CHAPTER II HORN
"No, sir," said Mudd, "he don't take scarcely anything in the bar of the hotel, but he was sitting last night till closing-time in the Bricklayer's Arms."
"Oh, that's where he was," said Bobby. "How did you find out?"
"Well, sir," said Mudd, "I was in there myself in the parlour, having a drop of hot water and gin with a bit of lemon in it. It's a decent house, and the servants' room in this hotel don't please me, nor Mr. Anderson's man. I was sitting there smoking my pipe when in he came to the bar outside. I heard his voice. Down he sits and talks quite friendly with the folk there and orders a pint of beer all round. Quite affable and friendly."
"Well, there's no harm in that," said Bobby. "I've often done the same in a country inn. Did he stick to beer?"
"He did," said Mudd grimly. "He'd got that ten-pound note I was fool enough to let him have. Yes, he stuck to beer, and so did the chaps he was treating."
"The funny thing is," said Bobby, "that though he knows we have his money—and, begad, there's nearly eleven thousand of it—he doesn't kick at our taking it—he must have known we cut open that portmanteau—but comes to you for money like a schoolboy."
"That's what he is," said Mudd. "It's my belief, Mr. Robert, that he's getting younger and younger; he's artful as a child after sweets. And he knows we're looking after him, I believe, and he doesn't mind, for it's part of his amusement to give us the slip. Well, as I was saying, there he sat talking away and all these village chaps listening to him as if he was the Sultan of Turkey laying down the law. That's what pleased him. He likes being the middle of everything; and as the beer went down the talk went up—till he was telling them he'd been at the battle of Waterloo."
"Good Lord!"
"They didn't know no different," said Mudd, "but it made me crawl to listen to him."
"The bother is," said Bobby, "that we are dealing, not only with a young man, but with the sort of young man who was young forty years ago. That's our trouble, Mudd; we can't calculate on what he'll do because we haven't the data. And another bother is that his foolishness seems to have increased by being bottled so long, like old beer, but he can't come to harm with the villagers, they're an innocent lot."
"Are they?" said Mudd. "One of the chaps he was talking to was a gallows-looking chap. Horn's his name, and a poacher he is, I believe. Then there's the blacksmith and a squint-eyed chap that calls himself a butcher; the pair of them aren't up to much. Innocent lot! Why, if you had the stories Mr. Anderson's man has told me about this village the hair would rise on your head. Why, London's a girl-school to these country villages, if all's true one hears. No, Mr. Robert, he wants looking after here more than anywhere, and it seems to me the only person who has any real hold on him is the young lady."
"Miss Rossignol?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert, he's gone on her in his foolish way, and she can twist him round her finger like a child. When he's with her he's a different person, out of sight of her he's another man."
"Look here, Mudd," said the other, "he can't be in love with her, for there's not a girl he sees he doesn't cast his eye after."
"Maybe," said Mudd, "but when he's with her he's in love with her; I've been watching him and I know. He worships her, I believe, and if she wasn't so sensible I'd be afeard of it. It's a blessing he came across her; she's the only hold on him, and a good hold she is."
"It is a blessing," said Bobby. Then, after a pause, "Mudd, you've always been a good friend of mine, and this business has made me know what you really are. I'm bothered about something—I'm in love with her myself. There, you have it."
"With Miss Rossignol?"
"Yes."
"Well, you might choose worse," said Mudd.
"But that's not all," said Bobby. "There's another girl—Mudd, I've been a damn fool."
"We've all been fools in our time," said Mudd.
"I know, but it's jolly unpleasant when one's follies come home to roost on one. She's a nice girl enough, Miss Delyse, but I don't care for her. Yet somehow I've got mixed up with her—not exactly engaged, but very near it. It all happened in a moment, and she's coming down here; I had a letter from her this morning."
"Oh, Lord!" said Mudd, "another mixture. As if there wasn't enough of us in the business!"
"That's a good name for it, 'business.' I feel as if I was helping to run a sort of beastly factory, a mad sort of show where we're trying to condense folly and make it consume its own smoke—an illicit whisky-still, for we're trying to hide our business all the time, and it gives me the jim-jams to think that at any moment a client may turn up and see him like that. I feel sometimes, Mudd, as fellows must feel when they have the police after them."
"Don't talk of the police," said Mudd, "the very word gives me the shivers. When is she coming, Mr. Robert?"
"Miss Delyse? She's coming by the 3.15 train to-day to Farnborough station, and I've got to meet her. I've just booked her a room here. You see how I am tied. If I was here alone she couldn't come, because it wouldn't be proper, but having him here makes it proper."
"Have you told her the state he's in?"
"Yes. She doesn't mind; she said she wished everyone else was the same—she said it was beautiful."
They were talking in Bobby's room, which overlooked the garden of the hotel, and glancing out of the window now, he saw Cerise.
Then he detached himself from Mudd. He reached her as she was passing through the little rambler-roofed alley that leads from the garden to the bowling-green. There is an arbour in the garden tucked away in a corner, and there is an arbour close to the bowling-green; there are several other arbours, for the hotel-planner was an expert in his work, but these are the only two arbours that have to do with our story.
Bobby caught up with the girl before she had reached the green, and they walked together towards it, chatting as young people only can chat with life and gaiety about nothing. They were astonishingly well-matched in mind. Minds have colours just like eyes; there are black minds and brown minds and muddy-coloured minds and grey minds, and blue minds. Bobby's was a blue mind, though, indeed, it sometimes almost seemed green. Cerise's was blue, a happy blue like the blue of her eyes.
They had been two and a half days now in pretty close propinquity, and had got to know each other well despite Uncle Simon, or rather, perhaps, because of him. They discussed him freely and without reserve, and they were discussing him now, as the following extraordinary conversation will show.
"He's good, as you say," said Bobby, "but he's more trouble to me than a child."
Said Cerise: "Shall I tell you a little secret?"
"Yes."
"You will promise me surely, most surely, you will never tell my little secret?"
"I swear."
"He is in loff with me—I thought it was maman, but it is me." A ripple of laughter that caught the echo of the bowling-alley followed this confession.
"Last night he said to me before dinner, 'Cerise, I loff you.'"
"And what did you say?"
"Then the dinner-gong rang," said Cerise, "and I said, 'Oh, Monsieur Pattigrew, I must run and change my dress.' Then I ran off. I did not want to change my dress, but I did want to change the conversation," finished Cerise.
Then with a smile, "He loffs me more than any of the other girls."
"Why, how do you know he loves other girls?"
"I have seen him look at girls," said Cerise. "He likes all the world, but girls he likes most."
"Are you in love with him, Cerise?" asked Bobby, with a grin.
"Yes," said Cerise candidly. "Who could help?"
"How much are you in love with him, Cerise?"
"I would walk to London for him without my shoes," said Cerise.
"Well, that's something," said Bobby. "Come into this little arbour, Cerise, and let's sit down. You don't mind my smoking?"
"Not one bit"
"It's good to have anyone love one like that," said he, lighting a cigarette.
"He draws it from me," said Cerise.
"Well, I must say he's more likeable as he is than as he was; you should have seen him before he got young, Cerise."
"He was always good," said she, as though speaking from sure knowledge; "always good and kind and sweet."
"He managed to hide it," said Bobby.
"Ah yes—maybe so—there are many old gentlemen who seem rough and not nice, and then underneath it is different."
"How would you like to marry uncle?" asked he, laughing.
"If he were young outside as he is young inside of him—why, then I do not know. I might—I might not."
Then the unfortunate young man, forgetting all things, even the approaching Julia, let his voice fall half a tone; he wandered from Uncle; Simon into the question of the beauty of the roses.
The conversation flagged a bit, then he was holding one of her fingers.
Then came steps on the gravel. A servant.
"The fly is ready to take you to the station, sir."
It was three o'clock.
CHAPTER III JULIA—continued
It was a cross between a hansom cab and a "growler," with the voice of the latter, and the dust of the Farnborough road, with the prospect of a three-mile drive to meet Julia and a three-mile drive back again, did not fill Bobby with joy—also the prospect of having to make explanations.
He had quite determined on that. After the arbour business it was impossible to go on with Julia; he had to break whatever bonds there existed between them, and he had to do the business before she got to the hotel. Then came the prospect of having to live with her in the hotel, even for a night. He questioned himself, asking himself were he a cad or not, had he trifled with Julia? As far as memory went, they had both trifled with one another. It was a sudden affair, and no actual promise had been made; he had not even said "I love you"—but he had kissed her. The legal mind would, no doubt, have construed that into a declaration of affection, but Bobby's mind was not legal—anything but—and as for kissing a girl, if he had been condemned to marry all the girls he had kissed he would have been forced to live in Utah.
He had to wait half an hour for the train at Farnborough, and when it drew up out stepped Julia, hot, and dressed in green, dragging a hold-all and a bundle of magazines and newspapers.
"H'are you?" said Bobby, as they shook hands.
"Hot," said Julia.
"Isn't it?"
He carried the hold-all to the fly and a porter followed with a basket-work portmanteau. When the luggage was stowed in they got in and the fly moved off.
Julia was not in a passionate mood; no person is or ever has been after a journey on the London and Wessex and South Coast Railway—unless it is a mood of passion against the railway. She seemed, indeed, disgruntled and critical, and a tone of complaint in her voice cheered up Bobby.
"I know it's an awful old fly," said he, "but it's the best they had; the hotel motor-car is broken down or something."
"Why didn't you wire me that day," said She, "that you were going off so soon? I only got your wire from here next morning. You promised to meet me and you never turned up. I went to the Albany to see if you were in, and I saw Mr. Tozer. He said you had gone off with half a dozen people in a car——"
"Only four, not including me," cut in Bobby.
"Two ladies——"
"An old French lady and her daughter."
"Well, that's two ladies, isn't it?"
"I suppose so—you can't make it three. Then there was uncle; it's true he's a host in himself."
"How's he going on?"
"Splendidly."
"I'm very anxious to see him," said Julia. "It's so seldom one meets anyone really original in this life; most people are copies of others, and generally bad ones at that."
"That's so," said Bobby.
"How's the novel going on?" said Julia.
"Heavens!" said Bobby, "do you think I can add literary work to my other distractions? The novel is not going on, but the plot is."
"How d'you mean?"
"Uncle Simon. I've got the beginning and middle of a novel in him, but I haven't got the end."
"You are going to put him in a book?"
"I wish to goodness I could, and close the covers on him. No, I'm going to weave him into a story—he's doing most of the weaving, but that's a detail. Look here, Julia——"
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking."
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking we have made a mistake."
"Who?"
"Well, we. I didn't write, I thought I'd wait till I saw you."
"How d'you mean?" said Julia dryly.
"Us."
"Yes?"
"Well, you know what I mean. It's just this way, people do foolish things on the spur of the moment."
"What have we done foolish?"
"We haven't done anything foolish, only I think we were in too great a hurry."
"How?"
"Oh, you know, that evening at your flat."
"Oh!"
"Yes."
"You mean to say you don't care for me any more?"
"Oh, it's not that; I care for you very much."
"Say it at once," said Julia. "You care for me as a sister."
"Well, that's about it," said Bobby.
Julia was silent, and only the voice of the fly filled the air.
Then she said:
"It's just as well to know where one is."
"Are you angry?"
"Not a bit."
He glanced at her.
"Not a bit. You have met someone else. Why not say so?"
"I have," said Bobby. "You know quite well, Julia, one can't help these things."
"I don't know anything about 'these things,' as you call them; I only know that you have ceased to care for me—let that suffice."
She was very calm, and a feeling came to Bobby that she did not care so very deeply for him. It was not a pleasant feeling somehow, although it gave him relief. He had expected her to weep or fly out in a temper, but she was quite calm and ordinary; he almost felt like making love to her again to see if she had cared for him, but fortunately this feeling passed.
"We'll be friends," said he.
"Absolutely," said Julia. "How could a little thing like that spoil friendship?"
Was she jesting with him or in earnest? Bitter, or just herself?
"Is she staying at the hotel?" asked she, after a moment's silence.
"She is," said Bobby.
"It's the French girl?"
"How did you guess that?"
"I knew."
"When?"
"When you explained them and began with the old lady. But the old lady will, no doubt, have her turn next, and to the next girl you'll explain them, beginning with the girl."
Bobby felt very hot and uncomfortable.
"Now you're angry with me," said he.
"Not a bit."
"Well, let's be friends."
"Absolutely. I could never fancy you as the enemy of anyone but yourself."
Bobby wasn't enjoying the drive, and there was a mile more of it—uphill, mostly.
"I think I'll get out and give the poor old horse a chance," said he; "these hills are beastly for it."
He got out and walked by the fly, glancing occasionally at the silhouette of Julia, who seemed ruminating matters.
He was beginning to feel, now, that he had done her an injury, and she had said nothing about going back to-morrow or anything like that, and he was held as by a vice, and Cerise and he would be under the microscope, and Cerise knew nothing about Julia.
Then he got into the fly again and five minutes later they drove up to the Rose. Simon was standing in the porch as they drove up; his straw hat was on the back of his head and he had a cigar in his mouth.
He looked at Bobby and Julia and grinned slightly. It seemed suddenly to have got into his head that Bobby had been fetching a sweetheart as well as a young lady from the station. It had, in fact, and things that got into Simon's youthful head in this fashion, allied to things pleasant, were difficult to remove.
CHAPTER IV HORN—continued
Simon had been that day all alone to see Mrs. Fisher-Fisher's roses; he said so at dinner that night. He had remembered the general invitation and had taken it, evidently, as a personal one. Bobby did not enquire details; besides, his mind was occupied at that dinner-table, where Cerise was constantly seeking his glance and where Julia sat watching. Brooding and watching and talking chiefly to Simon.
She and Simon seemed to get on well together, and a close observer might have fancied that Simon was attracted, perhaps less by her charms than by the fact that he considered her Bobby's girl and was making to cut Bobby out, in a mild way, by his own superior attractions.
After dinner Simon forgot her. He had other business on hand. He had not dressed for dinner, he was simply and elegantly attired in the blue serge suit he had worn in London. Taking his straw hat and lighting a cigar, he left the others and, having strolled round the garden for a few minutes, left the hotel premises and strolled down the street.
The street was deserted. He reached the Bricklayer's Arms, and, having admired the view for a while from the porch of that hostelry, strolled into the bar.
The love of low company, which is sometimes a distinguishing feature of the youthful, comes from several causes: a taste for dubious sport, a kicking against restraint, simply the love of low company, or a kind of megalomania—a wish to be first person in the company present, a wish easily satisfied at the cost of a few pounds.
In Simon's case it was probably a compound of the lot.
In the bar of the Bricklayer's Arms he was first person by a mile; and this evening, owing to hay-harvest work, he was first by twenty miles, for the only occupant of the bar was Dick Horn.
Horn, as before hinted by Mudd, was a very dubious character. In old days he would have been a poacher pure and simple, to-day he was that and other things as well. Socialism had touched him. He desired, not only other men's game and fish, but their houses and furniture.
He was six feet two, very thin, with lantern jaws, and a dark look suggestive of Romany antecedents—a most fascinating individual to the philosopher, the police, and those members of the public of artistic leanings. He was seated smoking and in company of a brown mug of beer when Simon came in.
They gave each other good evening, Simon rapped with a half-crown on the counter, ordered some beer for himself, had Horn's mug replenished, and then sat down. The landlord, having served them, left them together, and they fell into talk on the weather.
"Yes," said Horn, "it's fine enough for them that like it, weather's no account to me. I'm used to weather."
"So am I," said Simon.
"Gentlefolk don't know what weather is," said Horn; "they can take it or leave it. It's the pore that knows what weather is."
They agreed on this point.
After a while Horn got up, craned his head round the bar partition to see that no one was listening, and sat down again.
"You remember what I said to you about them night lines?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to set some to-night down in the river below."
"By Jove!" said Simon, vastly interested.
"If you're wanting to see a bit of sport maybe you'd like to jine me?" said Horn.
For a moment Simon held back, playing with this idea, then he succumbed.
"I'm with you," said he.
"The keeper's away at Ditchin'ham that minds this bit of the stream," said Horn. "Not that it matters, for he ain't no good, and the constable's no more than a blind horse. He's away, so we'll have the place proper to ourselves, and you said you was anxious to see how night linin' was done. Well, you'll see it, if you come along with me. Mind you, it's not every gentleman I'd take on a job like this, but you're different. Mind you, they'd call this poachin', some of them blistered magistrits, and I'm takin' a risk lettin' you into it."
"I'll say nothing," said Simon.
"It's a risk all the same," said Horn.
"I'll pay you," said Simon.
"'Aff a quid?"
"Yes, here it is. What time do you start?"
"Not for two hours," said Horn. "My bit of a place is below hill there. Y'know the Ditchin'ham road?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's that shack down there on the right of the road before it jines the village. I've got the lines there and all. You walk down there in two hours' time and you'll find me at the gate."
"I'll come," said Simon.
Then these two worthies parted; Horn wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, saying he had to see a man about some ferrets, Simon walking back to the hotel.
CHAPTER V TIDD versus RENSHAW
The head of a big office or business house cannot move out of his orbit without creating perturbations. Brownlow, the head clerk and second in command of the Pettigrew business, was to learn this fact to his cost.
Brownlow was a man of forty-five, whose habits and ideas seemed regulated by clockwork. He lived at Hampstead with his wife and three children, and went each day to the office. That was the summary of his life as read by an outsider. Often the bald statement covers everything. It almost did in the case of Brownlow. He had no initiative. He kept things together, he was absolutely perfect in routine, he had a profound knowledge of the law, he was correct, a good husband and a good father, but he had no initiative, and, outside of the law, very little knowledge of the world.
Imagine this correct gentleman, then, seated at his desk on the morning of the day after that on which Simon made his poaching arrangements with Horn. He was turning over some papers when Balls, the second in command, came in. Balls was young and wore eyeglasses and had ambitions. He and Brownlow were old friends, and when together talked as equals.
"I've had that James man just in to see me," said Balls. "Same old game; wanted to see Pettigrew. He knows I have the whole thread of the case in my hands, but that's nothing to him, he wants to see Pettigrew."
"I know," said Brownlow. "I've had the same bother. They will see the head."
"When's he back?" asked Balls.
"I don't know," said Brownlow.
"Where's he gone?"
"I don't know," said Brownlow. "I only know he's gone, same as this time last year. He was a month away then."
"Oh, Lord!" said Balls, who had only joined the office nine months before and who knew nothing of last year's escapade. "A month more of this sort of bother—a month!"
"Yes," said Brownlow. "I had it to do last year, and he left no address, same as now." Then, after a moment's pause, "I'm worried about him. I can't help it, there was a strange thing happened last year. I've never told it to a soul before. He called me in one day to his room and he showed me a bundle of bank-notes. 'See here, Brownlow,' said he, 'did you put these in my safe?' I'd never seen the things before and I have no key to his private safe. I told him I hadn't. He showed me the notes, ten thousand pounds' worth. Ten thousand pounds' worth, he couldn't account for—asked me if I'd put them in his safe. I said 'No,' as I told you. 'Well, it's very strange,' said he. Then he stood looking at the floor. Then he said all of a sudden, 'It doesn't matter.' Next day he went off on a month's holiday, sending word for me to carry on."
"Queer," said Balls.
"More than queer," replied Brownlow. "I've put it down to mental strain; he's a hard worker."
"It's not mental strain," said Balls. "He's as alive as you or me and as keen, and he doesn't overwork; it's something else."
"Well, I wish it would stop," said Brownlow, "for I'm nearly worried to death with clients writing to see him and trying to invent excuses, and my work is doubled."
"So's mine," said Balls. He went out and Brownlow continued his business. He had not been engaged on it for long when Morgan, the office-boy, appeared.
"Mr. Tidd, sir, to see Mr. Pettigrew."
"Show him in," said Brownlow.
A moment later Mr. Tidd appeared.
Mr. Tidd was a small, slight, old-maidish man; he walked lightly, like a bird, and carried a tall hat with a black band in one hand and a tightly-folded umbrella in the other. Incidentally he was one of Pettigrew's best clients.
"Good morning," said Mr. Tidd. "I've called to see Mr. Pettigrew with regard to those papers."
"Oh yes," said Brownlow. "Sit down, Mr. Tidd. Those papers—Mr. Pettigrew has been considering them."
"Is not Mr. Pettigrew in?"
"No, Mr. Tidd, he's not in just at present."
"When is he likely to return?"
"Well, that's doubtful; he has left me in charge."
The end of Mr. Tidd's nose moved uneasily.
"You are in charge of my case?"
"Yes, of the whole business."
"I can speak confidentially?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, I have decided to stop proceedings—in fact, I am caught in a hole."
"Oh!"
"Yes. Mrs. Renshaw has, in some illicit manner, got a document with my signature attached—a very grave document. This is strictly between ourselves."
"Strictly."
"And she threatens to use it against me."
"Yes."
"To use it against me, unless I return to her at once the letter of hers which I put in Mr. Pettigrew's keeping."
"Oh!"
"Yes. She is a violent and very vicious woman. I have not slept all night. I live, as you perhaps know, at Hitchin. I took the first train I could conveniently catch to town this morning."
The horrible fact was beginning to dawn on Brownlow that Simon had not brought those papers back to the office. He said nothing; his lips, for a moment, had gone dry.
"How she got hold of that document with my name to it I cannot tell," said Mr. Tidd, "but she will use it against me most certainly unless I return that letter."
"Perhaps," said Brownlow, recovering himself, "perhaps she is only threatening—bluffing, as they call it."
"Oh no, she's not," said the other. "If you knew her you would not say that; no, indeed, you would not say that. She is the last woman to threaten what she will not perform. Till that document is in her hands I will not feel safe."
"You must be careful," said Brownlow, fighting for time. "How would it be if I were to see her?"
"Useless," said Mr. Tidd.
"May I ask——"
"Yes?"
"Is the document to which your name is attached, and which is in her possession, is it—er—detrimental—I mean, plainly, is it likely to do you a grave injury?"
"The document," said Mr. Tidd, "was written by me in a moment of impulse to a lady who is—another gentleman's wife."
"It is a letter?"
"Yes, it is a letter."
"I see. Well, Mr. Tidd, your document, the one you are anxious to return in exchange for this document, is in the possession of Mr. Pettigrew; it is quite safe."
"Doubtless," said Mr. Tidd, "but I want it in my hands to return it myself to-day."
"I sent it with the other papers to Mr. Pettigrew's private house," said Brownlow, "and he has not yet returned it."
"Oh! But I want it to-day."
"It's very unfortunate," said Brownlow, "but he's away—and I'm afraid he must have taken the papers with him for consideration."
"Good heavens!" said Tidd. "But if that is so what am I to do?"
"You can't wait?"
"How can I wait?"
"Dear me, dear me," said Brownlow, almost driven to distraction, "this is very unfortunate."
Tidd seemed to concur.
His lips had become pale. Then he broke out: "I placed my vital interests in the hands of Mr. Pettigrew, and now at the critical moment I find this!" said he. "Away! But you must find him—you must find him, and find him at once."
If he had only known what he would find he might have been less eager perhaps.
"I'll find him if I can," said Brownlow. He rang a bell, and when Morgan appeared he sent for Balls.
"Mr. Balls," said Brownlow with a spasmodic attempt at a wink, "can you not get Mr. Pettigrew's present address?"
Balls understood.
"I'll see," said he. Out he went, returning in a minute.
"I'm sorry I can't," said Balls. "Mr. Pettigrew did not leave his address when he went away."
"Thank you, Mr. Balls," said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, when they were alone: "This is as hard for me as for you, Mr. Tidd; I can't think what to do."
"We've got to find him," said Tidd.
"Certainly."
"Will he by any chance have left his address at his private house?"
"We can see," said Brownlow. "He has no telephone, but I'll go myself."
"I will go with you," said Tidd. "You understand me, this is a matter of life and death—ruin—my wife—that woman, and the other one."
"I see, I see, I see," said Brownlow, taking his hat from its peg on the wall. "Come with me; we will find him if he is to be found."
He hurried out, followed by Mr. Tidd, and in Fleet Street he managed to get a taxi. They got into it and drove to King Charles Street.
There was a long pause after the knock, and then the door opened, disclosing Mrs. Jukes. Brownlow was known to her.
"Mrs. Jukes," said Brownlow, "can you give me Mr. Pettigrew's present address?"
"No, sir, I can't."
"He was called away, was he not?"
"I don't think so, sir; he went off on some business or other. Mudd has gone with him."
"Oh, dear!" said Tidd.
"They stopped at the Charing Cross Hotel," said Mrs. Jukes, "and then I had a message they were going into the country. It was from Mr. Mudd, and he said they might be a month away."
"A month away!" said Tidd, his voice strangely calm.
"Yes, sir."
"Good gracious!" said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, "You see how I am placed?"
"A month away," said Tidd; he seemed unable to get over that obstacle of thought.
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Jukes.
They got into the taxi and went to the Charing Cross Hotel, where they were informed that Mr. Pettigrew was gone and had left no address.
Then suddenly an idea came to Brownlow—Oppenshaw. The doctor might know; failing the doctor, they were done.
"Come with me," said he; "I think I know a person who may have the address." He got into the taxi again with the other, gave the Harley Street address, and they drove off. The horrible irregularity of the whole of this business was poisoning Brownlow's mind—hunting for the head of a firm who ought to be at his office and who held possession of a client's vitally important document.
He said nothing, neither did Mr. Tidd, who was probably engaged in reviewing the facts of his case and the position his wife would take up when that letter was put into her hands by Mrs. Renshaw.
They stopped at 110A, Harley Street.
"Why, it's a doctor's house," said Tidd.
"Yes," said Brownlow.
They knocked at the door and were let in.
The servant, in the absence of an appointment, said he would see what he could do, and showed them into the waiting-room.
"Tell Dr. Oppenshaw it is Mr. Brownlow from Mr. Pettigrew's office," said Brownlow, "on very urgent business."
They took their seats, and while Mr. Tidd tried to read a volume of Punch upside down, Brownlow bit his nails.
In a marvellously short time the servant returned and asked Mr. Brownlow to step in.
Oppenshaw did not beat about the bush. When he heard what Brownlow wanted he said frankly he did not know where Mr. Pettigrew was; he only knew that he had been staying at the Charing Cross Hotel. Mudd, the manservant, was with him.
"It's only right that you should know the position," said Oppenshaw, "as you say you are the chief clerk and all responsibility rests on you in Mr. Pettigrew's absence." Then he explained.
"But if he's like that, where's the use of finding him?" said the horrified Brownlow. "A man with mind disease!"
"More a malady than a disease," put in Oppenshaw.
"Yes, but—like that."
"Of course," said Oppenshaw, "he may at any moment turn back into himself again, like the finger of a glove turning inside out."
"Perhaps," said the other hopelessly, "but till he does turn——"
At that moment the sound of a telephone-bell came from outside.
"Till he does turn, of course, he's useless for business purposes," said Oppenshaw; "he would have no memory, for one thing—at least, no memory of business."
The servant entered.
"Please, sir, an urgent call for you."
"One moment," said Oppenshaw. Out he went.
He was back in less than two minutes.
"I have his address," said he.
"Thank goodness!" said Brownlow.
"H'm," said Oppenshaw; "but there's not good news with it. He's staying at the Rose Hotel, Upton-on-Hill, and he's been getting into trouble of some sort. It was Mudd who 'phoned, and he seemed half off his head; said he didn't like to go into details over the telephone, but wanted me to come down to arrange matters. I told him it was quite impossible to-day; then he seemed to collapse and cut me off."
"What am I to do?"
"Well, there's only two things to be done: tell this gentleman that Mr. Pettigrew's mind is affected, or take him down there on the chance that this shock may have restored Mr. Pettigrew."
"I can't tell him Mr. Pettigrew's mind is affected," said Brownlow. "I'd sooner do anything than that. I'd sooner take him down there on the chance of his being better—perhaps even if he's not, the sight of me and Mr. Tidd might recall him to himself."
"Possibly," said Oppenshaw, who was in a hurry and only too glad of any chance of cutting the business short. "Possibly. Anyhow, there is some use in trying, and tell Mudd it's absolutely useless my going. I shall be glad to do anything I can by letter or telephone."
Brownlow took up his hat, then he recaptured Tidd and gave him the cheering news that he had Simon's address. "I'll go with you myself," said Brownlow. "Of course, the expense will fall on the office. I must send a telegram to the office and my wife to say I won't be back to-night. We can't get to Upton till this evening. We'll have to go as we are, without even waiting to pack a bag."
"That doesn't matter; that doesn't matter," said Tidd.
They were in the street now and bundling into the waiting taxi.
"Victoria Station," said Brownlow to the driver. Then to Tidd, "I can telegraph from the station."
They drove off.