
“We said no more, and I dismissed the matter from my mind. I was on the opposite side of the bungalow, and it would take more than a native playing on a pipe to keep me awake. But the following night the same thing happened—and the next, and the next.
“ ‘What sort of a noise is it?’ I asked him. ‘Surely to Heaven you’re sufficiently young and healthy not to be awakened by a bally fellow whistling?’
“ ‘It isn’t that that wakes me, Hugh,’ he answered slowly. ‘I wake before it starts. Each night about the same time I suddenly find myself wide awake—listening. Sometimes it’s ten minutes before it starts—sometimes almost at once; but it always comes. A faint, sweet whistle—three or four notes, going on and on—until I think I’ll go mad. It seems to be calling me.’
“ ‘But why the devil don’t you go and see what it is?’ I cried peevishly.
“ ‘Because’—and he stared at me with a shamefaced expression in his eyes—‘because I daren’t.’
“ ‘Rot!’ I said angrily. ‘Look here, young fellow, nerves are bad things anywhere—here they’re especially bad. You pull yourself together.’
“He flushed all over his face, and shut up like an oyster, which made me rather sorry I’d spoke so sharply. But one does hear funny noises in the jungle, and it doesn’t do to become fanciful.
“And then one evening McAndrew came over to dinner. It was during the meal that I mentioned Jack’s nocturnal serenader, expecting that Mac would treat it as lightly as I did.
“ ‘Seven times you’ve heard him, Jack, haven’t you,’ I said, ‘and always the same tune?’
“ ‘Always the same tune,’ he answered quietly.
“ ‘Can you whistle it now?’ asked McAndrew, laying down his knife and fork and staring at Jack.
“ ‘Easily,’ said Jack. ‘It goes like this’—and he whistled about six notes. ‘On and on it goes—never varying——Why, McAndrew, what the devil is the matter?’
“I glanced at McAndrew in amazement; then out of the corner of my eye I saw the native servant, who was shivering like a jelly.
“ ‘Man—are you sure?’ said Mac, and his face was white.
“ ‘Of course I’m sure,’ answered Jack quietly. ‘Why?’
“ ‘That tune you whistled—is not good for a white man to hear.’ The Scotsman seemed strangely uneasy. ‘And ye’ve heard it seven nights? Do you know it, Walton?’
“ ‘I do not,’ I said grimly. ‘What’s the mystery?’
“But McAndrew was shaking his head dourly, and for a while he did not answer.
“ ‘Mind ye,’ he said at length, ‘I’m not saying there’s anything in it at all, but I would not care to hear that whistled outside my window. I heard it once—years ago—when I was ’way up in the Arakan Mountains. Soft and sweet it was—rising and falling in the night air, and going on ceaselessly. ’Way up above me was a monastery, one into which no white man has ever been. And the noise was coming from there. I had to go; my servants wouldn’t stop. And when I asked them why, they told me that the priests were calling for a sacrifice. If they stopped, they told me, it might be one of us. That no one could tell how Death would come, or to whom, but come it must—when the Pipes of Death were heard. And the tune you whistled, Manderby, was the tune the Pipes of Death were playing.’
“ ‘But that’s all bunkum, Mac,’ I said angrily. ‘We’re not in the Arakans here.’
“ ‘Maybe,’ he answered doggedly. ‘But I’m a Highlander, and—I would not care to hear that tune.’
“I could see Jack was impressed; as a matter of fact I was myself—more than I cared to admit. Sounds rot here, I know, but out there, with the dim-lit forest around one, it was different.
“McAndrew was stopping with us that night. Jack, with the stubbornness of the young, had flatly refused to change his room, and turned in early, while Mac and I sat up talking. And it was not till we went to bed ourselves that I again alluded to the whistle.
“ ‘You don’t really think it meant anything, Mac, do you?’ I asked him, and he shrugged his shoulders.
“ ‘Maybe it is just a native who has heard it,’ he said guardedly, and further than that he refused to commit himself.
“I suppose it was about two o’clock when I was awakened by a hand being thrust through my mosquito curtains.
“ ‘Walton, come at once!’ It was McAndrew’s voice, and it was shaking. ‘There’s devil’s work going on, I tell you—devil’s work.’
“I was up in a flash, and together we crept along the passage towards Jack’s room. Almost instinctively I’d picked up a gun, and I held it ready as we paused by the door.
“ ‘Do you hear it?’ whispered Mac a little fearfully, and I nodded. Sweet and clear the notes rose and fell, on and on and on in the same cadence. Sometimes the whistler seemed to be far away, at others almost in the room.
“ ‘It’s the tune,’ muttered McAndrew, as we tiptoed towards the bed. ‘The Pipes of Death. Are ye awake, boy?’
“And then he gave a little cry and gripped my arm.
“ ‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘what’s that on the pillow beside his head?’
“For a while in the dim light I couldn’t make out. There was something big and black and motionless on the white pillow, and I crept nearer to see what it was. And then suddenly seemed to stand still. I saw two beady, unwinking eyes staring at Jack’s face close by; I saw Jack’s eyes wide open and sick with terror, staring at the thing which shared his bed. And still the music went on outside.
“ ‘What is it?’ I muttered through dry lips.
“ ‘Give me your gun, man,’ whispered McAndrew hoarsely. ‘If the pipes stop, the boy’s doomed.’
“Slowly he raised the gun an inch at a time, pushing the muzzle forward with infinite care towards the malignant, glowing eyes, until at last the gun was almost touching its head. And at that moment the music died away and stopped altogether. I had the momentary glimpse of two black feelers shooting out towards Jack’s face—then came the crack of the gun. And with a little sob Jack rolled out of bed and lay on the floor half-fainting, while the black mass on the pillow writhed and writhed and then grew still.
“We struck a light, and stared at what was left of the thing in silence. And it was Jack who spoke first.
“ ‘I woke,’ he said unsteadily, ‘to feel something crawling over me on the bed. Outside that infernal whistling was going on, and at last I made out what was—what was——My God!’ he cried thickly, ‘what was it, Mac—what was it?’
“ ‘Steady, boy!’ said McAndrew. ‘It’s dead now, anyway. But it was touch and go. I’ve seen ’em bigger than that up in the Arakans. It’s a bloodsucking, poisonous spider. They’re sacred to some of the sects.’
“Suddenly out of the jungle came one dreadful, piercing cry.
“ ‘What was that?’ Jack muttered, and McAndrew shook his head.
“ ‘Well find out to-morrow,’ he said. ‘There are strange things abroad to-night.’
“We saw the darkness out—the three of us—round a bottle of whisky.
“ ‘They’ve been trying to get you for a week, Manderby,’ said the Scotsman. ‘To-night they very near succeeded.’
“ ‘But why?’ cried Jack. ‘I’ve never done ’em any harm.’
“McAndrew shrugged his shoulders.
“ ‘Don’t ask me that,’ he answered. ‘Their ways are not our ways.’
“ ‘Has that brute been in my room every night?’ the boy asked.
“ ‘Every night,’ answered McAndrew gravely. ‘Probably two of them. They hunt them in pairs. They starve ’em, and then, when the music stops, they feed.’ He thoughtfully poured out some more whisky.
“And then at last came the dawn, and we went out to investigate. It was Jack who found him. The face was puffed and horrible, and as we approached, something black, about the size of a big kitten, moved away from the body and shambled sluggishly into the undergrowth.
“ ‘You’re safe, boy,’ said McAndrew slowly. ‘It was not the priests at all. Just murder—plain murder.’
“And with that he took his handkerchief and covered the dreadful, staring eyes of Rupert Morrison.”
| V | The Soldier’s Story, being A Bit of Orange Peel |
“You can set your minds at rest about one thing, you fellows,” began the Soldier, with a grin. “My yarn isn’t about the war. There have been quite enough lies told already about that performance without my adding to the number. No; my story concerns peace soldiering, and, strangely enough, I had an ocular demonstration when dining at the Ritz two nights ago that everything had finished up quite satisfactorily, in the approved story-book manner. At least, when I say quite satisfactorily—there was a price, and it was paid by one of the principal actors. But that is the unchangeable rule: one can but shrug one’s shoulders and pay accordingly.
“The regiment—I was a squadron-leader at the time—was quartered at Murchester. Not a bad station at all: good shooting, very fair hunting, especially if you didn’t scorn the carted stag, polo, and most excellent cricket. Also some delightful houses in the neighbourhood; and as we’d just come home from our foreign tour we found the place greatly to our liking. London was an hour and a bit by train; in fact, there are many worse stations in England than the spot I have labelled Murchester.
“The only fly in the ointment when we first arrived was a fairly natural one, and a thing which only time could cure. The men were a bit restive. We’d been abroad, don’t forget, for more than ten years—India, Egypt, South Africa—and the feel of the old country under their feet unsettled ’em temporarily. Nothing very bad, but an epidemic of absence without leave and desertion broke out, and the officers had to settle down to pull things together. Continual courts-martial for desertion don’t do a regiment any good with the powers that be, and we had to stop it.
“Of course, one of the first things to look to, when any trouble of that sort is occurring, is the general type and standard of your N.C.O.’s. In my squadron they were good, though just a little on the young side. I remember one day I discussed the matter pretty thoroughly with the squadron sergeant-major—an absolute top-notcher.
“ ‘They’re all right, sir,’ he said. ‘In another two or three years there will be none better in the British Army. Especially Trevor.’
“ ‘Ah! Sergeant-Major,’ I said, looking him straight in the face, ‘you think Trevor is a good man, do you?’
“ ‘The best we’ve got, sir,’ he answered quietly, and he stared straight back at me.
“ ‘You weren’t so sure when he first came,’ I reminded him.
“ ‘Well, I reckon there was a bit of jealousy, sir,’ he replied, ‘his coming in from the link regiment over a good many of the chaps’ heads. But he’s been with us now three months—and we know him better.’
“ ‘I wish I could say the same,’ I answered. ‘He defeats me, does Sergeant Trevor.’
“The Sergeant-Major smiled quietly. ‘Does he, sir? I shouldn’t have thought he would have. That there bloke Kipling has written about the likes of Trevor.’
“ ‘Kipling has written a good deal about the Army,’ I said, with an answering smile. ‘Mulvaney and Co. are classics.’
“ ‘It’s not Mulvaney I’m meaning, sir,’ he answered. ‘But didn’t he write a little bit of poetry about “Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree”?’
“ ‘Why, yes, he did.’ I lit a cigarette thoughtfully. ‘I’d guessed that much, Manfield. Is Trevor his real name?’
“ ‘I don’t know, sir,’ and at that moment the subject of our discussion walked past and saluted.
“ ‘Sergeant Trevor,’ I called after him, on the spur of the moment, and he came up at the double. I hadn’t anything really to say to him, but ever since he’d joined us he’d puzzled me, and though, as the sergeant-major said, the other non-commissioned officers might know him better, I certainly didn’t.
“ ‘You’re a bit of a cricketer, aren’t you?’ I said, as he came up.
“A faint smile flickered across his face at my question. ‘I used to play quite a lot, sir,’ he answered.
“ ‘Good; we want to get games going really strong.’ I talked with them both—squadron ‘shop’—a bit longer, and all the time I was trying to probe behind the impassive mask of Trevor’s face. Incidentally, I think he knew it; once or twice I caught a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes—a gleam that seemed to me a little weary. And when I left them and went across the parade ground towards the mess, his face haunted me. I hadn’t probed—not the eighth of an inch; he was still as much a mystery as ever. But he’d got a pair of deep blue eyes, and though I wasn’t a girl to be attracted by a man’s eyes, I couldn’t get his out of my mind. They baffled me; the man himself baffled me—and I’ve always disliked being baffled.
“It was a few nights after, in mess, that the next piece in the puzzle came along. We had in the regiment—he was killed in the war, poor devil!—a fellow of the name of Blenton, a fairly senior captain. He wasn’t in my squadron, and his chief claim to notoriety was as a cricketer. Had he been able to play regularly he would have been easily up to first-class form—as it was he periodically turned out for the county; but he used to go in first wicket down for the Army. So you can gather his sort of form.
“It was over the port that the conversation cropped up, and it interested me because it was about Trevor. As far as cricket was concerned I hardly knew which end of a bat one held.
“ ‘Dog-face has got a winner,’ I heard Blenton say across the table. I may say that I answered to that tactful sobriquet, for reasons into which we need not enter. ‘One Sergeant Trevor in your squadron, old boy,’ he turned to me. ‘I was watching him at the nets to-night.’
“ ‘Is he any good?’ I said.
“ ‘My dear fellow,’ answered Blenton, deliberately, ‘he is out and away the best bat we’ve had in the regiment for years. He’s up to Army form!’
“ ‘Who’s that?’ demanded the commanding officer, sitting up and taking notice at once.
“ ‘Sergeant Trevor in B squadron, Colonel,’ said Blenton. ‘I was watching him this evening at nets. Of course, the bowling was tripe, but he’s in a completely different class to the average soldier cricketer.’
“ ‘Did you talk to him?’ I asked, curiously.
“ ‘I did. And he struck me as being singularly uncommunicative. Asked him where he learnt his cricket, and he hummed and hawed, and finally said he’d played a lot in his village before joining the Army. I couldn’t quite make him out, Dog-face. And why the devil didn’t he play for us out in Jo’burg?’
“ ‘Because he only joined a couple of months before we sailed,’ I answered. ‘Came with that last draft we got.’
“ ‘Well, I wish we had a few more trained in his village,’ said Blenton. ‘We could do with them.’
“After mess, I tackled Philip Blenton in the ante-room.
“ ‘What’s your candid opinion of Trevor, Philip?’ I demanded.
“He stopped on his way to play bridge, and bit the end off his cigar.
“ ‘As a cricketer,’ he said, ‘or as a man?’
“ ‘Both,’ I answered.
“ ‘Well, my candid opinion is that he learned his game at a first-class public school,’ he replied. ‘And I am further of the opinion, from the few words I spoke to him, that one would have expected to find him here and not in the Sergeants’ Mess. What’s his story? Do you know?’
“ ‘I don’t,’ I shook my head. ‘Haven’t an idea. But you’ve confirmed my own impressions.’
“And there I had to leave it for some months. Periodically I talked to Trevor, deliberately tried to trap him into some admission which would give me a clue to his past, but he was as wary as a fox and as close as an oyster. I don’t know why I took the trouble—after all, it was his business entirely, but the fellow intrigued me. He was such an extraordinarily fine N.C.O., and there was never a sign of his hitting the bottle, which is the end of a good many gentlemen-rankers. Moreover, he didn’t strike me as a fellow who had come a cropper, which is the usual cause of his kind.
“And then one day, when I least expected it, the problem began to solve itself. Philip Blenton rang me up in the morning after breakfast, from a house in the neighbourhood, where he was staying for a couple of two-day matches. Could I possibly spare Sergeant Trevor for the first of them? Against the I Z., who had brought down a snorting team, and Carter—the Oxford blue—had failed the local eleven at the last moment. If I couldn’t they’d have to rake in one of the gardeners, but they weren’t too strong as it was.
“So I sent for Trevor, and asked him if he’d care to play. I saw his eyes gleam for a moment; then he shook his head.
“ ‘I think not, thank you, sir,’ he said, quietly.
“ ‘It’s not quite like you to let Captain Blenton down, Trevor,’ I remarked. ‘He’s relying on you.’
“I knew it was the right note to take with him, and I was very keen on his playing. I was going out myself that afternoon to watch, and I wanted to see him in different surroundings. We argued for a bit—I knew he was as keen as mustard in one way to play—and after a while he said he would. Then he went out of the office, and as it happened I followed him. There was an old cracked mirror in the passage outside, and as I opened the door he had just shut behind him, I had a glimpse of Sergeant Trevor examining his face in the glass. He’d got his hand so placed that it blotted out his moustache, and he seemed very intent on his reflection. Then he saw me, and for a moment or two we stared at one another in silence. Squadron-leader and troop-sergeant had gone; we were just two men, and the passage was empty. And I acted on a sudden impulse, and clapped him on the back.
“ ‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ I cried. ‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t be recognised?’
“ ‘Nothing shady, Major,’ he answered, quietly. ‘But if one starts on a certain course, it’s best to go through with it!’
“At that moment the pay-sergeant appeared, and Trevor pulled himself together, saluted smartly, and was gone.
“I suppose these things are planned out beforehand,” went on the Soldier, thoughtfully. “To call it all blind chance seems a well-nigh impossible solution to me. And yet the cynic would assuredly laugh at connecting a child eating an orange in a back street in Oxford, and the death while fishing in Ireland of one of the greatest-hearted men that ever lived. But unless that child had eaten that orange, and left the peel on the pavement for Carter, the Oxford blue, to slip on and sprain his ankle, the events I am going to relate would, in all probability, never have taken place. However, since delving too deeply into cause and effect inevitably produces insanity, I’d better get on with it.
“I turned up about three o’clock at Crosby Hall, along with four or five other fellows from the regiment. Usual sort of stunt—marquee and lemonade, with whisky in the background for the hopeless cases. The I Z. merchants were in the field, and Trevor was batting. There was an Eton boy in with him, and the score was two hundred odd for five wickets. Philip Blenton lounged up as soon as he saw me, grinning all over his face.
“ ‘Thank Heaven you let him come, old man! He’s pulled eighty of the best out of his bag already, and doesn’t look like getting out.’
“ ‘He wouldn’t come at first, Philip,’ I said, and he stared at me in surprise. ‘I think he was afraid of being recognised.’
“A burst of applause greeted a magnificent drive past cover-point, and for a while we watched the game in silence, until another long round of cheering announced that Sergeant Trevor had got his century. As I’ve said before, I’m no cricketer, but there was no need to be an expert to realise that he was something out of the way. He was treating the by-no-means-indifferent I Z. bowling with the utmost contempt, and old Lord Apson, our host, was beside himself with joy. He was a cricket maniac; his week was an annual fixture; and for the first time for many years he saw his team really putting it across the I Z. And it was just as I was basking in a little reflected glory that I saw a very dear old friend of mine arrive in the enclosure, accompanied by a perfectly charming girl.
“ ‘Why, Yeverley, old man!’ I cried, ‘how are you?’
“ ‘Dog-face, as I live!’ he shouted, seizing me by both hands. ‘Man-alive, I’m glad to see you. Let me introduce you to my wife; Doris, this is Major Chilham—otherwise Dog-face.’
“I shook hands with the girl, who was standing smiling beside him, and for a while we stopped there talking. He was fifteen years or so older than I, and had left the service as a Captain, but we both came from the same part of the country, and in days gone by I’d known him very well indeed. His marriage had taken place four years previously while I was abroad, and now, meeting his wife for the first time, I recalled bit by bit the gossip I’d heard in letters I got from home. How to everyone’s amazement he’d married a girl young enough to be his daughter; how everybody had prophesied disaster, and affirmed that she was not half good enough for one of the elect like Giles Yeverley; how she’d been engaged to someone else and thrown him over. And yet as I looked at them both it struck me that the Jeremiahs had as usual been completely wrong: certainly nothing could exceed the dog-like devotion in Giles’s eyes whenever he looked at his wife.
“We strolled over to find some easy chairs, and he fussed round her as if she was an invalid. She took it quite naturally and calmly with a faint and charming smile, and when he finally bustled away to talk to Apson, leaving me alone with her, she was still smiling.
“ ‘You know Giles well?’ she said.
“ ‘Awfully well,’ I answered. ‘And having now returned from my sojourn in the wilds, I hope I shall get to know his wife equally well.’
“ ‘That’s very nice of you, Dog-face’—she turned and looked at me—and, by Jove, she was pretty. ‘If you’re anything like Giles—you must be a perfect dear.’
“Now I like that sort of a remark when it’s made in the right way. It establishes a very pleasant footing at once, with no danger of miconstruction—like getting on good terms with a new horse the moment you put your feet in the irons, instead of messing around for half the hunt. Anyway, for the next ten minutes or so I didn’t pay very much attention to the cricket. I gathered that there was one small son—Giles junior—who was the apple of his father’s eye; and that at the moment a heavy love affair was in progress between the young gentleman aged three and the General’s daughter, who was as much as four, and showed no shame over the matter whatever. Also that Giles and she were stopping with the General and his wife for a week or ten days.
“And it was at that stage of the proceedings that a prolonged burst of applause made us look at the cricket. Sergeant Trevor was apparently out—how I hadn’t an idea—and was half-way between the wickets and the tent next to the one in which we were sitting, and which Apson always had erected for the local villagers and their friends. I saw them put up one hundred and twenty-five on the board as Trevor’s score, and did my share in the clapping line.
“ ‘A fine player—that fellow,’ I said, following him with my eyes. ‘Don’t know much about the game myself, but the experts tell me——’ And at that moment I saw her face, and stopped abruptly. She had gone very white, and her knuckles were gleaming like the ivory on the handle of her parasol.
“ ‘Major Chilham,’ she said—and her voice was the tensest thing I’ve ever heard—‘who is that man who has just come out?’
“ ‘Trevor is his name,’ I answered, quietly. ‘He’s one of the troop-sergeants in my squadron.’ I was looking at her curiously, as the colour slowly came back to her face. ‘Why? Did you think you knew him?’
“ ‘He reminded me of someone I knew years ago,’ she said, sitting back in her chair. ‘But of course I must have been mistaken.’
“And then rather abruptly she changed the conversation, though every now and then she glanced towards the next tent, as if trying to see Trevor. And sitting beside her I realised that there was something pretty serious in the wind. She was on edge, though she was trying not to show it—and Trevor was the cause, or the man who called himself Trevor. All my curiosity came back, though I made no allusion to him; I was content to await further developments.
“They weren’t long in coming. The house team, with the respectable total of three hundred and fifty odd, were all out by tea-time, and both elevens forgathered in the tent behind. All, that is, except Trevor, who remained in the other until Apson himself went and pulled him out. I watched the old man, with his cheery smile, take Trevor by the elbow and literally drag him out of his chair; I watched Trevor in his blue undress jacket, smart as be damned, coming towards us with our host. And then very deliberately I looked at Giles Yeverley’s wife. She was staring over my head at the two men; then she lowered her parasol.
“ ‘So you weren’t mistaken after all, Mrs. Giles,’ I said, quietly.
“ ‘No, Dog-face, I wasn’t,’ she answered. ‘Would you get hold of Giles for me, and tell him I’d like to get back. Say I’m not feeling very well.’
“I got up at once and went in search of her husband. I found him talking to the Zingari captain and Sergeant Trevor. He seemed quite excited, appealing as he spoke to the I Z. skipper, while Trevor stood by listening with a faint smile.
“ ‘What he says is quite right, Sergeant Trevor,’ remarked the Zingari man as I came up. ‘If you cared to consider it—you are absolutely up to the best county form. Of course, I don’t know about your residential qualifications, but that can generally be fixed.’
“ ‘Dog-face,’ cried Yeverley, as soon as he saw me, ‘he’s in your squadron, isn’t he? Well, it’s so long since I left the Army that I’ve forgotten all about discipline—but I tell you here—right now in front of him—that Sergeant Trevor ought to chuck soldiering and take up professional cricket. Bimbo here agrees with me.’
“ ‘Giles, you’ll burst your waistcoat if you get so excited,’ I remarked, casually. ‘And, incidentally, Mrs. Yeverley wants to go home.’
“As I said the name I looked at Trevor, and my last doubt vanished. He gave a sudden start, which Giles, who had immediately torn off to his wife, didn’t see, and proceeded to back into the farthest corner of the tea-tent. But once again old Apson frustrated him. Not for him the endless pauses and waits of first-class cricket; five minutes to roll the pitch and he was leading his team into the field. Trevor had to go from his sanctuary, and there was only one exit from the enclosure in front of the tent.
“They met—Mrs. Giles and Trevor—actually at that exit. By the irony of things, I think it was Giles who caused the meeting. He hurried forward as he saw Trevor going out, and caught him by the arm; dear old chap!—he was cricket mad if ever a man was. And so blissfully unconscious of the other, bigger thing going on right under his nose.
“ ‘Don’t you forget what I said, Trevor,’ he said, earnestly. ‘Any county would be glad to have you. I’m going to talk to Major Chilham about it seriously.’
“And I doubt if Trevor heard a word. Over Giles’s shoulder he was staring at Giles’s wife—and she was staring back at him, while her breast rose and fell in little gasps, and it seemed to me that her lips were trembling. Then it was over; Trevor went out to field—Giles bustled back to his wife. And I, being a hopeless case, went in search of alcohol.”
The Soldier paused to light another cigar.
“He carried out his threat, did Giles with regard to me. Two or three days later I lunched with the General, and it seemed to me that we never got off the subject of Trevor. It wasn’t only his opinion; had not Bimbo Lawrence, the I Z. captain, and one of the shrewdest judges of cricket in England, agreed with him? And so on without cessation about Trevor, the cricketer, while on the opposite side of the table, next to me, sat his wife, who could not get beyond Trevor, the man. Once or twice she glanced at me appealingly, as if to say: ‘For God’s sake, stop him!’—but it was a task beyond my powers. I made one or two abortive attempts, and then I gave it up. The situation was beyond me; one could only let him ramble on and pray for the end of lunch.
“And then he left the cricket and came to personalities.
“ ‘Know anything about him, Dog-face?’ he asked. ‘Up at old Apson’s place he struck me as being a gentleman. Anyway, he’s a darned nice fellow. Wonder why he enlisted?’
“ ‘Oh, Giles, for goodness’ sake, let’s try another topic?’ said his wife, suddenly. ‘We’ve had Sergeant Trevor since lunch began.’
“Poor old Giles looked at her in startled surprise, and she gave him a quick smile which robbed her words of their irritability. But I could see she was on the rack, and though I didn’t know the real facts, it wasn’t hard to make a shrewd guess as to the cause.
“It was just before we rose from the table, I remember, that she said to me under the cover of the general conversation: ‘My God! Dog-face—it’s not fair.’
“ ‘Will you tell me?’ I answered. ‘I might help.’
“ ‘Perhaps I will some day,’ she said, quietly. ‘But you can’t help; no one can do that. It was my fault all through, and the only thing that matters now is that Giles should never know.’
“I don’t quite know why she suddenly confided in me, even to that extent. I suppose with her woman’s intuition she realised that I’d guessed something, and it helps to get a thing off one’s chest at times. Evidently it had been an unexpected meeting, and I cursed myself for having made him play. And yet how could one have foretold? It was just a continuation of the jig-saw started by that damned bit of orange peel. As she said, all that mattered was that Giles—dear old chap!—should never know.”
The Soldier smiled a little sadly. “So do the humans propose; but the God that moves the pieces frequently has different ideas. He did—that very afternoon. It was just as I was going that two white-faced nurses clutching two scared children appeared on the scene and babbled incoherently. And then the General’s groom hove in sight—badly cut across the face and shaky at the knees—and from him we got the story.
“They’d started off in the General’s dogcart to go to some children’s party, and something had frightened the horse, which had promptly bolted. I knew the brute—a great raking black, though the groom, who was a first-class whip, generally had no difficulty in managing him. But on this occasion apparently he’d got clean away along the road into the town. He might have got the horse under control after a time, when, to his horror, he saw that the gates were closed at the railway crossing in front. And it was at that moment that a man—one of the sergeants from the barracks—had dashed out suddenly from the pavement and got to the horse’s head. He was trampled on badly, but he hung on—and the horse had ceased to bolt when they crashed into the gates. The shafts were smashed, but nothing more. And the horse wasn’t hurt. And they’d carried away the sergeant on an improvised stretcher. No; he hadn’t spoken. He was unconscious.
“ ‘Which sergeant was it?’ I asked, quietly—though I knew the answer before the groom gave it.
“ ‘Sergeant Trevor, sir,’ he said. ‘B squadron.’
“ ‘Is he—is he badly hurt?’ said the girl, and her face was ashen.
“ ‘I dunno, mum,’ answered the groom. ‘They took ’im off to the ’orspital, and I was busy with the ’orse.’
“ ‘I’ll ring up, if I may, General,’ I said, and he nodded.
“I spoke to Purvis, the R.A.M.C. fellow, and his voice was very grave. They’d brought Trevor in still unconscious, and, though he wouldn’t swear to it at the moment, he was afraid his back was broken. But he couldn’t tell absolutely for certain until he came to. I hung up the receiver and found Mrs. Giles standing behind me. She said nothing—but just waited for me to speak.
“ ‘Purvis doesn’t know for certain,’ I said, taking both her hands in mine. ‘But there’s a possibility, my dear, that his back is broken.’
“She was a thoroughbred, that girl. She didn’t make a fuss or cry out; she just looked me straight in the face and nodded her head once or twice.
“ ‘I must go to him, of course,’ she said, gravely. ‘Will you arrange it for me, please?’
“ ‘He’s unconscious still,’ I told her.
“ ‘Then I must be beside him when he comes to,’ she answered. ‘Even if there was nothing else—he’s saved my baby’s life.’
“ ‘I’ll take you in my car,’ I said, when I saw that she was absolutely determined. ‘Leave it all to me.’
“ ‘I must see him alone, Dog-face.’ She paused by the door, with her handkerchief rolled into a tight little ball in her hand. ‘I want to know that he’s forgiven me.’
“ ‘You shall see him alone if it’s humanly possible,’ I answered gravely, and at that she was gone.
“I don’t quite know how I did it, but somehow or other I got her away from the General’s house without Giles knowing. Giles junior was quite unhurt, and disposed to regard the entire thing as an entertainment got up especially for his benefit. And when she’d made sure of that, and kissed him passionately to his intense disgust, she slipped away with me in the car.
“ ‘You mustn’t be disappointed,’ I warned her as we drove along, ‘if you can’t see him alone. He may have been put into a ward with other men.’
“ ‘Then they must put some screens round him,’ she whispered. ‘I must kiss him before—before——.’ She didn’t complete the sentence; but it wasn’t necessary.
“We didn’t speak again until I turned in at the gates of the hospital. And then I asked her a question which had been on the tip of my tongue a dozen times.
“ ‘Who is he—really?’
“ ‘Jimmy Dallas is his name,’ she answered, quietly. ‘We were engaged. And then his father lost all his money. He thought that was why—why I was beastly to him—but oh! Dog-face, it wasn’t at all. I thought he was fond of another girl—and it was all a mistake. I found it out too late. And then Jimmy had disappeared—and I’d married Giles. Up at that cricket match was the first time I’d seen him since my wedding.’
“We drew up at the door, and I got out. It’s the little tragedies, the little misunderstandings, that are so pitiful, and in all conscience this was a case in point. A boy and a girl—each too proud to explain, or ask for an explanation; and now the big tragedy. God! it seemed so futile.
“I left her sitting in the car, and went in search of Purvis. I found him with Trevor—I still thought of him under that name—and he was conscious again. The doctor looked up as I tiptoed in, and shook his head at me warningly. So I waited, and after a while Purvis left the bed and drew me out into the passage.
“ ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘He’s so infernally bruised and messed about. His left arm is broken in two places, and three ribs—and I’m afraid his back as well. He seems so numb. But I can’t be certain.’
“ ‘Mrs. Yeverley is here,’ I said. ‘The mother of one of the kids he saved. She wants to see him.’
“ ‘Out of the question,’ snapped Purvis. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’
“ ‘But you mustn’t forbid it, Doctor.’ We both swung round, to see the girl herself standing behind us. ‘I’ve got to see him. There are other reasons besides his having saved my baby’s life.’
“ ‘They must wait, Mrs. Yeverley,’ answered the Doctor. ‘In a case of this sort the only person I would allow to see him would be his wife.’
“ ‘If I hadn’t been a fool,’ she said deliberately, ‘I should have been his wife,’ and Purvis’s jaw dropped.
“Without another word she swept past him into the ward, and Purvis stood there gasping.
“ ‘Well, I’m damned!’ he muttered, and I couldn’t help smiling. It was rather a startling statement to come from a woman stopping with the G.O.C. about a sergeant in a cavalry regiment.
“And then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, came the final turn in the wheel. I was strolling up and down outside with Purvis, who was a sahib as well as a Doctor and had asked no questions.
“ ‘If his back is broken it can’t hurt him,’ he had remarked, ‘and if it isn’t it will do him good.’
“At that we had left it, when suddenly, to my horror, I saw Giles himself going into the hospital.
“ ‘Good Lord, Doc!’ I cried, sprinting after him, ‘that’s her husband. And he doesn’t know she’s here.’
“But a lot can happen in a few seconds, and I was just a few seconds too late. As I got to the door I saw Giles in front of me—standing at the entrance to the ward as if he had been turned to stone. A big screen hid the bed from sight—but a screen is not sound proof. He looked at me as I came up, and involuntarily I stopped as I saw his face. And then quite clearly from the room beyond came his wife’s voice.
“ ‘My darling, darling boy!—it’s you and only you for ever and ever!’
“I don’t quite know how much Giles had guessed before. I think he knew about her previous engagement, but I’m quite sure he had never associated Trevor with it. A year or two later she told me that when she married him she had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had loved another man—and loved him still. And Giles had taken her on those terms. But at the time I didn’t know that: I only knew that a very dear friend’s world had crashed about his head with stunning suddenness. It was Giles who pulled himself together first—Giles, with a face grey and lined, who said in a loud voice to me: ‘Well, Dog-face, where is the invalid?’
“And then he waited a moment or two before he went round the screen.
“ ‘Ah! my dear,’ he said, quite steadily, as he saw his wife, ‘you here?’
“He played his part for ten minutes, stiff-lipped and without a falter; then he went, and his wife went with him to continue the play in which they were billed for life. Trevor’s back was not broken—in a couple of months he was back at duty. And so it might have continued for the duration, but for Giles being drowned fishing in Ireland.”
The Soldier stared thoughtfully at the fire.
“He was a first-class fisherman and a wonderful swimmer, was Giles Yeverley, and sometimes—I wonder. They say he got caught in a bore—that perhaps he got cramp. But, as I say, sometimes—I wonder.
“I saw them—Jimmy Dallas, sometime Sergeant Trevor, and his wife—at the Ritz two nights ago. They seemed wonderfully in love, though they’d been married ten years, and I stopped by their table.
“ ‘Sit down, Dog-face,’ she ordered, ‘and have a liqueur.’
“So I sat down and had a liqueur. And it was just as I was going that she looked at me with her wonderful smile, and said, very softly: ‘Thank God! dear old Giles never knew; and now, if he does, he’ll understand.’ ”
The Soldier got up and stretched himself.
“A big result for a bit of yellow peel.”
| VI | The Writer’s Story, being The House at Appledore |
“I’m not certain, strictly speaking, that my story can be said to concern my trade,” began the Writer, after he had seen his guests were comfortable. “But it happened—this little adventure of mine—as the direct result of pursuing my trade, so I will interpret the rule accordingly.
“My starting-point is the Largest Pumpkin Ever Produced in Kent. It was the sort of pumpkin which gets a photograph all to itself in the illustrated papers—the type of atrocity which is utterly useless to any human being. And yet that large and unpleasant vegetable proved the starting-point of the most exciting episode in my somewhat prosaic life. In fact, but for very distinct luck, that pumpkin would have been responsible for my equally prosaic funeral.’ The Writer smiled reminiscently.
“It was years ago, in the days before a misguided public began to read my books and supply me with the necessary wherewithal to keep the wolf from the door. But I was young and full of hope, and Fleet Street seemed a very wonderful place. From which you can infer that I was a journalist, and candour compels me to admit—a jolly bad one. Not that I realised it at the time. I regarded my Editor’s complete lack of appreciation of my merits as being his misfortune, not my fault. However, I pottered around, doing odd jobs and having the felicity of seeing my carefully penned masterpieces completely obscured by blue pencil and reduced to two lines.
“Then one morning I was sent for to the inner sanctuary. Now, although I had the very lowest opinion of the Editor’s abilities, I knew sufficient of the office routine to realise that such a summons was unlikely to herald a rise of screw with parchment certificate of appreciation for services rendered. It was far more likely to herald the order of the boot—and the prospect was not very rosy. Even in those days Fleet Street was full of unemployed journalists who knew more than their editors.
“The news editor was in the office when I walked in, and he was a kindly man, was old Andrews. He looked at me from under his great bushy eyebrows for a few moments without speaking; then he pointed to a chair.
“ ‘Graham,’ he remarked in a deep bass voice, ‘are you aware that this paper has never yet possessed a man on its staff that writes such unutterable slush as you do?’
“I remained discreetly silent; to dissent seemed tactless, to agree, unnecessary.
“ ‘What do you propose to do about it?’ he continued after a while.
“I told him that I hadn’t realised I was as bad as all that, but that I would do my best to improve my style and give satisfaction in the future.
“ ‘It’s not so much your style,’ he conceded. ‘Years ago I knew a man whose style was worse. Only a little—but it was worse. But it’s your nose for news, my boy—that’s the worst thing that ever came into Fleet Street. Now, what were you doing yesterday?’
“ ‘I was reporting that wedding at the Brompton Oratory, sir,’ I told him.
“ ‘Just so,’ he answered. ‘And are you aware that in a back street not three hundred yards from the church a man died through eating a surfeit of winkles, as the result of a bet? Actually while you were there did that man die by the winkle-barrow—and you knew nothing about it. I’m not denying that your report on the wedding isn’t fair—but the public is entitled to know about the dangers of winkle-eating to excess. Not that the rights of the public matter in the least, but it’s the principle I want to impress on you—the necessity of keeping your eyes open for other things beside the actual job you’re on. That’s what makes the good journalist.’
“I assured him that I would do so in future, and he grunted non-committally. Then he began rummaging in a drawer, while I waited in trepidation.
“ ‘We’ll give you a bit longer, Graham,’ he announced at length, and I breathed freely again. ‘But if there is no improvement you’ll have to go. And in the meantime I’ve got a job for you this afternoon. Some public-spirited benefactor has inaugurated an agricultural fête in Kent, somewhere near Ashford. From what I can gather, he seems partially wanting in intelligence, but it takes people all ways. He is giving prizes for the heaviest potato and the largest egg—though I am unable to see what the hen’s activity has to do with her owner. And I want you to go down and write it up. Half a column. Get your details right. I believe there is a treatise on soils and manures in the office somewhere. And put in a paragraph about the paramount importance of the Englishman getting back to the land. Not that it will have any effect, but it might help to clear Fleet Street.’
“He was already engrossed in something else, and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. And it was just as I got to the door that he called after me to send Cresswill to him—Cresswill, the star of all the special men. His reception, I reflected a little bitterly as I went in search of him, would be somewhat different from mine. For he had got to the top of the tree, and was on a really big job at the time. He did all the criminal work—murder trials and so forth, and how we youngsters envied him! Perhaps, in time, one might reach those dazzling heights, I reflected, as I sat in my third-class carriage on the way to Ashford. Not for him mammoth tubers and double-yolkers—but the things that really counted.
“I got out at Ashford, where I had to change. My destination was Appledore, and the connection on was crowded with people obviously bound, like myself, for the agricultural fête. It was a part of Kent to which I had never been, and when I got out at Appledore station I found I was in the flat Romney Marsh country which stretches inland from Dungeness. Houses are few and far between, except in the actual villages themselves—the whole stretch of land, of course, must once have been below sea-level—and the actual fête was being held in a large field on the outskirts of Appledore. It was about a mile from the station, and I proceeded to walk.
“The day was warm, the road was dusty—and I, I am bound to admit, was bored. I felt I was destined for better things than reporting on bucolic flower shows, much though I loved flowers. But I like them in their proper place, growing—not arranged for show in a stuffy tent and surrounded by perspiring humanity. And so when I came to the gates of a biggish house and saw behind them a garden which was a perfect riot of colour, involuntarily I paused and looked over.
“The house itself stood back about a hundred yards from the road—a charming old place covered with creepers, and the garden was lovely. A little neglected, perhaps—I could see a respectable number of weeds in a bed of irises close to the drive—but then it was quite a large garden. Probably belonged to some family that could not afford a big staff, I reflected, and that moment I saw a man staring at me from between some shrubs a few yards away.
“There was no reason why he shouldn’t stare at me—he was inside the gate and presumably had more right to the garden than I had—but there was something about him that made me return the stare, in silence, for a few moments. Whether it was his silent approach over the grass and unexpected appearance, or whether it was that instinctively he struck me as an incongruous type of individual to find in such a sleepy locality, I can’t say. Or, perhaps, it was a sudden lightning impression of hostile suspicion on his part, as if he resented anyone daring to look over his gate.
“Then he came towards me, and I felt I had to say something. But even as I spoke the thought flashed across my mind that he would have appeared far more at home in a London bar than in a rambling Appledore garden.
“ ‘I was admiring your flowers,’ I said as he came up. ‘Your irises are wonderful.’
“He looked vaguely at some lupins, then his intent gaze came back to me.
“ ‘The garden is well known locally,’ he remarked. ‘Are you a member of these parts?’
“ ‘No,’ I answered, ‘I come from London,’ and it seemed to me his gaze grew more intent.
“ ‘I am only a bird of passage, too,’ he said easily. ‘Are you just down for the day?’
“I informed him that I had come down to write up the local fête; being young and foolish, I rather think I implied that only the earnest request of the organiser for me in particular had persuaded the editor to dispense with my invaluable services even for a few hours. And all the time his eyes, black and inscrutable, never left my face.
“ ‘The show is being held in a field about a quarter of a mile farther on,’ he said when I had finished. ‘Good morning.’
“He turned abruptly on his heels and walked slowly away towards the house, leaving me a little annoyed, and with a feeling that not only had I been snubbed, but, worse still, had been seen through. I felt that I had failed to convince him that editors tore their hair and bit their nails when they failed to secure my services; I felt, indeed, just that particular type of ass that one does feel when one has boasted vaingloriously, and been listened to with faintly amused boredom. I know that as I resumed my walk towards the agricultural fête I endeavoured to restore my self-respect by remembering that he was merely a glorified yokel, who probably knew no better.”
The Writer leant back in his chair with a faint smile.
“That awful show still lives in my memory,” he continued after a while. “There were swing boats, and one of those ghastly shows where horses go round and round with a seasick motion and ‘The Blue Bells of Scotland’ emerges without cessation from the bowels of the machine. There were coco-nut shies and people peering through horse-collars to have their photographs taken, and over everything an all-pervading aroma of humanity unsuitably clad in its Sunday best on a warm day. However, the job had to be done, so I bravely plunged into the marquees devoted to the competing vegetables. I listened to the experts talking around me with the idea of getting the correct local colour, but as most of their remarks were incomprehensible, I soon gave that up as a bad job and began looking about me.
“There were potatoes and carrots and a lot of things which I may have eaten, but completely failed to recognise in a raw state. And then suddenly, through a gap in the asparagus, I saw a vast yellowy-green object. It seemed about four times the size of an ordinary Rugby football, and a steady stream of people circled slowly round it and an ancient man, who periodically groomed it with a vast coloured handkerchief. So I steered a zigzag course between a watery-eyed duck on my right and a hand-holding couple on my left, and joined the stream. At close quarters it seemed even vaster than when viewed from the other side of the tent, and after I’d made the grand tour twice, I thought I’d engage the ancient man in conversation. Unfortunately, he was stone deaf, and his speech was a little indistinct owing to a regrettable absence of teeth, so we managed between us to rivet the fascinated attention of every human being in the tent. In return for the information that it was the largest pumpkin ever produced in Kent, I volunteered that I had come from London specially to write about it. He seemed a bit hazy about London, but when I told him it was larger than Appledore he appeared fairly satisfied that his pumpkin would obtain justice.
“He also launched into a voluble discourse, which was robbed of much of its usefulness by his habit of holding his false teeth in position with his thumb as he spoke. Luckily a local interpreter was at hand, and from him I gathered that the old man was eighty-five, and had never been farther afield than Ashford, forty-eight years ago. Also that he was still gardener at Cedarlime, a house which I must have passed on my way from the station. Standing well back it was: fine flower gardens—‘but not what they was. Not since the new gentleman come—a year ago. Didn’t take the same interest—not him. A scholard, they said ’e was; crates and crates of books had come to the house—things that ’eavy that they took three and four men to lift them.’
“He rambled on did that interpreter, while the ancient man polished the pumpkin in the time-honoured manner, and wheezed spasmodically. But I wasn’t paying much attention, because it had suddenly come back to me that Cedarlime was the name of the house where I had spoken to the inscrutable stranger. Subconsciously I had noticed it as I crossed the road; now it was brought back to my memory.
“ ‘Is the owner of Cedarlime a youngish, man?’ I asked my informant. ‘Dark hair; rather sallow face?’
“He shook his head. The owner of Cedarlime was a middle-aged man with grey hair, but he often had friends stopping with him who came from London, so he’d heard tell—friends who didn’t stop long—just for the week-end, maybe, or four or five days. Probably the man I meant was one of these friends.
“My informant passed on to inspect a red and hairy gooseberry, and I wandered slowly out of the stuffy tent. Probably a friend—in fact, undoubtedly a friend. But try as I would to concentrate on that confounded flower show, my thoughts kept harking back to Cedarlime. For some reason or other, that quiet house and the man who had come so silently out of the bushes had raised my curiosity. And at that moment I narrowly escaped death from a swing boat, which brought me back to the business in hand.
“I suppose it was about three hours later that I started to stroll back to the station. I was aiming at a five o’clock train, and intended to write my stuff on the way up to Town. But just as I was getting to the gates of the house that interested me, who should I see in front of me but the venerable pumpkin polisher. He turned as I got abreast of him and recognised me with a throaty chuckle. And he promptly started to talk. I gathered that he had many other priceless treasures in his garden—wonderful sweet-peas, more pumpkins of colossal dimensions. And after a while I further gathered that he was suggesting I should go in and examine them for myself.
“For a moment I hesitated. I looked at my watch—there was plenty of time. Then I looked over the gates and made up my mind. I would introduce this ancient being into my account of the fête; write up, in his own setting, this extraordinary old man who had never left Appledore for forty-eight years. And, in addition, I would have a closer look at the house—possibly even see the scholarly owner.
“I glanced curiously round as I followed him up the drive. We went about half-way to the house, then turned off along a path into the kitchen garden. And finally he came to rest in front of the pumpkins—he was obviously a pumpkin maniac. I should think he conducted a monologue for five minutes on the habits of pumpkins while I looked about me. Occasionally I said ‘Yes’; occasionally I nodded my head portentously; for the rest of the time I paid no attention.
“I could see half the front and one side of the house—but there seemed no trace of any occupants. And I was just going to ask the old man who lived there, when I saw a man in his shirt-sleeves standing at one of the windows. He was not the man who had spoken to me at the gate; he was not a grey-headed man either, so presumably not the owner. He appeared to be engrossed in something he was holding in his hands, and after a while he held it up to the light in the same way one holds up a photographic plate. It was then that he saw me.
“Now, I have never been an imaginative person, but there was something positively uncanny in the way that man disappeared. Literally in a flash he had gone and the window was empty. And my imagination began to stir. Why had that man vanished so instantaneously at the sight of a stranger in the kitchen garden?
“And then another thing began to strike me. Something which had been happening a moment or two before had abruptly stopped—a noise, faint and droning, but so steady that I hadn’t noticed it until it ceased. It had been the sort of noise which, if you heard it to-day, you would say was caused by an aeroplane a great way off—and quite suddenly it had stopped. A second or two after the man had seen me and vanished from the window, that faint droning noise had ceased. I was sure of it, and my imagination began to stir still more.
“However, by this time my venerable guide had exhausted pumpkins, and, muttering strange words, he began to lead me towards another part of the garden. It was sweet-peas this time, and I must say they were really magnificent. In fact, I had forgotten the disappearing gentleman at the window in my genuine admiration of the flowers, when I suddenly saw the old man straighten himself up, take a firm grip of his false teeth with his one hand and touch his cap with the other. He was looking over my shoulder, and I swung round.
“Three men were standing behind me on the path. One was the man I had spoken to that morning; one was the man I had seen at the window; the other was grey-haired, and, I assumed, the owner of the house. It was to him I addressed myself.
“ ‘I must apologise for trespassing,’ I began, ‘but I am reporting the agricultural fête down here, and your gardener asked me in to see your sweet-peas. They are really magnificent specimens.’
“The elderly man stared at me in silence.
“ ‘I don’t quite see what the sweet-peas in my garden have to do with the fête,’ he remarked coldly. ‘And it is not generally customary, when the owner is at home, to wander round his garden at the invitation of his gardener.’
“ ‘Then I can only apologise and withdraw at once,’ I answered stiffly. ‘I trust that I have not irreparably damaged your paths.’
“He frowned angrily and seemed on the point of saying something, when the man I had spoken to at the gate took his arm and whispered something in his ear. I don’t know what it was he said, but it had the effect of restoring the grey-haired man to a better temper at once.
“ ‘I must apologise,’ he said affably, ‘for my brusqueness. I am a recluse, Mr.—ah—Mr.——’
“ ‘Graham is my name,’ I answered, partially mollified.
“He bowed. ‘A recluse, Mr. Graham—and my garden is a hobby of mine. That and my books. I fear I may have seemed a little irritable when I first spoke, but I have a special system of my own for growing sweet-peas, and I guard it jealously. I confess that for a moment I was unjust and suspicious enough to think you might be trying to pump information from my gardener.’
“I looked at old Methuselah, still clutching his false teeth, and smiled involuntarily. The elderly man guessed my thoughts and smiled, too.
“ ‘I am apt to forget that it takes several months to interpret old Jake,’ he continued. ‘Those false teeth of his fascinate one, don’t they? I shall never forget the dreadful occasion he dropped them in the hot bed. We had the most agonising search, and finally persistence triumphed. They were rescued unscathed and restored to their rightful place.’
“And so he went on talking easily, until half-unconsciously I found myself strolling with him towards the house. Every now and then he stopped to point out some specimen of which he was proud, and, without my realising it, twenty minutes or so slipped by. It was the sound of a whistle at the station that recalled me to the passage of time, and I hurriedly looked at my watch.
“ ‘Good Heavens!’ I cried, ‘I’ve missed my train. When is the next?’
“ ‘The next, Mr. Graham. I’m afraid there isn’t a next till to-morrow morning. This is a branch line, you know.’
“Jove! how I swore inwardly. After what old Andrews had said to me only that morning, to go and fail again would finally cook my goose. You must remember that it was before the days of motor-cars, and, with the fête in progress, the chance of getting a cart to drive me some twelve miles to Ashford was remote—anyway for the fare I could afford to pay.
“I suppose my agitation showed on my face, for the grey-haired man became quite upset.
“ ‘How stupid of me not to have thought of the time,’ he cried. ‘We must think of the best thing to do. I know,’ he said suddenly—‘you must telegraph your report. Stop the night here and telegraph.’
“I pointed out to him rather miserably that newspapers did not like the expense of wiring news unless it was important, and that by no stretch of imagination could the Appledore Flower Show be regarded as coming under that category.
“ ‘I will pay the cost,’ he insisted, and waved aside my refusal. ‘Mr. Graham,’ he said, ‘it was my fault. I am a wealthy man; I would not dream of letting you suffer for my verbosity. You will wire your article, and I shall pay.’ ”
The Writer smiled reminiscently.
“What could have been more charming,” he continued—“what more considerate and courteous? My stupid, half-formed suspicions, which had been growing fainter and fainter as I strolled round the garden with my host, had by this time vanished completely, and when he found me pens, ink, and paper, as they say in the French exercise book, I stammered out my thanks. He cut me short with a smile, and told me to get on with my article. He would send it to the telegraph office, and tell his servants to get a room ready for me. And with another smile he left me alone, and I saw him pottering about the garden outside as I wrote.
“I don’t know whether it has ever happened to any of you fellows”—the Writer lit a cigarette—“to harbour suspicions which are gradually lulled, only to have them suddenly return with redoubled force. There was I, peacefully writing my account of the Appledore fête, while outside my host, an enthusiastic gardener, as he had told me, pursued his hobby. Could anything have been more commonplace and matter of fact? He was engaged on the roses at the moment, spraying them with some solution, presumably for green fly, and unconsciously I watched him. No, I reflected, it couldn’t be for green fly, because he was only spraying the roots, and even I, though not an expert, knew that green fly occur round the buds. And at that moment I caught a momentary glimpse of the two other men. They were roaring with laughter, and it seemed to me that my host was the cause of the merriment. He looked up and saw them, and the hilarity ceased abruptly. The next moment they had disappeared, and my host was continuing the spraying. He went on industriously for a few minutes, then he crossed the lawn towards the open window of the room where I was writing.
“ ‘Nearly finished?’ he asked.
“ ‘Very nearly,’ I answered. ‘Green fly bad this year?’
“ ‘Green fly?’ he said a little vaguely. ‘Oh! so-so.’
“ ‘I thought you must be tackling them on the roses,’ I pursued.
“ ‘Er, quite—quite,’ he remarked. ‘Nasty things, aren’t they?’
“ ‘Is it a special system of yours to go for the roots?’ I asked.
“He gave me one searching look, then he laughed mysteriously.
“ ‘Ah, ha! my young friend,’ he answered. ‘Don’t you try and get my stable secrets out of me.’
“And I felt he was lying. Without thinking something made me draw a bow at a venture, and the arrow went home with a vengeance.
“ ‘Wonderful delphiniums you’ve got,’ I remarked, leaning out of the window and pointing to a bed underneath.
“ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of those.’
“And the flowers at which I was pointing were irises. So this enthusiastic gardener did not know the difference between a delphinium and an iris. Back in an overwhelming wave came all my suspicions; I knew there was a mystery somewhere. This man wasn’t a gardener; and, if not, why this pretence? I remember now that every time he had drawn my attention to a specimen he had taken the attached label in his hand. Quite unobtrusive it had been, unnoticeable at the time, now it suddenly became significant. Why was he playing this part—pretending for my benefit? Futilely spraying the roots of roses, making me miss my train. I was convinced now that that had been part of the plan—but why? Why the telegraphing? Why the invitation to stop the night?
“The old brain was working pretty quickly by this time. No one, whatever his business, would object to a bona fide journalist writing an account of a fête, and if the business were crooked, the people engaged on it would be the first to speed that journalist on his way. People of that type dislike journalists only one degree less than the police. Then why—why? The answer simply stuck out—they suspected me of not being a journalist, or, even if they did not go as far as that, they were taking no chances on the matter.
“In fact, I was by this time definitely convinced in my own mind that I had quite unwittingly stumbled into a bunch of criminals, and it struck me that the sooner I stumbled out again the better for my health. So I put my article in my pocket and went to the door. I would wire it off, and I would not return.
“The first hitch occurred at the door, which had thoughtfully been locked. Not being a hero of fiction, I confess it gave me a nasty shock—that unyielding door. And as I stood there taking a pull at myself I heard the grey-haired man’s voice outside the window:
“ ‘Finished yet, Mr. Graham?’
“I walked across the room, and in as steady a voice as I could muster I mentioned the fact that the door was locked.
“ ‘So that you shouldn’t be disturbed, Mr. Graham’—and I thought of the Wolf in ‘Red Riding Hood,’ with his satisfactory answers to all awkward questions.
“ ‘If someone would open it, I’ll get along to the telegraph office,’ I remarked.
“ ‘I wouldn’t dream of your going to so much trouble,’ he said suavely. ‘I’ve a lazy boy I employ in the garden; he’ll take it.’
“For a moment I hesitated, and a glint came into his eyes, which warned me to be careful.
“It was then that I had my brainstorm. If I hadn’t had it I shouldn’t be here now; if the powers that be in the newspaper world were not the quickest people on the uptake you can meet in a day’s march, I shouldn’t be here now either. But like a flash of light there came to my mind the story I had once been told of how a war correspondent in the South African War, at a time when they were tightening the censorship, got back full news of a battle by alluding to the rise and fall of certain stock. And the editor in England read between the lines—substituted troops for stocks, Canadians for C.P.R., and so on—and published the only account of the battle.
“Could I do the same? I hesitated.
“ ‘Oh! there’s one thing I’ve forgotten,’ I remarked. ‘I’ll just add it if the boy can wait.’
“So I sat down at the table, and to my report I added the following sentences:
“ ‘There was also some excellent mustard and cress. Will come at once, but fear to-morrow morning may be too late for me to be of further use over Ronaldshay affair.’
“And then I handed it to the grey-haired man through the window.”
The Writer leant back in his chair, and the Soldier stared at him, puzzled.
“It’s a bit too cryptic for me,” he confessed.
“Thank God! it wasn’t too cryptic for the office,” said the Writer. “There was no Ronaldshay affair, so I knew that would draw their attention. And perhaps you’ve forgotten the name of our star reporter, who dealt in criminal matters. It was Cresswill. And if you write the word cress with a capital C and leave out the full stop after it, you’ll see the message I got through to the office.”
“It’s uncommon lucky for you his name wasn’t Snooks,” remarked the Actor with a grin. “What happened?”
“Well, we had dinner, and I can only suppose that my attempts to appear at ease had failed to convince my companions.
“The last thing I remember that night was drinking a cup of coffee—the old trick—and suddenly realising it was drugged. I staggered to my feet, while they remained sitting round the table watching me. Then, with a final glimpse of the grey-haired man’s face, I passed into oblivion.
“When I came to I was in a strange room, feeling infernally sick. And I shall never forget my wild relief when the man by the window turned round and I saw it was Cresswill himself. He came over to the bed and smiled down at me.
“ ‘Well done, youngster,’ he said, and a glow of pride temporarily replaced my desire for a basin. ‘Well done, indeed. We’ve got the whole gang, and we’ve been looking for ’em for months. They were bank-note forgers on a big scale, but we were only just in time to save you.’
“ ‘How was that?’ I asked weakly.
“ ‘I think they had decided that your sphere of usefulness was over,’ he remarked with a grin. ‘So after having removed suspicion by telegraphing your report, they gave you a very good dinner, when, as has been known to happen with young men before, you got very drunk.’
“ ‘I was drugged,’ I said indignantly.
“ ‘The point is immaterial,’ he answered quietly. ‘Drunk or drugged, it’s much the same after you’ve been run over by a train. And we found two of them carrying you along a lane towards the line at half-past eleven. The down goods to Hastings passes at twenty to twelve.’
“And at that moment Providence was kind. I ceased to feel sick. I was.”
| VII | The Old Dining-Room |