“Why did you take hold of me like that? You hurt me.”
“You should not play with me.”
“Play with you? I was not playing. I only asked you to take me to see this room, and this Edwin Lawrence, of whom you keep on speaking—that was all.”
“Yes, that was all.”
“Why do you look at me like that. You make me afraid of you. I thought you were my friend.”
“How can I be your friend, to act a real friend’s part, if you will not trust me?”
“Trust you? Don’t I trust you? I thought I did.”
She spoke like a child, and she was a lovely woman. I knew not what to make of her, what to answer. I had a hundred things to say, which, sooner or later, would have to be said. How was I to express them in words which would reach her understanding? Was she, naturally, mentally deficient? I could not believe it. Hers was not the face of an imbecile. Intellect, intelligence was writ large in every line. What then was the meaning of the cloud which had temporarily paralysed the active forces of her brain? Where was the key to the puzzle? As I hesitated she, coming closer, drawing up the sleeve of her dress, showed me her wrist, on which were the marks of my fingers.
“See how you have hurt me.”
I was shocked; I had not supposed that I had used such force.
“I did not mean to do it—I beg your pardon. But this morning I’m afraid I am impatient; things have tried me.”
“What things? Am I one of them? I am so sorry—please forgive me! I want you to be my friend, and more than my friend. You see how I am all alone.”
“I see; I do see that.”
The appeal which was in her eyes as they looked into mine stirred my pulses strangely. I know not what wild words were trembling on my lips; before they had a chance of getting spoken Mrs. Peddar put her head through the door and called to me—
“Mr. Ferguson, can I speak to you for a minute, please?”
I went to her at once. I perceived that the news had reached her. Her first words showed it.
“You have heard, sir, of the dreadful thing which has happened to Mr. Lawrence?”
“I have.”
“From what I’m told”—we were in a small room which served her as a sort of ante-chamber; she looked about her furtively, as if she feared that walls had ears; the hand which she had laid upon my arm was trembling—“from what I’m told it seems that it must have been done just before the young lady—came—to your room.”
“Such seems to be the case, from what I’m told.”
“What shall we do?”
“At present, nothing. ‘Sufficient,’ Mrs. Peddar, ‘unto the day is the evil thereof.’”
“Do you think she knows?”
“Just now, I am sure that she does not.”
She came closer, speaking almost in a whisper. Her lips were twitching. I have seldom seen a woman so disturbed.
“Do you think—she did it?”
“Mrs. Peddar! I have not yet found the key to the puzzle; but I am going to look for it, and I, or some one else, will find it soon. And of this I am certain now, that that child—she’s little more than a child in years, and, at present, she’s as helpless as any child could be—has had, of her own initiative, no hand or finger in this matter; she is as innocent, and as blameless, as you or I. She has suffered, but she has not sinned.”
“I hope so, I am sure.”
“Your hope is on a safe foundation. There is one thing which you might do—keep your own counsel. Don’t tell all the world that you have a visitor; and, in particular, tell no one how that visitor came to you.”
“I’d rather she never had come. I—I’m beginning to wish that I’d never taken her in.”
“Don’t say that, Mrs. Peddar. You will find that it was not the worst action of your life when you took that young girl, when she had just escaped, by the very skin of her teeth, unless I am mistaken—from things unspeakable, from the very gates of hell, under the shadow of your wing.”
Mrs. Peddar shook her head and she sighed.
“Poor thing! Whatever happens, and I tremble when I think of what may be going to happen to her and to us, and to every one—poor young thing!”
I foundit impossible to accept the conclusion to which it all pointed. I had locked the door of my bedroom, gone to the wardrobe, taken out that plum-coloured cloak. I had rolled it up as tightly as I could; the blood with which it was soaked, as it dried, had glued the folds together. I had difficulty in tearing it open. An undesirable garment it finally appeared as I spread it out in front of me upon the bed, discoloured, stiff as cardboard, creased with innumerable creases. And the stiffness was horrible. When one reflected with what it had been stiffened, and how, and when, and associated with the reflection that fair-faced girl, with truth in her voice and innocence in her eyes, one wondered.
That she had been in Edwin Lawrence’s room at the very moment when the murder was taking place seemed clear. What had been her errand? What part had she played in the tragedy? Why, instead of giving an alarm, had she sought refuge in flight? In the answer to this latter question would, I felt persuaded, be found the key to the riddle. What she had witnessed had acted on her like a bolt from heaven; the shock of it had robbed her of her senses on the instant. With the scientific term which would describe her condition I was not acquainted; it was some sort of neurosis, involving, at least for the time, the entire loss of memory. If she could only describe what she had witnessed, her innocence would be established.
Such was my personal conviction; but, at present, it was my conviction only. The material evidence pointed the other way. Time pressed; danger threatened. If facts, as they were known to me, became known to others, an eager policeman, anxious to fasten guilt on some one, might arrest her on a capital charge. Apart from the question of contaminating hands, what might not be the effect, on one already in so pitiful a condition, of so hideous an accusation.
That she had witnessed something altogether out of the common way was plain. This had been no ordinary murder; the work of no everyday assassin. The presumption was that, taken wholly by surprise, she had seen enacted in front of her some spectacle of supreme horror; so close had she been standing as to have been actually drenched by the victim’s blood. My vision—if it was a vision—might not have any legal value, but it was full of suggestion for me; and the impression was still strong upon me that some strange creature had been present in the room, by which the crime had been actually committed. I recalled Edgar Allan Poe’s story of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” in which the criminal was proved to have been a huge ape; but, though I had no notion what the creature I had really seen was, I was persuaded that it had had nothing in common with any member of the ape family.
In one respect my vision seemed to have fallen short. I had seen Lawrence and his assailant; I had seen the whirling skirts—as, in this connection, I gazed at the plum-coloured cloak, I was conscious of an inward pang—I had heard the woman’s laughter; but, though I had a clear recollection of looking around me, with a view of taking in the entire scene, I had seen no one else. Yet all the evidence went to show that, at any rate, two other persons had been present: my visitor of the night before, and the dead man’s brother.
I will admit at once that I had little belief in the brother’s guilt. I had heard something of Philip Lawrence; and, apart from the known integrity of the man’s character, I could not conceive of any cause which could impel him to the commission of so unnatural a crime. Still, there was Turner’s statement, quite unsuspiciously uttered, that he had seen him go up to his brother, and seen him come down again. As I had said to Hume, he would at least be called upon to explain.
But, as it seemed to me, what I had at present to ascertain was, what had been the nature of the errand which had taken a young girl, at that hour of the night, to Edwin Lawrence’s chambers. And, as it chanced, I immediately came upon something which seemed to throw a light upon the matter. Turning over the cloak, with a view of returning it to its hiding-place—for I was aware that, at any moment, I might be interrupted, and I was resolved, at least until I saw my way more clearly, to keep the existence of so, apparently, criminatory a garment a secret locked in my own breast—I came upon a pocket in the green silk lining. There was something in it, which I took out.
It was an addressed envelope. The writing I instantly recognised; I had seen it on the scraps of paper which Hume had taken out of Lawrence’s waste-paper basket. The envelope had been neither stamped nor posted. The address—it could hardly have been vaguer—was “George Withers, Esq., General Post-office, London.” Without hesitation I tore the envelope open. I had reached a point at which I felt that, at any and every cost, I must get out of the darkness into the light.
The contents of the letter I give verbatim.
“Dear Tom,“I am going to see that scoundrel to-night. He had better take care, or something will happen to him, of that I am sure. And he will be sure before I have done with him. In any case, I’ll write you at length to-morrow.”“B.”
“Dear Tom,
“I am going to see that scoundrel to-night. He had better take care, or something will happen to him, of that I am sure. And he will be sure before I have done with him. In any case, I’ll write you at length to-morrow.”
“B.”
Two points struck me about this odd epistle: it contained neither a date nor an address, and, while “George Withers” was on the envelope, the letter itself began “Dear Tom,” the inference being that “George Withers” was an assumed name, to which it had been arranged that communications should be directed. The “B.” of the signature was, I had little doubt, the “Bessie” of the scraps of paper; in which case the “E,” which Mrs. Peddar had discovered on the linen, stood for “Elizabeth.” There still remained the puzzle of the “M.”
The letter had scarcely a reassuring effect. That the “scoundrel” alluded to was Lawrence, and that “to-night” was last night, I thought was probable. If that were so, then it seemed that this young girl had gone to Lawrence with anything but friendly intentions; and it was quite certain that something had happened to him, as she had predicted. One could only hope that it was not the something which she had in her mind’s eye; and that, in any case, she had had no hand in the happening. As a clue to the lady’s identity the letter did not carry one much forwarder.
As I was wondering what was the next step which I should take, a thought occurred to me—the photograph which I had taken from Lawrence’s mantelshelf. I had it in the pocket of my coat. I took it out. It was an excellent likeness; the operator had caught her in a characteristic pose, and made of her a really artistic picture. But it was not with the likeness that I was at that moment concerned. I looked at the back of the portrait, to see by whom it had been taken. There was the name of one of the best London photographers in London. Eureka! the thing was done. I had only to go to the man’s establishment to gain particulars of the original. Surely, when he had been told the circumstances of the case, he would not refuse to let me have them.
Filled with this idea I began to feverishly roll up the plum-coloured cloak. As I did so there came a rapping at the door.
“Who’s there?”
“I want to speak to you.”
The voice was Hume’s. Fortunately I had locked the door, or he would quite possibly have walked straight into the room.
“I will be with you directly.”
I returned the cloak to the wardrobe, put the portrait into my pocket, and with it the letter, then went to Hume.
He stood with his back to the window, and his hands behind his back, regarding me, as I entered the room, with a keenness very like impertinence. There was something hawk-like in his attitude, as if he was ready to pounce on me the instant he could find an opening. I had never had much pleasure in the man’s society; but this air of open resentment was new. It was as if out of Lawrence’s murdered body there had come a malicious spirit, which had entered into him, and inspired him with a sudden and unreasoning desire to work me mischief. That he meant to be disagreeable his first words made plain. I immediately made up my mind that, to the best of my ability, his intention should be persistently ignored.
“No wonder, Ferguson, that you resented my inquiry as to the terms on which you parted last night with the dead man.”
“Indeed? My dear chap, sit down. If you can manage it, don’t wear quite such an air of gravity. This affair of poor Lawrence’s seems to have affected you even more than it has me—which is odd.”
“It is odd.”
“Because I had always supposed that he was a more intimate acquaintance of mine than yours.”
“Such seems to have been the case. How much did you owe him?”
“Owe him! Hume, you seem disposed to ask some very odd questions.”
“You think so? When a person is suspected of a crime, the first thing one looks for is a motive; you understand?”
“I understand your bare words, but what is behind your bare words I do not understand.”
“Presently you will. Before we part I will endeavour to make myself sufficiently plain. I repeat my question: How much did you owe him?”
“Nothing.”
“You lie.”
“Hume, that is the second time you have used such language to me this morning, and the second time I have refrained from knocking you down.”
“That is true. Perhaps my turn will come to be knocked down. I am aware that you are the sort of person who, for less cause, will do much more than knock a man down.” He inclined his head further towards me, his resemblance to a bird of prey becoming still more pronounced. “Ferguson, I’m a pathologist; a student of mental diseases. As such I have regarded you for some time with growing interest. Unless I err you are the victim of a form of aberration which is not so unusual as some may suppose; you suffer from mnemonic intervals.”
“I have not the faintest notion what you mean.”
Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if the doctor himself was not stark mad. He went on, in his quick, even tones, as if he were calculating what the effect of each word would be before he uttered it.
“If you were to kill me where I am standing, I believe that you would be capable of forgetting what you had done directly I was dead; and quite possibly the consciousness of your action might never visit you again. That is what I mean.”
“Hume!”
For some cause his words seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of my bones, as if they had been daggers of ice.
“Now I will explain to you why I assert that, consciously or unconsciously, you lie in stating that you owed Edwin Lawrence nothing. You see this.” He held out a small leather-covered volume, which was fastened by a lock. “I found it in his room after you had gone. It’s a sort of diary—rather an unexpected volume for such a man to have—which statement is itself only another instance of the unwisdom of judging, on insufficient data, of the direction in which a man’s tastes may be inclined. In it he appears to have made fairly regular entries, the last so lately as last night, after you had left him. Here it is:
“‘Have been playing cards with Ferguson, and winning pretty heavily. Have long been conscious that F.’s an unusual type of man—dangerous. The sort you would rather not have a row with. Felt it more than ever to-night; believe if he could have torn the heart clean out of me, without scandal, he would have done it then and there. A bad loser. He said some things, and looked more; as good as suggesting I had not played on the square. I did not break his head, but, though I only laughed, I did not love him any the more. It’s eighteen hundred and eighty that he owes me. I suspect it will be like drawing his eye-teeth; but I’ll have it. The money will be useful.’
“That is the last entry he made in his diary. He must have been killed before the ink had long been dry. It suggests the terms on which you parted. What have you to say to it? Do you still assert that you owed him nothing?”
I had listened to Hume’s readings with feelings which I am unable to describe. In the rush of events I had, for the moment, forgotten the game of cards which we had played together. It was not pleasant to have it recalled in such a fashion, by such a man. The falsity of the conclusions which he drew from my temporary forgetfulness stung me not a little.
“I do still assert that I owed him nothing. One minute; let me finish. But the eighteen hundred and eighty pounds which I should have given to Edwin Lawrence will now be handed over to his estate.”
“True. As he correctly perceived, you are an unusual type of man. Ferguson, you and I are alone together. What I am about to say will be said without prejudice. I shall not whisper a hint of it abroad without good and sufficient ground to go upon, but I tell you now, quite frankly, that it is my opinion that you used some means—what they were I do not pretend at present to understand—to compass Edwin Lawrence’s death.”
“Hume!”
“I know that you were in his room when he was being killed.”
“You know that I was in his room!”
“I suspected it at first. Now I know it. I will tell you how. A girl, one of the servants of the place, just stopped me to say that, at an early hour this morning—so far as I can judge, within five minutes of the commission of the murder—she saw you running along the corridor, from Lawrence’s room towards your own, as if you were flying for your life. My own impression is that you were flying from the life which you had taken.”
“Hume! Some one saw me in the corridor! Who was it?”
“At this moment, never mind. The woman will be produced in due course. She says that the perspiration was pouring down your cheeks; which seems odd, considering that the morning was chilly, that you are not of a plethoric habit, and that you were clad only in your pyjamas.”
It was with difficulty that I retained my self-control. Was it possible that it had not been a vision after all, but that I had been the actual spectator of that awful tragedy?
As I was endeavouring to arrange in my mind the new aspect of the case suggested by Hume’s words, the door opened and a man came in.
“Is one of you two gentlemen Mr. Ferguson?”
“I am.”
“Then you’re the gentleman they’ve sent me to as being Mr. Edwin’s friend. The Lord forgive me, but I believe that my poor master’s murdered him!”
Thenewcomer was a man apparently about sixty years of age, short, and grey-haired, with old-fashioned, neatly-trimmed side whiskers. He was dressed entirely in black, even to black kid gloves; his hat he carried in his hand. He seemed to be in a state of considerable agitation, and stood looking from one to the other of us as if he was endeavouring to make up his mind as to who or what we were. Hume recognized him at once. He went striding towards him from across the room.
“Morley, you had better come with me. It is to me you wish to speak, not to this gentleman.”
I interposed.
“He asked for Mr. Ferguson. I am Mr. Ferguson. It therefore seems that it is to me that he wishes to speak.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! You’re a stranger to him; I tell you it’s a mistake. You know me, Morley, don’t you?”
The old gentleman looked at Hume with eyes which seemed half dazed.
“Yes, sir; oh yes. You’re Dr. Hume. I know you very well.”
“You hear? Stand aside!”
“I shall not stand aside. And, Hume, take my strong advice and don’t attempt to interfere with any visitor of mine. You hear me?”
“I hear, but I shall not pay the least attention. Morley, I forbid you to say a word in this gentleman’s presence. You have no right to speak of your master’s private affairs in the presence of strangers. I am his friend; I will safeguard his interests. I tell you that by not keeping a strict watch over your tongue you may do him a serious mischief.”
“Very good, Hume. Evidently to remonstrate with you is to waste one’s breath. I will try another way.” Taking him up in my arms I carried him towards the door. “I am going to put you outside my room, and, before you attempt to enter it again, I trust that you will have learnt at least the rudiments of decent manners. Out you go!”
And out he went. Depositing him on the floor in the corridor, I locked the door in his face. He banged against it with his fist.
“You shall pay for this!”
“Very good; render your account. I will render you such moneys as are due.”
“Morley, I forbid you to say a word to him at your peril.”
I turned to my visitor.
“I beg, Mr. Morley, that you will take a seat. Pray do not heed our excitable friend. Just now he can hardly be said to have the full control of his senses—as you yourself perceive. As you remarked, I am John Ferguson, the friend of Mr. Edwin Lawrence. You, I take it, are in the service of his brother, Mr. Philip.”
Mr. Morley’s calmness had not perceptibly increased. He seemed impressed by the way in which I had handled Hume; and, also, disposed to be influenced by the doctor’s express commands to hold his tongue; he was like a man between two stools.
“Yes, sir, I’m in Mr. Philip’s service; but I think that perhaps the doctor’s right, and I oughtn’t to talk about my master.”
“Possibly, Mr. Morley; but you have spoken of him already. You have accused him of murder.”
“No, sir, not that!”
“Just now, in the presence of Dr. Hume and myself, you expressed your belief that Mr. Philip had killed Mr. Edwin.”
“Oh no, sir, not that; I didn’t go so far as that. I didn’t mean it if I did.”
“What you meant is another question; that is what you said. I may tell you, Mr. Morley, that I am not of your opinion. I do not believe that Mr. Philip had any hand whatever in his brother’s death.”
“No, sir? I—I’m glad to hear it.”
“Very soon you will receive from his own lips an explanation which will blow all your doubts away. I believe that he will clear the whole thing up at once, if you will take me to him.”
Mr. Morley’s jaw dropped open.
“Take you to him? But that—that’s just it. I don’t know where he is. Isn’t he—here?”
He looked about him as if he half expected to discover Philip Lawrence hidden behind a curtain or under a table.
“Do I understand you to mean that your master has not returned all night?”
“Yes, sir; that’s what I do mean, and that’s what makes me so—concerned. He’s a gentleman of regular habits—most regular; and I’ve never known him to stop out all night before without giving me warning.”
I felt that, in that case, he must indeed be a gentleman of most regular habits.
“Where does Mr. Philip Lawrence live?”
“In Arlington Street; that’s his London address.”
“When did he go out?”
“After midnight, in—in a towering rage.”
“In a towering rage? With whom?”
“Well, sir,”—Mr. Morley came closer; he cast an anxious glance around him; he dropped his voice—“I’m not a talkative man, not as a rule, as any one who knows me will tell you; but I’ve got something to say which I feel I must say to some one, though you heard what Dr. Hume said. But, perhaps, sir, as you’re Mr. Edwin’s friend, you’re Mr. Philip’s too.”
“Mr. Morley, in making any statement to me, you will be at least as safe as if you made it to Dr. Hume. I tell you that I believe your master’s hands are clean. To prove it, we shall have to establish the truth. If you have anything to say which will go to make the darkness light, say it, like a man, before it’s too late.”
“You won’t use it to do him a disservice? And you won’t say that I talked about him in a way I didn’t ought to have done?”
“I will do neither of these things.”
“Well, sir, I like your looks; you look like the kind of gentleman one can trust, and I flatter myself I’m a pretty good judge of faces; and—and the way you handled Dr. Hume was”—he coughed behind his hand—“queer. I’ll make a clean breast of it.”
The old gentleman’s hesitation had its amusing side; I was conscious that something very unusual had happened to throw him, to such a degree, off his mental balance.
“That’s right, Mr. Morley; we shall soon arrive at an understanding if we are frank with one another. Sit down.”
He sat down on the edge of a chair. His hat he placed beside him on the floor, crown uppermost.
“Well, sir”—with his gloved fingers he stroked his chin, still regarding me with an air of dubitation—“I’m afraid that Mr. Edwin was not all that he ought to have been.”
“I am afraid that something similar could be said of all of us.”
“It was in money matters chiefly, though there were other things as well; but in money matters he was most irregular—quite unlike Mr. Philip. Mr. Philip has let him have thousands and thousands of pounds; what he did with it was a mystery. They quarrelled dreadfully.”
“Brothers will quarrel, Mr. Morley. It’s a way they have.”
The old gentleman shook his head.
“Ah, but the fault was Mr. Edwin’s. Mr. Philip is hot-tempered, but Mr. Edwin was always in the wrong.”
Leaning towards me, Mr. Morley whispered, under cover of his hand, “Once Mr. Philip thrashed him—broke his stick across his back, he did; Mr. Edwin must have been black and blue with bruises. Mr. Philip’s very quick when he’s roused, and he’s a better man than his brother. He was very sorry afterwards for what he had done—dear me! how sorry he was. He went to his brother and he asked him to forgive him, and Mr. Edwin did forgive him; I expect he got a good deal more money out of Mr. Philip, or he never would have done. He was unforgiving enough, was Mr. Edwin, unless it paid him to be otherwise; he’d wait for years for a chance of returning, with good thumping interest, what he thought was an injury; it was the only thing he ever did return with interest.”
The expression on Mr. Morley’s face as he said this did not itself suggest the charity which forgiveth all things.
“So it went on, for soon they were quarrelling again. But lately it has been worse than ever.”
Looking anxiously about him, Mr. Morley again resorted to the cover of his hand.
“There’s been—there’s been some trouble about some bills. Mr. Edwin’s been putting some bills on the market which weren’t quite what they ought to have been, and getting money on them. I’m afraid he’s been making an unauthorized use of his brother’s name.”
“Are you sure of what you say? At this point it is for me to follow Dr. Hume’s lead and warn you to be careful.”
“Oh, I’m sure enough. I’ve too much reason to be sure. Forgery, sir; that’s what it was, rank forgery. In his rage Mr. Philip let it all come out, so that there’s plenty of others who know of it, or I shouldn’t be speaking of it now. Mr. Philip has gone on dreadfully since he found it out. I’ve sometimes wondered if he was going mad.
“Yesterday afternoon Mr. Edwin came to Arlington Street; there was an awful scene. I went into them; I didn’t think they’d come to blows in front of me. Then Mr. Philip began at me. ‘Morley,’ he said, shouting so that you might have heard him in Pall Mall, ‘my brother’s a thief! That’s no news, you’ve heard it before; but he’s been robbing me again, on fresh lines, and he’ll keep on robbing me until, in spite of all I can do, he’ll succeed in dragging an honoured name through the mire. But before then, Morley, I’ll kill him, for the cur he is. If he’s found with his neck broken you’ll know who did it.’
“Then he turned to Mr. Edwin. ‘So you’ve had fair warning. And now, you blackguard, out of this house you go before I throw you through the window.’ And out he did go, and it was about time he did, or I believe Mr. Philip would have thrown him through the window.”
Mr. Morley passed a red silk handkerchief carefully to and fro across his brow. I thought of how Edwin Lawrence and I had spent the previous evening. He certainly had not worn his troubles where others could see them; he was generally something of a cynic, but I did not remember to have seen him more genially inclined, or apparently in a more careless mood. The man, as limned by Mr. Morley, was to me an entire revelation.
The old gentleman went on. “In the evening, about nine o’clock, some one came to see Mr. Philip. He was a big, portly party, very well dressed, with shiny black hair, and I noticed that his fingers were covered with rings. I set him down for a Jew. He wouldn’t give his name, and when I told him Mr. Philip wasn’t in, he said he’d call again. He came again, about eleven. Mr. Philip hadn’t returned; so he gave me a letter, and told me to give it to him directly he did. It was just past twelve when Mr. Philip did come in. I gave him the letter, though I was in two minds as to whether I hadn’t better keep it till the morning, for I smelt that there was mischief in it; and now I wish I had, for directly he opened it Mr. Philip broke into the worst rage I ever saw him in. He was like a man stark mad. ‘That brother of mine,’ he screamed, ‘is a more infernal scoundrel even than I thought he was; I’ll kill him if I can find him!’ And he tore out of the house before I could move to stop him.”
Again the red silk handkerchief went across Mr. Morley’s forehead. The mere recollection of the scene bedewed his brow with sweat.
“Well, sir, I sat up for him all night, and my wife, she sat up to keep me company; but he never came home. We listened to every sound, and we jumped at every footstep that came near the house, thinking it was him. Emma—that’s Mrs. Morley—kept on snivelling pretty nearly all the time. ‘Joe,’ she kept on saying—my name’s Joe, sir, leastways Joseph—‘Joe, do you think that Mr. Philip’s killing him?’
“To be asked such a question made one feel like killing her; for it was the very question which I kept putting to myself all through the night. My feeling was that Mr. Philip had been drinking more than he was used to, and that letter found him in an evil mood; and when he’s in one of his rages he’s not the good, kind-hearted, fair-minded gentleman he generally is, he’s more like a raving lunatic, although I say it, and capable of anything.
“When morning came, and there were still no signs of him, I couldn’t stand it any longer. So I came round to see Mr. Edwin, and directly I came they told me he had been murdered. Murdered! Murdered!” He repeated the word again and again, as if he found a ghastly pleasure in the repetition.
I paced up and down, pondering the tale as he had told it. I perceived how, from his point of view, the case looked black against his master. Yet still I felt persuaded that there was something in the whole business which was beyond our comprehension, and that, when we learned what that something was, it would be conclusively shown that the deductions which he drew were erroneous.
“Do you think that Mr. Philip killed him?”
“No, Morley, I do not. But I think that, if you get a chance, you’ll hang him.”
“Hang Mr. Philip? Me? No, not—not if he’d killed Mr. Edwin a dozen times over.”
“On the contrary, if you don’t take care, you’ll hang him, although he hasn’t killed Mr. Edwin even once. If they were to put you into the witness-box, and you were to tell that tale, your evidence would need but the slenderest corroboration to send him to the gallows right away.”
“Mr. Ferguson!”
“Morley, you must know that you had not the slightest right to tell me what you have done. Fortunately your information has been imparted to a person who will not make an injurious use of it; but, if you take my serious advice, you will not breathe a word of it to any other living soul. You will go straight home, and you will say nothing to any one; and you will know nothing either.”
“But—but where is Mr. Philip, sir?”
“What business is that of yours? I take it that he is free to regulate his movements without consulting you. Whatever concern you may feel, you will not allow a hint of it to escape you—that is, if you have your master’s interests at heart!”
There came an imperious rapping at the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s I—Inspector Symonds, of the Criminal Investigation Department. Be so good, Mr. Ferguson, as to open the door.”
“There, Morley, is some one who will be glad to listen to what you have been telling me, but if you have the least regard for your master’s reputation, not to mention his neck, you will see him further first. You’re not forced to speak a word unless you choose; I shouldn’t choose; and here’s something to help you not to choose.”
I handed him a wine-glass full of brandy. He swallowed it so fast that it set him coughing. There came the knocking at the door again.
“Open this door, Mr. Ferguson!”
“With pleasure. You seem to be in a hurry, sir. Possibly you are not aware that these rooms are private, and that it is not necessary that I should open to every person who takes it into his head to knock.”
As, opening the door, I planted myself in the doorway, Mr. Symonds looked at me as if surprised. He was not a little man, but I was a good head taller, and I fancy that he had not expected to find me quite so big, or he would have hustled past me. As it was, he refrained.
“I am informed that you have some one in your rooms who can give important information in the matter of Mr. Edwin Lawrence’s murder.”
“Indeed. Who is your informant?”
“I am. You will find, Ferguson, that you cannot play with edged tools.”
Hume was the speaker.
“So? Pray enter, Mr. Symonds.” Hume tried to pass in after him. “If you don’t mind, I would rather not. I think that edged tools are better outside.”
I shut the door in his face; he taking my cavalier treatment of him more meekly than he was wont to do. Perhaps he remembered.
Mr. Symonds immediately assailed the lamblike Mr. Morley.
“I believe that your name is Morley; and that you are in the service of Mr. Philip Lawrence. What information have you to give with reference to the murder of his brother?”
“Mr. Morley has no information to give.”
It was I who answered.
“Let Mr. Morley speak for himself.”
“Permit me to repeat, Mr. Symonds, that these premises are private; and before I allow you, on these premises, to bully a guest of mine, I must request you to show me the authority on which you are acting.”
Inspector Symonds looked me up and down, as if he did not know exactly what to make of me. He seemed to hesitate.
WhenI had succeeded in extricating Mr. Morley from the clutches of Inspector Symonds, after a considerable wordy warfare, during which I had difficulty in keeping the inspector’s language within parliamentary bounds, I started on a little errand of my own.
The inspector appeared to be under the impression that, for some malevolent reason, I wished to interfere with the due and proper execution of the law; and he told me, quite frankly, that so soon as Mr. Morley was off my premises he would bring, not only the old gentleman, but, so far as I understood, myself also, to book. Therefore, feeling that, under such circumstances, two might be better than one, so soon as the interview was ended, I proceeded, since his way was mine, to escort Mr. Morley at least part of his way home.
The old gentleman was in a condition of great mental perturbation. He was sorry, for his master’s sake, that he had said as much as he had done to the inspector, and he was also sorry, for his own sake, that he had not said more; for he was uncomfortably conscious that, by his comparative reticence, he had incurred the officer’s resentment.
“Do you think, sir,” he said, as we were parting—and I thought, as he was speaking, how old he seemed and tremulous—“that that Mr. Symonds will hunt me up, and worry me, as he as good as said he would? Because I know that I shan’t be able to stand it, if he does; my nerves are not what they were, and I never dreamed that I should have trouble with the police at my time of life.”
I endeavoured to reassure him.
“Mr. Morley, be at ease; fear nothing. You are the sole proprietor of your own tongue, use it to preserve silence; no one can force you to speak unless you choose.”
I was not by any means so sure of this, in my own mind; but this was a detail. My object was to comfort Mr. Morley.
It was at the door of the house in Arlington Street that we parted; after all, I went with him the whole way—it was practically mine. I waited while he inquired if his master had returned. The face of the old lady who opened the door, and who I immediately concluded was Mrs. Morley, was answer enough; she looked as if she bore all the trouble of the world upon her shoulders. He had not; nothing had been seen or heard of him.
The point at which I was aiming was the photographer’s. As I walked away from Philip Lawrence’s house, I could not but feel conscious that every moment he remained absent made the case look blacker. What reason could he have to stay away, save one?
An assistant came forward to greet me, as I crossed the threshold of the building which housed that famous firm of photographers.
“I want you to tell me who is the original of one of your portraits.”
“We don’t, as a rule, sir, give the names of sitters, without their express permission.”
“This is one of the exceptions to the rule. Here is the portrait—who is the lady it represents?”
I handed him the photograph which I had taken off Edwin Lawrence’s mantelshelf. So soon as he saw it he smiled; looking up at me with what was suspiciously like a twinkle in his eye.
“As you say, this is one of the exceptions to the rule. I certainly have no objection to tell you who this lady is; that is, if you don’t know already. In which case I should imagine that you are one of the few persons in London who does not.”
“What on earth do you mean? Who is the lady?”
“You are not a theatre-goer, sir?”
“Why do you say that? I suppose I go to the theatres as often as other people.”
“You haven’t been to the Pandora lately.”
“The Pandora? I’ve been there three times within the last month or so.”
“Then, on the occasion of your visits was Miss Bessie Moore not acting?”
“Miss Bessie Moore!”
“This is the portrait of Miss Bessie Moore, and an excellent likeness, too. She has honoured us several times with sittings, and this is about the most favourable result we have had so far. It is not easy to do justice to the lady.”
Bessie Moore! The assistant was a much smaller man than I; but if, at that moment, he had given me a push, though ever such a gentle one, I believe he would have pushed me over. What an idiot I had been! No wonder that her face had seemed familiar. Bessie Moore—admittedly one of the loveliest women in town, whose name was on every tongue, who was honoured by all the world! At that moment her acting was drawing all London to the Pandora Theatre. I had seen something of theatres, whatever that assistant might suppose to the contrary, but I had never before seen such acting as hers, nor had I ever seen so lovely a woman! And it was Bessie Moore who had come through my bedroom window, at dead of night, in that plum-coloured cloak. Every moment the wonder grew.
Either the expression of my face or something else about me appeared to afford that assistant considerable amusement. In the midst of my bewilderment I was conscious that he grinned.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“It is possible for persons of even ripened years to feel surprised, as you will discover when you yourself attain to years of discretion.”
I fancy that it was my intention to crush that smiling youngster, though I suspect that the result of my little effort was only to increase my appearance of imbecility. At any rate, his grin did not grow less. I proceeded with my inquiries.
“What is Miss Moore’s address?”
“The Pandora Theatre.”
“Thank you; I am aware of that. It is her private address which I require.”
“That, I am afraid, we cannot give you.”
No doubt they were pestered with similar inquiries by individuals who were more or less idiots, and altogether impertinent; and, quite possibly, he took me for a member of that considerable family. I gave him my card.
“There is my name. The lady who is the original of that portrait has met with an accident. I did not know that she was Miss Moore until you told me, but it is important that I should be able to communicate with her friends at once.”
“An accident? I am sorry to hear that Miss Moore has met with an accident. If you will wait a moment I will make inquiries.”
The assistant disappeared; presently returning with an older man, who examined my card as he came. He addressed me:
“You are Mr. Ferguson?”
“I am.”
“You say that Miss Moore has met with an accident?”
“I do.”
“What is its nature?”
“That I am not at liberty to tell you. I can only say that it is of the first importance that I should be able to communicate with her friends without delay.”
He hesitated, considering me attentively; then he gave me the information I required.
“Miss Moore lives with Miss Adair, who, as you perhaps know, is also acting at the Pandora Theatre. The address is 22, Hailsham Road, The Boltons, Brompton.”
As I sped towards Brompton in a hansom, I tried to assimilate the tidings I had just received. In vain. It may be that I am dull-witted, and that my mental processes are slow; but the more I sought the solution of the puzzle the more insoluble it seemed. It did appear incredible that the woman who had all the world, like a ball, at her feet, with whose fame London was ringing, should have come to me, at such an hour, in such a fashion, from such a scene. The mystery was beyond my finding out.
Hailsham Road proved to be a nice, wide, clean, old-fashioned street, and No. 22 a nice, clean, old-fashioned house. It was not large, but the impression which its exterior made upon me was a distinctly pleasant one. It was detached; it stood back, behind railings, at a little distance from the pavement; in the sunshine it looked as white as snow; there was a flower-bed in front, and flowers made the window-sills resplendent. My ring was answered, on the instant, by a maid who was quite in keeping with the house; she was unmistakably neat, and I have no hesitation in affirming she was pretty.
“Can I see Miss Adair? I have brought news of Miss Moore.”
The maid left me in the hall—it was the daintiest hall I remembered to have seen, and very prettily papered—while she conveyed my message up the stairs.
It appeared that I could see Miss Adair; for, presently, a lady came flying down the stairs, about seven steps at a time, and all but flung herself into my arms.
“You’ve brought me news of Bessie? Oh, I am so glad! I’ve been half-beside myself; I haven’t slept a wink all night. I was really just wondering if I hadn’t better communicate with the police. Oh, please will you step in there?”
I stepped in there. “There” was a sitting-room. From the wall looked down on me, as I entered, a life-size portrait of my visitor of the plum-coloured cloak. The face was turned directly towards me; the eyes seemed to be subjecting me to a serious examination. I did not care to meet them; in their presence I was conscious of a vague discomfort. The atmosphere was redolent of a feminine personality. On every hand were the owner’s little treasures. I pictured her flitting here and there among them, touching this, altering the position of that, dumbly inquiring of me all the time, with, in her air, a touch of resentment, what I did in her apartment.
Miss Adair perceived that I was not so ready with my tongue as I might have been. There was a sharp note of anxiety in her voice.
“There’s nothing wrong with Bessie, is there?”
I stammered, like an ass, “I—I’m afraid there is.”
“She’s not—dead?”
“Dead! Good gracious, no! Nothing of the kind.”
“Then what has happened to her? Tell me! Quick! Don’t you see that I’m on tenterhooks?”
“First of all let me be certain of my ground. I take it that that is Miss Moore.”
I handed her the, by this time, historical photograph.
“Of course it is. What do you mean by asking? Where is she? Who are you? What have you done to her? Don’t stand there as if you were afraid to open your mouth!”
“The truth is, Miss Adair, that I am rather at a loss for words with which to express myself. But, if you will bear with me, I will endeavour to make myself as plain as I can; it is rather a difficult task which I have to perform.”
It was a difficult task, nor was it made easier by the two shrewd eyes which were regarding me as if I were some curious and unnecessary kind of creature.
Miss Adairwas a tall, commandingly built young woman, with about her more than a suggestion of muscularity. I had recognized her at once. On the stage she was accustomed to play the part of the dashing adventuress; the sort of person who could not, under any possible circumstances, be put down. I realized that she might be disposed to carry something of her stage manner into actual life. She confronted me as if I were some despised, but lifelong enemy, whose attacks she was prepared to resist at every point.
“When are you going to tell me what has happened to Bessie? In the first place, where is she?”
“She’s at Imperial Mansions.”
“What’s she doing there?”
“She’s in charge of the housekeeper—Mrs. Peddar.”
“In charge! What do you mean?”
“Miss Moore is not—not herself.”
“You men have been playing some trick on her. You shall pay for it dearly if you have!”
I caught her by the arm; she evincing a strong inclination to rush off to Imperial Mansions there and then.
“Miss Moore came through my bedroom window, at an early hour this morning, in—a curious condition.”
“Your bedroom window! This morning! She must have been in a curious condition!”
“A man was murdered in the building about the same time that she appeared at the window. His set of chambers are on the same floor as mine; they communicate by the balcony along which she came. When she entered the cloak she wore was soaked in blood, and her hands were wet with it.”
Miss Adair drew back, staring at me with distended eyes.
“Man! Are you a man, or are you a devil? Do you dare to hint that Bessie, my Bessie Moore, could by any possibility be guilty of murder!”
“I simply state to you the facts. That she was in the dead man’s room there is irrefutable evidence to show; that she had anything to do with his murder I do not for a moment believe—I am as convinced of her innocence as you can be. My theory is that she was an unwilling witness of what took place, and that the horror of it temporarily unhinged her brain.”
“Is she—mad?”
“No; but she suffers from entire loss of memory. Her life might have commenced with her entrance through my window; she can remember nothing of what occurred before, not even her own name. I believe that if she could be brought to recall what she actually saw take place, her innocence would be at once made plain.”
“What is the name of the man who was—murdered?” I told her. “Lawrence? Edwin Lawrence? I don’t remember ever having heard the name.”
“She said nothing to you last night about having an appointment with him? Or with any one?”
She hesitated.
“Are you—Bessie’s friend?”
“I am. At least, I hope I may call myself her friend, although I never spoke to her before last night. I do not think that there is anything which I would not do to save her from misconstruction.”
She eyed me—quizzically.
“I think I’ll trust you, Mr. Ferguson, though I never trusted a man yet without regretting it. I hope you won’t feel hurt, but there is something about you which reminds me of a St. Bernard. You’re big—very big; you look strong—awfully strong; you’re hairy.” I involuntarily put my hand up to my beard. “Oh, I don’t mean that you’re too hairy, the beard’s becoming; but you are hairy. You look simple; somehow one associates simplicity with trustworthiness; and now you’re blushing.” She would have made any one blush! “The blush settles it; I will repose my confidence in you, as I have done in others!”
Her manner changed; she became serious.
“The truth is that last night Bessie did seem worried, frightfully worried; and that’s what’s been worrying me. She was not like her usual self a bit; I couldn’t make her out at all. I hadn’t the faintest notion what was wrong; when I asked her if she was ill she snapped my head off. And for Bessie to be snappish was an unheard-of thing; her temper’s not like mine, always going off, she’s the gentlest, sweetest soul. She dressed herself, and walked out of the theatre, without saying a word to me; I only ran against her in the street, by accident, just as she was getting into a cab.
“I said, ‘Bessie, aren’t you coming home with me?’—because we always do come home together. But she answered, quite huffishly, that she was not—she had an appointment to keep. I did not dare to ask with whom, or where; though it did seem odd that she should have made an appointment, at that hour of the night, without saying a word of it to me; but I did venture to inquire when I might expect her to return. Leaning her head out of the cab, just as it was starting, she called out to me, ‘Perhaps never.’ I didn’t suppose that she was entirely in earnest, but somehow I couldn’t help feeling that, about the answer, there was something which might turn out to be unpleasantly prophetic.”
“One thing is plain, Miss Adair, you must come with me at once to Imperial Mansions. Your presence may restore to your friend her memory. But, whether or not, you must bring her home, or at any rate you must take her away from the Mansions, and that immediately.”
“Your manner, Mr. Ferguson, is autocratic. You don’t ask me, you command; but I’ll obey. That is, if you’ll condescend to wait while I put a hat on.”
She went upstairs. Almost immediately she had done so there came a ring at the front door. The door was opened and shut again. After it had been shut, Miss Adair called down the stairs:
“Ellen, who was that?”
The maid’s voice replied, “It was some one who wished to see Miss Moore. He said his name was Withers—Mr. George Withers.”
“George Withers!” I shouted.
Without a moment’s hesitation I rushed out of the sitting-room, flung open the front door, and dashed into the street. I dare say that Ellen, and Miss Adair, too, thought that I had suddenly become a raving lunatic. But Ellen’s mention of the caller’s name recalled to me the fact that the peculiar letter which I had found in the pocket of the plum-coloured cloak had been addressed to “George Withers.”
A young man was going down the street, walking rather quickly. I shouted to him.
“Hallo! Mr. George Withers!”
He stopped and turned with something of a start; then stared, as if uncertain what to make of me or what to do. I called to him again.
“I want you!”
As I spoke I moved towards him, intending, since he seemed indisposed to come to me, to go to him and then explain. But no sooner had I started than he swung round on his heels, tore off at full speed, and, before I realised what it was that he was doing, had vanished round the corner. Although I was unable to guess why he should run away from me as if I were the plague, I had no intention, if I could help it, of being run away from; so, as hard as I could pelt, I went after him.
It was a lively chase while it lasted; I must have presented an elegant figure as, hatless, my coat tails flying, I raced through those respectable streets. Fortunately, he was no match for me in pace; I had him before he reached the Fulham Road. He must have been in shocking condition, for he had already run himself right out, and, gasping for breath, was panting like a blown rabbit.
Saying nothing—I felt that that was not the place in which to carry on the sort of conversation I had in my mind’s eye—I took him by the shoulder and marched him back again. He, on his part, was equally mute, and made not the slightest effort at resistance. Miss Adair received us at the door.
“What on earth is the matter? Where have you been? And who is this man?”
Her trick of speaking in italics reminded me of her manner on the stage. I led my companion into the sitting-room. There I introduced him.
“This is Mr. George Withers. I fancy he can give us information on a subject on which, at this moment, information is very much needed.”
“Mr. George Withers” was a mere youth, scarcely more than a boy. I was not prepossessed by his appearance, though he was well dressed and had a handsome face. He had proved himself a cur; I felt sure that he was a sneak, and perhaps something worse as well. I handed him the letter which I had taken from the lady’s pocket.
“I believe, Mr. Withers, that this letter is for you.”
He seemed at first reluctant to take it, as if fearful that it contained something which might disturb his peace of mind. He eyed it doubtfully; read the address; perceived that the envelope had been opened. A disagreeable look came upon his handsome countenance; he turned on me with a snarl.
“Who are you? What do you mean by treating me as you have done? And how dare you open a letter that’s addressed to me?”
“First read your letter, Mr. Withers. Put your questions afterwards.”
He scanned the brief epistle with looks which did not improve as he went on. Then he snapped at me as if he would have liked to bite as well.
“You stole it; you must have stolen it! I’ve half a mind to give you in charge; you don’t know what mischief you mayn’t have done.”
“Is the person alluded to as ‘that scoundrel’ in the letter which you are holding Mr. Edwin Lawrence of Imperial Mansions?”
“What do you want to know for? What do you mean by meddling in my affairs? What business is it of yours?”
“Because, if it is, Mr. Edwin Lawrence is dead.”
“Dead!”
“He was murdered last night.”
“Murdered!” The fashion of his countenance changed. “Then she—she killed him.”
He staggered back till he staggered against a chair. A pitiful object he presented as he perched himself upon the edge. Neither Miss Adair nor I said a word. After a moment’s interval, during which the muscles of his face twitched as if he had become suddenly possessed with St. Vitus’ Dance, he went rambling on, apparently not altogether conscious of what it was that he was saying.
“I knew there’d be mischief—I knew there would. I said if she would meddle in my affairs she’d make a mess of it. I told her she didn’t know what she was going in for, that he was dangerous. But she’s as obstinate as a mule; she never would take my advice, never!”
“Which shows that she is a lady of considerable discretion. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?”
He started forward on the chair, casting a frightened look about him.
“Is she—taken? And are you a policeman?”
“No, I am not a policeman; I have not that honour. And she is not taken—as yet. I repeat my inquiry. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?”
“Never mind! That’s my business, not yours. She’s got into this mess by herself, and she must get out of it by herself; I wash my hands of her. I’ve got an appointment which I must keep. You let me go.”
He got up with a little air of bluster which was pitiful; it was such a poor attempt at make-believe.
“Listen to me, Mr. Withers—correct me if I am wrong; but you seem to be a nice young man—a very nice young man. And it’s because you’re such a very nice young man, always attending, Mr. Withers, your correction, that I desire to inform you that if you don’t answer my questions, as truthfully as your nature will allow you, there’ll be trouble. You understand? Trouble. So be so good as to tell me at once what there can possibly be in common between a lady of Miss Moore’s class and a person of yours?”
“‘Yours’ is good. I don’t see what difference there can be between our classes, considering that she’s my sister.”
Miss Adair interposed.
“Your sister? Bessie’s your sister. Then you’re Tom Moore, her vagabond of a brother, who’s robbed her of hundreds and hundreds of pounds. I thought I knew your face, it’s like a bad copy of Bessie’s, with all her goodness left out and your own wickedness put in. You ungrateful scamp, to speak of her in that cold-blooded manner, when she has done all that she possibly could for you, and you, in return, have been to her the one trouble of her life.”
He confronted the frank-spoken lady with looks which were alive with impudence. I perceived that he was a better match for a woman than a man.
“I know who you are; you call yourself ‘Miss Adair.’ ‘Adair!’ Go on! Sure that’s your proper name? I know more about you than you perhaps think. And for Bessie to let out things to you about me shows the sort she is; telling a pack of lies about her only relative.”
“Her only relative! It’s her misfortune that she has you.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Then from this day forward she hasn’t got me; tell her so, with my kind regards. As I’ve said already, I wash my hands of her; I cut the relationship. Willingly I’ll never own to bearing her name again. It’s not a name I ever have been particularly proud of, and now it’s one of which I shall have less cause to be proud than ever, from what I’m told. Good-day to you, Miss Adair!”
He was now actually marching from the room. I had to give him a gentle hint in order to detain him. He winced under my touch like a hound which fears punishment.
“What was the nature of your business, Mr. Moore, which took your sister last night to Mr. Edwin Lawrence?”
“That’s my business; it’s none of yours.”
“Answer my question.”
He actually whimpered. It was beginning to dawn on me that I might be constrained to wring his neck before he went.
“Don’t! You hurt! It was about some bills.”
“Some bills of yours which you had given to Mr. Lawrence?”
“No, it wasn’t then. Don’t! It was about some bills which he got me to—to fake.”
“I see. And might some of them have borne the name of Mr. Philip Lawrence?”
“Who told you? How do you know?”
“Never mind who told me. Answer!”
“It was all his fault! I should never have thought of such a thing if it hadn’t been for him; he egged me on. I—I owed him a few pounds, and he said if I were to fake up some bills, with his brother’s name on them, he’d let me off.”
“And put the forgeries on the market, dividing the proceeds of the fraud with you?”
“Nothing of the kind, I’ll take my oath to it; I swear I never had a penny. I never dreamt that he’d discount them, not for a moment! I thought it was a game he was going to play off on his brother—some sort of joke.”
“Keen sense of humour yours, Mr. Moore.”
“That’s where he had me; he must have gone straight off and cashed the bills. Then his brother found it out, and then he came to me and threatened to tell his brother that it was I who’d done it.”
“And then you went to your sister and asked her, probably on your bended knees, to save you from exposure.”
“There was no bended knees about it; you’re very much mistaken if you think there was. I’m not that kind. But I—I certainly mentioned to her something about it—she’s my own flesh and blood.”
“Being your own flesh and blood she, possibly, offered to do her best to square it for you.”
“That’s the mistake she made. She talked about giving him a hundred or two, as though that would be of any use. I said to her that if she’d give the money to me I could go abroad and start afresh, and it might be the making of me. But she never would take my advice, never!”
“So your sister, a young, unprotected girl, at your urgent solicitation, went alone to this man at that hour of the night, at the risk of—a good many things; and, in order to save you from the well-merited consequences of your being a cowardly rascal, offered to hand over to him her hard-won savings, and, in all probability, to pledge to the fullest extent her future earnings. And when, in the morning, he is found to have been murdered, you immediately jump to the conclusion that she killed him. With you, Mr. Moore, the sense of gratitude takes a peculiar form. In a state of civilisation in which logic prevailed, the breath would be crushed out of your body; sharing the fate of other vermin, you would not be allowed to exist. Unfortunately for you, this is not a moment in the world’s history in which logic does prevail.”
So I shook him—gently. I did not treat him to a thousandth part of his deserts, for his sister’s sake. Yet, when I dropped him back on to the floor, to judge from his looks and his behaviour, he might have been used with considerable severity. He seemed to be under the impression that I had murdered him.
“That was good!” said Miss Adair. “I feel better.”
I don’t know what prompted her to make such a remark, but I felt better too.