“I suppose you are wondering how a five-hundred-guinea picture like that came here, sir,” said Tom Scott’s voice, so close behind the chair that father started, only to give a second and more emphatic jump and ejaculate, “Bless me! for a moment I took you for a burglar,” as the man came forward and stood leaning against the mantel, upon which he set a small bull’s-eye lantern. Usually so carefully dressed and precise, even when working as he often did about his stable and garden, Scott had undergone a complete transformation. A close-fitting cap pulled down about his ears touched the collar of a dull gray sweater, below which were tightly fitting knee breeches, long stockings, and flexible, heelless shoes; a stout bag that he brought in he dropped on the floor, and it gave out a clank, suggestive of handcuffs and chains.
For a moment after father spoke, Scott coloured deeply, even allowing for the firelight, and then he repeated the question concerning the picture.
“Yes, I must confess that I am curious to know something of the history of that painting,” replied father, speaking slowly and peering from half-closed lids, “for though it is evidently what is called a fancy piece, there is something about it that makes me feel that it was a real happening and the woman real flesh and blood.”
It was Tom Scott’s turn to start and scan father’s face narrowly. Whatever he read there evidently satisfied him, for he said quickly, as if determined to speak before he changed his mind, “She was real flesh and blood, and she is still, please God. The woman in the picture is my wife!”
“Your wife? Not the Mrs. Scott that I know and have tended?”
“Yes, there’s never been but one for me. Of course I’ll not say that she’s as slim and girlish as she was twenty-five years ago, but she’s just as game and true as she was that night. If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you the story of it all, and not make it long. Moreover, it will be a kindness to me. For some time back I’ve felt that I must share those days with some man that I could trust, and now, to-night, with all this rat talk, and the missus who knows being gone, I must speak it out to some one or lose my grip. No, don’t look troubled, sir, it’s no crime, only something I’ve held back for the good of my girls, as I thought, and if I do right or wrong, it’s for you to help me judge, Dr. Russell.
“Some people hereabout, as well as in other places, have wondered where and how I got my start, and if the money I have was rightly come by. Yes, sir, I see by your face that you’ve heard this, and I’ll not attempt to deny that, since leaving my trade, I’ve taken enough trouble to hide it to make people suspect more than there is to tell.”
Opening one of the cupboards with a key fastened to his pocket by a chain, he took out a small double leather case; one side contained a photograph of an old lady in a black gown and a white puffed widow’s cap; from the opposite opening, he drew a thick card, yellow from its rest in the dark, and handed it to father. Printed on it in heavy letters were these words: “Successor to the original Harry Leverings—Rat-catcher. At the old stand—2100 West 42d St.—Contracts made for clearing hotels and public buildings.—No poisons used, traps and strictly reliable men only employed.” Across the bottom in silhouette were a string of steel traps and a bevy of scurrying rats.
Taking the card from father, whose face certainly expressed all the interest necessary to encourage the narrator, Scott placed it on the mantel-shelf as a sort of prompter, and straightway plunged into the story:—