“That little pig.”
“He’s ower young to die,” sobbed my landlady.
“In the abstract I agree with you: but I am not aware that Rowley’s death is required. Say rather that he is ower young to turn King’s evidence.” I stepped back from the door. “Mrs. McRankine,” I said, “I believe you to be soft-hearted. I know you to be curious. You will be pleased to sit perfectly still and listen to me.”
And, resuming my seat, I leaned across the corner of the table and put my case before her without suppression or extenuation. Her breathing tightened over my sketch of the duel with Goguelat; and again more sharply as I told of my descent of the rock. Of Alain she said, “I ken his sort,” and of Flora twice, “I’m wonderin’ will I have seen her?” For the rest she heard me out in silence, and rose and walked to the door without a word. There she turned. “It’s a verra queer tale. If McRankine had told me the like, I’d have gien him the lie to his face.”
Two minutes later I heard the vials of her speech unsealed abovestairs, with detonations that shook the house. I had touched off my rocket, and the stick descended—on the prostrate Rowley.
And now I must face the inert hours. I sat down, and read my way through the Mercury. “The escaped French soldier, Champdivers, who is wanted in connection with the recent horrid murder at the Castle, remains at large—” the rest but repeated the advertisement of Tuesday. “At large!” I set down the paper and turned to my landlady’s library. It consisted of Derham’s “Physico- and Astro-Theology,” “The Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin,” by one Taylor, D.D., “The Ready Reckoner or Tradesman’s Sure Guide,” and “The Path to the Pit delineated, with Twelve Engravings on Copper-plate.” For distraction I fell to pacing the room, and rehearsing those remembered tags of Latin verse concerning which M. de Culemberg had long ago assured me, “My son, we know not when, but some day they will come back to you with solace if not with charm.” Good man! My feet trod the carpet to Horace’s Alcaics. Virtus recludensim meritis mori Coelum—h’m, h’m—raro—
| raro antecedentem scelestum deseruit pede Poena claudo. |
I paused by the window. In this there was no indiscretion; for a cold drizzle washed the panes, and the warmth of the apartment dimmed their inner surface.
“Pede Poena claudo,” my finger traced the words on the damp glass.
A sudden clamour of the street-door bell sent me skipping back to the fire-place with my heart in my mouth. Interminable minutes followed, and at length Mrs. McRankine entered with my ball suit from the tailor’s. I carried it into the next room, and disposed it on the bed—olive-green coat with gilt buttons and facings of watered silk, olive-green pantaloons, white waistcoat sprigged with blue and green forget-me-nots. The survey carried me on to midday and the midday meal.