“You just come here first,” ordered the lady resolutely. “There’s something you’ve got to know, and I mean to tell it to you before I go and look after my husband. I’m not going to be blamed afterwards, and have you say it was my fault.”
“Do hurry up,” begged Mr. Amherst piteously. “If you knew how urgent it all was, you wouldn’t chatter on like this. I’m going to give them whatever they ask for him. He’s a bachelor, and he won’t mind where he lives.”
“Your daughter,” said Mrs. Burnham, speaking with tragic emphasis, “tells me—that she’s fallen in love—at first sight—with that six foot three—called James McSomething—who’s been kicking the ball—like a young demon—between the two posts. And my advice to you is—keep ’em well apart—keep ’em hundreds of miles apart from each other!”
* * * * *
Mr. Pangbourne’s club, with the aid of James and the rest, made its way later into the Second League, and he himself secured three well-paid official appointments from the Corporation and other bodies, who were probably actuated by feelings of gratitude; the entire town joined in giving him and Miss Amherst a notable wedding present. Mr. Amherst, now honorary secretary of the Bowling Club, has married a lady of forty-five, hitherto interested only in deep-sea fishermen. And all intend to live more or less happily ever afterwards.
VII—A CASE OF SUSPICION
It was pleasant to get about the square of the station—where luggage had to be labelled and heated passengers stormed at porters and a rather stout brass bell was rung, and where at moments of pressure it did seem that the world had suddenly gone mad—pleasant to stroll there and to feel you were one of the few who recognised the identity of the quiet man smoking a briar pipe and carrying an umbrella, over near the label case. He was middle-aged, with an unobtrusive manner; in the summer he wore a straw hat sedately; he seemed to be always waiting for a train that never arrived. If a loiterer made his way into the station and stood about the bookstall longer than seemed necessary, the quiet man would go near to him, moving when he moved, stopping when he stopped, and losing no sight of him until he went off. The quiet man had apparently no friends, and the staff addressed him rarely.
Now the Station Master’s boy knew that this man was a retired member of the police force, the plain-clothes detective attached to the terminus. And in connection with a predecessor of this mysterious official they told him, in the Up Parcels Office, an incident.
* * * * *
Sergeant Bellchambers had not succeeded in gaining the popularity that most men, in this world, desire, but one or two of his first investigations received favourable comment from the General Manager, and this repaid him for lack of sympathy from others. It was said that in the M division they had been glad to see him take his pension and go, the opinion of the Inspector’s desk being that Bellchambers was a born muddler. This might have been the invention of the station staff; what was quite certain was that in his reports on blue paper in the early cases referred to he fixed blame on men whom the station considered innocent, and these men were, in consequence, fined or reduced. Moreover, he had not been content with singling out individuals and recommending them for the stocks, but he condemned an entire department; for which reason the station said darkly: