CHAPTER X.
THE UNHEEDED WARNING
Thorndyke’s warning, so emphatically expressed, ought to have been alike unnecessary and effective. As a matter of fact, it was neither. I suppose that to a young man, not naturally timorous, the idea of a constantly lurking danger amidst the prosaic conditions of modern civilization is one that is not readily accepted. At any rate, the fact is that I continued to walk abroad by day and by night with as much unconcern as if nothing unusual had ever befallen me. It was not that the recollection of those horrible hours in the poisoned cellar had in any way faded. That incident I could never forget. But I think, that in the back of my mind, there still lingered the idea of a homicidal lunatic; though that idea had been so scornfully rejected by Thorndyke.
But before I describe the amazing experience by which I once more came within a hair’s breadth of sudden and violent death, I must refer to another incident; not because it seemed to be connected with that alarming occurrence, but because it came first in the order of time, and had its own significance later.
It was a couple of days after Thorndyke’s visit that I walked down the Hampstead Road with the intention of fetching the sketch from the artist’s-colourman’s. The shop was within a few hundred yards of Jacob Street, and as I crossed the end of that street, I was just considering whether I ought to look in on Batson, when a lady bowed to me and made as if she would stop. It was Mrs. Samway. Of course, I stopped and shook hands, and while I was making the usual polite enquiries, I felt myself once more impressed with the unusualness of the woman. Even in her dress she was unlike other women, though not in the least eccentric or bizarre. At present, she was clothed from head to foot in black; but a scarlet bird’s wing in the coquettish little velvet toque, and a scarlet bow at her throat, gave an effect of colour that, unusual as it was, harmonized completely and naturally with her jet-black hair and her strange, un-English beauty.
“So you haven’t started for Paris yet,” I remarked.
“No,” she replied; “my husband has gone and may, perhaps, come back. At any rate, I am staying in England for the present.”
“Then I may possibly have the pleasure of seeing you again,” I said, and she graciously replied that she hoped it might be so, as we shook hands and parted.
A few minutes later, in the artist’s-colourman’s shop, I had another chance meeting and a more agreeable one. The proprietor had just produced the sketch, now greatly improved in appearance by being strained on a stretcher, when the glass door opened and a young lady entered the shop. Imagine my surprise when that young lady turned out to be none other than Miss Vyne.
“Well,” I exclaimed, as we mutually recognized each other, “what an extraordinary coincidence!”
“I don’t see that it is very extraordinary,” she replied. “Most of the Hampstead people come here because it’s the nearest place where you can get proper artist’s materials. Is that the sketch you were telling me about?”
“Yes,” I answered; “and it’s the pick of the loot. But it isn’t too late to alter your mind. Say the word and it’s yours.”
“Well,” she replied, with a smile, “I am not going to say the word, but I want to thank you for rescuing those other treasures for me.”
She had, as a matter of fact, already thanked me in a very pretty little note, but I was not averse to her mentioning the subject again. We stepped back to the door, and in the brighter light, looked at the sketch together.
“It’s a pity,” she remarked, “that he handled it so carelessly before the paint was hard. Those finger-marks wouldn’t matter a bit on a brush-painted surface; but on the smooth knife-surface they are rather a disfigurement.”
She placed the sketch in my hand, and I backed nearer to the glass door to get a better light. Happening to glance up, I noticed that a sudden and very curious change had come over her; a look of haughty displeasure and even anger, apparently directed at somebody or something outside the shop.
For a few moments I took no notice; then, half-unconsciously, I looked round just as some person moved away from the door. I looked once more at Miss Vyne. She was quite unmistakably angry. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a resentful light in her eyes that gave her an expression quite new to me.
I suppose she caught my enquiring glance for she exclaimed:
“Did you see that woman? I never heard of such impertinence in my life.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She came right up to the doorway and looked over your shoulder; and then stared at me in the most singular and insolent manner. I could have slapped her face.”
“Not through the glass door,” I suggested; on which her anger subsided in a ripple of laughter as quickly as it had arisen. “What was this objectionable person like?” I asked. “Was she a char-woman or a slavey?”
“Oh, not at all,” replied Miss Vyne. “Quite a ladylike looking person, except for her manners. Rather tastefully dressed, too; a black and vermilion scheme of colour.”
The reply startled me a little. “Had she a scarlet bird’s wing in her hat?” I asked.
“Yes, and a scarlet bow at her throat. I hope you are not going to say that you know her.”
It was a rather delicate situation. I could not actually disavow the acquaintance, but I did not feel inclined to have a black and scarlet fly introduced into the sweet-smelling ointment of my intercourse with the fair Sylvia; so I explained with great care the exact scope of the acquaintance; on which Miss Vyne remarked that “she supposed that doctors could not be held responsible for the people they knew”; and proceeded to make her purchases.
I did not take the sketch away with me after all, for it occurred to me that I might as well leave it to be framed; but instead, I carried forth with me the parcel containing Miss Vyne’s purchases. I had not far to carry it, for she was returning at once to Hampstead. I was tempted to return, for the sake of enjoying a chat with her, too, but discreetly withstood the temptation, and, having escorted her to a tram, I turned my face south and walked away at a leisurely pace into the jaws of an all-unsuspected danger.
It was some hours, however, before anything remarkable happened.
My immediate objective was Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where, at the College of Surgeons, a lecture on Epidermic Appendages was to be delivered by the Hunterian Professor; and there, in the college theatre, I spent a delightful hour while the genial professor took his hearers with him on a personally-conducted tour among structures that ranged from the plumage of the sun-bird to the dermal plates of the crocodile, from the silken locks of beauty to the quills of the porcupine or the mail of the armadillo.
When I came out, the dusk was just closing in. It was a slightly foggy evening. The last glow of the sunset in the western sky lighted up the haze into a rosy background, against which the shadowy buildings were relieved in shapes of cloudy grey. It was a lovely effect; an effect such as London alone can show, and fugitive as a breath on a mirror. As I sauntered westward up the Strand I presently bethought me that, before the light should have faded completely, I would see how the effect looked by the riverside. Walking quickly down Buckingham Street, I came out on to the Embankment and looked into the west. But the light was nearly gone, the shadows of evening were closing in fast, and the fog, creeping up the river, ushered in the night.
I leaned on the parapet and watched the last glimmer die away; watched the darkness deepen on the river and the faint lights on the barges moored on the southern shore at first twinkle pallidly and then fade out as the fog thickened. I lit my pipe and looked down at the dark water swirling past, and gradually fell into a train of half-dreamy meditation.
Not for the first time since the occurrence, my thoughts turned to Mrs. Samway. Why had she stared at Miss Vyne in that singular manner—if indeed it was really Mrs. Samway, and if she really had stared in the manner alleged? It was an odd affair; but, after all, it did not very much matter. And with this, my thoughts rambled off in a new direction.
It was to the cottage on the Heath that they wandered this time, and the picture of Thorndyke’s cat-like prowlings and pryings arose before me. That was very queer, too. Was it possible that this learned and astute man habitually went about eagerly probing into the personal habits and trivial actions of chance strangers? The apparently puerile inquisitiveness that he had displayed seemed totally out of character with all that I knew about the man; but then it often happens that the private life of public men develops personal traits that are surprising and disappointing to those who have only known them in connection with their public activities.
I had become so completely immersed in my thoughts as to be almost oblivious of what was happening around. Indeed, there was mighty little happening. The gathering darkness and the thin fog limited my view to a few square yards. Now and again, a muffled hoot from the lower river spoke of life and movement on the water, and at long intervals an occasional wayfarer would pass along the pavement behind me.
My reflections had reached the point recorded above, when a person emerged from the obscurity near to the parapet and approached as if to pass close behind me. I only caught the dusky shape indistinctly with the tail of my eye; so indistinctly that I could not say certainly whether it was that of a man or a woman, for I was still gazing down at the dark water. He or she approached quietly, swerving towards me across the wide pavement, and was in the act of passing quite close to me when the thing happened. Of a sudden, I felt my knees clasped in a powerful grip, and at the same moment I was lifted off my feet and thrust forward over the parapet. Instinctively, I clutched at the stonework, but its flat surface offered nothing for my fingers to grasp. Then my assailant let go, and the next instant I plunged head-first into the icy water.
It was fortunate for me that the tide was nearly full, else must I, almost certainly, have broken my neck. As it was, my head struck on the firm mud at the bottom with such force, that for some moments I was half-stunned. Nevertheless, I must have struck out automatically, for when I began to recover my wits my head was above water, and I was swimming as actively as my clinging garments would let me. But, apparently, in those moments of dazed semi-consciousness, I must have struck out towards the middle of the river, for now I was encompassed by a murky void in which nothing was visible save one or two reddish, luminous patches—presumably, the lamps on the Embankment.
Towards one of these I turned and struck out vigorously. The water was desperately cold, and hampered as I was with my clothing, I felt that I should not be able to keep myself afloat very long, strong swimmer as I was. The dim, red nebulæ of the unseen lamps moved past slowly, showing me that I was drifting down on the ebb-tide. Before me, I knew, was the long, inhospitable wall of the Embankment. True, there were some steps, if I was not mistaken, by Cleopatra’s Needle, but the question was whether I had not drifted past them already. I had given one or two lusty shouts as soon as I had cleared my chest of the mouthful of water that I got in my first plunge, and I was now letting off another yell, when, out of the darkness behind me, came a prolonged hoot.
I looked round quickly in the direction whence the sound had come, and then became aware of the churning of a propeller. Almost at the same moment, a dim, ruddy smudge of light broke through the darkness over the river, and began rapidly to brighten until it took the form of the twin mast-head lights of a tug with a vessel in tow.
For a moment I hesitated. My first impulse was to avoid the danger of being run down; but suddenly I altered my mind. For, as the tug bore down on me, with a roaring of water and a loud clank of machinery, I saw that she was not absolutely end-on, for her green starboard light, which had been for a moment visible, suddenly disappeared. Of what happened during the next few moments, I have but a confused recollection. A splashing and churning, with the loud wash of water, the throb of the engines and a glare of light which blazed before my eyes for a moment, to vanish in an instant into pitchy darkness; a huge, black object, felt rather than seen to sweep past before me; and then my hand clutched a wooden projection, and I felt myself dragged violently through the water. The projection that I had laid hold of was the lee-board of a sailing barge, as I discovered when the rush of the water banged me against it; and much ado I had to hold on, with the water dragging at me and spouting up over my head. But, with what strength was left to me, I reached out with the other hand and clawed hold of the dwarf bulwark over which the water was lapping; and so, with a last violent effort, contrived to drag myself up on to the deck.
I essayed to stand up, and did, in fact, succeed, but as my sensations suggested those of a leaden statue with india-rubber legs, I sat down hastily on the hatch-cover to avoid going overboard. And there I sat for a minute or two leaning against the lowered mast with my teeth chattering, and seeming to grow more and more chilled and exhausted every moment.
Numb as my mind was by this time, my medical instincts told me that this would not do. Somehow I must get warmth and shelter, for I might as well have been drowned at once as die of exposure and cold. I looked round lethargically. There was no sign of anyone on board. Another barge was towing alongside, and the bows of two others were dimly visible astern. On those rear-most barges there must certainly have been someone steering. But they were inaccessible to me, and I had not the energy to shout; nor could anyone have got across to me if I had.
Suddenly my eye fell on the little chimney that rose by the cabin scuttle. A thin stream of smoke issued from it and blew away astern. Perhaps, then, the crew were below, or, if not, at least there was a fire. I crawled aft, holding on with my hands, and, pushing back the scuttle, backed cautiously down the ladder closing the scuttle after me.
There seemed to be nobody below, and the cabin was in darkness, save for the glow of the fire that burned in the little grate. The air was probably warm, though to me it felt icy; but, at least, there was no wind to play on my wet clothes.
I sat down on the locker as near to the fire as I could, and rested my elbows on the little triangular table. Chilled to the marrow and utterly exhausted, I was sensible of a growing desire to sleep; a desire which I repressed, as I believed, with noble resolution. But apparently my efforts in this respect were not so successful as I had supposed, for the next incident opened with suspicious suddenness.
A vigorous shake, which dislodged one of my elbows, introduced the episode.
I looked up, blinking sulkily, at a bright and most objectionably dazzling light, which further inspection showed to proceed from a hurricane lamp held by a rather dirty hand.
“Here, wake up, mister,” said a hoarse voice, “this here ain’t the Hotel Cecil, you know.”
I sat up and stared vaguely at the speaker, or at least, the holder of the lamp, but could not think of anything appropriate to say. Then another voice emerged from nowhere in particular.
“ ’E’s been overboard, that’s what ’e’s been.”
“Any fool can see that,” said the first man; “but the question is, who is he and what’s he a-doin’ in my cabin? Who are yer, mister?”
Now, that would seem to be a perfectly simple and straightforward question. But it is not so simple as it seems. To a complete stranger, the bare mention of a name is unilluminating. Further explanations are needed. And at that moment I did not feel equal to explanations. Besides, I was not so very clear on the subject myself. Consequently, I preserved a silence which, perhaps, was wooden rather than golden.
“D’ye ’ear?” persisted the first man. “I’m a-arskin’ you a question.”
“What’s the good of arskin’ questions of a man what’s been a-rammin’ ’is crumpet aginst the bottom of the river?” protested the other man.
“What d’ye mean?” demanded the first mariner.
“Can’t you see?” retorted the other, “as ’e’s took the ground ’ard? Look at ’is ’ed.”
Here the first mariner—Lucifer, or lamp-bearer—wiped his hand over the top of my head and then examined the tip of his forefinger critically as though it were the arming of a deep-sea lead.
“You’re right, Abel,” said he. “That’s mud off the bottom, that is. He must have took a regular header. Sooicide perhaps, and altered his mind. Found it a bit damper’n what he expected. Put the kittle on, Abe.”
From this moment, the two mariners treated me as if I had been a lay-figure. Silently, they peeled off my wet clothes, and dried my skin with vigorous friction as if it had been a wet deck. They not only asked no further questions, but when I would have spoken they urged me to economize my wind. They inducted me into stiff and hairy garments of uncouth aspect, and finally, Abe set before me on the table a large earthenware mug, the contents of which steamed and diffused through the cabin a strong odour of Dutch gin.
“You git outside that, mister,” said the luminiferous mariner (who turned out subsequently to be the skipper), “and then you’d best turn in.”
The treatment was not strictly orthodox, but I obeyed without demur. Most people would have done the same under the circumstances. But the process of “getting outside” it took time, for the grog was boiling hot and had been brewed with a flexible wrist. By the time that I had emptied the mug I was not only revived, but (so far as my memory serves) rather disposed to be garrulously explanatory and facetious. I even felt a slight inclination to sing. But my friends would stand no nonsense. As soon as the mug was fairly empty, they bundled me, neck and crop, into a sort of elongated cupboard and proceeded to pile on me untold quantities of textile fabrics, including a complete suit of oilskins. Then they commanded me to go to sleep; which I believe I must have done almost instantly.
CHAPTER XI.
A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
Awakening in a strange place is always a memorable experience; especially to the young, in whom the capacity for novel sensations has not yet been exhausted by repetition. When I emerged, somewhat gradually, from the unconsciousness of sleep, my first impressions concerned themselves with the unusual appearance of the bedroom wall and its remarkable proximity to my nose. I further noticed that the bedstead had become inexplicably tilted and that the house appeared to be swaying; and as I mused on these phenomena with the vagueness of the half-awake, a loud voice, proceeding apparently from the floor above, roared out the mystic words, “Lee O!” whereupon there ensued a sound like the shaking of colossal table cloths and the loud clanking of chains, and my bedstead took a sharp tilt to the opposite side. This roused me pretty completely, and, turning over in the bunk, I looked out into the barge’s cabin.
It was broad daylight and evidently not early, for a square patch of sunlight crept to and fro on the little table, whence presently it slipped down to the floor and slithered about unsteadily, as if Phœbus had overdone his morning dram and could not drive his chariot straight. I watched it lazily for some time and then, becoming conscious of a vacancy within, crept out from under the mountain of bedclothes and made my way to the ladder.
As I put my head through the companion hatch, a man who stood at the wheel regarded me stolidly.
“So you’ve woke up, have yer?” said he. “Thought you was going right round the clock. Abel! he’s woke up. Tell young Ted to stand by with them heggs and that there ’addick.”
Here Abel looked round from behind the luff of the mainsail, and having verified the statement, conveyed the order to some invisible person in the fore-peak. Then he came aft with an obvious air of business. The time for explanations had arrived.
Accordingly I proceeded to “pitch them my yarn,” as they expressed it; to which they listened with polite attention and manifest disappointment, clearly regarding the story as a fabrication from beginning to end. And no wonder. The whole affair was utterly incredible even to me; to them it must have seemed sheer nonsense. Their own verdict of “sooicide” during very temporary insanity with sudden mental recovery, under the influence of cold water, was so much more rational. Not that they obtruded their views. They listened patiently and said nothing; and nothing that they could have said could have been more expressive.
Meanwhile I looked about me with no little surprise. Some miles away to the south lay a stretch of low land, faint and grey, with a single salient object, apparently a church with two spires. In every other direction was the unbroken sea horizon.
“You seem to have made a pretty good passage,” I remarked.
“We’ve had sixteen hours to do it in,” replied the skipper, “and spring tides and a nice bit of breeze. If it ’ud only hold—which I’m afraid it won’t—we’d be in Folkestone Harbour this time to-morrow, or even sooner. Folkestone be much out of your way?”
I smiled at the artlessness of the question. It was undeniable that the route from Charing Cross to Hampstead by way of Folkestone was slightly indirect. But there was no need to insist on the fact. My hospitable friends had acted for the best and their prudence was justified by the result; for here I was, not a whit the worse for my ducking save that I badly wanted a bath.
“Folkestone will suit me quite well,” I replied, “if there is enough money left in my pockets to pay my fare home.”
“That’s all right,” said the skipper. “I cleared out your pockets myself. You’ll find the things in a mug in the starboard locker. Better overhaul ’em when you go below and see if you’ve dropped anything. Here comes young Ted with your grub.”
As he spoke the apprentice rose through the fore-hatch like a stage apparition—if one can imagine an apparition burdened with a tin tea-pot, two “heggs” and an “ ’addick”—and came grinning along the weather side-deck, to vanish through the cabin hatchway. I followed gleefully, and, almost before young Ted had finished the somewhat informal table arrangements, fell to on the food with voracious joy.
“If you want any more eggs or anythink,” said the apprentice, “all you’ve got to do is just to touch the electric bell and the waiter’ll come and take your orders,” and having delivered this delicate shaft of irony he presented me with an excellent back view of a pair of brown dreadnoughts as he retired up the ladder.
As I consumed the rough but excellent breakfast I reflected on the strange events that had placed me in my present odd situation. For the first time, I began fairly to realize that I was in some way involved in a nexus of circumstances that I did not in the least understand. I had an enemy; a vindictive enemy, too, in whose eyes mere human life was a thing of no account. But who could he be? I knew of no one on whom I had ever inflicted the smallest injury. I bore no man any grudge and had never to my knowledge had unfriendly dealings with any human creature. Was this inveterate enemy of mine anyone whom I knew? Or was he some stranger whose path I had crossed without knowing it, and whom I should not recognize even if I saw him?
This last supposition was highly disquieting, especially as it seemed rather probable; for if my enemy was unknown to me, what precautions could I take?
Then, again, there was the question! What was the occasion of this extraordinary vendetta? What had I done to this man that he should pursue me with such deadly purpose? As to Jervis’s suggestion, that I had seen something at the Samways’ house that I was not wanted to see, there was nothing in it; for, as a matter of fact, I had seen nothing. There was nothing to see. The man Maddock was certainly dead. As to what he died of, that was Batson’s affair; but even in that there was no sign of anything suspicious. The man himself had consulted Batson, and had thought so badly of himself that he had made his will in Batson’s presence. The patient himself was fully aware of his serious condition; it was only Batson, with his eternal hurry and bustle and his defective eyesight, who had missed observing it. The only circumstance that supported Jervis’s view was that the acts of violence seemed to be connected with the locality of Batson’s house.
Of course there remained the mystery of the dead priest or lay-brother. But with that these attempts seemed to have no connection. Nor was there any reason why the murderer should pursue me. I had seen the body, it is true; but nobody believed me and no proceedings were being taken. Nor could I have identified the murderer if I had been confronted with him. Clearly, he had nothing to fear from me.
From the causes of my present predicament I passed to the immediate future. I should have to get back from Folkestone, and I ought to send a telegram to my landlady, Mrs. Blunt, who would probably be in a deuce of a twitter about me. I raised the lid of the locker, and, reaching out the big earthenware mug, emptied its contents on the table. All my portable property seemed to be there, including the little gold reliquary, which I had carelessly carried in my pocket ever since I had shown it to Thorndyke. My available funds were some four or five pounds; amply sufficient to get me home and to discharge my liability to the skipper as well. I swept the things back into the mug, which I returned to the locker, and having cut myself another thick slice of bread, proceeded with the largest breakfast that I have ever eaten.
The skipper’s forebodings were justified by the course of events. When I came on deck the breeze had died down to a mere faint breath, hardly sufficient to keep the big red main-sail asleep—as the pretty old nautical phrase has it. The skipper was still at the wheel and Abel was anxiously taking soundings with a hand-lead.
“You won’t do it, Bill,” said the latter, coiling up the lead-line with an air of finality, “this ’ere breeze is a-petering right out.”
The skipper said nothing, but stared gloomily at the land which was now right ahead and much nearer than when I had last looked; and from the land his eye travelled to a sand-bank from which rose a tall post at the top of which was an inverted cone.
“Ought to a-gone about a bit sooner, Bill,” pursued Abel; whereupon the skipper turned on him fiercely.
“What’s the good o’ saying that now?” he demanded. “If you’d a-told me the wind was going to drop, I’d a-gone about sooner. What water is there?”
“Five fathom here,” replied Abel; “that means one and a quarter on the Woolpack. You’d best shove her nose round now, Bill.”
“Oh, all right!” retorted the skipper, “Lee O! This is going to be an all-night job, this is,” and with this gloomy prediction, he spun the wheel round viciously, and once more headed away from the land.
Prophecy appeared to be the skipper’s specialty and, like most prophets, he tended to view the future with an unfavourable eye. Gradually the breeze died away into a dead calm, so that we had presently to let go the anchor to avoid drifting on to a great sand-bank which now lay between us and the land. And here we remained not only for the rest of the day and the succeeding night, as the skipper had promised, but throughout the whole of the next day and following night.
I have already remarked on the incalculable chances by which the course of a man’s life is determined. Looking back now, I see that the skipper’s little miscalculation and his failure to cross the Woolpack Shoal into the inshore channel, was an antecedent determining the most momentous consequences for me. For had the barge been becalmed in the inshore channel, I could, and should, have landed in the boat and returned home forthwith; and if I had, certain events would not have happened and my life might have run a very different course. As it was, miles of sea and the great bank known as the Margate Sand, lay between me and the shore; whence I was committed to the wanderings and dallyings of the barge as irrevocably as if we were crossing the Pacific.
We lay, then, in the Queen’s Channel, outside Margate Sand, for two whole days and nights; during which time the skipper and Abel slept much and smoked more, and young Ted, having cleaned and dried my clothes, inducted me into the art of bottom-fishing. On the third day, a faint breath of breeze enabled us to crawl round the North Foreland, and the skipper having elected to pass outside the Goodwin, managed to get becalmed again in the neighbourhood of the East Goodwin Lightship. A little breeze at night enabled us to move on a few miles farther; and so we continued to crawl along at intervals, mainly on the tide, until nine o’clock in the morning of the fifth day, when we finally crawled into Folkestone Harbour.
As soon as the barge was brought up to a buoy, young Ted was detailed to put me ashore in the boat. The skipper and Abel had insisted on treating me as a guest, and I had perforce to accept the position. But young Ted had no such pride; and when I ran up the wooden steps by the old fish-market, I left him on the stage below, staring with an incredulous grin at a gold coin in his none-too-delicate palm.
I was not sorry to be landed in this unfashionable quarter of the town, for in spite of young Ted’s efforts, my turn-out left much to be desired, especially in the matter of shirt-cuffs and collar, and I was, moreover, hatless and somewhat imperfectly shaved. Accordingly, I slunk inconspicuously past the market and the groups of lounging fishermen, and when I saw a well-dressed, lady-like woman preceding me into the little narrow street, known as the Stade, I slackened my pace so as not to overtake her. She sauntered along with a leisurely air as if she were waiting for something or somebody, and this and the fact that she carried a light canvas portmanteau and a rug, suggested to me that she was probably travelling by the cross-channel boat which was due to start presently.
Suddenly my attention was diverted from her by a loud chattering and a series of shouts. A small crowd of men and women ran excitedly past the end of the little street. The clattering rapidly drew nearer; and then a horse, with a light van, swept round the corner and passing under an archway, advanced at a furious gallop. Evidently the horse had bolted and now, mad with terror, dashed forward with trailing reins, zigzagging erratically and making the van sway to and fro, so that it took up the whole of the narrow street. The few wayfarers darted into doorways and sheltered corners, and I was about to secure my own safety in a similar manner, when I noticed that the woman in front of me had apparently become petrified with terror, for she stood stock still, gazing helplessly at the approaching horse. It was no time for ceremony. The infuriated animal and the swaying van were thundering up the street like an insane Juggernaut. With a hasty apology, I seized the woman from behind, and half-dragged, half-carried her to the opening of a little yard beside a sail-loft. And even then, I was hardly quick enough, for as the van roared past, some projecting object struck me between the shoulders and sent me flying, face downwards, on to a pile of tarred drift-net.
I had had the presence of mind to let go, as I was struck, so that my fair protegée was not involved in my downfall; but in a moment, she was stooping over me, and with many expressions of concern, endeavouring to help me to rise. Beyond a thump in the back, however, I was not hurt in the least, but picked myself up, grinning and turned to reassure her. And then I really did get a shock; for as I turned, the woman gave a shriek and fell back on the steps of the sail-loft, gasping, and staring at me with an expression of the utmost astonishment and terror. I supposed the accident had upset her nerves; but to be sure, my own received, as I have said, a pretty severe shock. For the woman was Mrs. Samway.
We remained for a moment or two gazing at one another in mute astonishment. Then I recollected myself, and advanced to shake hands; but to my discomfiture, she shrank away from me and began to sob and laugh in an unmistakably hysterical fashion. I must confess that I was somewhat surprised at these manifestations in so robust a woman as Mrs. Samway. Unreasonably so, indeed, for all women-kind are more or less prone to hysteria; but whereas the normal woman tends to laugh and cry, the weaker vessels develop inexplicable diseases, with a tendency to social reform and emancipation.
I put on my best bedside manner, at once matter-of-fact and persuasive. “You seem quite upset,” I said, “and all about nothing, for the poor beggar of a horse must be half a mile away by now.”
“Yes,” she answered shakily, “it’s ridiculous of me, but it was so sudden and so—” here she laughed noisily, and as the laugh ended in a portentous sniff, I hastened to continue the conversation.
“Yes, it was a bit of a facer to see that beast coming up the street as if it was Tottenham Corner. Why on earth didn’t you get out of the way?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” she answered. “I seemed to be paralyzed and idiotic and—” here the laughter began again.
“Well,” I interrupted cheerfully, “you didn’t get rolled on those tarred nets, so that’s something to be thankful for.”
This was a rather unlucky shot, for the semblance of facetiousness started a most alarming train of giggles, interrupted by rather loud sobs; but at this point, a new curative influence made itself manifest. Two smack boys halted outside the opening and surveyed her with frank interest and pleased surprise. Simultaneously, an elderly mariner appeared at the door of the sail-loft, grasping a black bottle and a tea-cup, and rather shyly descending the steps, suggested that “perhaps a drop o’ sperits might do the lady good.”
Mrs. Samway bounced off the steps, her hitherto pale cheeks aflame with anger. “I am making a fool of myself,” she exclaimed. “Let us go away from here.”
She walked out into the street, and I, having thanked the old gentleman for his most efficacious remedy, followed. As soon as I caught her up, she turned on me quickly and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Dr. Jardine,” she said, “and thank you so very much for risking your life for a—for a wretched giggling woman.”
“Oh, you’re not going to send me packing like this,” I protested, “when we’ve hardly said good morning. Besides, you’re not fit to be left. But you’re not to begin laughing again,” I added, threateningly, for an ominous twitching of her mouth seemed to herald a relapse, “or I shall go back and get that black bottle.”
She shook her head impatiently, but without looking at me. “I would rather you went away, Dr. Jardine,” she said in an agitated voice. “I would, really. I wish to be alone. Don’t think me ungracious. I am really most grateful to you, but I would rather you left me now.”
Of course there was nothing more to be said. She was not really ill or in need of assistance, and probably her instinct was right. Hysteria is not one of those affections which waste their sweetness on the desert air. I shook her hand cordially and, advising her to keep out of the way of stray vans and horses, once more pursued my way towards the town, meditating as I went, on the oddity of the whole affair. It was an astonishing coincidence that I should have run against this woman in this out of the way place. I had left her but a few days since apparently firmly rooted in the Hampstead Road, and now, behold, as I step ashore from the barge, she is almost the first person that I meet. And yet the coincidence, which had evidently hit her as hard as it had me, like most coincidences, tended to disappear on closer inspection. The only really odd feature was my own presence in Folkestone. As to Mrs. Samway, she had probably been sent for by her husband, and was crossing by the boat that was now due to start.
Her anxiety to get rid of me was more puzzling, until I suddenly remembered my bare head, my crumpled collar and generally raffish and disreputable appearance. The latter was, in fact, at this moment brought to my notice by a man, with whom, in my preoccupation, I collided; who first uttered an impatient exclamation and then, bestowing on me a quick stare of astonishment, muttered a hasty apology and hurried past. The incident emphasized the necessity for some reform, and I mended my pace towards the region of shops in a very ferment of uncomfortable self-consciousness.
With the purchase of a new hat, a collar, a pair of cuffs, a neck-tie, a pair of gloves and a stick, some faint glimmer of self-respect revived in me. I was even conscious of a temptation to linger in Folkestone and spend a few hours by the sea; but a sense of duty, aided by a large, muddy stain on my coat, finally decided me to return to town at once. Accordingly, having sent off a telegram to my landlady and ascertained that a train left for London in about twenty minutes, I betook myself to the station.
There were comparatively few people travelling by this particular train; in fact, when I had established myself with the morning paper in the off-side corner seat of a smoking compartment, I began, with an Englishman’s proverbial unsociability, to congratulate myself on the prospect of having the compartment to myself, when my hopes were dashed by the entrance of an elderly clergyman; who not only broke up my solitude, but aggravated the offence by quite unnecessarily seating himself opposite to me. I was almost tempted to move to another corner, for my length of leg gives an added value to space; but it seemed a rude thing to do; and as the train moved off at this moment, I resigned myself to the trifling discomfort.
My clerical friend was a somewhat uncommon-looking man, with a countenance at once strong and secretive; a rectangular, masterful face, with a bull-like dew-lap and a small, and very sharp, Roman nose. On further inspection, I decided that he was either a High-Church parson or a Roman Catholic priest. His proceedings seemed to favour the latter hypothesis, for the train was barely out of the station before he had whisked out of his pocket an ecclesiastical-looking volume, which he opened at a marked place, and instantly began to read. I watched him with inquisitive interest, for his manner of reading was very singular. There was something habitual, almost mechanical, about it, suggesting an allotted and familiar task, and a lack of concentration that suggested a corresponding lack of novelty in the matter. As he read, his lips moved, and now and again I caught a faint whisper, by which I gathered that he was reading rapidly; but the most singular phenomenon was, that when his eyes strayed out of the carriage window, as they did at frequent intervals, his lips went on sputtering with unabated rapidity. Quite suddenly he appeared to come to the end of a sort of literary measured mile, for even as his lips were still moving, he clapped in the book-mark, shut the volume, and returned it to his pocket with a curious air of business-like finality.
As his eyes were no longer occupied with the book, my observations had to be suspended, and my attention was now turned to my own affairs. Putting my hand in my coat pocket for my pipe and pouch, I became aware of a state of confusion in the said pocket which I had already noticed when making my purchases. The fact is, that I had nearly come away from the barge without my portable property. It was only at the last moment that the skipper, remembering the mug, had fetched it hurriedly from the locker and shot its contents bodily into my coat pocket. The present seemed a good opportunity for distributing the various articles among their proper receptacles. Accordingly I turned out the whole pocketful on the seat by my side, and a remarkably miscellaneous collection they formed; comprising knives, pencils, match-box, keys, the minor implements of my craft, and various other objects, useful and useless, including the little gold reliquary.
My neighbour opposite was, I think, quite interested in my proceedings, though he kept up a dignified pretence of being entirely unaware of my existence. Only for a while, however. Suddenly he sat up, very wide awake, and slewing his head round, stared with undisguised intentness at my little collection. I guessed at once what it was that had attracted his attention. A cleric would not be thrilled by the sight of a clinical thermometer or an ophthalmoscope. It was the reliquary that had caught his eye. That was an article in his own line of business.
With deliberate mischief, I left the little bauble exposed to view as I very slowly and methodically conveyed the other things one by one, each to its established pocket. Last of all, I picked up the reliquary and held it irresolutely as if debating where I should stow it. And at this point His Reverence intervened, unable any longer to contain his curiosity.
“Zat is a very remargable liddle opchect, sir,” he said in excellent Anglo-German. “Might one bresume to ask vat its use is?”
I handed the reliquary to him and he took it from me with ill-disguised eagerness.
“I understand,” said I, “that it is a reliquary. But you probably know more about such things than I do. I haven’t opened it so I can’t say what is inside.”
He nodded gravely. “Zo! I am glad to hear you zay zat. Brobably zere is inside some holy relic vich ought not to be touched egzepting by bious handts.” He turned the case over, and, putting on a pair of spectacles—which he had not appeared to require for reading—closely scrutinized the inscriptions, and even the wisp of cord that remained attached to one of the rings.
“You zay,” he resumed without raising his eyes, “zat you understandt zat zis is a reliquary. Do you not zen know? Ze berson who gafe it to you, did he not tell you vat it gondained?”
“It wasn’t given to me at all,” I replied. “In fact, it isn’t properly mine. I picked it up and am merely keeping it until I find the owner.”
He pondered this statement with a degree of profundity that seemed rather out of proportion to its matter; and he continued to gaze at the reliquary, never once raising his eyes to mine. At length, after a considerable pause and a most unnecessary amount of reflection, he asked:
“Might one ask, if you shall bardon my guriosity, vere you found zis liddle opchect?”
I hesitated before replying. My first, and natural, impulse was to tell him exactly where and under what circumstances I had found the “opchect.” But the way in which my information had been received by the police had made me rather chary of offering confidences; besides which, I had half promised them not to talk about the affair. And, after all, it was no business of this good gentleman’s where I found it. My answer was, therefore, not very explicit.
“I picked it up in a lane at Hampstead, near London.”
“At Hampstead!” he repeated. “Zo! Zat would be—a—very good blace to find such sings. I mean,” he added, hastily, “zere are many beople in zat blace and some of zem will be of ze old religion.”
Now, this last remark was such palpable nonsense that it set me speculating on what he had intended to say, for it was obvious that he had altered his mind in the middle of the sentence and completed it with the first words that came to hand. However, as I could read no sense into it at all, I said that “perhaps he was right,” which seemed an eminently safe rejoinder to an unintelligible statement.
When he had finished his minute examination of the reliquary, he handed it back to me with such evident reluctance that, if it had been mine, I should have been tempted to ask him to accept it. But it was not mine. I was only a trustee. So I made no remark, but watched him as he, very deliberately, took off his spectacles and returned them to their case, looking meanwhile, at the floor with an air of deep abstraction. He appeared to be thinking hard, and I was quite curious as to what his next remark would be. A considerable interval elapsed before he spoke again; but at last the remark came, in the form of a question, and very disappointing it was.
“You are not berhaps very much interested in relics and reliquaries?”
As a matter of fact, I didn’t care two straws for either the one or the other; but there was no need to put it as strongly as that.
“We are apt,” I replied, “to find a lack of interest in subjects of which we are ignorant.” (That was a fine sentence. It might have come straight out of Sandford and Merton.)
“Zat is vat I sink, too,” he rejoined. “Ve do not know; ve do not care. But zere is a very egsellent liddle book vich egsplains all ze gustoms and zeremonies gonnected vid relics of ze zaints. I should like you to read zat book. Vill you bermit me to send you a gobby vich I haf?”
Of course I said I should be delighted. It was an outrageous falsehood, but what else could I say?
“Zen,” said he, “I shall haf great pleasure in zending it to you if you vill kindly tell me how I shall address it.”
I presented him with my card, which he read very attentively before bestowing it in his pocket-book.
“I see,” he remarked, “zat you are a doctor of medecine. It is a fine brofession, if one does not too much vorget ze spiritual life in garing for zat of ze body.”
In this I acquiesced vaguely, and the conversation drifted into detached commonplaces, finally petering out as we approached Paddock Wood; where my reverend acquaintance bought a newspaper and underwent a total eclipse behind it.
As soon as the train started again, I took up my own paper; and the very first glance at it gave me a shock of surprise that sent all other matters clean out of my mind. It was an advertisement in the column headed “Personal” that attracted my attention, an advertisement that commenced with the word “Missing,” in large type, and went on to offer Two Hundred Pounds Reward: thus:—
“MISSING. TWO HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD.
“Whereas, on the 14th inst., Dr. Humphrey Jardine disappeared from his home and his usual places of resort; the above reward will be paid to any person who shall give information as to his whereabouts, if alive, or the whereabouts of his body if he is dead. He was last seen at 12.20 p.m. on the above date in the Hampstead Road, and was then walking towards Euston Road. The missing man is about twenty-six years of age; is somewhat over six feet in height; of medium complexion; has brown hair, grey eyes, straight nose and a rather thin face, which is clean-shaved. He was wearing a dark tweed suit, and soft felt hat.
“Information should be given to Hector Brodribb, Esquire, 65, New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, by whom the above reward will be paid.”
Here was a pretty state of affairs: It seemed that while I was placidly taking events as they came; smoking the skipper’s tobacco and bottom-fishing with young Ted; my escapade had been producing somewhere a most almighty splash. I read the advertisement again, with a self-conscious grin, and out of it there arose one or two rather curious questions. In the first place, who the deuce was Hector Brodribb? And what concern was I of his? And how came he to know that I was walking down Hampstead Road at 12.20 on the 14th inst.?
I felt very little doubt it was actually Thorndyke who was tweaking the strings of the Brodribbian puppet. But even this left the mystery unsolved. For how did Thorndyke know? This was only the fifth day after my disappearance, and it would seem that there had hardly been time for exhaustive enquiries.
Then another highly interesting fact emerged. The only person who had seen me walk away down Hampstead Road was Sylvia Vyne; whence it followed that Thorndyke, or the mysterious Brodribb, had in some way got into touch with her. And reflecting on this, the mechanism of the enquiry came into view. The connecting-link was, of course, the sketch. Thorndyke had, himself, left the canvas with Mr. Robinson, the artist’s-colourman, and he must have called to enquire if I had collected it. Then, he would have been told of my meeting with Miss Vyne, and as she was a regular customer, Mr. Robinson would have been able to give him her address. It was all perfectly simple, the only remarkable feature being the extraordinary promptitude with which the inquiry had been carried out. Which went to show how much more clearly Thorndyke had realized the danger that surrounded me than I had myself.
These various reflections gave me full occupation during the remainder of the journey, extending themselves into consideration of how I should act in the immediate future. My first duty was obviously to report myself to Thorndyke without delay; after which, I persuaded myself, it would be highly necessary for me personally to reassure the fair, and, perhaps, anxious Sylvia. As to how this was to be managed, I was not quite clear, and in spite of the most profound cogitation, I had reached no conclusion when the train rumbled into Charing Cross Station.
CHAPTER XII.
MISS VYNE
As I stepped out on to the platform with a valedictory bow to my reverend fellow-passenger, my irresolution came to an end and my duty became clear. I must, in common decency, report myself at once to Thorndyke, seeing that he had been at so much trouble on my account. His card, which he had given me, I had unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, as it turned out—left on the mantelpiece at my lodgings; but I remembered that the address was King’s Bench Walk and assumed that I should have no difficulty in finding the house. Nor had I, for, as I entered the Temple by the Tudor Street gate—having overshot my mark on the Embankment—I was almost immediately confronted by a fine brick doorway surmounted by a handsome pediment and bearing legibly painted on its jamb, “First pair, Dr. Thorndyke.”
I ascended the “first pair” of stairs, which brought me to an open oak door, massive and iron-bound, and a closed inner door, on the brass knocker of which I executed a flourish that would have done credit to a Belgravian footman; whereupon the door opened and a small man of sedate and clerical aspect regarded me with an air of mild enquiry.
“Is Dr. Thorndyke at home?” I asked.
“No, sir. He is at the hospital.”
“Dr. Jervis?”
“Is watching a case in the Probate Court. Perhaps you would like to leave a message or write a note. A message in writing would be preferable.”
“I don’t know that it’s necessary,” said I. “My name is Jardine, and if you tell him that I called that will probably be enough.”
The little man gave me a quick, bird-like glance of obviously heightened interest.
“If you are Dr. Humphrey Jardine,” said he, “I think a few explanatory words would be acceptable. The Doctor has been extremely uneasy about you. A short note and an appointment, either here or at the hospital, would be desirable.”
With this he stepped back, holding the door invitingly open, and I entered, wondering who the deuce this prim little cathedral dean might be, with his persuasive manners and his quaintly precise forms of speech. He placed a chair for me at the table, and, having furnished me with writing materials, stood a little way off, unobtrusively examining me as I wrote. I had finished the short letter, closed it up and addressed it, and was rising to go, when, almost automatically, I took out my watch and glanced at it. Of course it had stopped.
“Can you tell me the time?” I asked.
My acquaintance drew out his own watch and replied deliberately: “Seventeen minutes and forty seconds past one.” He paused for a moment and then added: “I hope, sir, you have not got any water into your watch.”
“I’m afraid I have,” I replied, rather taken aback by the rapidity of his diagnosis. “But I’ll just wind it up to make sure.”
“Oh, don’t do that, sir!” he exclaimed. “Allow me to examine it before you disturb the movement.” He whipped out of his pocket a watchmaker’s eyeglass, which miraculously glued itself to his eye, and, having taken a brief glance at the opened watch, produced a minute pocket screw-driver and a sheet of paper; and, in the twinkling of an eye, as it seemed to me, the paper was covered with the dismembered structures which had in their totality formed my timepiece.
“It’s quite a small matter, sir,” was his report, as he rose from his inspection and pocketed his eye-glass. “Just a speck or two of rust. If you will take my watch for the present, I will have your own in going order by the next time you call.”
It seemed an odd transaction; but the little man’s manner, though quiet, was so decisive that I took his proffered watch, and, affixing it to my chain, thanked him for his kindness and departed, wondering if it was possible that this prim, clerical little person could possibly be the “tame mechanic” of whom Thorndyke had spoken.
Travelling in London was comparatively slow in those days—which, perhaps, was none the worse for a near and pleasant suburb like Hampstead; it had turned half-past two when I let myself into my lodgings with a rather rusty key and almost literally, fell into the arms of Mrs. Blunt. I feared, for a moment, that she was going to kiss me. But that was a false alarm. What she actually did was to seize both my hands and burst into tears with such violence as to cover me with confusion and cause the servant maid to rise like a domestic, and highly inquisitive, apparition from the kitchen stairs. I pacified Mrs. Blunt as well as I could and shook hands heartily with the maid, who thereupon retired, much gratified, to the underworld, whence presently issued an odour suggestive of sacrificial rites, not entirely unconnected with fried onions, and accompanied by an agreeable hissing sound.
“But wherever have you been all this time?” Mrs. Blunt asked, as she preceded me up the stairs wiping her eyes, “and why didn’t you send us a line just to say that you were all right?”
To this question I made a somewhat guarded answer in so far as the cause of my immersion in the river was concerned; otherwise I gave her a fairly correct account of my adventures.
“Well, well,” was her comment, “I suppose it was all for the best, but I do think those sailors might have put you on shore somewhere. Dear me, what a time it has been. I couldn’t sleep at night for thinking of you, and what Susan and I have eaten between us wouldn’t have kept a sparrow alive. And Dr. Thorndyke, too, I’m sure he was very anxious and worried about you, though he is such a quiet, self-contained man that you can’t tell what he is thinking of. And Lord; what a lot of questions he do ask, to be sure!”
“By the way, how did he come to know that I was missing?”
“Why, I told him, of course. When you didn’t come home that night—which Susan and me sat up for you until three in the morning—I thought there must be something wrong, you being so regular in your habits; so next day, the very first thing, I took his card from your mantelpiece and down I went to his office and told him what had happened. He came up here that evening to see if you had come home, and he’s been here every day since to enquire.”
“Has he really?”
“Yes. In a hansom cab. Every single day. And so has the young lady.”
“The young lady!” I exclaimed. “What young lady?”
Mrs. Blunt regarded me with something as nearly approaching a wink as can be imagined in association with an elderly female of sedate aspect.
“Now,” she protested slyly, “as if you didn’t know! What young lady indeed! Why, Miss Vyne, to be sure; and a very sweet young lady she is, and talked to me just as simple and friendly as if she’d been an ordinary young woman.”
“How do you know that she isn’t an ordinary young woman?” I asked.
Mrs. Blunt was shocked. “Do you suppose, Mr. Jardine, sir,” she demanded severely, “that I who have been a head parlour-maid in a county family where my poor husband was coachman, don’t know a real gentlewoman when I meet one? You surprise me, sir.”
I apologized hastily and suggested that, as so many kind enquiries had been made, the least I could do was to call and return thanks without delay.
“Certainly, sir,” Mrs. Blunt agreed; “but not until you have had your lunch. It’s a small porterhouse steak,” she added alluringly, being evidently suspicious of my intentions. The announcement, seconded by an appetizing whiff from below, reminded me that I was prodigiously sharp set, having tasted no food since I had come ashore at Folkestone, and put the grosser physiological needs of the body, for the moment, in the ascendant. But even as I was devouring the steak with voracious gusto, my mind occupied itself with plans for a strategic descent on the abode of the fair Sylvia and with speculations on the reception I should get; and the noise of water running into the bath formed a pleasing accompaniment to the final mouthfuls.
When I had bathed, shaved and attired myself in carefully selected garments, I set forth, as smart and spruce as the frog that would a-wooing go—saving the opera hat, which would have been inappropriate to the occasion. The distance to Sylvia’s house was not great, and a pair of long and rapidly-moving legs consumed it to such purpose that it was still quite reasonable calling time when I opened the gate of “The Hawthorns” and gave a modest pull at the bell. My summons was answered by a rather foolish-looking maid, by whom I was informed that Miss Vyne was at home, and when I had given her my name—which she seemed disposed to confuse with that of a well-known edible fish—she ushered me down a passage to a room at the back of the house, and, opening the door, announced me—correctly, I was glad to note; whereupon I assumed an ingratiating smile and entered.
Now there is nothing more disconcerting than a total failure of agreement between anticipation and realization. Unconsciously, I had pictured to myself the easy-mannered, genial Sylvia, seated, perhaps, at an easel or table, working on one of her pictures, and had prepared myself for a reception quite simple, friendly and unembarrassing. Confidently and entirely at my ease, I walked in through the doorway; and there the pleasant vision faded, leaving me with the smile frozen on my face, staring in consternation at one of the most appalling old women that it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.
I am, in general, rather afraid of old women. They are, to my mind, a rather alarming class of creature; but the present specimen exceeded my wildest nightmares. It was not merely that she was seated unnaturally in the exact centre of the room and that she sat with unhuman immobility, moving no muscle and uttering no sound as I entered, though that was somewhat embarrassing. It was her strange, forbidding appearance that utterly shattered my self-possession and seemed to disturb the very marrow in my bones.
She was a most remarkable-looking person. An immense Roman nose, a mop of frizzy grey fringe and a lofty surmounting cap or head-dress of some kind, suggested that monstrous and unreal bird, the helmeted hornbill; and the bird-like character was heightened by her eyes, which were small and glittering and set in the midst of a multitude of radiating wrinkles.
To this most alarming person I made a low bow—and dropped my stick, of which the maid had neglected to relieve me and for which I had found no appointed receptacle. As I stooped hastily to pick it up, my hat slipped from my grasp, and, urged by the devil that possesses disengaged hats, instantly rolled under a deep ottoman, whence I had to hook it out with the handle of my stick. I rose, perspiring with embarrassment, to confront that immovable figure, and found the glittering eyes fixed on me attentively but without any sign of expression of human emotion. Haltingly I essayed to stammer out an explanation of my visit.
“Er—I have—er—called—” Here I paused to collect my ideas and the old lady watched me stonily without offering any remark; indeed no comment was needed on a statement so self-evidently true. After a brief and hideous silence I began again.
“I—er—thought it desirable—er—and in fact necessary and—er—proper to call—er and—”
Here my ideas again petered out and a horrid silence ensued, amidst which I heard a still, emotionless voice murmur:
“Yes. And you have accordingly called.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, grasping eagerly at the slenderest straw of suggestion. “I have called to—er—well, the fact is that my—er—very remarkable absence seemed to call for some explanation, especially as certain enquiries—er—”
At this point I stopped suddenly with a horrible doubt as to whether I was not saying more than was discreet; and the misgiving was intensified by that chilly, calm voice, framing the question:
“Enquiries made personally?”
Now this was a facer. I seemed to have put my foot in it at the first lead off. Supposing Sylvia had said nothing about her little visits to Mrs. Blunt? It would never do to give her away to this inquisitorial old waxwork. I endeavoured to temporize.
“Well,” I stammered, “not exactly made personally to me.”
“By letter, perhaps?” the voice suggested in the same even, impassive tone.
“Er—no. Not by letter.”
There was a short embarrassing pause, and then the old lady, as if summing up the case, said frigidly:
“Not exactly personally and not by letter.”
I was so utterly confounded by her judicial manner, her immovable, expressionless face and the hypnotic quality of those glittering eyes, that for the moment I could think of nothing to say.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” said she after some seconds of agonized silence on my part; whereupon I pulled myself together and made a fresh start.
“I should, perhaps, have explained that I have been unavoidably absent from home for some time, and, as I was unable to communicate with my friends, I have, I am afraid, caused them some anxiety. It was this that seemed to make it necessary for me to call and give an account of myself.”
She pondered awhile on this statement—if a graven image can be said to ponder—and at length enquired:
“You spoke of your friends. Are any of them known to me?”
“Well,” I replied, “I was referring more particularly to your daughter.”
She continued to regard me fixedly, and, after a brief interval, rejoined:
“You are referring to my daughter. But I do not recall the existence of any such person. I think you must be mistaken.”
It seemed extremely probable, and I hastened to amend the description.
“I beg your pardon. I should have said Miss Vyne. But perhaps she is not at home.”
“You are evidently mistaken,” was the paralyzing reply. “I am Miss Vyne; and I need not add that I am at home.”
“But,” I demanded despairingly, “is there not another Miss Vyne?”
“There is not,” she answered. “But it is possible that you are referring to Miss Sylvia Vyne. Is that so?”
I replied sulkily that it was; and being somewhat nettled by this unnecessary and rather offensive hair-splitting, offered no further remark. How the conversation would have proceeded after this, I cannot even surmise. But it did not proceed at all, for the embarrassing silence was brought to an end by a very agreeable interruption. The door opened softly and for one moment Sylvia herself stood framed in the portal; then, with a little cry, she ran towards me with her hands held out impulsively and the prettiest smile of welcome.
“So it is really you!” she exclaimed. “That silly little goose of a maid has only just told me you were here. I am glad to see you. When did you graciously please to descend from the clouds?”
“I arrived home this afternoon, and as soon as I had changed and had lunch I came here to report myself.”
“How nice of you,” said Sylvia. “I suppose you guessed how anxious we should be?”
“I didn’t presume to think that you would actually be anxious about me,” I replied, with a furtive eye on the waxwork, “though I knew that you had been kind enough to express an interest in my fate.”
“What a cold-bloodedly polite way to put it!” laughed Sylvia. “ ‘Express an interest,’ indeed! We were most dreadfully worried about you.”
To a somewhat friendless man like myself this sympathetic warmth was very delightful, and my pleasure was not appreciably damped when a chill, emotionless voice affirmed:
“The use of the first person singular would, I think, be preferable.”
Sylvia turned on her aunt with mock ferocity.
“Well, really,” she exclaimed. “You are a dreadful impostor, Mopsy, dear! Just listen to her, Dr. Jardine. And if you had only seen what a twitter she was in as the time went on and no news came!”
I gasped, and the hair seemed to stir on my scalp. Mopsy! The name was obviously not applied to me. But could it be—was it possible that such a name could be associated with that terrific old lady? It was inconceivable. It was positively profane! It was almost as if one should presume to address the Deity as “old chap.” I could hardly believe my ears.
I glanced at her nervously and caught her glittering eye; but the grotesque face was as immovable as everlasting granite, though, indeed, by some ventriloquial magic, the word “Rubbish” managed to disengage itself from her person.
“It isn’t rubbish,” retorted Sylvia. “It’s the plain truth. We were both worried to death about you. And no wonder. Dr. Thorndyke was very quiet and matter-of-fact, but there was no disguising his fear that something dreadful had happened to you. And then there was the advertisement in the papers. Did you see that? Oh, it’s nothing to grin about. You’ve given us all a nice fright; and me especially, because, of course, I naturally thought of that ruffian from whom you rescued me in the lane.”
“But he never saw me.”
“You don’t know. He may have done. At any rate, you owe us an explanation; so, when the tea comes in you shall give us the true story of your adventures. I hope you’ve let Dr. Thorndyke know about your resurrection.”
I reassured her on this point, and as the “goose of a maid” now brought in the tea, I proceeded to “pitch my yarn” as the skipper had expressed it, without those reservations that I had considered necessary in the case of Mrs. Blunt.
The old lady, having been unmasked by Sylvia, developed a slight tendency to thaw. She even condescended, in a rigid and effigean fashion, to consume bread and butter; a proceeding that seemed to me weirdly incongruous, as though one should steal into the British Museum in off hours and find the seated statue of Amenhotep the Third in the act of refreshing itself with a sandwich and a glass of beer. But I was less terrified of her now since I had gathered that a core of warm humanity was somewhere concealed within that grim exterior; and even though her little sparkling eyes were fixed on me immovably, I told my story to the end without flinching.
Sylvia listened to my narration with a rapt attention that greatly flattered my vanity and made me feel like a very Othello, and when I had finished, she regarded me for awhile silently and with an air of speculation.
“It’s a queer affair,” she said at length, “and there is a smack of mystery and romance about it that is rather refreshing in these commonplace days. But I don’t like it. Adventure is all very well, but there seems to have been a deliberate attempt to make away with you; unless you think it may have been a piece of silly horse-play that went farther than it was meant to.”
“That is quite possible,” I replied untruthfully—for I didn’t think anything of the sort, and only made this evasive answer to avoid raising other and more delicate issues.
“I hope that is the explanation,” said Sylvia, “though it sounds rather a lame one. You would know if you had an enemy who might wish to get rid of you. I suppose you don’t know of any such person?”
It was a rather awkward question. I didn’t want to tell an untruth, but, on the other hand, I knew that Thorndyke would not wish to have my affairs discussed while his investigations were in progress; so I “hedged” once more, replying, quite truthfully, that I was not acquainted with anyone who bore me the slightest ill-will.
My adventures done with, the talk drifted into other channels and presently came round to the little crucifix that had been the occasion of Sylvia’s disagreeable experience in the lane. In spite of my confusion, I had noticed, on first entering the room, that the old lady was wearing suspended from her neck, a small enamelled crucifix, and had instantly identified it and wondered not a little that she should be thus disporting herself in borrowed ornaments; but when Sylvia had arrived, behold, the original crucifix was hanging on its chain from her neck. From time to time during my recital my eyes had wandered from one to the other seeking some difference or variation but finding none, and at length my inquisitive glances caught the younger lady’s attention.
“I can see, Dr. Jardine,” said she, “that you are eaten up with curiosity about the crucifix that my Aunt is wearing. Now confess. Aren’t you?”
“I am,” I admitted. “When I first came in I naturally thought it was yours. Is it a copy?”
“Certainly not,” said Miss Vyne, the elder. “They are duplicates.”