The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAnother Man's ShoesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Another Man's ShoesAuthor: Victor BridgesRelease date: December 10, 2021 [eBook #66916]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Another Man's ShoesAuthor: Victor BridgesRelease date: December 10, 2021 [eBook #66916]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Al Haines
Title: Another Man's Shoes
Author: Victor Bridges
Author: Victor Bridges
Release date: December 10, 2021 [eBook #66916]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES ***
By VICTOR BRIDGES
AUTHOR OF"A Rogue by Compulsion," Etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANYPublishers New York
Published by Arrangements with GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1913,BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
To M.THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES
When you are really hungry, and have precisely one and sixpence to spend upon your dinner, the problem is one which requires a certain amount of consideration. I hesitated for some time between —— and the ——. At —— they give you four quite decent courses for a shilling, which leaves sixpence over for a drink and a tip for the waiter. On the other hand, the tablecloths are generally dirty, and the atmosphere of the place about as poisonous as that of a Chinese joss-house.
In this respect —— is altogether its superior; but as a set-off, you don't get anything like as good a shilling's worth in the way of food. And food being my chief consideration at the moment, I finally decided on Parelli's.
As I pushed open the door, the first person I caught sight of was Billy Logan. For a moment I thought I must be mistaken, but a second glance showed me the long red scar running down from the corner of the eye, which Billy had brought away with him as his sole memento of an unsuccessful insurrection in Chile.
He was busy eating, and I walked quietly up to his table without his seeing me.
"Hullo, Billy!" I said. "What on earth are you doing in this peaceful spot?"
He looked up with a start. "Why, it's Jack Burton!" he cried. "Great Scott! man, I thought you were dead."
I pulled out a chair and seated myself opposite to him. "Sorry to disappoint you, Bill," I observed, "but I'm not fit to die just yet."
"It was that ass, Goldley," explained Billy, reaching across and gripping my hand, as though to make sure that I was really flesh and blood. "He told me you'd been knocked on the head at some God-forsaken place in Bolivia."
"Yes," I said dryly. "I believe there was a report to that effect. It suited me not to contradict it."
Billy grinned. "Well, I was a bit doubtful about it at the time. I couldn't see you getting wiped out by a dago."
"I precious nearly was, all the same," I said. "Here, waiter, table d'hote, and a bottle of lager."
"You're dining with me," interrupted Billy.
"In that case," I said, "I'll have a bottle of burgundy instead of the lager."
"Bring two," called out Billy. "And now let's hear all about it," he added, as the waiter slid rapidly away. "Last time I saw you was at that little dust-up we had in Buenos Ayres. D'you remember?"
"I do, Billy," I said. "It was on account of that I went for a health trip to Bolivia."
Billy chuckled. "I gather you didn't exactly find it."
I lit a cigarette, pending the arrival of thehors d'oeuvre. "I found something better than health, Billy," I said. "I found gold."
"Lord!" said Billy. "Where?"
"I don't think it's got a name," I replied. "Anyhow, I didn't wait to find out I was on my own, and the whole country was stiff with Indians. Look here." I pulled up my sleeve and showed him the traces of a very handsome pucker left by a well-directed arrow. "That's one of their visiting cards," I added.
Billy looked at it with the eye of a connoisseur. "You're lucky it wasn't poisoned," he remarked. "What about the gold?"
"I can find the place again all right," I said, "but I want money. It's not a one-man job. That's why I came to London."
"Got it?"
I shook my head. "On the contrary, I've spent what I had. They're a shy lot here, Billy—and I wasn't going to give the show away absolutely. I shall have to try New York."
"You're about right," answered Billy. "Unless you roll up in a frock-coat with introductions, the average Britisher's got no manner of use for you. You'll do better in the States. When are you going?"
"As soon as I can get a ship," I replied. "I've hung on here till I've got just enough left to square my bill. To-morrow I shall go down to the docks and sign on in the first boat that will take me."
"I wish I was coming with you," said Billy wistfully.
"Why not?" I suggested.
He shook his head. "I'm putting in for a job," he explained: "some prospecting business in Mexico that Maxwells are running. They've kept me hanging about for six weeks, so I may as well see it out now."
"Well, give me an address of some kind," I said. "In case my business comes off and yours doesn't, I'd like to have you with me."
Billy pulled out a pencil and a bit of paper and scribbled down a few words. "This is where I'm staying," he said: "34 Vauxhall Road. I'll tell 'em where to forward letters when I leave."
I put the paper in my pocket, and turned my attention to the sardines and potato salad which the waiter had just dumped down in front of me. Billy's two bottles of wine, which arrived immediately afterwards, soon put us into a cheerfully reminiscent mood, and throughout dinner we yarned away about old friends and old days in the Argentine, where five years before we had first run across each other.
I suggested winding up the evening at a music-hall; but Billy, unfortunately, had some appointment connected with his job, which prevented him from coming. However, he not only paid for dinner, but insisted on lending me a couple of sovereigns, which, to tell the truth, I was very glad to accept. But for this, by the time I had paid my bill the next morning, I should have been practically penniless.
I said good-bye to him regretfully at the bottom of Gerrard Street, and then, walking across Leicester Square, made my way slowly down to the Embankment. I was lodging in Chelsea, and I thought I might just as well stroll home as waste threepence on a bus.
It was a fine, soft summer evening, with a faint breeze stirring the trees, and now and then lifting a scrap of paper from the roadway and dropping it again languidly after it had tumbled it a few yards. There were not many people on the Embankment; those that were there consisting chiefly of engaged couples, with here and there a tattered piece of human wreckage apparently on the look-out for a comfortable open-air lodging for the coming night.
I sauntered slowly on, clinking Billy's two sovereigns in my pocket, and pondering idly over my own affairs. I had left Bolivia four months before in high spirits, thinking that for the first time in my life I had the chance of making some money. That I had found gold in richly paying quantities I had no shadow of doubt, and I felt confident that in London I should be able to raise sufficient capital to get together a proper expedition for penetrating the interior. I knew enough of the Bolivian authorities to be sure that, as far as State permission went, a generous measure of bribery was the only thing necessary.
Seven or eight weeks in England had been enough to dash all my high hopes. I suppose English business men are naturally cautious—requiring to know a great deal about a stranger's record before they care to accept his statement. Now my record, though highly interesting to myself, had been of a little too chequered a nature to inspire confidence in the breast of a capitalist whose ideas of life are bounded by Lombard Street and, shall we say, Maidenhead. At all events, I had failed dismally in my purpose, and, as I had told Billy, had reached the end of my resources without getting any further in my quest than when I had started.
I was not sorry to feel that it was all over. My restless life had ill fitted me for the humdrum respectabilities of London, and I was beginning to regard the streets, the people, and indeed everything about me, with an intense and ever-growing distaste. It is true, that New York would be as bad or even worse, but I had no real intention of wasting much time in that shrieking inferno. To start with, my funds would not allow it; and, in any case, I was beginning to get a bit tired of this dreary chase after wealth. If I could find a sympathetic capitalist in a few days, well and good—otherwise, I had quite made up my mind not to worry any more about the matter. Let the gold stop where it was until some traveller more suited to the job than I stumbled across it. Life, after all, is the first thing, and I was not going to waste mine hanging round office doors, and interviewing fat gentlemen in frock-coats, when the whole world with all its fun and adventure lay before me.
Stopping under a lamp, and leaning over the Embankment, I gazed at the lights of a small steamer, puffing its way busily down the Thames. A great desire to get out of this choking atmosphere of so-called civilisation suddenly gripped me with irresistible force. I seemed to taste the smack of the salt sea upon my lips, to smell again the warm, sweet breath of the open pampas. My heart beat faster and stronger, and I found myself muttering some lines of Kipling—the only poet I've ever cared two straws about—
"The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,And the twice breathed airs grow damp;And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea rollOf a south Bilbao tramp."
Yes, that was what I wanted: the sea, and the sun, and the plains, and, above all, life—raw, naked life, with its laughter and its fighting, far away from these stifling streets where men's hearts grow smug and cold. I threw back my arms, and took in a deep breath.
"My God!" I muttered, half aloud. "I'm out of this for good and all."
"I congratulate you," said a voice.
My nerves are under pretty good control, but I must confess that I jumped a little at this unexpected interruption. Wheeling round, I found myself face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man in evening dress, which was half concealed by a long fawn-coloured overcoat. For a moment his features seemed strangely familiar, and I stared at him, wondering where I had seen them last. Then suddenly the truth hit me fair and square.
"Good Lord!" I said, "are you a looking-glass?"
Except for his clothes, the man was the exact image of myself.
He smiled—a curious smile that ended with his lips, and had no effect at all on the cold, steady blue eyes that were taking in every detail of my appearance.
"A most remarkable likeness," he observed quietly. "I never thought I was so good-looking."
I bowed. "And I never realised how well-dressed I was," I returned in the same half-mocking tone.
It was his turn to start, though the motion was almost imperceptible.
"Even our voices!" he muttered. "Who was the fool who said that miracles don't happen?"
I shook my head. "The likeness," I said, "appears to extend to our ignorance."
There was a short silence, during which we still looked each other up and down with the same frank interest. Then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a slim, gold card-case.
"My name," he said, "is Stuart Northcote. You may have heard of it." He held out a card.
I don't think I showed my surprise, though goodness knows I felt it. Like most people in London, I had certainly heard of Stuart Northcote. Indeed, I could hardly have avoided doing so, considering that the Society papers had been full of little else but his doings and his wealth ever since he appeared mysteriously from nowhere at the beginning of the season, and rented Lord Lammersfield's house in Park Lane.
However, I accepted his card without comment, as though a meeting with a millionaire double were an everyday event in my own existence.
"My own name," I said, "is John Burton. I am afraid that a card-case is outside my present scheme of things."
He bowed. "Well, Mr. Burton," he began deliberately, "since chance has thrown us together in this fashion, it seems a pity not to improve our acquaintance. If you are in no hurry, perhaps you would give me the pleasure of your society at supper?"
I don't know what it was—something in his voice, perhaps—but, anyhow, I had a curious instinct that he was extremely anxious I should accept. I thought I would test him.
"It's very kind of you," I said, with a smile, "but, as a matter of fact, I have just finished dinner."
He waved aside the objection. "Well, well, a bottle of wine, then. After all, one doesn't meet one's double every day."
There was a four-wheeler trundling slowly up the Embankment, and without waiting for any further reply from me, he raised his hand and beckoned to the driver.
As the man drew up, a tattered figure that had been lounging on one of the seats a little farther down shambled hastily forward as though to open the door. My eyes happened to be on Northcote at the moment, and I was amazed at the sudden change that came over him. He looked like a man in the presence of some imminent danger. Like a flash, his right hand travelled to his side pocket with a gesture that it was impossible to misunderstand.
"Stand back," he said harshly.
The loafer, astonished at his tone, stopped abruptly in the circle of white light cast by the electric lamp.
"Beg pardon, guv'nor," he whined; "on'y goin' to open the door for yer, guv'nor."
Northcote's cold blue eyes scrutinised him keenly for a moment. "That's all right, my man," he said, in a rather different voice. "Here you are!"
He flung a silver coin—a half-crown it looked like—on to the pavement, and with a gasp of amazement the man dived to pick it up. As he did so, Northcote, still watching him, stepped forward to the cab and flung open the door.
"You get in, Mr. Burton, will you?" he said; and then, as I climbed into the cab, he turned to the driver. "The Milan," he said curtly, and then, following me, slammed the door.
As we drove away, I saw the white face of the loafer, who had apparently recovered his coin, staring after us out of the lamplight.
Northcote must have guessed that I had noticed his agitation, for he laughed in a rather forced manner. "I dislike those fellows," he said. "It's foolish, of course,—one ought to pity the poor devils,—but somehow or other I can't stand their coming anywhere near me."
His words were easy and natural enough, but they did not convince me in the least. I have seen too many men in danger of their lives to mistake the symptoms.
However, the matter being essentially his business and not mine, I refrained from offering any comments. Indeed, I thought it more tactful to change the conversation.
"I'm afraid I'm hardly dressed for the Milan," I said. "I don't know whether it matters."
He shrugged his shoulders. "We will have a private room in any case," he replied. "It is more comfortable."
He spoke as though the Milan were some sort of Soho pot-house!
I was just thinking what a pity it was I had wasted such an excellent appetite on Parelli's when the cab turned the corner into the Strand. Putting his head out of the window, Northcote gave some instructions to the driver, which I was unable to catch. Their nature, however, was obvious a moment later, for, turning to the right just before we reached the flaring courtyard of the famous restaurant, the man drew up at a small side entrance.
We got out, and Northcote, after paying the fare, led the way into the hall, where a bland and very respectful head waiter came forward to meet us.
"I want a private room, and a little light supper of some kind," said Northcote.
"Certainly, sir, certainly," replied the other. "Will you come this way, sir."
He guided us down a long, brilliantly lit corridor, stopping at the end door on the left, which he opened.
We found ourselves in a small but luxuriously furnished room, with a table already laid for supper, and delightfully decorated with flowers.
"This room was engaged to-night by one of the Russian nobility," explained our conductor suavely. "The order has just been cancelled by telephone, so, if it will suit you, sir—"
"It will do excellently," broke in Northcote.
Another waiter who had followed us into the apartment came forward, prepared to take our coats and hats. Northcote stopped him with a gesture.
"You can leave them here," he said. Then, turning to the head waiter, he added curtly, "I shall be obliged if you will attend to us yourself."
The man bowed, and, signalling to his assistant to withdraw, presented the menu which the latter had brought in.
Northcote glanced at it, and then handed it across to me. "Is there anything particular that you would like?" he asked carelessly. "I fancy the resources of the Milan are fairly comprehensive."
I shrugged my shoulders. "I shall be more or less of a spectator in any case," I said. "You had better settle the question."
Northcote looked at the card again, and then ordered a couple of dishes, the names of which conveyed nothing to me. "And bring up a bottle of '93 Heidsieck," he added, "and some of that old liqueur brandy."
The man bowed, and after pulling out our chairs from the table, noiselessly left the room. I could not help wondering whether the extraordinary likeness between Northcote and myself had struck him; but if it had, he had betrayed no sign of having noticed it.
"I always think a really good head waiter," I observed, "is the most extraordinary work of art in the world."
"Yes," said Northcote, seating himself at the table, "and, in consequence, the most contemptible."
"That seems rather ungrateful," I remarked.
Northcote looked at me keenly. "Can you imagine any man who was not wholly contemptible deliberately moulding himself into a piece of servile machinery in order to get an easy living? I have infinitely more respect for a thief than a successful waiter."
I laughed. "I dare say you are right," I answered. "Anyway, I must admit that I would sooner be a thief if I had to choose."
"What are you?" asked Northcote abruptly.
The question took me by surprise, and for a moment I hesitated.
"I am not asking out of mere curiosity," he said.
"I didn't think you were," I returned pleasantly. "That was why I was doubtful about answering you."
He smiled, looking at me curiously, with the same disconcerting intentness.
"Let us be frank, then," he said suddenly. "It happens that you have the power to be of considerable service to me, Mr. Burton."
He paused.
"Indeed?" I said, lighting a cigarette.
"On the other hand," he went on, "there is certainly a chance that I might be of some use to you."
I thought of the reported extent of his income, and then of my beautiful Bolivian goldfield.
"It is quite possible," I admitted gravely.
He leaned forward with his hands on the table. I noticed that they were muscular and sunburned—the hands of a man who has done hard physical work.
"But I must know more about you," he said. "Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you want from life?"
As he asked the last question, the door of the room opened, and the waiter came in, carrying supper.
While the man was handing round the dishes and pouring out the wine—a delicious wine it was, too, by the way—Northcote talked away lightly and cleverly about several more or less topical subjects. I answered him occasionally, in the same careless strain; but my mind was almost wholly occupied with the mysterious suggestion that he had just let fall. I was wondering what on earth the service could be that I was capable of rendering him. That it had something to do with our amazing likeness to each other I felt convinced; but beyond that it was impossible to guess. The whole thing—our meeting on the Embankment, his invitation to supper, and the strange hint of an unknown purpose in his actions—had all been so sudden and bizarre that I felt as if I had been caught up into some modern version of the Arabian Nights.
Still, there could be no harm in making him more or less acquainted with my innocent past and my embarrassed present. I had nothing I wished to conceal, except the whereabouts of my goldfield; and it seemed quite on the cards that, in return for this unknown service that he wanted from me, I might be able to interest him in my scheme. In any case, curiosity alone would have made me go through with the matter now I had got so far. I instinctively felt that Mr. Northcote's proposals when they came would be of a decidedly interesting nature.
So, as soon as the waiter had withdrawn, I filled up my glass again, and looking across at my companion with a smile, began to satisfy his curiosity.
"There's not very much to tell you, after all," I said. "To start with, I'm thirty-four."
He gazed at me keenly. "You look five years older," he said.
"Yes," I retorted. "Perhaps, if you'd been knocking about South America for fifteen years, you'd show some fairly obvious signs of it."
A momentary flicker of surprise passed across his face. Then he laughed dryly.
"Oh!" he said. "What part of South America have you been in?"
"Most of it," I said, "but I know the Argentine best."
"What were you doing?" he asked.
"It would be shorter," I said, "to tell you what I wasn't. I've been a ranchman, a cattle-dealer, a store-keeper, a soldier, a prospector, and several other little things that happened to roll up. South America is a great place for teaching one to take a spacious view of the day's work."
"So I believe," he said. "And what brings you to England?"
"An incorrect idea of British enterprise," I answered. "My last achievement in South America was to strike gold—quite a lot of it, unless I'm pretty badly mistaken. I came over here to try and raise some capital."
"And you've failed?"
I laughed. "The British capitalist," I said, "is still as rich as he was when I landed."
He nodded his head. "What are your plans now?" he asked.
"I'm sailing for New York as soon as I can get a ship," I answered.
"Have you many friends in London?" he demanded.
"There's my landlady," I said. "She is friendly enough as long as I pay her bill, but that's about the full extent of my social circle."
There was a short silence. Then Northcote got up from his chair and, walking across the room, locked the door. I watched him with interest.
He seated himself again at the table, and lit a cigarette.
"Mr. Burton," he said, "what value do you put upon your life? I mean, for what sum would you be prepared to run a very considerable risk of losing it?"
He asked the question in such a business-like and unemotional manner that I could not repress a smile.
"I don't know," I said. "If I thought it was really valuable, I should be strongly inclined to put it up to auction."
He learned across the table and looked me full in the eyes.
"If you will do what I want," he said slowly, "I will give you ten thousand pounds."
I am fairly used to surprises, but there was a magnificence about this unexpected offer that for a moment took away my breath. I leaned back and surveyed my double with genuine admiration.
"You certainly do business on a large scale, Mr. Northcote," I said. "Do you pay in cash?"
For an answer, he thrust his hand into an inside pocket and pulled out a leather case. This he opened, extracting four bank-notes, which he laid on the table.
"Here are two thousand pounds," he said quietly. "If you accept, I will give you a cheque for the remainder."
I looked at the notes with that respectful interest that one keeps for distinguished strangers. There was no doubt that they were genuine. Then, with some deliberation, I also lit a cigarette.
"It must be a very unpleasant job," I said regretfully.
For the first time since I had met him, my companion laughed. It was a grim, mirthless sort of laugh, however, not in the least suggestive of encouragement.
"Yes," he said dryly: "if I threw it open to competition, I fancy that the entries would be small." Then he paused. "Before I go any further," he added, "will you give me your word of honour to keep what I am going to say entirely private, whether you decline or accept?"
"Certainly," I said, without hesitation.
"Very well." Again he stopped for a moment apparently hesitating over a choice of words. "Within a few days," he said slowly, "unless I take certain steps, there is every likelihood of my being a dead man."
I thought of the little incident on the Embankment, and I felt that he was speaking the truth.
"To put it plainly," he said, "I must disappear. If I stay in London under my own name I shall certainly be killed. It may be a matter of days or weeks, or even months—that will depend on myself; but the end is sure and quite unavoidable."
I poured myself out a glass of brandy and held it up to the light. "The situation," I observed, "has at least the merit of being a simple one."
The same cold smile flickered across his lips. "It is not quite as simple as it seems. The gentlemen who are so anxious to accelerate my passage to heaven are doing me the honour of paying me a very close and intelligent attention. I might possibly be able to avoid them,—to-night, for instance, I believe I have done so,—but whether I could get out of the country alive is a very open question."
"Ah!" I muttered. Light was beginning to dawn on me.
He nodded, as though answering an unspoken question. "Yes," he said; "the thought struck me the moment I caught sight of you under the lamp. If I were a believer in the supernatural, I should say you had been sent by the Devil. I can't think of any other power that would be particularly anxious to assist me."
"Well," I said lightly, "if the Devil sent me, I am at least indebted to him for a good supper. What is it you want me to do?"
He paused again. Then, very slowly, he made his amazing suggestion—the words dropping from his lips with an almost fierce intensity.
"I want you to take my place in the world. I want you to change clothes with me to-night and go out of this restaurant as Stuart Northcote."
I took a deep breath and bent forward, gripping the table with my hands.
"Yes," I said, "and what then?"
"I want you to go back to my house in Park Lane, and for three weeks to live there as I should have done. If you are still alive at the end of that time, which is extremely improbable, you can do anything you please."
For one instant the thought struck me that the whole thing was a jest—the fruit of some ridiculous bet or the passing whim of a half-mad millionaire. But one glance at the hard blue eyes, which were still ruthlessly searching mine, swept the idea abruptly from my mind.
"But it's impossible," I broke out. "Even if your servants failed to see the difference, I should certainly be found out directly I met any of your friends."
"How?" he asked. "They might think I had become forgetful, eccentric, but what else could they imagine?"
"Oh, think of the hundred things I should be ignorant of: people's names, your appointments and business affairs—even my way about the house. Why, I should be bound to betray myself."
"I have thought of all that," he answered harshly. "If I couldn't provide against it, I should not have made the proposal."
I looked at him curiously. "And what is there to prevent me from taking your money and making no attempt to keep my side of the bargain?"
"Nothing," he said, "except your word of honour."
There was a moment's silence. "Well," I said, with a short laugh, "the security seems rather inadequate, but if it satisfies you—" I shrugged my shoulders. "Now, let me see if I have got this interesting offer quite correct. In return for ten thousand pounds—two thousand in notes and the rest by cheque—I am to become Mr. Stuart Northcote for three weeks. It is highly probable that during that time I shall be assassinated. Failing this unfortunate interruption, I shall then be at liberty to resume my own character."
Northcote bowed, half mockingly as it seemed. "You have stated the idea admirably," he said.
I helped myself to a second glass of brandy and sipped it with meditative enjoyment. The prospect of being a millionaire, if only for three weeks, distinctly appealed to me. Apart from that, there was something vastly attractive in the fantastic nature of the whole business. Only a few hours before, I had been grumbling to myself over the dullness and monotony of life, and here was Fate thrusting before me an almost incredible chance of adventure and excitement. I could feel my heart beating faster at the thought.
"If it is not too inquisitive a question," I said calmly, "I should rather like to know why your removal is a matter of such urgent importance to someone?"
Northcote's eyes narrowed, and his lips set in a singularly unpleasant smile. "It is a private affair," he answered coldly, "and I'm afraid it must remain so. I can assure you, however, that in taking my place you will not be in danger except of assassination. I have committed no crime"—he laughed—"at least, no crime in the excellent eyes of the English law."
"That is comforting," I observed, "but, all the same, I should be more inclined to accept if I knew who it was that was so anxious to stick a knife into you."
"Unfortunately," he answered, "I don't know myself. If I did"—his face hardened for a moment into a cruel mask. "Well, I think you have a proverb about two being able to play at the same game. I can only tell you that the danger is real and imminent. I have good reason for believing that my own servants are honest, but beyond that I would trust no one."
"It seems to me," I said sadly, "that I shall have to stay indoors."
Northcote thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small red leather notebook.
"After the first ten days," he said, "you can please yourself. To start with, you would have to carry out certain engagements I have made, which you will find in this book."
"And you imagine I could do that successfully?"
Northcote nodded. "You have excellent nerves and plenty of common sense. Provided you give your word of honour to carry the part through to the best of your ability, I am perfectly ready to trust you. If you fail"—he shrugged his shoulders—"at least I shall have had my start."
A sudden mischievous joy in the promised excitement of the situation came flooding through my heart. With an almost involuntary gesture I thrust my arm across the table.
"Very well," I said. "I promise you I'll do my best."
He gripped my hand, and for a moment we sat there on either side of the table without speaking a word.
Northcote was the first to break the silence.
"I envy you your nerve, Mr. Burton," he said coldly.
"It's not as good as it was," I replied, with regret.
Northcote tore a slip of paper out of his pocket-book and, laying it on the table, began to draw a plan in pencil. I pulled my chair round so that I could see what he was doing.
"I'm making you a rough sketch of the inside of the house," he said. "This is the ground floor, and here's the dining-room and the billiard-room. Your study and bedroom are on the first floor, exactly above. They open into each other—like this." He outlined the various rooms neatly and skilfully, writing their names in the centre of each square.
"That's plain enough," I said, taking the paper. "What about the servants?"
"There are only three of them—two women, and Milford, the butler. I have got rid of all the others during the last two weeks. These three have all been with me since I took the house, and I think you may trust them. Milford you certainly can. I've treated the man well, and he's by way of being rather grateful."
"Well," I said, "if he swallows me as Stuart Northcote, I expect I shall pull through."
"Yes," returned Northcote. "The only other person you need worry about is my cousin—Maurice Furnivall." He paused. "I believe I have promised to go down and stay with him for several days in Suffolk. If you can get out of it without difficulty, perhaps you had better. In any case, be very careful not to make a slip of any sort when you see him."
"What kind of man is he?" I asked.
Northcote frowned. "I am not sure. He is the only relation I have in the world, and to a certain extent I have trusted him. I sometimes think I have been foolish. If I knew for certain—" His brow darkened still more, and his hands clenched until the white skin stood out upon his knuckles.
"There is a suggestion of thoroughness about your methods, Northcote," I observed, "that rather appeals to me."
"If I had stuck at trifles," said Northcote grimly, "I shouldn't be here now." He pulled out a cheque-book, and, taking up his pen again, filled in a cheque for eight thousand pounds.
"Here's the money," he said. "There are a few hundred pounds in my account besides this, and if you like I'll sign a couple of cheques that you can fill in for current expenses. By the way, it may be necessary for you to imitate my signature—do you think you can do it?"
"My experience as a forger is limited," I said, "but I dare say I can manage it with a little practice. What are you going to do about money yourself?"
He laughed. "My arrangements have been made for some time. I have only been waiting the chance of putting them into practice."
There came a sudden knock at the door.
Northcote thrust his cheque-book back into his pocket, and then, getting up and crossing the room, turned back the key.
The head waiter entered, and stood apologetically by the threshold.
"I came to see whether you would require anything else, sir."
"I think not," said Northcote coldly. "You had better let me have the bill, though. I suppose there is no objection to our using this room for a little longer? We are discussing some business matters."
The waiter bowed. "Oh, certainly not, sir. Half-past twelve is the hour we have to close; but even then, if you cared to engage a bedroom—"
"That will be ample time," said Northcote.
He produced a five-pound note, which he handed to the waiter, waving away the latter's offer of change.
With a gratified murmur of thanks, the man withdrew, leaving us alone.
Northcote locked the door behind him, and returned to the table.
"I am ready," he said curtly.
In a moment I had slipped off my coat and laid it on the chair.
Our complete transformation must have taken us about a quarter of an hour. With the exception of his patent leather shoes, which for absolute comfort were certainly half a size too small, Northcote's clothes fitted me with extraordinary accuracy. I put them on with a certain deliberation, enjoying the sensation of finding myself in really well-cut garments—an experience to which I had been a stranger for a good many years. When I had finished, I examined myself in the glass with no little satisfaction. As far as looks went, the deception was perfect.
Northcote, who had meanwhile arrayed himself in my own discarded blue suit, presented just as remarkable a change. He seemed to be the exact image of the reflection I was accustomed to see each morning in my lodging-house mirror.
Stepping to the table, I filled up the two liqueur glasses with a last taste of the Milan's excellent brandy.
"Here's to our lost selves!" I said.
Northcote drank the toast, and setting down the glass handed me his cheque-book and latch-key, which he had laid on the table in front of him. I put them away in my pockets with the notes.
Voltaire's last words came suddenly into my mind. "And now for the great adventure," I quoted gaily.
"We had better not go out together," said Northcote. Then he paused. "Good-bye," he added. "I don't suppose we shall meet again, unless there is really such a place as hell."
"I shall at least have a good chance of finding out first," I retorted.
I picked up the long fawn-coloured overcoat which lay on the sofa, and walking across the room, turned the key. Northcote stood where he was, his arms folded, watching me with his strange, mirthless smile.
"Good-bye," I said, "and good luck." And then, going out, I closed the door behind me.
Walking along the corridor of the hotel, I reached the side entrance by which we had come in. A man in livery, who was on duty, at once stepped forward.
"Taxi, sir?" he inquired.
"Yes," I said; "I'll have a taxi."
I felt quite cool, though my heart was beating a little faster than usual. This sort of thing was certainly more entertaining than hunting reluctant capitalists, or even hanging round the docks trying to fix a free passage to the States.
When the cab rolled up, I handed a shilling to the obliging gentleman in livery, and gave the driver Northcote's address in Park Lane. Then I stepped inside, and with a pleasant feeling of exhilaration settled myself back on the comfortably cushioned seat.
I had done it now—there could be no doubt about that! Unless I broke my word to Northcote, I was in for about as exciting a time as the most enterprising spirit could wish for. Apart from the cheerful prospect of finding a knife between my ribs at any hour of the day or night, I was faced with the truly colossal task of keeping up another man's identity for three weeks!
I began to wonder again whether it was not probable that Northcote was a lunatic, or that he was playing some stupendous practical joke at my expense. I ran over in my mind the whole of our interview, from the moment when he had waylaid me. There was certainly no sign of madness about him, apart from his amazing proposals; and if the whole thing were a jest, well, it promised to be a pretty expensive one for its author. Besides that, I felt sure that the man was in danger of his life, or at all events believed himself to be so. There was no acting about the sudden flash with which his hand had travelled to his pocket in that second on the Embankment.
Pulling out the paper which he had given me, I lit a wax match and began to study his plan of the house. It seemed simple enough. I only had to walk upstairs, and my bedroom was facing me on the other side of the landing, the windows apparently looking out into the Park. That knowledge, at all events, promised to be sufficient for the night. I could reserve anything in the nature of further exploration until the next morning.
By this time we had reached Hyde Park corner, and, crossing the road, the driver turned to the right up Park Lane. Beyond knowing the number, I had not the remotest notion where Northcote lived, and I had something of a shock when we stopped quite suddenly outside an imposing-looking mansion only about a hundred yards above Apsley House.
"Good Lord!" I muttered. "I hope there's no mistake."
At all events, the number was on the gate-post right enough, and the driver seemed quite confident that he had reached his correct destination. So, pulling myself together, I stepped on to the pavement and handed the man half a crown.
He touched his cap respectfully, and putting in his clutch, glided away slowly in the direction of Oxford Street.
For perhaps thirty seconds I hesitated; then, mounting the broad stone steps, I thrust my latch-key into the door. It opened easily enough, and with a deep breath I stepped in over the threshold.
I found myself in a large circular hall, surrounded by several stone pillars and lit by an electric chandelier. A plentiful supply of palm trees in pots, and some beautiful hanging baskets of hothouse flowers, lent the place an air of luxury and comfort, which was increased by the deep easy-chairs of red leather scattered about in various corners. So far, I had certainly no fault to find with my new home.
I had just closed the front door, and was advancing across the thick, noiseless Turkey carpet, when there was a sound of discreet footsteps, and a man suddenly appeared from a curtained aperture at the back of the hall. He was a quiet, pleasant-looking fellow of about forty-five, with an alert, clean-shaven face, and hair just beginning to turn grey. His clothes were the conventional costume of an English butler.
"This," I said to myself, "must be Milford."
I took off my hat, so that the light fell full on my face.
"Any letters, Milford?" I asked easily.
I was watching him as I spoke, looking out keenly for the slightest start of surprise or hint that he had noticed something unusual in my appearance. But nothing could have been more natural than the manner in which he came forward and relieved me of my coat and hat.
"There were some letters by the last post, sir," he said. "I have placed them in the study."
"Thanks," I said, and turned towards the stairs.
"Shall I bring you up the brandy and soda now, sir?" he asked.
I had not the least desire for any more brandy, having already treated myself with unusual generosity in this respect at the Milan. Still, as a final drink seemed to be a nightly custom of Northcote's, I thought I had better follow his usual routine.
"Yes," I said, "you can bring it up."
I mounted the wide staircase, which was carpeted in the same luxurious manner as the hall, and, crossing the landing at the top, opened the door of the room which Northcote had marked as my study. The electric switch was just inside, and I turned it on, flooding the whole apartment with a soft, rich light thrown from an unseen arrangement of lamps somewhere behind the cornice.
It was a big and magnificently furnished room. Whatever faults Northcote may have had, the neglect of his own comfort was apparently not one of them. From the carved oak book-shelves and the huge easy-chairs down to the two or three little reading-lamps placed about on various tables, there seemed to be everything that luxury could demand or ingenuity contrive. I stood with my back to the open red-tiled hearth, gazing over it all with distinct approval.
There was a knock at the door, and Milford came in, carrying a tray, which contained a decanter, a syphon, and a glass. He placed these on a small table by the fireplace, and then withdrew as noiselessly as he had entered.
On the farther side of the room stood a handsome oak desk, at which Northcote was evidently accustomed to conduct his business and correspondence. I walked over to it, and seated myself in the chair.
So far, everything had gone surprisingly well. A kind of wild hilarity at the novelty of my amazing position was running through my veins. I felt inclined to burst out laughing, or to get up and waltz round the room.
The thought of Milford's emotions, however, if he should come in unexpectedly, prevented me from putting my feelings into action. I pulled out Northcote's pocket-book, and, opening it at the page where he had jotted down his immediate engagements, began to glance through them. As I did so, my left hand, in a curious, unconscious way, was playing with the framework of a small silver mirror which stood on one side of the desk.
It was the tiniest sound behind me that attracted my attention—a sound so soft that, if my hearing had not been particularly acute, I should certainly have failed to notice it. Without moving, I glanced sideways in the mirror.
A long curtain, which apparently concealed a recess at the side of the fireplace, was being gently moved aside. With every muscle tense, I watched the process, my heart beating steadily in swift, insistent strokes.
Then suddenly, to my amazement, a girl stepped out noiselessly into the room. Her face was deadly pale, and half hidden by the drooping hat that she was wearing; but even in the mirror I could see that she was astonishingly pretty.
For a moment she paused, then very cautiously she pulled out a small pistol of some kind from under the long cloak that she was wearing, and pointed it slowly and carefully at the back of my head.
I must have fallen forward at the very moment she fired. There was no report, only the jar of a powerful air-spring, but the bullet crashed into the woodwork of the desk just exactly in a line with where my head had been a second before.
It was a pretty piece of dodging, but I was not ambitious for an encore. I was across that room and had my fair visitor by the wrist in considerably less time than it takes to read these words.
She made no attempt at resistance. Her failure seemed to have robbed her of any power of motion. She dropped the pistol as soon as I touched her, and stood facing me with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes.
With my disengaged hand I picked up the weapon. It was an air pistol of a rather formidable kind, quite capable of killing a man at twenty yards. I put it in my pocket, and, releasing my grip on her wrist stepped back a couple of paces.
"Won't you sit down?" I said pleasantly.
My invitation had an unexpected result. With a low moan she put up her hands in front of her face, and then, before I could catch her, swayed forwards and sank slowly to the floor.
"This," I said to myself, "is the mischief."
However, I couldn't very well leave her lying there, so, stooping down and raising her in my arms, I carried her to the sofa.
So far, things had travelled with such cheerful rapidity that I had had no time for reflection. But at this point it suddenly struck me that it would be as well to lock the door, in case Milford, or any other member of the household, had heard the crash of the bullet. So, crossing the room, I turned the key in the lock, and then came back to where my unconventional visitor was lying.
My first impression of her in the mirror had scarcely done her justice. There is a distinct gap between prettiness and beauty, and the girl who lay on the sofa was as lovely as a Greek statue. Indeed, but for the slightly parted lips and the long dark eyelashes, she might really have been chiselled out of marble. Her face was quite white, and only the faintest stirring of her breast gave any impression of life.
My acquaintance with the world has been fairly varied, but this was a situation right out of my previous line. Indeed, the problem of how to act for the best when shut up alone at midnight with a young lady who has just attempted to assassinate you is one of sufficient delicacy to baffle the most experienced. I decided that the first step was to bring her back to consciousness.
Putting some brandy into a glass, I carefully lifted her up and poured a few drops between her tightly-shut teeth. The strong spirit had an almost immediate effect. A faint tinge of colour stole into her face, and with a deep sigh she opened her eyes.
When she saw that I was holding her, she shuddered violently, and shrank back against the arm of the couch. It was not exactly complimentary, but I decided to overlook it.
"I hope you're feeling better?" I said, with an encouraging smile.
Her answer was a glance of such intense hatred and contempt that I instinctively got up from the sofa.
"Well," she said, "why don't you ring the bell, and hand me over to the police?"
She spoke in low, passionate tones and with a very slight foreign accent, but her voice was delicious. It was one of those deep, sorrowful contraltos that seem pathetic with all the woe of the world.
I looked back steadily into her indignant eyes.
"I object to the police on principle," I said. "Besides, I really don't see what they have to do with the matter. You have only smashed a desk, after all."
Before she could make any reply there came a sudden sound of footsteps on the landing outside, followed a moment later by a discreet knock at the door.
"Who's that?" I called out.
The somewhat apologetic voice of Milford answered me through the panels. "It's only me, sir. I fancied I heard something drop in your room, and came to see if I could be of any assistance."
For a second I hesitated, and then, walking to the door, I opened it just wide enough to prevent him from seeing in.
"It's nothing, thanks, Milford," I said. "I was cleaning an air pistol, and the thing went off and smashed the woodwork of the desk. We'll have a look at it in the morning. By the way, did anyone call for me while I was out?"
He shook his head. "No, sir."
"Well, I may run out and post a letter before I turn in," I added; "so, if you hear anyone walking about, don't imagine it's a burglar. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
I closed the door, and listened to the footsteps of my faithful retainer dying away in the distance. Then I fastened the lock, and came back to my visitor.
"Perhaps it would be as well," I said, "if you gave me back my latch-key before you forget."
She had risen to her feet and stood facing me like some beautiful animal at bay. Her cloak had fallen back, betraying the graciously moulded lines of her figure, shown off to perfection by the closely-fitting black dress that she was wearing underneath.
From her belt hung a small leather bag, of the kind that one sees in Bond Street shop windows. She opened this, and without speaking took out a key, and threw it down on the sofa.
"Thank you," I said. "And now, if you won't think me inquisitive, may I ask why you wanted to shoot me?"
She stared at me with a look in which loathing and surprise were very prettily mingled.
"Why do you pretend you don't know?" she asked contemptuously.
I shook my head. "On my honour," I said, "I haven't the remotest idea."
Her lip curled delightfully, and she drew herself up to her full height. "I am Mercia Solano," she said.
I bowed. "It's a charming name," I observed, "but, under the circumstances, Mercia seems a little out of place."
"Ah, you can jest!" she cried bitterly. "You were well named the Satyr of Culebra."
"Really!" I said. "You embarrass me. I had no idea people were so complimentary. But what have I done to deserve all these little attentions?"
"What have you done!" Her hands clenched, and her breast rose and fell in superb indignation. "You ask me what you have done, when the grass is still brown above my father's body!"
Burying her face in her hands, she broke down and sobbed like a child.
I must admit that for a moment I felt an unspeakable brute. Under my breath I cursed Northcote heartily.
"You can believe me or not, as you choose," I said, "but I had no more to do with your father's death than you had."
She stopped crying, and taking away her hands gazed at me wildly.
"Oh, what are you saying?" she moaned. "What is the good of lying to me? Wasn't I by his side when they shot him down? Look here—" She tore back the sleeve of her dress, baring her arm almost to the shoulder, and showing an angry scar that seamed its white beauty. "Here is the very mark of your bullets, and you dare to stand there and lie to my face! Oh, God! are you a man or a devil?"
She sank down on the sofa again, in a very abandonment of passion and grief.
I crushed back a sudden savage desire to take her in my arms and explain everything.
"Look at me," I said, with some sternness, and she raised her head. "Do I seem to you like a man who is lying?" I went on harshly. "I swear to you by my mother's name, by everything I hold sacred, that I was in no way to blame for your father's death. I can't tell you more at present, but before God I'm speaking the literal truth."
The savage earnestness in my voice seemed to have some effect. Into her eyes, which were fixed on mine, there crept a kind of reluctant doubt, and with puzzled gesture she passed her hand across her forehead.
"I—I don't understand," she said faintly. "Guarez—" Then she stopped abruptly.
"Yes?" I said, with an encouraging air. It struck me that Guarez was possibly a gentleman whom it would be healthy to know a little about.
But an obstinate fit seemed suddenly to have come over her, for her lips closed and she got up from the sofa without finishing the sentence.
It was vastly annoying, for I appeared to have been on the very verge of finding out something about my unknown and apparently strenuous past. I couldn't question her further without breaking my promise to Northcote—indeed, my conscience pricked me with having already failed to live up to the strict interpretation of my pledge.
"Well," I said, with a shrug of my shoulders, "we will leave it at that. Please consider yourself at liberty to leave the house when you choose."
I put my hand in my pocket and felt the pistol. "By the way," I added, taking it out and holding it towards her, "since you've given me back my latch-key, the least I can do is to restore you your property."
She accepted it with an air of bewilderment.
"Of course you have some more cartridges," I went on, "but I will trust to your honour—"
"Honour!" she broke out. "You talk to me of honour!You!"
The inference was so obvious that I could hardly pretend to miss it.
"Why not?" I demanded. "I've already told you I am perfectly innocent of the crimes you credit me with."
I stooped forward and picked up the key from the sofa. "Perhaps you can tell me," I added, "whether there are any more of these useful articles wandering about London. If so, I think I shall go to the expense of a new lock."
She shook her head, still staring at me in a kind of puzzled wonder.
"I do not know," she said. "It makes no difference. Whether you are innocent or guilty, there is no power that can save you."
This was distinctly cheerful!
"Perhaps you're right," I said. "But at all events I shall see what the ironmonger can do in the morning. He may at least delay matters."
Going to the door, I opened it cautiously, and listened for a moment to see if any of my household were afoot.
"The coast seems clear," I said. "I'll come down to the hall and let you out."
She made a motion as if to protest, and then changed her mind.
"Very well," she said wearily.
With an inward prayer that no inopportune domestic would put in an appearance on the scene, I led the way cautiously down the big staircase. It was a strange experience, but by this time I was becoming case-hardened to strange experiences. Anyway, we reached the hall without misadventure, and, pulling back the latch of the front door as quietly as possible, I opened it sufficiently wide to allow my visitor to pass through. As soon as she was outside, I followed her, closing the door behind me.
"I'll just stroll along behind you until you pick up a cab," I said carelessly.
In the lamplight I saw a flash of terror leap into her eyes.
"No, no," she whispered. "You must go back at once, It is not safe."
"I quite agree with you," I said. "It's horribly unsafe for a girl to be walking about London alone at this time of night. That's exactly why I propose to find you a cab."
She hurriedly laid her hand on my arm. "I don't understand," she said pitifully. "It's all so different from what I expected, but oh! please—please—"
There was a rumble of wheels, and a dejected-looking hansom came slowly trundling past. I signalled to the driver, who at once pulled up.
"Well, here we are," I said cheerfully; "so that settles the matter."
With a little gasp of relief she dropped my arm, and glanced nervously up and down the roadway.
I stepped forward and stood by the wheel so as to protect her dress. She got in, thanking me in an almost inaudible whisper.
"Good-night," I said, holding out my hand. "I'll leave you to tell the driver where you want to go."
There was an instant's pause, and then with a hurried gesture she bent forward and laid her hand in mine.
"Good-night," she said softly.
I felt the faint pressure of her fingers—the same slender fingers that had so nearly cut short my promising career, and a curious thrill of satisfaction ran suddenly through my heart.
Releasing her hand, I stepped back on to the pavement. I saw the driver raise the flap and bend down to catch her directions. Then he wheeled his horse round, and the cab jogged away steadily in the direction of Oxford Street.
"And here," I said to myself, "endeth the first lesson."
As the words rose in my mind, something caught my attention on the farther side of the road. There was a clump of trees exactly opposite, just inside the railings of the Park, and in the thick shadow beneath them I could have sworn that I had detected a movement.
My nerves must have been pretty badly on edge, for I as nearly as possible jumped for the area. Fortunately, I pulled myself together just in time. Taking out a cigarette, I lit it with some deliberation, and then in a leisurely and dignified fashion mounted the steps, latchkey in hand, and let myself into the house. All the time I had a horrible presentiment that at the next second a bullet would crash into the small of my back; but like most presentiments it failed to materialise. Still, it was with a feeling of considerable relief that I closed the door and shot home the bolts at the top and bottom.
When I reached my study, the first thing I did was to mix myself a pretty stiff brandy-and-soda. I wanted it badly.
"If I keep this job going for three weeks," I reflected, "I shall probably end up as a confirmed dipsomaniac."
By the time I had got well into a cigarette, however, my natural good spirits had begun to reassert themselves. After all, I was still alive, and, apparently, so far quite unsuspected, which was about as favourable a situation as I had any right to expect.
Northcote, however, had plainly been speaking in good faith when he described his offer as one for which the competition would be scant if the truth about it were known. Granted that my first evening's experiences were a fair sample of what I might expect, my chances of survival seemed quite unhealthily remote. If Mercia had been a man, I reflected grimly, by this time I should most certainly have been a ghost.
Who was she, and what had her relations been with Northcote? That the ruffian was responsible for her father's death was fairly obvious, but as to the circumstances of the tragedy I was still utterly in the dark. They must have been pretty bad to drive a young girl to such a desperate step, unless in some way or other she was being made a cat's-paw of by others.
Anyhow, I made no attempt to disguise from myself the fact that I was extremely anxious to see her again. Her beautiful face lingered in my memory as clearly as though I were looking at a picture, and somehow or other I still seemed to feel the thrill that had gone through me when she laid her hand in mine.
I had got as far as this in my meditations when it suddenly struck me I was becoming maudlin. Also, there could be no doubt that I was as sleepy as an owl.
I got up with a laugh and a yawn, and, turning on the light, went into my bedroom.
It was a large apartment, even bigger than the sitting-room, and the magnificent four-poster bed was in keeping with its spaciousness. I made a tour of inspection, satisfying myself that there were no more charming ladies or visitors of any kind lying in wait for me, and then, carefully locking both the door of the room and the door into the study, I proceeded to take off my clothes and array myself in Northcote's silk pyjamas, which the faithful Milford had put out for me.
My last act was the result of a sudden inspiration. Before getting into bed, I crossed to the window and looked out very cautiously through a crack in the Venetian blind. Just as I did so, the dark figure of a man rose out of the shadow of the trees opposite and walked quickly down the roadway.
I got into bed and turned off the light.
"I wonder," I said to myself, "if that could have been Señor Guarez."
Five minutes later I was sound asleep.