Devlin the Barber

by B. L. Farjeon

"'When I come into the room,' he said, 'unbeknown and unbeware, as you egspress it, you had no ears for anything. You was staring at the paper, and your eyes was wild. What for? Is it a murder that frightens you? Foolish, stupid, because murders are so common. How many people go to bed at night and never rise from it agin, because of what happens while they sleep! This murder is strange in a sort of way, but not clever--no, not clever. A young girl, eighteen years of age, beautiful, very beautiful, with hair of gold and eyes of blue, receives a letter. From her lover? Who shall say? That is yet to be discovered in the future. "Meet me," the letter says, "in Victoria Park, at the old spot"--which proves, my dear landlady, that they have met before in the same place--"at eleven o'clock to-night." An imprudent hour for a girl so young; but, then, what will not love dare? When you and Lemon was a-courting didn't you meet him whenever he asked you at all sorts of out-of-the-way places? It is what lovers do, without asking why. "And wear," the letter goes on, "in your belt a bunch of white daisies, so that I may know it is you." Now, why that? It is the request of a bungler. If the letter was wrote by her lover--and there is at present no reason to suppose otherwise--he would recognise his sweetheart without a bunch of white daisies in her belt. What, then, is the egsplanation? That, also, is in the future to be discovered. Let us imagine something. Say that between the young girl with the hair of gold and the eyes of blue and the man that writes the letter there is a secret, the discovery of which will be bad for him. Pardon, you wish to ask something?'

"'Yes,' I said, 'about the letter. How do you know it was wrote?'

"'Did I say I know?' he answered, with his slyest, wickedest look. 'Ain't we imagining, simply imagining? Being in the dark, we must find some point to commence at, and nothing can be more natural than a letter.'

"'Was it found in the young lady's pocket?' I asked.

"'Nothing was found,' he answered, 'in the young lady's pocket.'

"'Then it ain't possible,' I said, 'that the letter could have been wrote.'

"'Sweet innocence!' said Devlin, and with all these dreadful goings on, sir, that was making me tremble in my shoes, he had the impidence to chuck me under the chin--and Lemon up-stairs in the state he was! 'What could be easier than to empty a young lady's pockets when she's laying dead before you. A job any fool could do. But the letter may be found.'

"'And the murderer, too,' I said, with a shudder, 'and hanged, I hope!'

"'I share your hope,' he said, with one of his strange laughs,' by the neck till he is dead. The more the merrier. To continue our imaginings. Between the young lady and her lover, as I said, there's a secret as would be bad for him if it was made public--as might, indeed, be the ruin of him. This secret may be revealed in the correspondence as passed between them. The chances are that those letters are not destroyed. Men are so indiscreet! Why, they often forgit there's a to-morrer. The young lady is described as being beautiful. More's the pity. Beauty's a snare. If ever I marry--which ain't likely, Mrs. Lemon--I'll marry a fright. Beautiful as the young lady is, her lover wishes to git rid of her. Perhaps he's tired of her; perhaps he's got another fancy; perhaps he's seen her twin sister, and is smit with her. There's any number of perhapses to fit the case. But the poor girl, having been brought to shame----'

"'Is that in the paper?' I asked, interrupting him.