"I was that impatient that I hardly knew what to do. Minutes was like dymens, and there Lemon lay like a log. Couldn't I bring him to his senses somehow or other? I tried. I walked about heavy. I threw down things. I even turned Lemon over, but it had no more effect on him than water on a duck's back. He never give so much as a murmur, and I don't think a earthquake would have roused him. I had to give it up as a bad job, but I felt that it would be a mockery for me to go to bed, because in the state I was in it wasn't likely I could git a wink of sleep. Then I knew, too, that there wouldn't be a minute to lose when Lemon opened his eyes, and that it was my duty to git everything ready. So I spread out Lemon's clothes in regular order, not forgetting his clean Sunday shirt, and I put on my bonnet and cloak, and set down and waited all through that blessed night, looking at Lemon. I didn't hear a sound in the room up-stairs, so I supposed that Devlin was asleep, and I thought how dreadful it was to have a man like that in the house, a man as spoke of murder as though he enjoyed it. The only sound that come to my ears two or three times in the night was the policeman on his beat outside as he passed through the square, and you may guess, sir, I didn't get any comfort out of that. I had my fancies, but I shook 'em off, though they made me shake and shiver. One of 'em was that all of a sudden, jest as the policeman had passed by, there rung through the square shrieks of 'Murder! murder!' and millions of people seemed to be battering at the street-door and crying that they'd tear Lemon and me to pieces. It didn't seem as if they wanted to hurt Devlin, for there he was, standing and grinning at us and the people, with that aggravating look on his face that makes me burn to fly at him, if I only had the courage. Of course it was all fancy, sir; but how would you like to pass sech a night?
"At nine o'clock this morning, and not a minute before, Lemon woke up. I had a cup of tea ready for him in the bedroom, and a slice of bread and butter. He's gone off his breakfast for a long time past, and one slice of bread and butter is as much as he can git down, if he can do that. Before I took Devlin as a lodger, Lemon used to eat a big breakfast, never less than a couple of rashers, and a couple of boiled eggs on the top of that, and four or five slices of bread and butter cut thick. It is a bad sign when a man begins to say he's got no appetite for breakfast. If his stomach ain't going all to pieces, it's something worse, perhaps.
"'Why, Fanny,' said Lemon, seeing me with my bonnet on, 'have you been out? What's the time?'
"He spoke quite calm and cheerful; the sleeping draught had done him good, and had made him forgit.
"'The time's nine o'clock, Lemon,' I answered, 'and I ain't been out.'
"'What's to-day?' he asked.
"'Sunday,' I answered.
"'Sunday!' he exclaimed. 'It's funny. Everything seems mixed. Sunday, is it? But, I say, Fanny, if you ain't been out, what have you got your bonnet on for?'
"'I'm waiting for you,' I said. 'Git up, quick, you must come with me at once.'
"'Come with you at once,' he said, rubbing his eyes, to make sure whether he was awake or asleep; and then he must have seen something in my face, for he looked at me strange, and left off rubbing his eyes, and began to rub his forehead. 'I can't understand it. Has anything gone wrong?'
"'Lemon,' I said, speaking very solemn, and speaking as I felt, 'you know too well what has gone wrong, and I only hope you may be forgiven.'
"I shouldn't have stopped short in the middle if it hadn't been that we heard Devlin moving about in the room up-stairs. I looked up at the ceiling, and so did Lemon, and when I saw his face grow white I knew that mine was growing white as well; and I knew, too, that Lemon was gitting his memory back.
"'Speak low, speak low,' he whispered. 'Devlin mustn't hear a word we say. You hope I may be forgiven! For what? What have I done? O, my head, my head! It feels as if it was going to burst!'
"His face begun to get flushed, and the veins swelled out. I thought to myself, I must be careful with Lemon; I mustn't be too sudden with him, or he'll have another fit. I was going to speak soothing, when he clapped his hand on my mouth and almost stopped my breath.
"'Don't say nothing yet,' he said. 'You must tell me something first that I want to know. I feel so confused--so confused! What's been the matter with me? I don't remember going to bed last night.'
"'You fell down in a fit, Lemon,' I said, 'and I had to get the doctor to you.'
"'Yes, yes,' he said eagerly. 'Go on--go on.'
"'We carried you up-stairs here, the doctor and me, and undressed you and put you to bed; and when you come out of your fit he give you a sleeping draught.'
"'It's not that I want to know,' he said. 'Whatmademe go into a fit? I never had a fit before, as I remember. O Fanny, is it all a dream?'
"'Lemon,' I answered, 'you must ask your conscience; I can't answer you. You come home with a evening paper in your pocket, a-moaning and crying, and you ketches hold of me, and looks round as if a ghost had follered you into the room, and then you falls down in your fit.'
"'And him?' he said, pointing to the ceiling. 'Him--Devlin? Was he with me? Did he see me while I was in the fit?'
"'No,' I answered. 'He come home after we'd got you to bed, and said he wanted to see you; but I wouldn't let him. I whipped up-stairs here, and turned the key, so as he shouldn't git at you.'
"'You did right, you did right. Was he angry?'
"'If he was, he didn't show it. He kep with me a long time, talking about the--the----'
"'About the what?' asked Lemon, the perspiration breaking out on him.
"'About the murder! Well may you shiver! It was in the newspaper you brought home with you, and he read it out loud, and talked about it in a way as froze my blood.'
"'Blood!' groaned Lemon, 'Blood! O Fanny, Fanny!'
"He is my husband, sir, and he was suffering, and I ain't ashamed to say that I took him in my arms, and tried to comfort him.
"'One word, Lemon,' I said, 'only one word before we go on. You ain't guilty, are you?'
"'Guilty?' he answered, but speaking quite soft; we neither of us raised our voices above a whisper 'My God, no! How could I be? Wasn't I at home and abed when it was done? O, it's horrible! horrible! and I don't know what to think.'
"'Thank God, you're innocent!' I said, and I was so grateful in my heart that my eyes brimmed over. 'And you didn't have nothing to do with the planning of it? Tell me that.'
"'No, Fanny,' he said. 'Himup-stairs there--didhesleep at home last night?'
"'Unless there's something going on too awful to think of,' I said, 'he did. I ain't been in bed, Lemon, since home you come yesterday and had your fit. And here in this room I've been setting with you from the time I put the chain on the street-door last night till now. I've only left you once--to take in the milk at seven o'clock this morning, and then the chain was on; it hadn't been touched. No one went out of this house last night by the street-door.'
"'They couldn't have gone out no other way,' said Lemon.
"'I don't see how they could,' I said, though I had my thoughts.
"'And the night before, Fanny,' said Lemon, and now he looked at me as if life and death was in my answer, 'the night it was done, did he sleep at home then?'
"'To the best of my belief he did,' I said. 'You may put me on the rack and tear me with red hot pinchers, and I can't say nothing but the truth. Hedidsleep here the night that awful murder was done in Victoria Park. Drag me to the witness-box and put me in irons, and I can't say nothing else. I saw him go to his room after I'd put up the chain; he called out 'Good night;' and the next morning the chain was up jest as I left it. You can't put the chain on the street-door from the outside; it must be done from the in. And now, Lemon, listen to me.'
"'What do you want?' he groaned. 'O, what do you want? Ain't I bad enough already that you try to make me worse?'
"'Imustsay, Lemon, what is on my mind.'
"'Won't it keep, Fanny?' he asked.
"'It won't keep,' I answered. 'You know the man as committed the murder, and you'll come with me to the police-station, and put the police on his track.'
"'Meknow the wretch!' Lemon cried, his eyes almost starting out of his head. 'Have you gone mad?'
"'No, Lemon,' I answered, 'I'm in my sober senses. Whatever happens afterwards, we've got to face the consequences, or we shall wake up in the middle of the night and see that poor girl standing at our bedside pointing her finger at us. It's no use trying to disguise it. Iknowyou know the wretch, and deny it you shan't.'
"'O,' he said, speaking very slow, as if he was choosing words, 'you know I know him!'
"'I do,' I answered.
"'Perhaps,' he said, with something like a click in his throat, 'you will tell me how that's possible, when it's gospel truth I've never set eyes on him all my born days.'
"'Lemon,' I said, 'be careful, O, be careful, how you speak of gospel truth! Remember Ananias! You may beat about the bush as much as you like, but I'm determined to do what I've made up my mind to, and nothing shall drive me from it.'
"'Of course,' he said, upon that, and speaking flippant, 'if you've made up your mind to the egstent you speak of, I'd best shut my mouth. I'll keep it shut till you tell me how you know what you say you know.'
"'Lemon,' I said, 'light you speak, but sech you don't feel. You can't deceive me. When we was first married, you slep the sleep of innocence, and your breathing was that regular as showed you had nothing on your mind to take egsception to. But since that Devlin come into the house, the way you've gone on of a night is simply awful. Jumping about in bed as you've been doing night after night, and screaming and talking in your sleep----'
"'Talking in my sleep!' he cried, and I saw that I'd scared him. 'You shouldn't have let me! Call yourself a wife? You should have stopped me!'
"'I couldn't help letting you, and I couldn't have stopped you, Lemon, and I'm not sure whether it would have been right to do it if sech was in my power.'
"'What have I said, what have I said?' he asked.
"'The night before last as ever was,' I said, 'when that dreadful deed was done as was printed in the paper you brought home yesterday, you said, while you was laying asleep on the very bed you're laying on now, words as chilled my blood, and it's a mercy I'm alive to tell it. You spoke of Victoria Park; you spoke of a beautiful young girl with hair the colour of gold; you spoke--O, Lemon, Lemon!--you spoke of her being stabbed to the heart; you spoke of a bunch of white daisies as she wore in her belt, and you said there was blood on 'em----'
"I had to stop myself, sir; for Lemon had hid his face in the bedclothes, and was shaking like a man with Sam Witus's dance in his marrer. I let him lay till he got over it a bit, and then he uncovered his face; it was as white as a sheet.
"'Fanny,' he said--and he was hardly able to get his words out--'there's the Bible on the mantelshelf, there. Bring it to me.'"
"I fetched the Bible, sir, and he took it in his hand, and swore a most solemn oath, and kissed the book on it, that he didn't know the man, that he didn't know the girl, and that he had no more to do with the murder than a babe unborn. Never in my life did I see a man in sech a state as he was.
"'But, Lemon,' I said, 'how could you come to speak sech words? How could you come to know all about the murder hours and hours before it was done?'
"'I'll tell you, Fanny,' he said, 'as fur as I know; and if you was to cut me in a thousand pieces I couldn't tell you more.'
"'It ain't to be egspected,' I said.
"'If there's men in the world,' Lemon went on, 'as can look into the future, Devlin's one of 'em. If there's men in the world as can tell you what's going to happen--without having anything to do with it theirselves, mind--Devlin's one of 'em. The things he's told me of people is unbelievable, but as true as true can be. "Did you take particular notice of the gentleman whose hair I've been jest cutting?" he said to me. "No," says I; "why should I?" "He's the great Mr. Danebury that all the world's talking of," says he. "Is he?" says I. "I wonder what brings him to our shop? What a charitable man he is! "What a good, good man he is!" "Good ain't the word for him," says Devlin. "He comes to our shop because it's out of the way. All the while I was operating on him he was thinking of a little milliner's girl as he's got an appointment with to-night. 'Pretty little Ph[oe]be!' he was saying to hisself as I was cutting his hair. 'What eyes she's got! Bloo and swimming! What a skin's she's got! like satting, it is so white and smooth! What lips she's got! She's a bit of spring, jest budding. Pritty little Ph[oe]be--pretty little Ph[oe]be!'" "But what was he saying that for?" I asks. "He can't be in love with her. He's a family man, ain't he?" "I should think he was a family man," says Devlin. "He's got the most beautiful wife a man could wish for, and as good as she's beautiful; and he's got half-a-dozen blooming children. But that don't prevent his being in love with pritty little Ph[oe]be, and he's got an appointment with her to-night; and, what's more, he's going to keep it." I'm putting a true case to you, Fanny,' says Lemon, 'one of many sech. I fires up at what Devlin says about such a good man--that is, I used to fire up when things first commenced. I don't dispute with him now; I know it's no use, and that he's always right, and me always wrong. But then I did, and I asks him how dare he talk like that of sech a man as Mr. Danebury, as gives money to charities, and talks about being everybody's friend. "O, you don't believe me!" Devlin says. "Well, come with me to-night, and we'll jest see for ourselves." And I go with him, and I see a pritty little girl walking up and down the dark turning at the bottom of the Langham Hotel. Up and down she walks, up and down, up and down. "That must be her," says Devlin. We keep watching a little way off on the other side of the way, where it's darker still than where she's walking and waiting, and presently who should come up to her but the great Mr. Danebury; and he takes her hand and holds it long, and they stand talking, and he says something to make her laugh, and then he tucks her arm in his, and walks off with her. "What do you think of that?" Devlin asks. "He's going to take her to a meeting of the missionary society." What I think of it makes me melancholy, and makes me ask myself, "Can sech things be?" At another time Devlin says, "I shouldn't wonder if you heard of a big fire to-morrer." "Why do you say that?" I asks. "The man who's jest gone out," Devlin answers, "was thinking of one while I was shampooing him--that's all." And thatwasall; but sure enough I do read of a big fire to-morrer in a great place of business that's heavily insured, and there's lives lost and dreadful scenes. And then sometimes when Devlin and me is setting together, he gits up all of a sudden and stands over me, and what he does to me I couldn't tell you if you was to burn me alive; but my senses seems to go, and I either gits fancies, or Devlin puts 'em in my head; but when I come to there's Devlin setting before me, and he says, "I'll wager," says he, "that I'll tell you what you've been dreaming of." "Have I been asleep?" I asks. "Sound," he answers, "and talking in your sleep." And he tells me something dreadful that I've said about something that's going to happen; and before the week's out it does happen, and I read of it in the papers. For a long time this has been going on till I've got in that state that I'd as soon die as live. If you don't understand what I'm trying to egsplain, Fanny,' said my poor Lemon, 'it ain't my fault; it's as dark to me as it is to you. Sometimes I says to Devlin, "I'll go and warn the police." "Do," says Devlin, "and be took up as a accomplice, and be follered about all your life like a thief or a murderer. Go and tell, and git yourself hanged or clapped in a madhouse." Of course, I see the sense of that, and I keep my mouth shut, but I get miserabler and miserabler. So the day before yesterday--that's Friday, Fanny--Devlin and me is sitting in the private room of the Twisted Cow, when he asks me whether I've ever been to Victoria Park, and I answers "Lots of times." Now Fanny,' said Lemon, breaking off in his awful confession, 'if you ain't prepared to believe what's coming, I'll say no more. It'll sound unbelievable, but I can't help that. Things has happened without me having anything to do with 'em, and I'd need to be a sperrit instead of a man to account for 'em.'
"'Lemon,' I said, 'I'm prepared to believe everything, only don't keep nothing from me.'
"'I won't,' said Lemon; 'I'll tell you as near and as straight as I can what happened after Devlin asked me whether I'd ever been to Victoria Park. His eyes was fixed upon me that strange that I felt my senses slipping away from me; it wasn't that things went round so much as they seemed to fade away and become nothing at all. Was I setting in the private room of the Twisted Cow? I don't know. Was it day or night? I don't know. I wouldn't swear to it, though the moonwasshining through the trees. The trees where? Why, in Victoria Park, and no place else. And there was a man and a woman--a young beautiful woman, with golden hair, and a bunch of white daisies in her belt--talking together. How do I know that she's young and beautiful when I didn't see her face? That's one of the things I'm unable to answer. And I don't see the man's face, either. Whether a minute passed or a hour, before I heard a shriek, I can't say, and perhaps it ain't material. And upon the shriek, there, near the water, laid the young girl, dead, with the bunch of white daisies in her belt, stained with blood. Then, everything disappeared, and, trembling and shaking to that degree that I felt as if I must fall to pieces, I looked up and round, and found myself in the private room of the Twisted Cow, with Devlin setting opposite me. "Dreaming agin, Lemon?" he says, with a grin. But I don't answer him; my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. That's all I know, Fanny. Whether I saw what I've told you, or was told it, or only fancied it, is beyond me. What I've said is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!'
"That's what I heard from Lemon's own lips this morning, sir, up-stairs, abed, where he is laying now, with the door locked on him.
"I took off my hat and cloak, and Lemon burst out crying.
"'You believe me, Fanny!' he cried.
"'I believe every word you said,' I answered. 'It's no use going to the police-station this morning. A good friend of our'n is coming to see me to-day, and we'll wait and do what he advises us. Only you must promise to see him.' And I told him who you was, and why I wrote to you on Friday before poor Lizzie Melladew met her death.
"'I promise,' said Lemon, 'and you've done right, Fanny.'
"And now, sir, I've told you everything as I said I would, and you know as much as I do about this dreadful business."
This was the story which Fanny related to me, and to which I listened in wonder and amazement. As she related it I wondered at times whether it was possible that what she said could be true, but I saw no reason to question her veracity; and there certainly could be no doubt of her sincerity. I had to some extent conquered the fascination which Lemon's portrait on the wall, the stuffed bird in its glass case, and the evil-looking monster on the mantelshelf had exercised over me, but even now I could scarcely gaze upon them without a shudder. Fanny did not relate her story straight off, without a break, and I need hardly say that it was much longer than is here transcribed. But I have omitted no important point; everything pertinent to the tragedy of the murder of Mr. Melladew's daughter is faithfully set down. When she finished it was quite dark; at my request she had not lighted lamp or candle.
There were breaks, as I have said. Twice she left off, and went up-stairs to see Lemon, and give him something to eat and drink.
"He knows you're here, sir," she said, when she returned on the first occasion.
"Is he impatient to see me?" I asked.
"No, sir," she replied. "All he seems to want is to be left alone."
"But he will see me?"
"O, yes, sir! He'll keep his promise."
Once there was an interval of more than half-an-hour, during which I ate some cold meat and bread she brought me, and drank a pint bottle of stout.
There was another occasion when she suddenly paused, with her finger at her lips.
"What are you stopping for, Fanny?" I asked.
"Speak low, sir," she said. "Devlin!"
"Where?" I said, much startled.
"He has just opened the street-door, sir."
"I heard nothing, Fanny."
"No, sir, you wouldn't. You don't know his ways as I do. Don't speak for a minute or two, sir."
I waited, and strained my ears, but no footfall reached my ears. Presently Fanny said:
"He's gone up to his room. He waited outside Lemon's door, and tried it, I think. Have you any notion what you are going to do about him, sir?"
"My ideas are not yet formed, but I intend to see and speak with him."
"You do, sir?"
"I do, Fanny, A special providence has directed my steps here to-day. I knew the poor girl who has been murdered."
"Sir!"
"Her family and mine have been friends for years. The interest I take in the discovery of the murderer is no common interest, and I intend to bring him to justice."
"How, sir?" exclaimed Fanny, greatly excited.
"Through Mr. Devlin. The way will suggest itself. You have not heard him leave the house since he entered a little while since?"
"No, sir. He is in his room now."
"If," I said, "when I am with your husband--and I intend to remain with him but a short time--Devlin comes down-stairs, let me know immediately. Keep watch for him."
"I will, sir. O, how thankful I am that you're here--how thankful, how thankful!"
"I hope we shall all have reason to be thankful. And now, Fanny, I will go up to your husband."
"I'll go in first, and prepare him, sir."
"Let us have lights in the house. Don't leave Mr. Lemon in the dark. Put a candle in the passage also."
She followed my instructions, and then we went to her husband's bedroom. I waited outside while she "prepared" him. It did not take long to do so, and she came to the door and beckoned to me. I entered the room, and desired her to leave us alone.
"But don't lock us in," I added.
"No, sir," she said. "Lemon's safe now you're with him."
With that she retired, first smoothing the bedclothes and the pillow with a kind of pitying, soothing motion as though Lemon was about to undergo an operation.
I moved the candle so that its light fell upon Lemon's face. A scared, frightened face it was that turned towards me, the face of a man who had received a deadly shock.
It is unnecessary to say more than a few words about what passed between Mr. Lemon and myself. My purpose was to obtain from him confirmation of the strange mysterious story which Fanny had related. In this purpose I succeeded; it was correct in every particular. What I elicited from Lemon was elicited in the form of questions which I put to him and which he answered, sometimes readily, sometimes reluctantly. Had time not been so precious, my curiosity would have impelled me to go into matters respecting Devlin other than the murder of Lizzie Melladew, but I felt there was not a minute to waste; and at the termination of my interview with Lemon I went into the passage, where I found Fanny waiting for me. Whispering to her not to remain there, in order that Devlin might not be too strongly prejudiced against me--supposing him to be on the watch as well as ourselves--and receiving from her instructions as to the position of his room, I mounted the stairs with a firm, loud tread, and stood in the dark at the door which was to conduct me to the presence of the mysterious being.
I rapped with my knuckles, and a voice which could have been none other than the voice of Devlin immediately responded, calling to me to enter. The next moment I stood face to face with the strange creature, concerning whom my curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. He was sitting in a chair upon my entrance, and he did not rise from it; therefore I looked down upon him and he looked up at me. As my eyes rested on his face, I saw in it the inspiration of the evil expression in the faces of Mr. Lemon's portrait, the stone monster, and the bird's beak, which had made so profound an impression upon me in the parlour on the ground-floor.
"You have been in the house some time," said Devlin.
"I have," I answered.
"And have had a long, a very long, conversation with my worthy landlady," he observed.
"Yes," I said.
"About me," he said, not in the form of a question but as a statement of fact.
"Partly about you."
"And about poor Lemon?"
"Yes, about him as well."
"Sit down," said Devlin, "I expected you."
There was only one other chair in the room besides the one he occupied, and I accepted his invitation, and drew it up to the table. And there we sat gazing at each other for what appeared to me a long time in silence.
The room was very poorly furnished. There were the two chairs, a small deal table, and a single iron bedstead in the corner. Off the room was a kind of closet, in which I supposed were a washstand and fittings. There was only one other article in view in addition to those I have mentioned, and that was a desk at which Devlin was writing.[1]He did not put away his papers, and I was enabled to observe, without undue prying, that his writing was very fine and very close.
How shall I describe him? A casual observation of his face and figure would not suffice for the detection of anything uncanny about him, but it must be remembered that I was abnormally excited, and most strangely interested in him. He was tall and dark, his face was long and spare; his forehead was low; his eyes were black, with an extraordinary brilliancy in them; his mouth was large, and his lips thin. He wore a moustache, but no beard. In the order and importance of the impressions they produced upon me I should place first, his black eyes with their extraordinary brilliancy, and next, his hands, which were unusually small and white. They were the hands of a lady of gentle culture rather than those of a man in the class of life to which Devlin appeared to belong. Not alone was his social standing presumably fixed by the fact of his living in a room so poorly furnished at the top of a house so common as Mr. Lemon's, but his clothes were a special indication. They were shabby and worn; black frock-coat, black trousers and waistcoat, narrow black tie. Not a vestige of colour about them, and no sign of jewellery of any kind.
"Well?" he said.
I started. I had been so absorbed in my observance of him that I, who should have been the first to plunge into the conversation, had remained silent for a time so unreasonably long that the man upon whom I had intruded might have justly taken offence.
"I beg your pardon," I said; "did you not remark that you expected me?"
"Yes."
"May I inquire upon what grounds your expectation was based?"
He smiled; and here I observed, in the quality of this smile, a characteristic of which Mrs. Lemon had given me no indication. Devlin was evidently gifted with a touch of humour.
"I reason by analogy," he said. "My landlady has very few visitors. You are here for the first time, with an object. You remain closeted with her for hours. She probably sent for you. During the long interview down-stairs you have been told a great deal about me. You hear me open the street-door, and you know I am in the house. My landlady has a trouble on her mind, and mixes me up with it. You have been made acquainted with this trouble and with my supposed connection with it. Your curiosity has been aroused, and you determine to seek an interview with me before you take your leave of her. You come up uninvited, and here you are, as I expected. Am I logical?"
"Quite logical."
"In a common-sense view of commonplace matters--and everything in the world is commonplace--lies the ripest wisdom. Follow my example. Exercise your common sense."
But I did not immediately speak. Devlin's words were so different from what I had expected that I was for a moment at a loss. The prospect of my being able to bring the murderer of Lizzie Melladew to justice and of earning a thousand pounds did not appear so bright.
"I will assist you," he resumed; "I will endeavour to set you at your ease with me. Your scrutiny of me has been very searching; I ought to feel flattered. What anticipations of my appearance you may have entertained before you entered the room is your affair, not mine. How far they are realised is your affair, not mine. But allow me to assure you, my dear sir," and here he rose to his full height, and made me a half-humorous, half-mocking bow, "that I am a very ordinary person."
"That cannot be," I said, "after what I have heard."
"It is the destiny," he said, resuming his seat, "of greater personages than myself to be ranked much higher than they deserve. Proceed."
"I am here to speak to you about this murder," I said, plunging boldly into the subject.
"Ah, about a murder! But there are so many."
"You know to which one I refer. The murder of a young girl in Victoria Park, which took place the night before last."
"I have heard and read of it," said Devlin.
"You know also," I continued, "that the tragedy has produced in Mr. Lemon a condition of mind and body which may lead to dangerous results, probably to a despairing death."
"All men must die," he said cynically.
I was now thoroughly aroused. "I have come to you for an explanation," I said, "and it must be a satisfactory one."
"You speak like an inquisitor," said Devlin, with a quiet smile, and I seemed to detect in his altered manner a desire to irritate me and to drive me into an excess of passion. For this reason I kept myself cool, and simply said,
"I am resolved."
"Good. Keep resolved."
"I shall do so. By some devilish and mysterious means you were aware, before the poor girl left her home on Friday night, that her doom was sealed. You could have prevented it, and you did not raise a hand to save her. This knowledge I have gained from Mr. Lemon, to whom, through you, the impending tragedy was known."
"Then why didhenot prevent it?"
"It was not in his power. He was not acquainted with the names of the murderer and his victim."
"Was I?"
"You must have been. I do not pretend to an understanding of the extraordinary power you exercise, but I am convinced that, in connection with you, there is a mystery which should be brought to light, and if I can be the agent to unmask you I am ready for the work. With all the earnestness of my soul, I swear it."
A low laugh escaped Devlin's lips. "Were a commissioner of lunacy here," he said, "you would be in peril. This young girl you speak of, is she in any way connected with you?"
"She was my friend; I knew her from childhood; she has sat at my table with her sister and parents, and I and mine have sat at theirs. Her family are plunged into the lowest depths of despair by the cruel, remorseless blow which has fallen upon them."
"And you have taken upon yourself the task of an avenger. It is chivalrous, but is it entirely unselfish? I am always suspicious of mere words; there is ever behind them a secret motive, hidden by a dark curtain. I speak in metaphor, but you will seize my meaning, for you are a man of nerve and intelligence, utterly unlike our friend in the room below, whose nature is servile and abject, and who is not, as you are, given to heroics. Calm yourself. I am ready to discuss this matter with you, but in your present condition I should have the advantage of you. You are heated; I am cool and collected. You have some self-interest at heart; I have none. Your words are so wild that any person but myself hearing them would take you for a madman. For your own sake--not for mine, for the affair does not concern me--I advise moderation of language. I suppose you will scarcely believe that the man upon whom you have unceremoniously intruded, and against whom you launch accusations, the very extravagance of which renders them unworthy of serious consideration--you will scarcely believe that this man is simply a poor barber who has not a second coat to his back, nor a second pair of shoes to his feet. But it is a fact--a proof of the injustice of the world, ever blind to merit. For I am not only a barber, sir, I am a capable workman, as I will convince you. Pray do not move; a cooling essence and a brush skilfully used effect wonders on an over-heated head."
It was not in my power to resist him. He had taken his place behind my chair, and before he had finished speaking had sprinkled a liquid over my head which was so overpoweringly refreshing that I insensibly yielded to its influence. With brush and comb he arranged my hair, his small white hands occasionally touching my forehead gently and persuasively. When I thought afterwards of this strange incident I called to mind that, for the two or three minutes during which he was engaged in the exercise of his art, I was in a kind of quiet dream, in which all the agitating occurrences of the previous day in connection with the murder of Lizzie Melladew were mentally repeated in proper sequence, closing with Mr. Portland's offer of a thousand pounds for the discovery of the murderer. It was, as it were, a kind of panorama which passed before me of all that occurred between morning and night. I looked up, inexpressibly refreshed, and with my mind bright and clear. Devlin stood before me, smiling.
"Confess, sir," he said, in a soft persuasive tone, "that I have returned good for evil. The fever of the brain is abated, or I am a bungler indeed. We will now discuss the matter."
"I remarked to you just now," he said, seating himself comfortably in his chair, "that I am always suspicious of mere words, for the reason that there is ever a secret motive behind them. From what you have said I should be justified in supposing that your desire to discover the mystery in which the death of your poor young friend is involved springs simply from sympathy with her bereaved family. I will not set a trap for you, and pin you to that statement by asking questions which you would answer only in one way. You would argue with yourself probably as to the disingenuousness of those answers, but would finally appease your conscience by deciding that I, a perfect stranger to you and your affairs, cannot possibly have anything to do with the private motives by which you are influenced. Say, for instance, by such a motive as the earning of a reward which we will put down at a thousand pounds."
For the life of me I could not restrain a start of astonishment. It was the exact sum Mr. Portland had offered me. By what dark means had Devlin divined it?
"You need not be discomposed," said Devlin. "The thing is natural enough. You have credited me with so much that it will harm neither of us if you credit me with a little more--say, with a certain faculty for reading men's thoughts. The world knows very little as yet; it has much to learn; and I, in my humble way, may be a master in a new species of spiritual power. Now, I have a profound belief in Fate; what it wills must inevitably be. And, impressed by this article of faith, I, the master, may be willing to become the slave. Fate has led you to this house, and it may be that you are an instrument in discoveries yet to be made. I continue, you observe, to speak occasionally in metaphor. Be as frank with me as I have been with you. No, don't trouble yourself to speak immediately. In the words you were about to utter there is a subterfuge; you have not yet made up your mind to be entirely open with me. You and I meet now for the first time. Before this day I have never known of your existence, nor have you been aware of mine."
"If that be true," I said, interrupting him, "what made you mention the reward of a specific sum?"
"Of a thousand pounds?" he asked, smiling.
"Exactly."
"Do you deny that such a reward has been offered to you?"
"I do not deny it; but by what mysterious means did you come to the knowledge of it?"
"Because it is in your mind, my dear sir," he said.
"That is no answer."
"Is it not? I should have thought it would satisfy you, but you are inclined to be unreasonable. Come, now, I will show you how little I am concealing from you with respect to my knowledge of your movements." He shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked at me from beneath it.
"I do not know your name, nor in what part of London you reside, but certainly you and your wife--no doubt a most estimable lady--were sitting together at breakfast yesterday morning."
He paused, and waited for me to speak. "It is quite true," I said; "but there is nothing unusual in husband and wife partaking of that meal in company."
"Nothing in the least unusual if a man is master of his own time, as you were yesterday morning, for the first time for a long while past. The fact is, you had lost a situation in which you have been employed for years."
I sat spellbound. Devlin continued:
"The breakfast-things are on the table, and you and your lady are discussing ways and means. You are not rich, and you look forward with some fear to the future. Times are hard, and situations are not easy to obtain. In the midst of your consultation a man rushes into the room. He is a middle-aged man. Shall I describe him?"
"If you can," I said, my wonder growing.
He gave me a fairly faithful description of Mr. Melladew, and proceeded:
"A great grief has fallen upon this man. It is only within the last hour that he has discovered that his daughter had been murdered. He remains with you some time, and then other persons make their appearance, among them newspaper reporters and policemen, all doubtless drawn to your house by this business of the murder. You have also an interview with a young gentleman. The day passes. It is evening, and you are seated with another person. By this person you are offered one thousand pounds if you discover the murderer of the young girl, and another thousand if you find her sister, who has strangely disappeared. I do not wish to deprive you of such credit as belongs to a man who sympathises with a friend in trouble; but it is certainly a fact that the dim prospect of earning such a handsome sum of money is very strong within you. That is all."
I deliberated awhile in silence, and Devlin did not disturb my musings. All that he had narrated had passed through my mind while he was engaged in dressing my hair. Had he the power of reading thoughts by the mere action of his fingers upon a man's head? No other solution occurred to me, and had I not been placed in my present position I should instantly have rejected it; but now I was in the mood for entertaining it, wild and incredible as it appeared. During this interval of silence I made a strong endeavour to calm myself for what was yet to take place between me and Devlin, and I was successful. When I spoke I was more composed.
"You say you do not know where I live. Is it true?" I asked.
"Quite true," he answered.
"You do not really know my name?"
"I do not."
"Nor the names of my visitors?"
"Nor the names of your visitors."
"But you must be aware," I said, "admitting, for the sake of argument, that you are not romancing----"
"Yes," he said, laughing, "admitting that, for the sake of argument."
"You must be aware that the name of the first man who visited me--he being, as you have declared, the father of the murdered girl--is Melladew."
"I am aware of it, not from actual knowledge, but from what I have read in the newspapers."
"But of the name of the gentleman who, you say, offers the reward of a thousand pounds, you are ignorant."
"Quite ignorant. Now, having replied to your questions frankly, confess that you have forced yourself upon me with a distinct motive, in which I, a stranger to you, am interested."
"My object is to discover the murderer and bring him to justice."
"A very estimable design."
"And also to discover what has become of the murdered girl's sister."
"Exactly. How do you propose to accomplish your object?"
"Through you."
"Indeed! Through me?"
"As surely as we are in the same room together, through you. Receive what I am about to say as the fixed resolve of a man who sees before him a stern duty and will not flinch from it. Having come into association with you, I am determined not to lose sight of you. I put aside any further consideration of a strange and inexplicable mystery in connection with yourself as being utterly and entirely beyond my power to understand."
"My dear sir," said Devlin, with a glance at his shabby clothes, "you flatter me."
"All my energies now are bent to one purpose, which, through you, I shall carry to its certain end. You have made yourself plain to me. I hope up to this point I have made myself plain to you."
"You are the soul of lucidity," said Devlin, "but much remains yet to explain. For the sake of argument we have admitted an element of romance into this very prosaic matter; for it is really prosaic, almost commonplace. Life is largely made up of tragedies and mysteries, the majority of them petty and contemptible, a few only deserving to be called grand. As a matter of fact, my dear sir, existence, with all its worries, anxieties, hopes, and disappointments, is nothing better than a game of pins and needles. It is the littleness of human nature that magnifies a pin prick into a wound of serious importance. To think that some of these mortals should call themselves philosophers! It is laughable. Do you follow me?"
"Not entirely," I replied, "but I have some small glimmering of your meaning."
"Were your mind," said Devlin, shaking with internal laughter, "quite free from the influence of that thousand pounds, it would be clearer. In the grand Scheme of Nature, so far as mortals comprehend it, the potent screw is human selfishness. These speculations, however, are perhaps foreign to the point. Let us continue our amicable argument until we thoroughly understand each other upon the subject of this murder. You see, my dear sir, I wish to know exactly how I stand; for despite the extraordinary opinion you have formed of me, it is you who have assumed therôleof Controller of Destinies. I am but a mere instrument in your hands." He measured me with his eyes. "You are well built, and are, I should judge, a powerful man."
"You are contemplating the probability of a physical struggle between us," I said. "Dismiss it; there will be none."
He made me a mocking bow. "My mind is, indeed, relieved. You do not intend violence, then. I am free to leave the house if I wish--at this moment, if I please. Have you taken that contingency into account?"
"I have."
"You will not attempt to detain me by force?"
"No."
"In such an event, how will you act?"
"I shall follow you, and to the first policeman I meet I shall say, 'Arrest that person. He is implicated in the murder of Lizzie Melladew.'"
Devlin cast upon me a look of admiration. "That would be awkward," he said.
"Decidedly awkward--for you."
"You would be asked to furnish evidence."
"Direct evidence it would be, at present, out of my power to supply," I said; I was on my mettle; my mental forces were never clearer, were never more resolutely set upon one object; "but there is such a thing as circumstantial evidence. Mr. Lemon and his wife should come forward, and relate all that they know concerning you. You and Mr. Lemon are carrying on a business somewhere; the place should be searched; it should be made food for the multitude who are ever on the hunt for the sensational. Your desk on the table here contains writings of yours; they may throw light upon the investigation. So we should go on, step by step, independent of your assistance, until we get the murderer--who may or may not be an accomplice of yours--into the clutches of the law."
Towards the end of this speech I had risen and approached the window, which faced the square. Mechanically lifting the blind, I looked out, and saw what arrested my attention. By the railings on the opposite side, with his eyes raised to the window, was the figure of a man. He was standing quite motionless, and, the night being fine, with a panoply of stars in the sky, I presently recognised the figure to be that of George Carton, poor Lizzie Melladew's distracted lover. At some little distance from him was the figure of another man, whose movements were distinguished by restlessness, and in him I recognised Carton's guardian, Mr. Kenneth Dowsett.
"Looking for a policeman?" inquired Devlin, with a touch of amusement in his voice.
"No," I replied, "but I am pleased to discover that I am not alone, that I have friends outside ready to assist me the moment I call upon them."
Devlin rose, and joined me at the window.
"Is your sight very keen?" he asked.
"Keen enough to recognise friends," I said.
"Mine is wonderful," said Devlin, "quite catlike; another of my abnormal qualities. I can plainly distinguish the features of the two men upon whom we are gazing. One is young. Who is he?"
"His name," I replied, believing that entire frankness would be more likely to win Devlin to my side, "is George Carton."
"I recognise him; he was in your house yesterday morning. He seems distressed. There is a troubled look in his face."
"He was the murdered girl's lover."
"Ah! And the other, the elder man, casting anxious glances upon the younger--who may he be?"
"His name is Mr. Kenneth Dowsett. He is young Carton's guardian."
"Thank you," said Devlin, returning to his seat at the table. I dropped the blind, and resumed my seat opposite to him, and then I observed a singular smile upon his face, to which I could attach no meaning.
"I presented," he said, "a certain contingency to you, the contingency of my leaving this house, and you have been delightfully explicit as to the course you would pursue. But, my dear sir, crediting myself with a species of occult power, which you appear ready to grant to me, might it not be in my power to vanish, to disappear from your sight the moment the policeman you would summons attempted to lay hands upon me?"
"I must chance that," I said.
"Good. Nothing of the sort will occur, I promise. I cannot carry on my pursuit as a Shadow. The idea of leaving the house did occur to me; I banish it. Well, then, suppose I remain here; suppose I put an end to this discussion; suppose I go to bed. To all your vapourings, suppose I say, 'Go to the devil!' Why on earth do you stare at me so? It is a common saying, and the awful consequences of such a journey are seldom thought of. I repeat, I say to you, 'Go to the devil!' What, then?"
"I still could summon a policeman," I said; "but even if I postponed that step or you managed to escape from me, I have a talent which, now that it occurs to me, I shall immediately press into my service."
"Enlighten me."
I took from my pocket some letters, and tore from them three blank leaves, upon which I set to work with pencil. My task occupied me ten minutes and more, during which time Devlin, sitting back in his chair, watched me with an expression of intense amusement in his face. When I had finished I handed him one of the blank leaves.
"My portrait!" he exclaimed. "I am an artist myself, as you have seen in Mrs. Lemon's parlour. This picture is the very image of me!"
"There is no mistaking it," I said complacently. "It will insure recognition."
"In what way do you propose to turn it to advantage, in the event of my being contumacious?"
"You have doubtless," I said, "noted the changes that have taken place in the life of civilised cities?"
"Excellent," he said. "My dear sir, you compel my admiration; you are altogether so different a person from the simpleton who lies shaking in his bed on the floor below. You have brain power. My worthy landlord and partner would have as well fulfilled his destiny had he been a mouse. The changes that have taken place! Ah, what changes have I not seen, say, in the course of the last thousand years!" And here he laughed loud and long. "But proceed, my dear sir, proceed. How do these changes affect me in the matter we are now considering?"
"There was a time----"
"Really, like the beginning of a fairy story," he interposed.
"When public opinion was of small weight, whereas now it is the most important factor in social affairs."
"Lucidly put. I listen to you with interest."
"The penny newspaper," I observed sagely, "is a mighty engine."
"You speak with the wisdom of a platitudinarian."
"It enlists itself in the cause of justice, and frequently plays, to a serviceable end, the part of a detective. You may remember the case of Leroy."
"A poor bungler, a very poor bungler. A small mind, my dear sir, eaten up by self-conceit of the lowest and meanest quality."
"For a long time Leroy evaded justice, but at length he was arrested. A popular newspaper published in its columns a portrait of the wretch----"
"I see," said Devlin, "and you would publish my portrait in the newspapers?"
"In every paper that would give it admittance; and few would refuse. Beneath it should be words to the effect that it was the portrait of a man who knew, before its committal, that the murder of the poor girl Lizzie Melladew was planned, and who must, therefore, be implicated in it. The portrait would lead to your arrest, and then Mr. and Mrs. Lemon would come forward with certain facts. Mr. Devlin, I would make London too hot to hold you."
"An expressive phrase. Your plan is more than ordinarily clever; it is ingenious. And London," said Devlin thoughtfully, "is such a place to work in, such a place to live in, such a place to observe in! To be banished from it would be a great misfortune. What other city in the world is so full of devilment and crime; what other city in the world is so full of revelations; what other city in the world is so full of opportunities, so full of contrasts, so full of hypocrisy and frivolity, so full of cold-blooded villainy? The gutters, with their ripening harvests of vice for gaol find gallows; the perfumed gardens, the fevered courts; the river, with its burden of jewels and beauty, with its burden of woe and despair; the bridges, with their nightly load of hunger, sin, and shame; the mansions, with their music, and false smiles, and aching hearts; the garrets, with their dim lights flickering; the bells, with their solemn warning; the busy streets, with their scheming life; the smug faces, the pinched bellies, the satins, the rags, the social treacheries, the suicides, the secret crimes, the rotting souls! My dear sir, the prospect of your making such a field too hot to hold even such a poor tatter-demalion as myself overwhelms me. What is the alternative?"
"That you pledge yourself by all that is holy and sacred to give me your fullest assistance towards the discovery of Lizzie Melladew's murderer."