"Two lies," said Mr. Fanks for the third time, as he rolled himself up in the bed-clothes and blew out the candle. "He hadn't seen her since Ventnor. He hadn't heard from her since Ventnor. Wonderful self-denial for a young man in love. I'd like to know more about Roger's little romance."
Extracts from a Detective's Note-Book
"Can't make Axton out . . . Most curious conversation—inquisitive on my part, evasive on his . . . He told me two lies . . . In fact, during the whole conversation he seemed to be on his guard. . . . I don't like the look of things . . . I have no right to pry into Axton's affairs, but I can't understand his denials—denials which I could tell from his manner were false . . . Queer thing about Ironfields . . . The dead man came from Ironfields . . . Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields . . . Qy. Can there be any connection between the deceased and Miss Varlins? . . . Impossible, and yet it's very strange . . . I don't like that open door either . . . That is extraordinary . . . Then the letter written by the deceased . . . I asked at the post office here about it . . . They could tell me nothing . . . I wonder to whom that letter was sent? . . . I think it's the key to the whole affair . . . Can Roger Axton be keeping anything from me? . . . Did he know the dead man? . . . I am afraid to answer these questions . . . Well, I'll go down to Ironfields and find out all about the dead man . . . Perhaps my inquiries will lead me to Miss Varlins . . . But no, there can be no connection, and yet I doubt Roger . . . I mistrust him . . . I don't like his manner . . . his evasive replies . . . And then he's connected with Miss Varlins—she is connected with Ironfields . . . That is connected with the deceased . . . All links in a chain . . . Most extraordinary.
"Mem.—To go at once to Ironfields."
[Chapter 4]
The Evidence of the Chemist's Assistant
Ironfields is not a pretty place; not even its warmest admirer could say it was pretty, but then its warmest admirer would not want to say anything of the kind. Well drained, well laid out, well lighted, it could—according to the minds of its inhabitants—easily dispense with such mere prettiness or picturesqueness as crooked-streeted, gable-mansioned towns, dating from the Middle Ages, could boast of. Poor things, those sleepy cathedral towns, beautified by the hand of Time—poor things indeed compared with vast Ironfields, the outcome of a manufacturing century and a utilitarian race! Ironfields with its lines of ugly model houses, its broad, treeless streets, its muddy river flowing under a hideous railway bridge, its mighty foundries with their tall chimneys that belched forth smoke in the daytime, and fire at night, and its ceaseless clamour that roared up to the smoke-hidden sky six days in the week.
The inhabitants were a race of Cyclops. Rough, swarthy men of herculean build, scant of speech and of courtesy, worn-looking women, with vinegary faces peering sharply at every one from under the shawls they wore on their tousled heads, and tribes of squalling brats, with just enough clothes for decency, grimy with the smoky, sooty atmosphere, looking like legions of small devils as they played in the barren streets, piercing the deafening clamour with their shrill, unchildlike voices. A manufacturing town, inhabited by humanity with no idea of beauty, with no desire beyond an increase of weekly wage, or an extra drink at the public-house. Humanity with a hard, unlovely religion expounded in hideous little chapels by fervid preachers of severe principles. A glorious triumph of our highest civilisation, this matter-of-fact city, with its creed of work, work, work, and its eyes constantly on the sordid things of this earth, and never raised to the blue sky of heaven. A glorious triumph indeed—for the capitalists.
When it rained—which it did frequently—Ironfields was sloppy, and when Ironfields was sloppy it was detestable; for the rain coming down through the smoky cloud that constantly lowered over the town, made everything, if possible, more grimy than before. But Ironfields was quite content; it was a name of note in commercial circles, and its products went forth to the four quarters of the world, bringing back in exchange plenty of money, of which a great deal found its way into the pockets of the master, and very little into those of the man.
The country around was not pretty. Nature, with that black, ugly, clamorous city constantly before her eyes, lost heart in her work, and did not attempt to place beauties before the eyes of people who did not know anything about beauty, and would have thought it a very useless thing if they had. So the fields lying round Ironfields were only a shade better than the city itself, for the shadow of smoke lay over everything, and where sunshine is not, cheerfulness is wanting.