Kate’s perfect self-possession and coolness always produced great effect on Mr. Crane, and in the present instance they so thoroughly convinced him that his anonymous correspondent had accused his wife falsely, that without more ado he started for the city to investigate the truth of the other charges, leaving his better-half to strive against the uncomfortable conviction that unintentionally she had played the part of a hypocrite.
One of the elements of Horace D’Almayne’s success in life was his punctuality in all matters of business: if he said he would do a thing, he did it; if he promised to be at any place by a fixed time, at the appointed day and hour there was Horace to be found: this consistency even in apparent trifles caused others to place great reliance on him, and contributed to establish a certain degree of prestige and weight of character which often stood him in good stead. No one was better aware of this fact than Horace himself; who, perceiving the value of the practice, had adopted it as one of his guiding principles, to which he invariably acted up with a consistency worthy of a better code. Accordingly, having transacted Mr. Crane’s business to his own satisfaction, he appointed a day on which to return to England, and when the time arrived, embarked; but, unable finally to conclude the transaction without proceeding to Liverpool, he selected a vessel bound for that port. On his arrival, after a favourable passage, he took up his abode at a small, quiet hotel, much frequented by foreigners. Having engaged a private room, he was looking over the papers which he had brought with him, when his quick ear caught the sound of a voice with the tones of which he fancied himself familiar—listening attentively, he overheard the following colloquy:—
“Can I have a private sitting-room here?”
“Well, sir, we’re very full; should you require a bedroom also?”
“No; I am going by the New York packet, which leaves at eight o’clock this evening.”
“If you’ll wait one moment, sir, I’ll see; but I’m a’most afraid we’re full.”
Anxious to obtain a view of the speakers, D’Almayne crossed the room with noiseless tread, and looked out through the half-opened door; the figure nearest to him was that of the waiter at the hotel; the person with whom he had been conversing was, or appeared to be, a seafaring man of the more respectable class, and at the first glance D’Almayne believed him to be an entire stranger—still, the voice, so peculiar and so well known, he surely could not be mistaken in that! and again he scrutinised the stranger’s appearance. He was a tall thin man, well advanced in life, with sharp acute features, and keen grey eyes; his hair was cut short, and of an unnaturally raven blackness; and his face was closely shaven, without the slightest trace of whisker or moustache. For a moment, Horace D’Almayne paused in doubt, during which interval the stranger’s evil genius obliged him to cough, a dry husky cough which, once heard, was not easily mistaken—it was enough. In going to seek the master of the hotel, the waiter had to pass the door of D’Almayne’s room; a sign from that individual’s finger caused him to enter it.
“Show that gentleman into this room, as if it was the untenanted apartment he has inquired for—leave the key in the lock inside, and if I ring the bell twice fetch a policeman instantly; but as I hope such an extreme measure may not be necessary, do not say a word about the affair to any one.” As he spoke, he slipped a sovereign into the man’s hand, adding, “Manage this cleverly and quietly, and a second awaits you.”
The waiter bowed, and with a nod of intelligence quitted the room. The door of the apartment was so placed that when opened it shut in an angle of the wall, in which stood a screen quite large enough to conceal the figure of a man; in this corner did D’Almayne ensconce himself; scarcely had he done so ere the waiter returned, ushering in the stranger for whose benefit these arrangements had been made. Perfectly unsuspicious of any stratagem, the new comer signified his approval of the accommodation provided for him, placed a leathern valise which he carried in his hand on the table, and then seated himself by the window with his back towards the door, which the waiter immediately closed, at the same time leaving the room, when with noiseless steps D’Almayne glided from his place of concealment, and double-locking the door placed the key in his pocket. The slight sound made by the bolt shooting into its socket attracted the stranger’s attention, and turning round quickly, he gave a most perceptible start as his eye fell upon his companion; recovering himself instantly, he rose, and bowing to D’Almayne, said—
“The waiter must have made some mistake! I asked for an unoccupied room. I must apologise for thus intruding on you, sir; but the mistake is not on my part.” As he spoke, he took up his valise preparatory to leaving the room, but D’Almayne motioned him to a chair, as he replied—