How long she had been there she did not know. She looked about her, wondering where she was; how she had come there. She was in the open air; above her were the stars in the sky. She seemed to be lying on some rubbish; but something hard was underneath. How her head ached; it made her feel so stupid. Putting up her hand to soothe it, she found that it hurt her almost as much as her head. Staring at it, in the dim light she could just make out that it was covered with something wet. All at once she remembered, hazily; and sat up straighter. She had dropped from the window--it must be somewhere above her; she could not see it from where she was. This rough surface which she touched when she put out her poor, hurt hand must be the outer wall of the hotel.
One thing was plain: she was not dead; and so it behoved her not to stay where she was a moment longer than she could help; she had not dropped from the window to spend the night on the ground immediately beneath. She raised herself to her feet; the process occasioning her more pain than she had expected. It was all she could do to stand. One ankle showed a disposition to double up; her left leg smarted so that the pain of it brought the tears into her eyes. Indeed, there were smarts and aches all over her; her arms seemed limp and her hands nerveless; her whole body felt hurt, and bruised, and shaken. Her first impulse, when she learnt the plight she was in, was to sink back on to the ground, from which she had with such difficulty raised herself, and cry. But, even in the half-dazed condition in which she was, she recognised that such a mode of procedure would be worse than futile. Since she had risked so much to get so far she might at least try to get a little farther. Now, in all probability, only a little courage was needed to enable her to get at least clear away from that immediate neighbourhood.
Which way should she go? She looked about her. The light, if dim, was sufficient to enable her to make out something of her surroundings. Seemingly the place in which she was had nothing to do with the hotel. It was apparently a yard which was associated with the adjoining house. What kind of house it was she could not see; she could see windows, but behind them no lights were visible; the whole place seemed to be in darkness. There were buildings on three sides of the yard. She could just see what seemed to be a door which led into the house; it was hardly likely to be of much use to her--she would be little better off in the adjoining house than in the hotel which she had just now quitted. She looked for another door; and saw that there was one in the wall which bounded the yard on the fourth side. She moved towards it, stumbling over unseen obstacles as she went. Reaching it, she raised the latch; the door was open. Passing through she found herself in a narrow alley, which ran between two walls. Since, to her, direction mattered nothing, she turned to the left; then, when she had gone some little distance, to the left again; and presently came to what was apparently the principal street of the town. Conscious of the singularity of her appearance: dressed, as she was, for indoors; hatless; with her attire in disorder; being unwilling to attract notice, she peered anxiously about her alley. At that hour of the night even the town's chief thoroughfare was nearly deserted. Gaining courage from the fact, passing into it, she pressed forward with hurrying footsteps, leaving the hotel more and more behind her as she went.
Occasionally she met both pedestrians and vehicles; but no one seemed to take any special heed of her. Either they were too occupied with their own affairs; or else they saw nothing about her to rouse their interest. On and on she went; always along the same broad street; the farther she went the fewer people she encountered. At last it seemed to her that she had gone some distance without meeting a soul. Looking round she perceived that she seemed to have left the town behind; the high street seemed to have become a country road. Here and there by the roadside were detached villas and houses; but the long unbroken line of buildings had come to an end. Pressing on she found that the villas and the houses were becoming fewer and farther between; she was in the open country. On a sudden even the fertile country, with its fields and trees and hedges, seemed to have gone; the road seemed to be passing over an illimitable expanse of open heath.
She was so tired; so stiff; and in such pain. Her ankle hurt her so that she could hardly put her foot to the ground. The leg which she had grazed against the wall, as she had lowered herself from the sill, smarted almost beyond endurance. Her bruised body ached all over; her head ached worse than her body. As she paused to take her bearings all these things forced themselves on her at once. She became conscious that, however great the need, she could not go on much farther without a rest. Where was she to rest? Out here the world seemed brighter; the stars brighter. Certainly the air was clearer. She could see on all sides of her, by the light of the stars, ever so far; little enough there seemed to see. Here and there, the way she had come, were the outlines of houses; but in front, and on either hand, was nothing but the open moor; broken by what probably were clumps of furze and bushes. Should she lie down by the side of one of those clumps, to rest? The turf ought to be dry; there was promise of fair weather; she would be better there than alone in a room with Mr Emmett, be he alive or dead. The thing to be desired was to get at some distance from the road, so that she might escape observation from passers-by. She began to pick her way, as best she could, across the grass. Her objective was a patch of brushwood which, so far as she was able to judge, was at a distance of perhaps a couple of hundred yards; far enough from the road to ensure her privacy. Gaining the edge of the patch, she began to thread her way among the bushes; determined, if she could, to reach the centre, so that they might stand up round about her, and so serve as an effective screen. She had just decided that she had got as far in among them as she need, and was about to allow herself the luxury of sinking down upon the turf, when there was a rustling sound, and, looking up, a man seemed to rise out of the solid earth, within a few feet of where she was standing.
Which of the twain was more surprised there was nothing to show; the man was the first to speak; which he did in a voice which at least hinted at cultivation:
"Who are you?"
The girl, taken wholly unawares, replied, in faltering tones, as a child might have done:
"I'm--I'm Dorothy."
"Oh, you are Dorothy; that's good hearing. And pray, Dorothy, from where did you happen to have sprung?"
She echoed his word.
"Sprung?"
"Yes; literally and correctly, sprung; for since a minute ago there was no one within a mile, one only can conclude that you have sprung clean out of mother earth. If you haven't, how do you come to be there?--from where have you come?"
"I've come--from the road."
"From the road. That's very illuminating. Did you come to this particular spot because you knew that I was here?"
"Knew--that you were here!"
Her manner seemed to strike him. There was an interval before he spoke again.
"I think, if you don't mind, I'll come and have a better look at you."
He came striding towards her through the bushes. Her impulse was to turn and flee. But, partly because she was no longer capable of flight, partly because there was something in his tone which spoke pleasantly to her ear, she stayed quite still, without making an effort to move. He advanced until he was within a yard of her; then he stopped. She had watched him coming with sensations which she would have found it hard to define; when he stopped she trembled. In silence he stood and looked at her; while she, on her side, looked at him. She realised, with a distinct sense of relief, that there seemed to be nothing to offend her in his appearance. So far as she could judge, in that uncertain light, he was not old, nor very young. He had a small beard and moustache. His head, like her own, was uncovered. He seemed to be decently attired--though he wore no waistcoat, and his shirt was open at the neck. In his left hand he had a pipe, which, as he continued to inspect her, he placed in his mouth. She could see the smoke issuing from between his lips.
When he spoke, the question which he put to her was as unconventional as their meeting:
"How old are you?"
Without hesitation she replied:
"I'm nearly eighteen."
"Nearly eighteen? That's a great age. Aren't you a lady?"
"I--I don't know."
"Don't you? Then you're wise. Very few women do know if they are or are not ladies; they only think they know; and how often they think wrong. However, as a matter of simple fact, I think we may take it for granted that, for present purposes, you approach as near to the accepted definition of what a lady is as needs be; and, therefore, I should very much like to know why, at this hour of the night, you're here."
"I came to rest."
"You came to rest?--where?"
"Here."
"What do you mean by here?"
"Here, among the bushes, where--where they won't be able to see me from the road. I didn't know that you were here. If I am in your way I'll--I'll go."
"It isn't that you're in my way that's the trouble. The difficulty which presents itself to my mind is, why do you want to rest among the bushes?"
"Because I'm tired."
"That's a good reason, so far as it goes; and you both look and sound as if you were tired; but why the bushes, when you might be safe and snug at home in bed? Where is your home?"
"I have no home."
"Is that true?"
"Quite true. I never have had a home."
He seemed to be considering her words.
"There's a quibble about that statement somewhere. Girls like you don't attain to the ripe age of nearly eighteen years without ever having had a home; you're not a product of a vagabond life. However, I'll feign to believe you, if I don't; since, just now, the point seems to be that you do propose to spend at least this one night with no canopy above you but the sky. Is that so?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Then you're dull; my meaning's not opaque. Am I to understand that you seriously propose to spend the night out in the open?"
"I am tired; I want to rest; I must rest somewhere; I--I can't keep walking all night."
"No; you certainly can't; and, since that is the case, you had better come with me."
He turned, as if to go. She drew back.
"Where to?"
He noted the gesture.
"Not far; only a few steps. Are you afraid of me?"
"No; I don't think I am."
"Be sure, please. Doesn't your instinct tell you that there's nothing about me which you need fear? It's hard on me if it doesn't, since my one prayer is that no one who is helpless, hopeless, and in trouble shall ever be afraid of me. So please be sure that you are not afraid; and come." He moved off; this time she followed; though still a little doubtfully. He led her, between the bushes, to where the ground began to fall away; pausing on the crest of the slope, he pointed to a caravan which was immediately in front, at the bottom of a little hollow, which was just deep enough to hide it from view till one was right upon it. "You say that you've no home; that's mine--pro tem.--for this summer time, which flies all too quickly. And, while it's summer, it's a home fit for a lord; a king need want no better; and, for this night, it's yours." He stopped; then, seeing that she looked at him askance, went on: "By that I mean that if, instead of spending the night in the open, resting beneath the bushes, you will accept the hospitality of my caravan, and take up your quarters in it till the morning, I shall be honoured, flattered, and obliged."
She was staring at him with wide-open eyes.
"Do you mean that you wish me to sleep in there?"
She pointed to the structure down below.
"If you will so far honour me--if you will be so very good."
"But--where are you to sleep?--if that's your home?"
"I'll show you." She went beside him down the slope till they came to where some things were lying on the ground. "That's my bed; my sleeping-place. There's a waterproof sheet stretched out upon the grass, pegged down at each of the four corners. On it are all the wraps I need for covering. On a night like this I'd sooner lie under those"--he pointed upward to the stars--"than under a painted ceiling. So, since my house is empty, it'll be glad to have a tenant. You'll find in it all the bed and bedding you require. I'll be out here, sleeping, like a watchdog, at your door. You've only to bolt and bar it, and you'll be as safe from molestation as you could be in any hotel that ever yet was built." He ascended the two or three steps which mounted to the door of the caravan, and went inside. "If you'll wait till I've lighted the lamp I'll show you what excellent accommodation my establishment has to offer." Presently she found herself standing with him in the queerest room she had seen. Tired though she was, she could not help noticing its spotless cleanliness; and, in spite of its small size, how dexterously its contents were arranged, so that not only was nothing in the way, but there were conveniences of many kinds which one would not expect to find in such cramped quarters. On a sort of shelf on one side a bed was made. "That's your couch for to-night. I always get it ready for immediate occupation when the shades of evening fall. In this dear English climate prophecy is vain; one never knows what may happen between sunset and sunrise. You go to bed under a cloudless sky, to wake, an hour later, because you are being pelted by the rain. Since my education has not yet gone far enough to enable me to enjoy sleeping in the rain, under those circumstances I pick up my bed, and beat a hasty retreat in here. And as one generally wants to get to sleep again with the least possible delay, I make a point of having this in readiness, so that I may tumble in upon the instant. See; here's a bolt, and here's a bar; push them home, when I am gone, and you'll be as safe as if you were in the Tower of London."
When he had gone she acted on his advice. Apparently he was listening without; because, when the door was made fast, he called to her.
"Good-night!--sleep well!--may the angels touch your eyelids if you dream!"
She bade him good-night, in her turn; though hers was spoken scarcely above a whisper. Her desire was to look about her; to take some stock of her new and strange surroundings; but her weariness was greater than her desire. Half unconsciously she sank down on the bed upon the shelf, just as she was. As she touched it, she sighed; and was asleep.
She was roused by the sound of knocking. She was vaguely aware that someone was making a noise for some little time before she succeeded in waking sufficiently to make quite sure. Lifting her head she perceived that though the lamp still burned its light was quite superfluous, since the sun was streaming in through the narrow window which ran along one side of the caravan. There was no mistake about that noise. Rat-tat-tat! Someone was keeping up a sustained and vigorous rapping against the door.
"Who's there?" she asked.
"No one in particular; only me. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep the clock right round. You must forgive me for disturbing you; I wouldn't have done it only I've a sort of feeling that it's nearly breakfast-time; especially as, in a general way, I've had my breakfast, washed up, and put away the things, a couple of hours ago. The trouble is that all the cooking utensils of which my establishment boasts are inside with you; so, if you're awake wide enough, if, at your convenience, you could manage to come outside, I could come in, and start upon that morning meal." For some seconds, in her drowsy state, she could not conceive who it could be who was talking. When she remembered, although she was alone, she put her hands up to her face to hide her blushes. In that convent of hers maidens were taught to be maidenly; it burst upon her, with some force, that there was that about her situation which was scarcely conventual. The voice without went on: "There's a can of water just outside the door; if you put two fingers out you'll be able to get it in. If you'll open the cupboard above your head you'll find a looking-glass--which you'll be able to hang on any one of a dozen different hooks--a basin, and, I believe, all the essentials necessary for an elementary toilet."
Getting off the bed, she was conscious, although she still ached, of feeling distinctly rested; and that though she had slept with all her clothes on. Unbarring the door she drew in the can of water; saying, as she did so:
"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting; but I--I did sleep so soundly. I won't be a moment longer than I can help."
Nor was it long before she threw the door wide open, and came out on to the ledge at the top of the little flight of steps. He was lying on the turf, with a pipe in his mouth, a newspaper in his hands. She was conscious, as she came out into the open, of the glory of the morning. He seemed to be conscious only of her. Jumping up he saluted her with his hand.
"Why," he exclaimed, "you're a living advertisement of the excellence of my domestic arrangements; you look as fresh as a new pin. If you had been able to indulge in the luxury of a marble bath, and a barber, you could look no fresher. Good-morning--I need not ask you how you've slept--and here's the sun in a cloudless sky to greet you."
She came down the steps, all blushes; smiling as she had not done since she left the convent. The process of preparing breakfast began. She was conscious that she ought to intrude no longer on this stranger's hospitality. But, in the first place, her shyness kept her from giving expression to that consciousness; and, in the second, something told her that, say what she might, he would not let her go till she had shared with him his morning meal. So, making a virtue of what really was necessity, she held her peace upon the subject of her going; and helped him with his preparations for the meal.
Girl-like, she found those preparations most amusing; she had not been so entertained for many a day. There were eggs and bacon to be fried; the kettle to be boiled; bread and butter to be cut; the table to be laid. Acting on instructions, this latter she made her special business. The table was the ground. On it she spread a tablecloth; on the white cloth were placed the necessary cups and saucers, plates and spoons, knives and forks. The cooking was done on an oil-stove inside the caravan.
"Read the advertisements," exclaimed the stranger, "and an oil-stove can do anything that the most unreasonable camper-out can possibly require--up to cooking a dinner for any number, anywhere, in a torrent of rain and a storm of wind. As a matter of plain fact it won't really cook out-of-doors at all; that's the one advantage of a house on wheels: you can keep it under cover, though it smells the place out. Humour an oil-stove; coddle it; and it may cook something, sometimes, which a hardy stomach may be able to digest. Subject it to any one of the ten million conditions it dislikes, fight as you will, it will beat you out of sight; and, in spite of all your struggles, you'll go hungry in the end. I know! I've tried every sort that's made; each is worse than the other. Now where's that dish? I've a constitutional objection to eating my food out of a frying-pan, if it can possibly be avoided; so if you'll be so good as to take the dish out of the oven, where it's supposed to be getting hot, I'll turn these eggs and this bacon out upon it, and we'll start on them while we still have strength enough to do it."
Presently the girl and the man were seated on opposite sides of that impromptu table.
The morning was bright and clear; the air was sweet and buoyant; the food was good, the man and the girl were hungry, they both made an excellent meal. And, while they ate and drank, and, between whiles, talked, each, more or less furtively, took stock of the other. Dorothy found that the hazy impression she had formed of the stranger overnight was not in the least bit like him. He was younger than she had thought. She was not much of a judge of men's years; since her experience of them was so extremely limited, it was hardly likely that she would be. In the darkness she had set him down as somewhere in the forties; now, in the bright sunshine, which ages some of us, she supposed him to be somewhere in the early thirties. There was about him an appearance of vigour--the vigour which goes with youth--for which she was unprepared. Then, too, he was so much better-looking than she had taken him to be--perhaps in thinking so she was influenced by the accident that she was dark and he was fair. His eyes were very blue, and very bright; the skin of his face and neck, though slightly tanned, was delicate as any girl's; his hair and beard were flaxen. He was taller, too, than she had imagined--when he stood up she saw that he must be at least six feet; his shoulders were so broad, he held himself so straight, there was about him such a glow of health and strength, that it did her good to look at him. And his attire suited him well; or she thought it did--certainly there could scarcely have been less of it. He wore no cap or coat or waistcoat; his canvas shirt was open at the neck; his grey flannel trousers had as belt a handkerchief of scarlet silk; he was shod with stout brown shoes. It was a costume suited to fine weather out-of-doors; and, free and easy as it was, both it and the wearer pleased the lady's undoubtedly inexperienced eyes.
What impression she made on him it was not easy to determine; not impossibly the morning light had brought a surprise also to him. One felt, not only that she puzzled him, but that the puzzle continually grew. In his speech he owned as much. When the dish and the plates were empty he regarded her with a whimsical smile.
"It's good to eat when you're hungry."
"Yes," she agreed; "it is."
"Do you know that it's past eleven o'clock; and that when I'm abroad in this house of mine I make it a rule to have all signs of breakfast cleared away before the clock strikes eight."
She began to stammer.
"I beg your pardon; I am so sorry; it's all my fault; but I--I did sleep so late. Now I--I won't hinder you any longer; I'll go." She stood up. "I--don't quite know where; I--I don't know this part of the country very well--I am very much obliged for all you've done for me; you--you've been very kind. I have no money; but when I have I'll--I'll pay you for what you've done, if you'll let me know to what address to send."
"I think you're very stupid."
She crimsoned.
"Good-bye."
"I also think that you're ill-mannered."
She had turned to go; but there was something in the quiet finality of his tone which caused her to turn to him again.
"Why?"
"I think you're the first because you speak of paying for what, you ought to know, I'm only too glad to give; as if I were the sort of person to accept money from a lady who has been my guest!"
"I beg your pardon; I--I'm so stupid."
"I said you were. I think that you're the second because, no sooner are you through your own meal than you rush off, before your host has finished."
"I thought you had; I did not mean to be ill-mannered; I thought you wanted me to go."
"You are mistaken. It is another rule of mine--and this is a rule which I don't propose to break--when I am done with the actual eating and drinking, to smoke a pipe; I regard that pipe as an integral part of my breakfast. I don't know why you should wish to deprive me of it."
"I don't; I didn't know you wanted another; I saw you smoking one just now, before we began."
"That was because breakfast was unwontedly delayed; also that is no reason why now I shouldn't have another. When I am enjoying my breakfast pipe I like, when opportunity offers, to have a chat. You spoke of payment. I suggest that your payment takes the form of sitting down and talking to me till I have smoked my pipe right out. Have you any particular objection?"
"I don't mind staying, if you want me to, till you--you've done your pipe."
"Thank you; then will you have the goodness to resume your seat while I load up? One can't talk to a person who will persist in standing."
She sank down again upon the turf. As he crammed the tobacco into the bowl of his briar she regarded the tablecloth with doubtful eyes.
"Can I--can I clear away the things, and wash up for you?"
"No, you can't; all you can do is sit still, and talk. Let me begin by introducing myself; my name is Frazer--Eric Frazer. You were so kind as to tell me last night that yours was Dorothy. As it is unusual for a man to address a woman by her Christian name after such a short acquaintance as ours hath been, may I ask you to tell me what your surname is, so that we can start fair?"
She hesitated; then told him a falsehood; she herself could not have said why.
"My name is Greenwood."
Somehow, the instant she had spoken, she felt he doubted. He looked at her, over the lighted match which he was holding to the bowl of his pipe; and, though she did not try to meet his glance, she knew that in it there was something sceptical.
"Greenwood?--your name is Greenwood? Dorothy Greenwood--Miss Greenwood. Thank you; I am flattered by the confidence in me which your telling me your name implies." Having completed the operation of lighting his pipe, folding his arms across his chest, he observed her with a steady attention which made her feel curiously uncomfortable. She began to wish that, ill-mannered or not, she had gone when she said she would. Nor were matters improved when he began to ask her questions; which he did in a cool, level voice which, for some cause, jarred upon her nerves. "You were so good as to inform me, also last night, when I inquired how it was that I was so fortunate as to be favoured with your society, that you came from the road. Now the road runs both ways; which one did you come from?"
Summoning her courage she looked at him with what she meant to be defiance.
"I would rather not tell you, if you don't mind."
"That's better; much better." What he meant she did not know; yet she felt that it was something which she would rather he did not mean. He went on: "Do I understand that, not knowing this country very well, you are journeying you don't know where--without money, without luggage, without even a hat on your head?"
Again she tried to defy him.
"I can't help your asking questions; but I'm not forced to answer them if I'd rather not; and I would rather not."
His manner, if anything, was blander than ever; her attitude did not seem to wound his sensibilities one bit.
"Quite right; you are perfectly right; if you don't want to answer, don't; never be coerced into answering a question which you don't want to answer. Impertinent curiosity is not to be encouraged. There is so much interest taken in our goings and our comings, merely because some people deem them peculiar, that the liberty of the subject threatens to become seriously abridged. I know what I am speaking of; I have suffered from that kind of thing myself. By the way, this morning, while you were still fast asleep in bed I--went shopping."
He laid a stress on the last two words which caused her to prick up her ears; she herself did not know why.
"Shopping? Where?"
She looked about her, as if she expected to find a shop, or shops, in sight. He shook his head.
"No, not here; there are no shops upon the heath that I am aware of; and I know it pretty well. I ought to. Where I went shopping was to a town called Newcaster. Have you ever heard of it?" Newcaster was the town from which she had fled the night before. So soon as he spoke of it a dreadful feeling began to come over her that she knew what was the point which he was approaching. She tried to shake the feeling off; but it would not be shaken. With beating pulses she sat and watched him drawing closer and closer. "Newcaster," he explained, speaking with what seemed to her to be hideous deliberation, "is a town not far from here; an old town; a racing town; it is to horse racing that, in all human probability, it owes its continued flourishing condition--for it continues to flourish. One of its numerous meetings is taking place now; there is to be racing on this heath to-day. You hear that humming and buzzing sound which comes and goes, so that now it fills all the air, and now seems completely to die away." She had heard it, and had vaguely wondered what it was. "If you were to go to the top of that bank you would understand--it is the noise made by the people who are going to the races; on foot, in motor cars, in vehicles of all sorts and kinds, and by the people who are already there. The race-course is over yonder, about two miles from where we are. A great crowd will be there to-day; and, though it's early, probably thousands are there already. It's all open country between it and us; and, on a day like this, with what breeze there is blowing from it towards us, sound travels. You'll know when a race begins by the noise the people make; and when it ends, by the comparative silence which follows." He paused to puff at his pipe. As he did so the humming and buzzing sound of which he had spoken grew distinctly louder. He pointed upwards with the stem of his pipe. "You hear?"
"Yes," she said; "I hear."
He stayed still a little longer, as if to listen.
"It dies away; perhaps the wind has changed a point or two; these light breezes seldom blow from exactly the same quarter many minutes together." He returned to the subject from which he had diverged. "In Newcaster I made one or two small purchases--even my larder must be occasionally restocked, especially when I've a guest whom I desire to honour--and, having made them, I paid a call--at a hotel." Again he paused; then added: "A hotel called 'The Bolton Arms'--perhaps, if you have any knowledge of Newcaster, you may be acquainted with 'The Bolton Arms.'" She was; that was the name of the hotel to which her guardian had taken her yesterday; in which so much had happened. A sort of paralysis seemed to be settling about her heart, so that she could scarcely breathe, or move. She wished that he would get on faster; come quicker to the point to which some instinct told her he was coming. His drawling speech was bad enough, but each time he paused it was as if he had given a tug at the hook which he had got in her throat. "It's a hotel which I know very well, 'The Bolton Arms'--very well indeed, considering. The landlord is a man named Elsey; of him also I have some personal knowledge, and of his wife. Not a bad fellow, in his way, is Elsey, though of late years he has grown so much that, metaphorically, he has to take a larger size in boots, and in hats. His wife has also grown. It's odd how people do grow when, as they suppose, they become people of importance. When I last saw John Elsey I should have said that his consciousness of his own dignity had put him on a perch which it would not be easy to get him off. Yet when I saw him this morning he was off it with a vengeance. I have seldom seen a man mentally, morally, physically, in a more lamentable state than he was. Poor Elsey!" Once more there was one of those pauses which so distressed her. He seemed to be in an introspective mood; as if he were contemplating a picture which was present to his mind's eye. Yet--the feeling was growing in her, that, all the while, he watched her as a cat might watch a mouse. She avoided his glance; keeping her eyes fixed on the sugar-basin which was on the tablecloth in front. In some indefinable way, though with all her faculties she hung upon his words, she noticed how the flies were making free with the sugar; she soon began to count them as they came and went. And, all the while, she was trying to brace herself, so that she might maintain an unruffled front when the blow fell, which she knew was coming. If only her heart would not play such fantastic tricks, and he would get on faster! His drawl seemed to be getting more pronounced. "On such a day as this one finds it hard to credit that in the world there's tragedy. In the winter it is different; winter is itself a tragedy. But, when nature's radiant, and the sun's in a cloudless heaven, surely all's right with the world, and comedy's the only fare. When I reached 'The Bolton Arms Hotel,' in Newcaster, the world was even more--riant--it's a word which the French use, for which I can't hit on an exact translation. Do you know French?" She nodded. "Then you'll know what I mean--than it is now; for, to my thinking, there's nothing like the first sweetness of a summer morning. Then, again, there are persons whom one does not find it easy to associate with tragedy; God seems to have intended them to strut through life as unconscious comedians; and the unconscious comedian's the finest of all. Elsey's such a one. Have you, by any chance ever seen the man?" She was silent; he went on. "Although I daresay that the possession on which he most prides himself is his dignity, in reality he's the most undignified of men. Surely there's no tragedy where there's no dignity. Tragedy's austere; Elsey never could be that. Yet, last night, there was a tragedy at 'The Bolton Arms'; and it seems that Elsey played a leading part in it. And the strangest thing was that, as he told me all there was to tell, the inherent comicality of the man made him the most tragic figure imaginable. Here's the story as it was told to me by Elsey; with addenda by other hands." She had known, all along, that it was coming. With clenched fists, and tightly closed lips, she waited for him to tell her what she knew so much better than he did. In the tale as he had it, however, she found that there were variants which to her were strange. "Among the guests at 'The Bolton Arms' was a man named Emmett, of whom I know a thing or two. Last evening, after dinner, he was found in his chair, seated at the table, dead. Someone had killed him. It seems that his head had been smashed in with a champagne bottle, the broken fragments of which were found upon the floor. The irony of it!--because, of all the things in this world there were few which George Emmett loved better than champagne. They laid him on the table, at which he had just done himself so well; and, a doctor having certified that he was dead, they left him there, alone, in the room in which he had dined and died." She knew, although she did not look at him, that he had taken the pipe out of his mouth, to press the tobacco closer; and she felt his eyes upon her face. She wondered what was coming next. It proved to be hardly what she had expected. Nothing could have been more casual than his tone and manner. To her, the very indifference with which he spoke seemed to heighten the effect of what he said. "There was the dead man on the table in the room. Some time after they had left him there there came a crash from within the room which, according to my informant, shook the house. That might have been an exaggeration, about shaking the house; because 'The Bolton Arms' is a substantial, solidly built, old-time structure, which, I should say, is not easily shaken. At anyrate there came a noise from within that room which was so loud, and so curious, that all the people in the hotel seem to have heard it, and most of them went rushing off to learn what it was. Elsey was among the first. When he got to the door he was confronted by an unexpected difficulty; he, the landlord, couldn't get into the room. The inspector of police had taken away, not only the ordinary key, but the pass-key also; to make sure that, in his absence, no one should get in. So the only thing, if they wanted to get in, was to send for the inspector, and the key. They sent for him. While he was coming they hung about outside the room. They must have been an odd sight--Elsey, his wife, his guests, and his servants, as they stood there listening. It seems that, considering there was nothing in the room but a corpse, some amazing sounds issued from it. Elsey says he never heard anything like them; they were indescribable. He knocked, he even says he hammered, at the door again and again, demanding to be told who was inside; and what whoever it was was doing; and similar cognate questions; but both his hammerings and his questions went unanswered; and apparently unheeded. The noises had ceased before the inspector came; he pooh-poohed the notion that there ever had been any. But he stopped pooh-poohing when he entered the room. They had left the dead man stretched out on his back on the table; they found him on his face on the floor, with his knees drawn up beneath him. The natural presumption would have been, since he was dead, that somebody must have pushed him off the table on to the floor; but when the doctor came he knocked that theory on the head. He declared that, in the first place, he had not been really dead; that when they left him alone he had returned to some sort of consciousness; that, probably, in his struggles to attract attention he had tumbled from the table on to the floor; to a man in his condition a serious matter; and that fall had finished him; for this time he certainly was dead. Isn't that an odd story?" Although he paused, as if for her to answer, she said nothing; she was waiting for what was yet to come. And, presently, it came; as she knew it would do.
"The tale has a postscript; and, as they say is sometimes the case with a lady's, it seems to me to be the most pregnant part of it. When they got into the room, and found the dead man lying on his face upon the floor, they also found that the blind before the only window was drawn right up, and the window itself was open at its widest, which seems a trifle; but then trifles are often of such importance. The man who waited on George Emmett at dinner declared that the blind was down and the window shut before dinner began; and more, much more, Elsey, his wife, and the inspector, are all three convinced that the blind was down, and the window shut, when they left the dead man alone in the room. Had the window been open it would have attracted their attention; because the wind was on that side of the house, and, apart from the draught, they could not help noticing the curtains being blown about--as they were being blown about when they found it open then. But if the window had been closed then, it must have been opened since, in which case the question arises--by whom. And here comes what seems to me to be the queerest part of this really queer story. Doesn't it strike you as being a rather curious tale?" Again he paused, as if for her to answer, but still she held her peace--she still waited. It was like the game the cat plays with the mouse; he was coming nearer and nearer, presently he would pounce. The problem she had to consider--though it was still unshaped--was, could she elude him when he did? It seemed to her that his eyes observed her more and more keenly as he continued. "George Emmett had a lady with him when he arrived at 'The Bolton Arms Hotel'--an elderly lady; well advanced in years, stout and unwieldy; with grey hair and a false front; the sort of person one who knew the man would expect to find in his society." She winced at this description, she felt that he was speaking with malice prepense. "In spite of her grey hairs she seems to have been a mysterious sort of person. She dined with him; she was in the room with him when the waiter last saw him alive, but when, some little while after, he came in and found him dead, she had vanished: and she has remained vanished ever since. It hasn't been for want of looking for her. They looked for her, not only in her own bedroom, but in everybody else's bedroom also; it seems that they looked in every room in the house; in every nook and cranny of it to boot: nowhere was a trace or her to be seen. They were puzzled; but that open window with the blind drawn up set them thinking; when they found on a splinter of wood, at the top of the window, a small piece of material, which looked as if it had been torn out of a woman's dress, they thought still harder; and came to a conclusion which was hardly flattering to themselves. It had not occurred to them to look for her in the room itself; nor what an excellent hiding-place was a recess and a curtained window. While they hunted for her upstairs and down, high and low, all the time she was in the room itself--the room in which George Emmett was done to death; she had never left it. She was there when the waiter discovered him, as he supposed, dead on his seat, she was still there when they left him, as they thought, dead on the table. Whether she was there when he came back to life; and, if so, what took place between them, she only knows. She had gone when they returned and found the dead man on the floor; she had opened the window, and made her exit through it; and, in going, had, unknowingly, left behind that pattern of her frock which may prove to be a very awkward piece of evidence against her, when, one day, she's found. She possibly supposes that she's done rather a smart thing in getting away, as she thinks, scot-free. But has she? She's covered herself, in consequence, with more than a suspicion of murder. They're reasoning this way. They say that it was she who used that champagne bottle to so much purpose; and that was why she hid, like a coward, behind the curtains, when the waiter came into the room; and why she stayed hidden; and when the coast, as she thought, was clear, dropped, at the peril of her life, from the window. And because they're accounting, in that way, for her singular behaviour, all Newcaster is hot-foot after her; and, so I'm told, they're having placards printed, describing her, and offering a reward for her apprehension." He knocked the ashes out of his pipe with his boot; blew down the stem to make sure that it was clear; then went on. "There's one item I may add to make the tale complete. They've not only her description, they've her name. It appears that, for some reason, George Emmett did not enter her name in the register when he entered his own; but when it dawned on them that she was missing they opened the box in which her clothes were, and found that all, or nearly all of them, were marked--'D. Gilbert.' 'D' might stand for Dorothy, mightn't it?--which is by way of being a coincidence, but, of course, Gilbert has no affinity with Greenwood. Miss Gilbert seems to be rather a remarkable old lady; isn't that how she strikes you?"