but there is no joy, and there is a constant sense of waiting; nothing seems particularly well worth doing, and my life, comfortable, well-ordered, and not useless as it is, has established itself on asize very dead level. I am not going to mope, however, or to be discontented, or anything but cheerful, than what you would have me, until the time comes when the waiting will be over, and I can say, once more,
'His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair.'
'His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair.'
And now I must shut this up,' sealing it with a kiss from baby, and one from your own HELEN.
Helen Griswold sealed her letter, placed it in a large envelope, on which she wrote, with a strange shrinking repugnance, Trenton Warren's New York address, despatched it by a special messenger to his office, and went immediately to her child. A nervous flurry had come upon her while writing the last lines of her letter, and it was only by a determined struggle with herself that she kept off a passionate fit of crying; but she put it down, and went into the nursery with a calm face. This woman was growing apace. By what mysterious process? She talked cheerfully to Mrs. Jenkins, and taking the baby, who was sleepy, in her arms, rocked it to rest. The monotonous movement had a quieting influence upon herself, and by degrees her cheerfulness was restored.
That night, when Helen Griswold was in her own room, she wrote for a while in the private memorandum-book in which we have already seen her record the circumstances which had given a double current and meaning to her life. Having made a few cursory notes of the main points of her letter to her husband, laying special stress upon the mention of Trenton Warren, she went on to note in her duplicate chronicle the principal event of the day--this was Thornton Carey's visit.
'I wonder,' she wrote, 'why it is that a pure and unmitigated pleasure, one totally unassociated with any pain, one perfectly free from any drawback, should not avail to crush, at least for a time, the oppressing pain and dread which has been troubling me of late. If I have, as I believe I have, a relentless enemy in Trenton Warren, I have a friend upon whose fidelity I may rely, whose love I can trust with all my heart, and accept with all my conscience, to oppose to him. My friend is a cleverer man than my enemy; he surpasses him by all the distance which makes a gentleman to surpass a man who is not a gentleman; his will is as steadfast; his courage is, or I am much mistaken, far more high; of his devotion to me I have many years' experience; of his devotion to Alston I have the guarantee of a nature large enough and good enough to contain that great virtue, gratitude; and yet there is no reassurance, there is no consolation, there is no rest for me in all this knowledge. I don't think it would come, if even I should tell Thornton what is in my heart; and that I could not do! I could not bear that lie should know that such a profanation had ever overtaken me as the avowal of this man's hideous love; the mere remembrance of it seems to stain my soul, as it troubles my repose; it has gotten into my life like a bad influence. When I awake in the morning, I think not of Alston, but of Warren, and I welcome sleep because it shuts out the hateful remembrance. I must shake this off, or I shall turn the fancied evil into a real one, and give my own fears their worst fulfilment.'
On the morning after the murder, so much of the daylight as could force its way through the begrimed glass, or greased paper acting as substitute for absent glass, in the low window of the tramps' home struggled in a shame-faced manner into the den, and faintly revealed the prostrate forms of its inhabitants.
Most of them were still asleep, but by one man there the advent of that streak of light had been long and anxiously looked for. This was the man dressed in sailor's clothes, whose dread proceedings on the previous night have been at length recounted; he who was called Tom Summers by those lying around him, and whose demand for a pillow, and complaint of the loss of his bundle, had alternately roused their scorn and mirth.
As the first ray penetrated the room, Tom Summers cautiously withdrew the arm which, during the night, he had kept drawn across his face, and looked round him. So far as he could make out, none of his companions were yet awake, and he availed himself of the opportunity to take a small looking-glass from his pocket, and propping it against the wall, he rapidly surveyed himself in it, pulling his red wig further down over his face, and settling the red beard, which had become shifted during the night. No stings of conscience, no terrifying reminiscences of the foul deed which he had committed, disturbed his rest; the strain upon his mental and bodily faculties had been so great that he had slept heavily and soundly, without a dream, without a movement. Even then, as he surveyed himself in the little pocket glass, he felt his eyelids closing, the elbow on which he leant giving way under him, and he felt more than half inclined to drop down upon his side, and slumber again.
It must not be! He had set himself the task of rousing with daylight, and had fulfilled it, and he had too much to do to permit himself to relapse into slumber; so, after indulging in one luxurious but silent yawn and stretch, he pulled himself together by an effort, and staggered to his feet. One or two of the sleepers in his immediate neighbourhood, roused by the noise he made, cursed him roundly; but beyond this no notice was taken of his proceedings.
Tom Summers stepped quickly down the creaking, rickety staircase, at the bottom of which he found the proprietor's 'deputy'--a shock-headed, blear-eyed old man, who acted as the porter and boots of the establishment; the daylight had not yet penetrated to this part of the house, and the old man held a flaring tallow candle in his hand, with which he surveyed the sailor.
'O, it's you, Jack, is it?' he said, in a thin piping voice. 'I thought it was some of the coves trying to come the double over me, but you paid your shot last night--I saw you.'
'Yes, yes, I paid last night,' repeated the sailor quickly. 'Open the door, please, and let me out.'
'Why, what's your hurry?' asked the old man, turning towards the hole from which he had just emerged, and looking up at the old Dutch clock which hung against the wall; 'it has only just gone five, and--'
'I've got to join my ship,' said Summers, 'and I must be off at once. Let me out, please.'
The old man unlocked the door, and pulled it open by degrees. As soon as there was space enough for him to pass, Tom Summers slipped by without a word, and went limping up the court. The old man looked after him with bent brows, muttering in a tone of great disgust: 'That's polite, any way--got to join your ship, have you? I tell you what, my lad, I believe your ship is H.M. gunboat Crimp; and that as soon as you get on board of her, there will be a muster of all hands for punishment parade;' and grumbling thus, he returned to his den, closing the door after him.
Meanwhile Tom Summers, when he once found himself clear of the court, turned his back on the water-side quarters, and made the best of his way towards the Lime-street station. He still walked with an apparently painful limp; he still shuffled along with his shoulder almost rubbing against the wall; he looked like a sailor just recovering from a bad illness, and as such he was compassionated at the Lime-street station by an old woman, who gave him sixpence, and offered him a pull at the black bottle in her wicker basket, telling him, at the same time, that her son was at sea too, and on the west coast of Africa; worse luck!
It was for the parliamentary train to Chester, which was about to start, that Tom Summers took a third-class ticket; and carefully avoiding the carriage into which he watched his recent benefactress, climbed into an empty compartment, and curling himself up into a corner, scarcely waited for the starting of the train to fall asleep. There was no chance of any particular notice being taken of him, for scarcely a train left Lime-street which did not carry some liberty-men from the great ships in the Mersey going inland for a few days' furlough. There was no chance of his being carried beyond his destination, for he had purposely selected a carriage which did not go farther than Chester; he could enjoy the luxury of a long silent sleep, and he did. Once he started forward and groaned, but on waking suddenly he could recollect nothing more than that he had been striking at something which disappeared beneath his blow; and once more he put his feet upon the seat, and went to sleep again.
By the time the slow-going train, which stopped at every station to pick up and let out crowds of men and women, carrying baskets of country produce, arrived at the Chester station, Tom Summers was thoroughly rested. He stepped blithely out of the carriage, exchanged a pleasant good-morning with the guard, and made straight for the newspaper stall on which the bundle of Liverpool papers, only arriving in time at Lime-street to be thrown into the van, were then being unpacked. He bought a copy of each morning journal, and seating himself on a neighbouring bench, turned one after the other inside out, and rapidly ran his eye over their contents. Twice he passed the morning journals thus in review before him, occasionally starting as his eye caught certain paragraphs with sensation headings, but reading rapidly on until he had perused the batch. Then, with a sigh of relief, he rose and made his way to the cloak-room. To the porter who was in attendance there in the absence of the general functionary, not yet arrived, Tom Summers handed a printed ticket, immediately receiving for it in exchange a small black bag.
'Here is your kit. Jack,' remarked the porter, handing it to him.
'My skipper's, not mine,' said Tom Summers; 'it's too fine for the likes of me;' words which had a hidden humour apparently altogether too much for the porter? who kept bursting into loud guffaws of laughter long after Tom Summers had left him.
With the small bag swinging upon his hand, Tom Summers walked past the Queen's Hotel, and down the broad road, yet unbuilt on, leading to the town. On one spot a temporary wooden circus had been erected, and he stopped to read the bills of the performance hanging at the door. Then he lounged along again; but as soon as he came within the precincts of the town, he turned in between two of the old houses up a passage, at the end of which was a flight of stone steps leading to the ancient city walls. These he ascended, and when he found himself on the walls, he hesitated as though in doubt which way to turn.
Beneath him lay the old city, its quaintly fantastic gabled roofs, its cathedral tower, its numerous church spires, and its hundred relics of mediaeval architecture glowing in the early morning sun. Beyond were to be seen the broad silver windings of the Dee, the velvet-turfed racecourse, just outlined by its white posts and rails, and far away in the distance, heaving up their broad shoulders out of the blue haze, the majestic range of the Welsh mountains.
That was the side to which Tom Summers inclined; he sought the country, not the city; and turning sharply to his right, he made a half circuit of the wall, and descended in a by-lane which gave right upon the racecourse.
Once only did he pause in his work, and that was when his steps took him in front of the county gaol, a full view of which is commanded from the walls; a prison omnibus drew up at the huge outer gate, and from it some half-dozen prisoners descended, heavily handcuffed, and were marched into the gaol-yard between a file of warders. Tom Summers surveyed this little ceremony with great interest, leaning over the top of the crumbling wall, and shading his eyes from the sun with his hands. When the great gates clanged behind them, an expression, half of pity, half of contempt, crossed his face, and after he had muttered: 'Poor devils,' he speedily added: 'Stupid fools,' then he shrugged his shoulders and went on his way.
When Tom Summers found himself on the flat bare expanse of the racecourse, he seemed considerably disappointed, and looked round with dismay at the abandoned prospect before him. On one side lay the river, but that seemed to offer him no consolation; on the other, the town, but on that he had already turned his back. At length, after a careful survey, he saw at about the distance of half a mile, on a rising ground, a little thicket, not much more indeed than a largish clump of trees, and towards that he at once bent his way. The sun by this time had attained considerable height, and more than considerable strength; and when the wayfarer had skirted the racecourse, and toiled across the intervening fields, and up a wooded knoll, he was tired and hot. The outermost edge of shade did not, however, content him. He paused there and looked round to note the farmer's wain, a dot upon the distant turnpike road; the lark singing in high heaven above his head; the man and boy at plough-work three fields off, the one intent on his furrow, the other on his team. And then, having satisfied himself that such human beings as he had seen were unobservant of his actions, and that there were none others within range, he plunged deeper into the little wood, and opening the bag which he carried with a key, drew from it a plain gray suit of morning dress and a soft-felt wideawake.
In less time almost than it takes to write, he had divested himself of his sailor's clothes, and of the red wig and beard, all of which he thrust into the bag; then dressing himself in the gray suit, and donning the wideawake, he took the bag in his hand, and left the little wood on the opposite side to that on which he had entered it.
The clerk in the cloak-room at the Lime-street station that afternoon was more than usually busy, and consequently more than usually short-tempered. He was ticking off an enormous number of entries in the way-bill, and was well down the third column, when he heard a soft voice from the sliding window, which was open, say:
'I beg your pardon.'
'Seven hundred and twenty-three, barrel of oysters marked X.O.,' muttered the clerk to himself, giving no heed to the interruption. 'Seven hundred and twenty-four, crate of live fowls; seven--'
'I beg your pardon,' said the voice again, and the clerk looked up and found that it belonged to a slim gentleman in a pale gray suit, and with a soft black-felt hat on his head, and carrying a small bag in his hand. 'Two days ago I came by the noon express from Euston,' said the gentleman, 'and booked my portmanteau to Liverpool; but being taken ill, I was compelled to get out at Edge-hill, and so my luggage came on without me. A brown portmanteau, bearing the name of Dunn--shall I have the good luck to find it here?'
'If it is here you will, sir,' growled the clerk, dying to get back to the way-bill. 'Two days ago, you say; brown portmanteau, name of Dunn? Here you are.'
'I am very much obliged to you, indeed,' said the gentleman.
'Going by cab or train, sir?' said the clerk shortly.
'By cab, if you please, to--'
'Here, Jim,' called the clerk to a passing porter, 'put this portmanteau on a cab for the gentleman. Parson out for a holiday, I should think,' he said, muttering to himself, looking after the passenger, who was following his luggage; 'they always try to get out of uniform, but are frightened to get into anything louder than gray.'
Mr. Dunn saw his portmanteau placed upon the cab, and, giving the porter sixpence, bade him tell the driver to go to the Adelphi Hotel. He looked hard at the porter's face while he spoke to him, as he had looked from under his overhanging brow at the clerk in the cloak-room, as he looked at the cabman when, after taking a note of the number of the vehicle, he descended in front of the Adelphi.
As he advanced quickly to the glass case in which are enshrined the presiding goddesses of the establishment, he was struck with a sudden chill; he shivered violently and shrugged his shoulders, and rubbed his hands together as he stood asking whether he could be accommodated with two rooms--a sitting-room and bedroom--leading out of one another.
'Certainly, sir,' was the gracious reply. 'Show ten and eleven, Charles. You seem to be very cold, sir?'
'I have taken a chill, I think,' said Mr. Dunn, pausing at the bottom of the stairs and looking round. 'I come from a climate where frost and east winds are unknown, and if I mistake not, there is a fine specimen of the latter raging through your streets just now.'
'Beg your pardon, sir, wind's southwest,' said Sam, the porter, who was standing by.
'Well, whatever it is, it seems to have penetrated right through me,' said Mr. Dunn, shivering again, 'and I must ask for a good fire in my sitting-room. What's this?' He was proceeding up the stairs, but paused again as two policemen, followed by a small mob, which remained outside, entered the house, and approached the glazed sanctum.
'Beg your pardon, miss,' said one of them, who wore the blue-braided frock of an inspector, touching his hat, 'but we have come to make some inquiries. The body of a gentleman, evidently a case of murder, has been discovered, and it is recognised by a cabman as that of a fare whom he drove from this hotel to the docks, and who is supposed to have been a visitor here.'
'O my, how dreadful!' says the young lady in the glass shrine. 'Perhaps you had better see the manager, inspector; just step in here, if you please.'
She rang a bell, and Sam and the waiter and the traveller, who had all suspended their proceedings, now walked up-stairs, the former bearing the portmanteau, and the latter muttering:
'Murder! body! What an unpleasant affair!' Then calling back, said: 'Please don't forget to send a chambermaid to light the fire at once.'
When the porter had placed the portmanteau in the bedroom, and he and the waiter had retired, Mr. Dunn threw himself into an easy-chair, and with his arms folded and his legs crossed, fell into a reverie, which lasted until he was aroused by a knock at the door. He did not call out 'Come in' until he had retired to his bedroom, half closing after him the door of communication, and through the crack watched the operation of lighting the fire by the kneeling chambermaid.
When the girl had retired, Mr. Dunn emerged from the bedroom, and made straight for the window. A great breadth of street between the hotel and the opposite houses; no chance of his being overlooked. He walked quietly to the door, turned the key, and settled it so in the lock as to prevent his being spied upon from the outside; then, with soft quick steps, entered the bedroom and immediately came out again, bringing with him the hand-bag which he himself carried up the stairs.
A momentary hesitation now, and a stealthy and sharp look round; the next minute the bag is open, and Mr. Dunn has taken from it and laid upon the table the sailor's dress which Tom Summers wore in the low tavern and the tramps' lodging-house, and at the same time has produced from his breast-pocket a long shiny pair of scissors. With these he makes short work of the sailor's suit, tearing and ripping it into strips, and cutting these strips into smaller pieces, which he gathers together in a heap in the middle of the table.
Then Mr. Dunn, returning to the bedroom, unlocks the portmanteau which he had received from the cloak-room at Lime-street, lays out his dressing materials on the table and some clothes on a chair, takes a Bradshaw and a Tourist's Guide to Ireland with him into the sitting-room, and then, with a sudden effort, gathers the whole heap of cut and tattered clothing in his arms, and throws it on to the fire, which by this time is blazing brightly. Some of the little bits of blue cloth take fire at once, and go eddying up the chimney--others smoulder slowly; but Mr. Dunn stands in front of the fireplace, gazing at the grate, now and then patting and forming its contents with the shovel, until no fragment of the clothes remains visible--only white dust and charred ashes. Then he throws back his shoulders and stretches out his arms like one rid of an intolerable burden, and heaves a great sigh of relief.
Quick now, for the burning cloth has left a pungent, titillating, acrid smell, which must be attended to immediately. Mr. Dunn draws an easy-chair to the corner of the table close by the fireplace, and rumples the antimacassar, which has been laid on by careful hands; then takes the Tourist's Guide, places it on the table in close proximity to the chair, opens it, and places his gold pencil-case between the leaves; lastly, he takes a shovelful of red-hot coals from the grate, and deliberately strews them over the hearthrug; then he quietly quits the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Meanwhile, Inspector Jeffery and his subordinate. Sergeant Scott, were enjoying themselves after their fashion. They had a great triumph of popular excitement and curiosity up to the doors of the hotel, and once inside, they were destined to still greater distinction, not, indeed, at the hands of the young lady in the glass case--she was too much in the habit of seeing celebrities of all kinds, military and naval heroes, leading lawyers, great authors and actors, all of whom were in the habit of putting up at the Adelphi, and addressing polite nothings to her, to be particularly moved at the entrance of a couple of policemen, even though engaged in investigating a murder mystery. When she had turned them over to the manager, her business with them was concluded, and she went back to her ledger and to answering the numerous applicants at the glass case, without bestowing another thought upon the visitors in blue-braided uniform. But the gentleman who at that time filled the position of manager was a very different kind of person; he delighted in the mysterious and romantic, and the word 'murder' sounded pleasantly in his ear. The police officers were invited into his private sanctum, were bidden to take seats, and were asked what beverage would be most agreeable to them. The inspector, a man of travel and of taste, suggested dry sherry; the sergeant, a pure and simple Liverpudlian, would have liked to have named gin, but he recollected where he was, and asked for brandy.
'And now,' said the manager, as soon as the visitors were comfortably seated, with their glasses before them, 'now, inspector, tell us all about it.'
'There isn't much to tell, sir,' said Inspector Jeffery, 'though it is as bold and, I may say, as clean a job as I have met with in my experience.'
'And you mean to say the murdered man was a visitor in this hotel?' interrupted the manager. 'Who could it be?'
'I'm coming to that presently, sir,' said the inspector, who always delivered himself according to what he called 'the laws of evidence,' and who was terribly put out by having his straight story broken in upon. 'I said it was a bold and clean job, and I might have added clever, for although there was a patrol passing up and down in front of the very door of the warehouse where it was committed every half hour, to say nothing of sergeants visiting rounds and all that, not a trace was seen or heard of anything about it until the people came to the warehouse this morning.'
'Warehouse! How did he get in there? It must have been done by one of the warehouse hands,' again interrupted the manager.
'When you have done, sir, I will continue,' said the inspector testily. 'It was one of those large warehouses close by Water-street, which are let in floors, or flats as they call them in Scotland; each lock up separate to themselves, with a common stairway, and where, there being no porter resident on the place, the front door is always kept unfastened. I have spoken to the commissioners about that once or twice, suggesting an order should be issued to have some one responsible for those doors being locked, and if that had been the case there would have been no murder. It was an out-door clerk belonging to Triggs and Vyner, wool-staplers, on the third floor, that discovered the murder. He came about seven o'clock this morning, having forgotten his note-book last night, and being unable to start his rounds without it. When he got up to the first-floor landing, he found the dead man lying in a heap in the corner. He thought he was drunk at first--not a tramp, he could not have been that by his clothes, but some gentleman who had been dining out and mistaken his road home--but when he bent over him he found that the man was dead. There was very little blood on the floor, though his clothes were soaked with it. He had been stabbed to the heart with a long-bladed knife, more like a dagger, which was lying by his side. Such a stab, so straight and sure, I never saw before in my experience, nor our divisional surgeon neither. He says, if it weren't for reflecting upon the credit of the profession, he could almost swear it had not been done by any amateur.'
'Good Lord!' said the manager, by this time intensely interested. 'Well, what then?'
'Then, I was sent for,' resumed the inspector, 'and I came down, and by this time there was a crowd round the place, and my men had some difficulty in turning them out. Two or three of them I allowed to stop, and among them was old Tom Langman the flyman, who whispered to me that he recognised the body as that of the gentleman he had driven from this house to the docks, and who, he thought, was one of a large theatrical party now staying here.'
'Not now,' cried the manager, 'they're gone; went away yesterday in the Cuba. Why, good heavens, it must be number fourteen! He was to have gone back to London last night, but Miss Jennings told me he had changed his mind, and though he was not at home his things were still in his room.'
'Better send and see if they are there now,' said the inspector. 'What was the gentleman's name?'
'I cannot say,' said the manager. 'You see I was so taken up with listening ta Duval, and looking at Miss Montressor, and laughing at that funny fellow in the check suit, that I didn't take much notice of the others. I will call somebody to go up to fourteen, and--I beg your pardon, sir,' he exclaimed to the gentleman whom he found on the other side of the door just as he opened it, 'did you wish for anything?'
'Not at all,' said the gentleman in a soft voice. 'I am Mr. Dunn, a visitor at this house occupying number ten, and I heard something as I was passing the bar about some murder which had been discovered.'
'Yes, indeed, sir, a dreadful murder of a poor gentleman who was staying here, and who seems to have been decoyed into some out-of-the-way place and stabbed to the heart.'
'Indeed,' said Mr. Dunn, 'decoyed into an out-of-the-way place? Ah, probably some woman in it, I should imagine.'
'That's a very good notion, sir,' said the manager, 'very good indeed; the inspector of police is in this room, sir; perhaps you would just step in and mention it. Inspector, here is a gentleman staying in the house who has got what I consider a very excellent idea about the murder.'
'O indeed, sir,' said the inspector gruffly. He greatly disapproved of amateur suggestions.
'Not at all a great idea, inspector,' said Mr. Dunn softly; 'our friend here is pleased to speak too highly of it--merely a notion which has occurred to me, and I have no doubt has previously occurred to you, that a--I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Dunn, stopping short and sniffing through his nose, 'isn't there a very peculiar smell?'
The manager, the inspector, and the sergeant all sniffed in concert; the two latter never smelt anything, but the manager called out at once, 'Something burning.'
'So I thought,' said Mr. Dunn; 'something woollen.'
'We must see to this at once,' cried the manager, and rushed out.
The others rushed with him, and after a prolonged amount of sniffing made their way up the stairs leading to number ten. As they advanced the smell grew stronger, and they came upon a vast quantity of smoke, which they soon found proceeded from number ten itself, where the atmosphere was so dense that it was impossible to see across the room. There was no trace of any flame, but when the windows had been thrown open it was discovered that the hearth-rug and a portion of the carpet around it were smouldering slowly, and were nearly consumed. Bells were rung and water was brought, though long before it arrived the inspector and the sergeant had removed any further cause for fear by stamping out the fire with their heavy boots.
The manager was very cross; he did not quite see how he could explain the matter at the next meeting of the directors, and ask for a new carpet. He had intended to show his temper to Mr. Dunn, but that gentleman he saw was far too savage himself to brook being spoken to.
'It is most annoying,' said Mr. Dunn. 'I am only here for a day on my way to Ireland and this accident occurs. The silly woman who lit the fire did not bring a guard for it. I am unused to fires; I live in a warm climate; but some friends of mine told me never to sit by a fire in England unless it had a guard on it. I looked for a guard before I left the room, but could not find one, and I thought it would be all right.'
The manager was full of apologies.
'Should they move Mr. Dunn to another suite of rooms? They could do so at once.'
'No, thank you,' said Mr. Dunn in reply. 'It is unfortunate, but still it is an accident, and could not have been prevented. I will sleep in the bedroom to-night, and I should not have used the sitting-room much, as I am a stranger in Liverpool, and I want to see all that is to be seen on this the only day I have. In the mean time, I shall be thankful if you will prepare me a little dinner, some fish and a chop, in the coffee-room, and I will come down to it as soon as I have washed my hands and face, which seem to be tolerably blackened by the smoke.'
When the manager and the servants had taken their departure--the inspector and sergeant had gone long since--Mr. Dunn retired to his bedroom, and, after turning the key in the door, took off his coat and waistcoat, and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
'So far so good,' he soliloquised; 'so far everything that I have done has been perfectly successful. My personal identity ceased on my leaving America, and no one can have found any traces of Mr. Dolby, the cynical millionaire, in Tom Summers, the sailor, or Mr. Dunn, the soft-spoken tourist. One night more and I shake the dust of this land from my feet, and can fairly consider myself scot free. That was a lucky idea of mine to strew those cinders on the hearth-rug; the smell of Tom Summers' smouldering rags might have awakened the keen suspicions of those police gentry downstairs. That flannel shirt was beginning to smoke confoundedly before I left the room, but that is now all provided for; the police themselves were the first persons to see what had occurred, and helped to extinguish the smouldering carpet. Not one precaution has been omitted, and, distrustful of myself as I generally am, I begin to look with pride upon my powers of organisation as exhibited in this matter. If my orders have only been implicitly obeyed in America, all I could have looked for is accomplished. One more night of acting and character-playing, and I can rest in peace, and return to reap the reward of all I have gone through.'
Then Mr. Dunn rose from the edge of the bed, carefully washed his face and hands, put on the gray coat and waistcoat, and, looking wonderfully simple and respectable, went down to dinner.
The dinner was ready, and as soon as he heard that his visitor was seated, the manager was in attendance to give special directions to the waiter, and to exhibit the utmost consideration for one who had been the victim of such an untoward accident. When Mr. Dunn had finished his fish, the manager ventured to attempt a little confidential conversation.
'That unfortunate fire, sir,' said he, 'prevented us hearing more about the murder from the police. It is a very, very sad affair. I have been with the inspector since I saw you, and though we are not going to view the body until to-morrow, I have no doubt that the unfortunate gentleman was a Mr. Foster, an American gentleman of great wealth who had been staying in this house, and who occupied the very rooms adjoining yours, where his things still remain.'
'An American was he?' asked Mr. Dunn.
'Yes, sir, American,' replied the manager; 'very rich, and with an enormous fancy for theatricals. Beg your pardon, sir; not very much in your line, I should say; but Mr. Foster was very fond of them indeed. He came down here with the celebrated Bryan Duval, of whom you may have heard, and a party of performers who were going across to America. Mr. Foster left this house to see them off, and after that we never set eyes upon him.'
'That's a strange thing for an inhabitant of such a town as Liverpool to confess,' said Mr. Dunn. 'We in the colonies speak of the mother country as the home of the rarest civilisation. What with your gas and your much-vaunted police arrangement, we are apt to boast of the safety of your streets, of the enormous difference between the state of things in which law and order prevail and where they are governed by a reckless rabble, such as is sometimes found amongst us; and yet here is a most wonderfully cool and audacious murder committed in the heart of the second city of the empire, and not discovered for a certain number of hours afterwards. By the way, is there no trace of the wretch who committed the crime?'
'No, sir, not yet; though I don't know what evidence Inspector Jeffery may bring forward at the inquest to-morrow morning. Perhaps you would like to be present at the inquest, sir? I am sure I should be able to get a place for you.'
'You are very good,' said Mr. Dunn, 'and I should much like to be present at the scene, as a study of law, of character, and society; but my time to return to Jamaica is drawing nigh and I must get through the rest of my British visits as soon as I can. The direct steamer for Belfast leaves to-morrow morning?'
The manager replied in the affirmative.
'Then I will go by it,' said Mr. Dunn. 'I have heard much of the beauties of Ireland, and I wish to see them before I return. Now I think I will make my way to bed, for I have had a fatiguing day. I wish you good-night.'
The manager bowed his acknowledgment of his politeness, and Mr. Dunn retired.
As, about noon next day, Mr. Dunn was proceeding to the cab which was to convey him to the dock, he saw in the hall of the hotel the presiding goddess in the glass case, and the chambermaid, gallantly escorted by Inspector Jeffery, one of the waiters, and the porter.
'The witnesses, sir,' whispered the manager, pointing to them. 'The body has been removed to the dead-house, the inquest is just over, and the jury found a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.'
'Unknown!' echoed Mr. Dunn. 'Then there is no trace of the murderer?'
'Not at present, sir,' said the manager. 'Inspector Jeffery had nothing to bring forward. I wish you good-morning, sir.'
'Good-morning,' said Mr. Dunn, descending the steps.
Then, as the cab drove off, he opened his shoulders, took a long respiration, and muttered between his teeth, 'At last! Scot free!'
The voyage on board the Cuba was by no means the dreadful experience which Miss Montressor had been led to believe; in fact, when they were twenty-four hours clear of the coast of Ireland--where it was, as usual, very wet and inclement, the weather always, apparently, endeavouring to spoil the pleasure prepared by the hospitable inhabitants for their visitors--she roused up and enjoyed herself very much. At first the mere idea of food upset her, and she declared that the constant round of meals was 'disgusting;' but it was soon observed that 'when refection bell did call,' Miss Montressor was one of the first persons to smilingly take up her position at the board, and one of the last to leave it. It was a part of Mr. Bryan Duval's policy that everything should be done in the most liberal manner, and there was consequently abundance of wine and of very excellent quality, on the merits and demerits of which Mr. Duval would descant to the admiration of the company.
This was not the only point on which, that eminent artist won renown. He expounded his views on certain questions of seamanship to the captain with such a wealth of professional phraseology that the worthy officer, who was not in the habit of consorting much with his theatrical passengers, looked upon him with especial favour, asked him constantly into his deckhouse, and ventilated at length--almost, as Byran thought, at too great length--his original theories concerning currents and wind storms. When, moreover, Mr. Duval had corrected the third officer, who was a Yorkshireman, about the exact position of a tobacconist's shop in Boar-lane, Leeds, and had demonstrated that a Scotch professor of St. Andrew's University, who was looked upon as a miracle of learning, was little better than an idiot, he was generally allowed to be a man of universal genius, and respected accordingly. As for the officers of the ship, they took the greatest fancy to him. He was unanimously elected an honorary member of their mess, and the deliciously titillating and highly-spiced dishes which, at a late hour of the night, he prepared in the purser's cabin, the effervescent cooling drinks which he manufactured to go with them, and the romantic little Spanish love songs which he sung afterwards to the accompaniment of a guitar, formed the theme of conversation for many a future voyage.
Mr. Skrymshire, the low comedian, who had been seen in the exercise of his profession by several of the passengers, both in London and Liverpool, and from whom a fund of amusement was expected, did not quite come up to popular anticipation, as he passed the principal part of the voyage moaning in his berth in the agonies of illness, and requesting, as a personal favour, that he might be thrown overboard. It was not until the ship had passed Sandy Hook that he put in an appearance on deck; and she was safe at anchor in the quarantine ground--where, in consequence of her late arrival, she was compelled to remain during the night--before he cracked his first joke.
All the party were up on deck very early the next morning, looking with admiring eyes at the beauties of Staten Island, and with wonder at the steamers and ferry-boats darting in and out. Acting upon the private hint given to her by Bryan Duval the night before, Miss Montressor had paid a little special attention to her toilette, and looked very pretty and fascinating.
'Quite right, my dear,' said Bryan, when lie saw her--he himself was arrayed in a high hat with a curly brim, blue body coat, gray trousers, and jean boots with patent leather tips--'quite right, my dear; they go in immensely for this sort of thing here, and you will find that we shall have a few of the press fellows on board before we land, and no end of them waiting at the wharf. First impressions are everything, and half a column in theScarifier, a personal paragraph in theGrowler, and a subleader in theDemocratto-morrow morning, will do us good service with our first night's audience; besides, Van Buren is a man who fancies himself a lady-killer, and I want him to be impressed.'
'And won't you be at all jealous?' asked Miss Montressor, looking up coquettishly.
'I jealous?' cried Bryan. 'Of course; stark, staring, raving crazy with jealousy. I'd push those side curls a little further back, my dear, if I were you; and just let me tighten that pin at the back of your collar. That will do nicely. Have you seen anything of Skrymshire?'
'The last time he appeared he was looking very melancholy and disconsolate,' said Miss Montressor.
'It is most important that Van Buren should not see him until he is in better feather,' said Bryan. 'There will be some champagne cocktail going on when these press fellows come on board, and I will take care that Skrymshire has a dose of that to pick him up. A low comedian with a horse's head and that suit of clothes is enough to frighten any manager out of an engagement.'
Mr. Duval's predictions were fulfilled. The health officer had scarcely rowed off after his interview with the doctor when another boat was seen approaching the vessel, containing certain members of the press, who quickly appeared on board and were conducted to Mr. Duval, by whom they were received with great courtesy. His ability and geniality had made him a general favourite during his last visit to America, and his return, bringing out a company of whom--notably of Miss Montressor--great things were expected, was hailed with delight. The literary gentlemen, who had a general air of having been up all night, and not having thought it worth while to devote much attention to their toilets in the morning, were conducted to the cabin, where champagne cocktails and other exhilarating drinks were provided for them by Mr. Duval, who, when the liquor had well circulated, despatched a trusty emissary to conduct Miss Montressor to their presence.
In her fresh morning toilette, with her pleasant smiles and frank ingenuous manner, the London actress took by storm the susceptible hearts of the literary gentlemen. They had come with the express intention of interviewing her, and, lo and behold, the most they could do was to utter little compliments and flattery, while most of their time was occupied in staring at her. But Mr. Duval, who knew exactly what was wanted, was not going to let slip such a golden opportunity, and went about from one to the other, answering such questions as he thought might have been propounded.
'What should I say her height was? About five feet five, I should think--a little taller, perhaps, with those new French heels, which set the foot off, but are deuced dangerous for walking. Ah, Willie Webster, you rascal,' whispering in the ear of a dirty little man in a wideawake, 'you're the lad for the ladies, and you're death on complexions, I know. Look at hers; look at the Montressor's. That's the real thing--none of your bismuth and pearl powder, but with the warm tinge on it which she has caught on her voyage from the sea and sun. Natural daughter of a most distinguished man, my dear Carter; blue blood, Norman descent, and all that sort of thing--look at it in her hands and feet, that's where the real breeding comes out. You don't care about noble descent in this country, I know--honesty, virtue, simple citizen, and all that kind of thing; but you do admire hands and feet, and most of your ladies have them in perfection.'
The press gentlemen went off in their swift-sailing little boat, and landing before the huge steamer worked her way to the wharf, so aroused the enthusiasm of those waiting there by their description of Miss Montressor's charms, that when she was seen on the deck, leaning on Bryan Duval's arm, she was greeted with great applause, cheerings, and waving of handkerchiefs. Most interested among those assembled on the wharf to meet the voyagers was Mr. Van Buren, a strikingly handsome man of between forty and fifty, with jet-black hair in crisp waves over his well-shaped head, a classic profile, and an excellent figure. He was naturally nervous, for the good old British comedies, which were the staple attraction at Van Buren's Varieties, had ceased to attract, and the manager was looking to the engagement of Duval's company to recoup him his losses, and finish his season brilliantly. Dogging his heels was his friend and adviser Mr. Morris Jacobs, who had entered the service of Mr. Van Buren's father as call-boy at three dollars a week, but who was now reputed to be worth half a million, and to be the real owner of Van Buren's Varieties and almost of Van Buren himself, for the manager-actor was fond of pleasure, and was besides a great sportsman. He had always horses in training somewhere, and whenever he could get away from the theatre he was rushing off to look after them; while Mr. Morris Jacobs had but one thought in life, the accumulation of money; and finding that could be best attended to at the Varieties, there he remained, and there, morning, noon, and night, he was to be found. But when Mr. Van Buren had been presented to Miss Montressor by Bryan Duval all his nervousness vanished. He bowed his curly head over her daintily gloved hand, and lifted it to his lips. Then turning to Mr. Jacobs, he muttered,
'No use shinning about any more, Morris; trump card's found!'
More and more delights were there in store for the newly-arrived troupe: banquets in their rooms at the Fifth-avenue Hotel, bushels of cards left by distinguished callers, artistic clubs proffering receptions, and invitations for all kinds of entertainments. Miss Montressor was in the highest state of delight. 'If this is America,' she said to Bryan Duval, 'I rather think I am likely to be pleased with it.'
Intelligence of the arrival of the star company, and their brilliant reception in New York, speedily reached Mrs. Griswold's house. Helen, with her usual cordial kindness, sent the newspaper which contained the lengthiest and most sensational account of the proceedings of the popular reception, and the programme of the performance, to Mrs. Jenkins. She would have gone to the nursery to read it all for her, and enjoy the pleasure and excitement with which she felt the nurse would peruse it, but she happened just then to be detained by callers.
Mrs. Jenkins clutched the paper from the hand of the servant who brought it to her, and read it with the utmost avidity. When, shortly afterwards, Mrs. Griswold went up-stairs to pay her customary visit to the baby before dressing for lunch, she found the nurse in rather a fidgety state; she was absent while Mrs. Griswold talked to her, she answered one or two of her questions at random, and altogether her manner was sodistraitthat Helen resolved to find out what it all meant.
'Has anything happened to you?' she said; 'have you had any bad news? Pray tell me.'
'No, ma'am,' said Mrs. Jenkins, 'I have not had any bad news, but I should like very much to go out for a while; there is some one come to New York that I know, and I should like to call and see her.'
Perhaps a transitory feeling of surprise crossed Helen's mind at the unusual reticence of Mrs. Jenkins, who by this time had become so familiarised with her friendly manner and her kindly genial interest in all that concerned the dwellers in her house that she would have supposed the nurse would at once have told her who the person was, and all about it; but Helen's kindness was not of the exacting sort, and she received this brief communication with her usual sweet compliance.
'Of course you can go out,' she said. 'I will take care of baby; I can take you in the carriage wherever you want to go, and then you can leave baby with me.'
'No, thank you,' answered Mrs. Jenkins, with some embarrassment and a rising colour, which Helen at once perceived, but passed over quite unnoticed, concluding that Mrs. Jenkins's confusion had something to do with the good-for-nothingness of her husband--a point on which Helen deeply commiserated her lot, because, though she had been told no particulars, she felt perfectly convinced that Mr. Jenkins's good-for-nothingness, and no other cause, was at the bottom of his wife's present dependent situation--'no, thank you, ma'am, I would rather go alone, if you please; and if you will allow me, I should like very much to take baby. I think you can trust me not to take her into any place or to see any person of whom you would disapprove.'
'Indeed, I can,' said Helen cordially. 'I can trust you most completely. You shall take baby, and you shall go where you like, and stay as long as you like, and,' she added, laying her hand gently on Mrs. Jenkins's shoulder, as she stooped over the nursing chair, 'never think it necessary to tell me more than you wish, never think that I wish to drive your confidence faster than its natural pace.'
Then she immediately left the room, and Mrs. Jenkins, after a few minutes, got herself and the child ready and went out.