“As you will. So long as we know that we are not dealing with one who is wholly illiterate. Have you seen this cloak before, Mr. Ferguson?”
From a bag which Inspector Symonds produced from beneath the table he took, as I had expected, the plum-coloured cloak.
“I have.”
“Where?”
“In my room. And on my cousin’s back.”
“On your cousin’s back? Not on Miss Moore’s?”
“Certainly not.”
“You have never seen Miss Moore wearing it?”
“Never.”
“To the best of your knowledge and belief is this not Miss Moore’s cloak?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“That you swear?”
“You have already reminded me that I am on my oath.”
“It is necessary to keep that fact always before you, Mr. Ferguson. Then if Miss Moore says that this cloak is hers she will be stating what is false?”
“When Miss Moore makes such a claim it will be time to discuss it. Don’t let us be suppositious.”
“Very well. I will not put to you any more questions, Mr. Ferguson, at present; though don’t suppose for a moment that I have done with you. I have to inform you, Mr. Coroner, that this witness has been uttering a series of perjuries, well knowing them to be perjuries, for the obvious purpose of defeating the ends of Justice. And I have to ask that, at the very least, a watch be kept upon his movements.”
“He shall be detained.”
“Detained!”
I laughed. I buttoned my coat across my chest, and I walked out of the room. The people made way to let me pass as if I had been the plague. Possibly it was because they saw something in my appearance which they did not altogether like. A constable stood at the entrance. I motioned him, with my hand, to move on one side. He moved aside, I saw that there was a key in the lock, on the outer side of the door. I had an inspiration. It was a solidly constructed door, not one of your flimsy constructions made of matchwood, but a good, honest piece of woodwork, not to be easily forced from the inside. I drew it to, locked it, and, slipping the key into my pocket, I walked down the stairs out into the street.
The Court, for all I knew, continued sitting.
Itwas between three and four o’clock in the afternoon. Already the lamps were lighted. The fog still hung over the city. From the appearance of things it might have been night.
“To her!” I said to myself. I called a cab. “To Hailsham Road—the Boltons!”
I examined my possessions. Time pressed. Return to Imperial Mansions was out of the question. Of what crime I had been guilty I did not know; that there would be a disposition to make me smart for it I felt persuaded. I have lived in places where, as much as possible, a man carries his valuables upon his person, for safety. The habit has clung to me a little. As a rule I carry more money than, I believe, the average Englishman is apt to do. I had in my letter-case over £100 in notes, in my pockets nearly £20 in sovereigns; a sufficiency for my immediate requirements. It was enough to take two people out of reach of the storm.
As we entered Hailsham Road I saw that a man was standing at the corner. Turning, as we passed, he closely scrutinised both the cab and me. The maidservant answered my knock. Miss Moore was in—Miss Adair out. Miss Moore was better, thank you. She would inquire if I could see her.
She showed me into the sitting-room. A bright fire was blazing. The apartment was redolent of a particular aroma, perceived of my imagination, perhaps, rather than my senses. It was an aroma I loved. I had never seen a room I liked so much. While I was considering that it might turn out unfortunately for the gentleman at the corner, should he show too pertinacious an interest in my movements, she came. With a little flutter, and a little laugh—the sound of which was good—she held out both her hands.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. If you’d been much longer, I should have come to you. Where have you been?”
“For some part of last night I was out in the street, watching your window.”
“Out in the street! But—why didn’t you come in?”
“It was too late to pay a call. Besides—I did make inquiries, and they told me you were in bed, and ill.”
“I was not very well. I believe I was light-headed. But I’m better now; my own proper self—not the person you have known.”
“Indeed.”
“And—I know.” She drew back a little, looking down at her foot, which peeped out from under the hem of her gown, as if it were a curious thing—which it was, for beauty. “I know all that you did for me, how good you were.”
“Then you know nothing.”
She looked up at me with a sudden flashing in her eyes.
“I know all. I know that I didn’t do it. Aren’t you glad?”
“I never supposed you had a finger in the matter.”
“That is strange. Appearances were all against me; you knew not what I was, or anything at all. I came into your room in—in a most disreputable way, with an impotent tale—which was none at all. My cloak was wet with blood. You have it now.”
“I had it.”
“You must have suspected me of at least some sort of hand in it; it would have been only natural.”
“To me it seems that it would have been most unnatural.”
“That’s odd. I believe I’m suspected by all sorts of people; by some of the very worst. And you never doubted me at all?” She breathed a little quickly as if she sighed. “I am glad. So long as you know that it was not a murderess who came through your window like a thief, I do not seem to care what others think, which is absurd. For I had no hand in it, nor had you; nor had Mr. Lawrence’s brother.”
“But—who then?”
“That, as yet, I can’t quite see. There was something strange about it; something like a conjuring trick, which I am not sure that I understood, even at the time. It was all done by some dreadful creature, the mere horror of whose presence drove me from my senses. I can’t think what it can have been.”
When, stopping, she stood before me, with shining eyes; her lips parted with a smile, so as to show the small white teeth within, I was at a loss how to enter on the subject of my errand. So, as usual, I blundered.
“Unfortunately, men are mostly fools, and blind.”
There my tongue stuck fast. She looked at me a little anxiously.
“How do you mean?”
“There are those of them who cannot see the noses on each other’s faces.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s a fact. Some of them are idiots enough to believe that—that you knew something about that scoundrel’s death.”
“I see.” Her face lightened as if she began to perceive my drift. “You mean that they suspect me of having murdered him. That’s no news.”
“But I fear they go beyond suspicion.”
“Beyond suspicion? Do you mean that they can prove it?”
“Miss Moore! You are severe. I mean that—they may try to arrest you.”
“Arrest me! Arrest me!” She drew herself straight up, her small fists clenched at her sides. “But they mustn’t arrest me. You mustn’t let them.”
“I won’t.”
“How—how can you stop them?”
“I shall be only too glad to act as your guardian, if you care to try a trip abroad until they perceive their own stupidity.”
“A trip abroad—with you.”
The suggestion which the words conveyed, as she pronounced them, had not entered my thick skull. I was thunderstruck.
“Or—or I could stay behind; or come on by the next train.”
“I don’t see what good that would do me.”
“I’d take care that they didn’t lay their sacrilegious hands upon you.”
“I don’t see how—if you weren’t there.”
I began to stamp about the room. I had forgotten that the fact of her being a woman made a difference in all sorts of ways. The situation was more complicated than I had allowed for.
“Miss Moore, I’m an idiot.”
“Yes?”
There was something in the way in which she laid emphasis on the note of interrogation which robbed the word of its sting.
“But I’m not, in some respects, such an idiot as you might suppose.”
“Oh.”
This was said with a twinkle of laughter.
“Can you trust me?”
“With my life; with what is dearer.”
“Will you do as I tell you?”
“Implicitly.”
“Go upstairs, put your hat and coat on, and some things in a bag.”
“How many things? In what sized bag?”
“Enough to take you to Paris.”
“To Paris? Am I going to Paris? Oh, but I’m wanted at the theatre; they’re clamouring for me.”
“Let them clamour. Will you be so kind as to do what I tell you? Excuse me, Miss Moore, one moment! Do you mind my bringing a man in here, and making him comfortable, till after we are gone?”
“Please explain.”
“Well, there’s a man in the street who, I believe, is watching the house.”
“Is he going to try to arrest me? Has he a warrant in his pocket?”
“Nothing of the kind. Only he might try to follow us to see where we went, and that wouldn’t be convenient.”
“Do you propose to hurt him?”
“Not a hair of his head! I promise you.”
“Are you going to try on him the effect of a little reasoning? You certainly have, beyond other men, the persuasive manner. You might induce him to see things in a proper light. If you think it necessary, you can try.”
Her words reminded me of what old Morley had said. I thought the sarcasm was a little hard. I winced.
“There is one other thing, Miss Moore. How many servants have you in the house?”
“One at present. The cook is out.”
“Could you send that one out on an errand which would detain her, say, an hour. We don’t want her to know that we left the house together—or indeed anything.”
“You have an eye for details. I perceive that I’m entering on another adventure. If you will take a stroll for a quarter of an hour, when you return you will find her gone. I shall have my hat and coat on, and some things in a bag.”
“Good. When you are ready, go out as softly as you can, without coming in here, and without taking any notice of me at all. Leave your bag in the passage; I’ll carry it. Go into the Fulham Road, and stroll towards Walham Green. I’ll come to you as soon as I’m able.”
“You won’t hurt him?”
“I’ll not do him the slightest damage.”
I opened the door for her to leave the room. She passed upstairs; I went out into the street. The man was still at the corner; he eyed me intently as I passed. I paid no attention to him whatever. Strolling leisurely, I crossed the Fulham Road, and, through some devious and dirty by-streets, I gained the King’s Road. At an oilman’s shop I purchased a dozen yards of stout clothes line. Looking at my watch, I found that I had been absent nearly ten minutes. With the same leisurely gait I retraced my steps. The man was still at his corner.
He was an out-size in policemen; all of five foot ten, well set up, with a carriage which denoted muscle. Fortunately for my purpose, his face did not point to a surplus of brains; he struck me as being as stupid as I was. I marched straight up to him with an air of brusqueness.
“You’re from the Yard. Why on earth didn’t you give me the tip when I drove past you at first? You saw me staring at you hard enough. I’ve been on a wild goose chase, all because of your stupidity; you shall hear of it again!” He touched his hat. “I’ve just come from the court; Inspector Symonds is detained; I’m on this job at present. Has anybody come out of 22 since I did?”
“A young woman, sir.”
“A young woman. And you let her go?”
“It was only the servant.”
“Only the servant! Which way did she go?”
“She came out into the road here, and then got on to a Piccadilly ’bus. My instructions were to keep an eye on the young lady. I wasn’t told anything about the servant.”
“Oh, weren’t you? Then a pretty mess you seem to be making. Come into the house; I may want you. So keep your eyes and ears well open.”
I started off at a smart pace. He hesitated, then fell in at my side.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but do you mind telling me your name? I don’t seem to remember your face.”
I strode on, unheeding.
“Now, in you come. And mind what I told you about keeping your eyes and ears wide open.”
I pushed him through the gate. The lady’s wits had been on the alert; she had left the door open.
“Hallo! the door’s open,” I cried. “That looks suspicious. I shouldn’t be surprised if the bird had flown. Servant-girl you thought she was. That’ll be a bit of all right for you. Come into this room.”
I led the way into the sitting-room. So soon as we were in, I began to undo the packet of rope.
“Just look out of the window and see if that’s any one coming in.”
He seemed as if he could not quite make me out, or the whole proceeding. But, after a moment’s delay, he did as he was told. He went to the window. In buying the clothes line, I had tied a slip-knot at one end, so as to form a rudimentary lasso. So soon as his back was turned I had this over his head, tightening the knot: his arms were pinioned to his sides. He struggled fiercely.
“It is a plant, is it? —— if I didn’t think it was! So this is your little game!”
“This is my little game; and, if you take my advice, my lad, you’ll own you’re beaten. Because you are.”
He was. I ran the rope about him, pulling him off his feet with a jerk. As he lay on the floor, I trussed him hand and foot. I have had some experience in the handling of ropes, and can tie a knot or two. I was prepared to guarantee that, unaided, he would never move again.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asked.
“Nothing, my good man. It’s surely more comfortable in here than out in the street in such weather as this? The unfortunate part of the business is that I am so anxious that you should not make a noise that I’m afraid I shall have to take measures to keep you still.”
“You are not going to gag me?”
“I fear I must. But, to prove that I regret having to subject you to inconvenience, I am going to slip two five-pound notes into the breast pocket of your coat. When you’re untied you will be able to drink my health with them.”
“Drink your health! My God, I will!”
“Just so. But not with so much strenuosity. Such language should not be used.”
I had bought, at the same shop as the clothesline, some cotton wadding. I thrust as large a piece of this into his mouth as it could conveniently hold. Then, lifting him, I laid him carefully on the floor in a corner of the room behind a couch. As the couch hid him, and he could neither move nor utter a sound, it was possible that he might remain there for some considerable time without his presence being discovered.
I went out of the room. In the passage was a bag. Picking it up, I passed out of the house. On the pavement, just outside the door, was the lady. She was full of concern about the gentleman I had left behind.
“Have you—have you hurt him?”
“Not in the least. I have simply tied him up, so as to prevent him following us to see where we go.”
I did not think it was necessary to say anything about the gagging.
“Have you tied him very tight?”
“Not I.”
“Is he strong?”
“I never asked.”
“But you could see. How big is he?” I told her. We were moving towards the Fulham Road. She repeated her little trick of drawing a hurried breath. “I wish I were a strong man!”
“You are stronger than any man I ever knew.”
“How can you say such a thing? Am I as strong as you?”
I sighed—in earnest.
“Are you as strong as I?”
“You choose to talk in riddles. You know very well that in your hands I should be like a baby. Where are you taking me?”
“I hardly know. I hope out of the shadow into the sunshine.”
“Suppose a policeman—see, there is one over the road—were to come up now, and say I was his prisoner. What should you do?”
“I should explain that he was mistaken.”
“Explain!” She laughed. “But you can’t explain to every one, in the same fashion, for ever.”
I was startled. Her question had a little startled me. To tell the truth, I was wondering myself where I was taking her. The Paris boat train did not start till nine. It was barely five. To stay in London for another four hours would be to run a risk. By that time, too, a watch might have been set upon the boat express.
We were walking towards the Brompton Road. I was just thinking of calling a cab, being only restrained from doing so by the doubt as to where I should tell him to drive us, when my attention was diverted by an exclamation from the lady.
“Mr. Ferguson! Look! There’s Mr. Lawrence!”
I glanced in the direction she was pointing. In front, just far enough off to cause the outlines to be a little obscured by the mist, was a figure I seemed to recognise. I quickened my steps.
“Lawrence! Philip Lawrence!”
Although his back was turned to us, I could not but suspect that he had seen us first. Because, scarcely had I spoken, than, darting into the road, he sprang into a passing cab without troubling to stop it, shouted some direction to the driver, which I could not catch, and in an instant was away. To pursue and leave the lady there was out of the question. I waited till she came up.
“Are you sure that it was Lawrence?” I inquired.
“Certain! I have only seen him once, but then under circumstances which make it impossible that I ever could mistake him. There is a portrait of the man upon my brain—life-size. Wherever and whenever I see him I shall know that it is he.”
“It is odd that he should have run away.”
I was puzzled; not only by his flight, but by the rapidity with which it had been performed.
“Yes, it is odd. What’s that?”
A note of fear was in her voice. She came closer to me. I saw that her face had suddenly grown white. The hand which she had placed on my arm was trembling.
Through the mist, out there in the Fulham Road, there came the sound of a woman’s laughter. It was that curious laughter which I had heard in Edwin Lawrence’s room—soft, low, musical; yet within it, indefinable, yet not to be mistaken, a quality which was pregnant with horrible suggestion.
At the sound, for some cause, my heart stood still.
Welooked each other in the face.
“You heard it?” Her voice quavered.
“I heard something. It was only a woman’s laughter. She is somewhere close at hand, but is hidden from us by the fog.”
“It was That which did it. Do you think I can be wrong? It is with Mr. Lawrence. It is his shadow: it follows close behind him.”
She was shivering from head to foot. Her eyes were distended, her face white; I was fearful of I knew not what. Hailing a passing hansom, I had practically to lift her into it. She seemed to have all at once grown helpless. I told the driver to take us to Victoria—fast. An idea had occurred to me. The Ostend boat train left at half-past five. We might be able to catch it. Anything was preferable to inaction. The sooner we were out of London the better it would be. She was still trembling as she sat beside me in the cab. I tried to calm her.
“You are too sensitive. It was only a trick of your imagination, you let it run away with you. If you are not careful you will be ill; then what shall I do?”
She came closer to me still.
“Save me! You will save me!”
It was like the pleading of a frightened child. The contact of her person with mine set me shivering, too; it was as if I were thrilling with a delicious pain.
“At present there is nothing from which to save you. When there is, I’ll not be wanting, rest assured.”
“Put your arm about me.” I did as I was told, wondering if she were mad, or I. “How is it that I only feel safe when I am close to you—and the closer the safer?”
“It is because God is very good to me.”
“To you? God is good to you?”
“Has He not put it into your heart to feel safe with me?”
“You think so? Take your arm away. I am better now. I am not—not such a coward. You think it is God who has put it into my heart to feel safe with you. I wonder!”
“I am sure.”
“You are a strange man.”
“I pray that you may not always think so.”
“Have you—have you had many friends among women?”
“Never one; unless I may count you as a friend.”
“Oh yes, you may count me—as a friend. Do you care for women?”
“I did not know it until now.”
She laughed. I was glad to have lightened her mood.
“You are odd—you are really very quaint.” She leaned out of the cab. “Where are we? I have not the least idea where you are taking me.”
“To Victoria; to try to catch the Ostend boat.”
“Ostend? Are we going there?”
“I think we’d better.”
“But—— Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, but I really was not anticipating a trip to Ostend quite so soon. Just now you talked of Paris.”
“And it may be Paris after all; only the Ostend boat goes first.”
“And time’s the essence of the matter. I see. Between this and the departure of the Paris train I run a risk of being arrested. That is to bring it very close.”
I was still, hardly knowing what to say. What she said was true; this was a case in which, at any moment, truth might decline to be trifled with. She, too, was silent. Leaning back in her own corner, as far as possible from me, she looked forward into the fog. Starting for the other end of the world at a moment’s notice was a commonplace event with me. An unexpected run to Brussels was to her a thing so strange as to be almost awful. I looked at my watch; called to the driver.
“Can’t you press on a little faster? We shall lose our train.”
“Why such hurry? Let us lose it.”
On that point we disagreed; I was not disposed to lose it. But I said nothing. The man whipped up his horse. Presently he began to insinuate his way into the station yard, which was blocked with vehicles. I saw that for him to thread his way between them would be a work of time. Moments were precious.
“Come!” I said. “Let’s get out. We shall reach the pavement quicker than he will, and the train is already due to start.”
We descended into the road. Picking our steps between the horses’ heads, we gained the station. I tore to the booking-office, she, laughing, close at my heels, as if the whole thing were a delightful jest.
“Two firsts to Brussels!”
“Too late, sir; train’s just off.” As the clerk spoke a whistle sounded. “There she goes. Platform’s closed; you won’t be able to catch her.”
The lady’s face was alive with smiles.
“There! After all our hurry! Isn’t that annoying?”
She didn’t look as if she thought it was annoying in the least. Boys were shouting out the editions of the evening papers. Placards were displayed on the bookstall close at hand. I saw her glance at one, which had already caught my own attention.
“‘Imperial Mansions Murder. Extraordinary Scene at the Coroner’s Inquest.’ Has the inquest been held? And what has happened there? What does it mean by ‘extraordinary scene’?”
I felt as if every one was on the point of calling out, “Here’s the man who locked up the coroner’s court! Here’s the woman he’s spiriting away!” The sudden sight of that placard had got on my nerves. I was brusque, brutal.
“Bother the inquest! What we’ve got to think about’s that train.”
“Indeed? So you can be bad-tempered if you like, and civil too. I was wondering if you were always a model of lamblike decorum.”
“I beg your pardon, but—the fact is, I’d made up my mind to catch that train.”
“Had you? And you’d also made up your mind that I shouldn’t know what was in the papers. You’re very considerate, Mr. Ferguson.”
I glanced round, startled. Her outspoken mention of my name took me aback. No doubt all the world was talking of John Ferguson; looking for him; wondering where he was. I did not want that crowd to learn that he was in its midst. My appearance of discomfiture she seemed to find amusing.
“Might I ask you just one question?”
“You are too hard on me; you may ask a thousand.”
“Did you propose to take me all the way to Ostend without giving me anything to eat? Perhaps you’re not aware that four o’clock is the actor’s dinner-hour. I’ve not had a morsel of food all day.”
“Miss Moore!”
Mine was the blunder then; I could have bitten my tongue off for uttering the name. A man behind turned towards us as if he had been struck by it—or I thought so. Had he known it, he was never so near having his head twisted off his shoulders. Had he allowed a sign of recognition to have escaped him, there would have been murder done. But he was a mild-looking, grey-haired person, and the sight of the expression with which I regarded him seemed to fill him with such astonishment, to say nothing else, that he retreated precipitately backwards, as if fearful that I was about to devour him then and there. I stumbled on.
“I entreat your forgiveness, but I—I hadn’t the faintest notion you were hungry.”
“No—you wouldn’t have.”
“Meaning that I am the sort of person who never does know anything? You are right; I am. But where shall we go? I believe there’s some sort of place in the station where we can get something to eat.”
“The nearest, please.”
“But—I’m afraid that’s horrid.”
“Don’t you know any place which isn’t horrid?”
Scarcely ever before had my constitutional stupidity been so much to the front. The missing of the train, the discovery that I had actually proposed to take my companion to Ostend foodless, and in a state approaching to starvation, the fact that the paper-boys were repeating, under my very nose, their parrot cry, “Extraordinary scene at an inquest!”—these things, joined to the confusion around, seemed to addle my brain. For the moment I could not think where I could take her to get something decent to eat. Still doubtful, I was making for the station restaurant when some one caught me by the arm. It was Mr. Isaac Bernstein. He seemed to be half-beside himself with excitement; he grasped me with a vigour which was perhaps unconscious.
“Have the goodness, Mr. Bernstein, to release my arm.”
He burst into voluble speech.
“This is more than I can stand, and I’m not going to have it. Don’t touch me, or I’ll call for help. There are policemen close by and I’m not without protection! Even a worm will turn, and now I’m going to; so just you listen to what I’ve got to say.”
“Your affairs, Mr. Bernstein, have no interest for me. Did you hear me ask you to release my arm?”
“It’s as much your affair as it is mine—every bit as much.” He waved his umbrella. “There’s Lawrence there.”
“Who?”
“Lawrence! He’s been trying to do a bolt—to Ostend or some infernal place or other, the other side of the world, for all I know—meaning to dish me as he’s done the rest of you. But I was on to him. He’d have been off in spite of me only he was drunk, or mad, or something, and they wouldn’t have him in the train. Now he’s behaving like a howling lunatic.” Releasing my arm, Mr. Bernstein took off his hat to wipe his brow. “I believe he’s raving mad. That’s him! Did you ever hear anything like the row he’s making?”
As a matter of fact, while the excited gentleman was speaking, I had become conscious that something interesting was taking place on the platform from which the boat-train had departed. The thing was becoming more obvious every second. Apparently the railway officials were taking more or less vigorous measures to induce somebody to quit the station precincts. This person, who was the centre of a curious and rapidly increasing crowd, was announcing his opinions on divers subjects, and on the subject of railway men in particular, at the top of his voice and in strident tones with which I seemed familiar.
A sudden premonition swept upon me that matters were rushing to a head; that a few hours, a few minutes, even, would see the whole mystery made clear. Though even then I had not an inkling of the form which the explanation would take. As my eyes wandered I saw, peeping at us from out of the crowd, my companion’s precious relative, Mr. Thomas Moore. For some reason the young gentleman looked as if he were half beside himself with fear; he was pasty white. When he perceived that I had recognised him he slunk out of sight like a frightened cur.
I glanced at the lady to learn if she also had observed her brother. From her bearing I judged not, though as I eyed her I understood that she also had seen the signs of the times, the shadows which coming events were casting before, and that she, too, realised that the hour, the moment, was big with her fate and mine.
Thehustling throng came quickly forward. In its midst some one was being propelled towards the entrance. Although he was shouting at the top of his voice, he appeared to be offering no actual resistance, but seemed rather to be regarding the proceedings as a joke. In spite of the hubbub Mr. Bernstein’s accents reached my ear.
“Did you ever hear anything like him? Isn’t he a beauty? And that’s the man who’s had I don’t know how much cash out of me—a hatful! And that’s how he goes on!”
I was indifferent to Mr. Bernstein’s lamentations. As the crowd came nearer I was beginning to ask myself if I was dreaming; if, again, I was about to become the victim of a nightmare imagining. I turned to Miss Moore.
“Hadn’t you—better go? Hadn’t I better—get you out of this?”
I was conscious that my voice was a little hoarse. Hers was clear and resonant. Although she did not speak loudly, it seemed to ring above the din.
“Go? Now? When it’s coming face to face, the light is breaking, I’m beginning to see clear, and it’s my call? No; now I’ll stay and play the scene right through until the curtain drops. It was God who made us miss that train.”
The crowd was drawing very close. Was I asleep or waking? Were my eyes playing tricks, my senses leaving me? What suddenly made the world seem to spin round and round? Who was it in the midst of the people—the man they were hustling—who raved and screamed? Was he a creature born of delirium, or a thing of flesh and blood?
It was from the girl at my side that recognition first came.
“It’s he!” she cried. “It’s he!”
It was he—the wretch who had set us all by the ears; who had fooled and duped us; who had played upon us, as a last stroke, a trick whose nature, even yet, I did not understand. I strode into the crowd.
“Let me pass! Make way for me!”
They made way. It was well for them they did; the strength of a dozen Samsons was that moment in my arms. I planted myself in front of him.
“How is it that you’ve come back—from the gates of hell?”
“Ferguson! It’s you!” He broke into a peal of laughter, which spoke of pain, not pleasure. “But I’ve not come back! They’re still stoking the fires!” He threw out his arms as if referring to the jeering mob, which pressed upon us. “Here are the attendant demons—can’t you see them?”
I continued standing still, regarding him.
“It is Edwin Lawrence, as I live. Edwin—not Philip.”
“Yes; not Philip—Edwin!” He laughed again. “Would you like to see the strawberry mark? It’s there.”
“What is this game in which you have been taking a hand?”
“It’s a game of my own invention—and hers!” He made an upward movement with his hand. “It was from her the inspiration came. She named the stakes, framed the rules, started the game, watched the play—and with both eyes she’s watched it ever since. Those eyes of hers! They never sleep, and never blink or wink, but watch, watch, watch all the time. They’ve watched me ever since the game began. They’re watching now! She haunts and hounds me—into the train and out of it. She’s here now—enjoying the joke. Hark! Can’t you hear her?” He stopped to listen. I heard nothing out of the common, though it seemed he did. “That’s her laughter!” He broke into discordant merriment. “I play the part of Echo. She has me, body, soul, and spirit; and she thinks it such a jest!”
He spoke as men do in fevers. I could see that there were some about us who set him down as mad. There were those who jeered, as fools will at the sight of a man’s anguish, when, in the abandonment of his shame, he trails his soul in the dust. I had seen persons in his case before. He was not mad, as yet, but on the border line, where men fight with demons. He had been drinking, to drive them back; but they had come the more, threatening, on every hand, to shut him in for ever. He knew what it was they threatened. It was the anguish of the knowledge which caused the sweat to stand in beads upon his brow.
The railway officials, I fancy, took it to be a case of incipient delirium tremens. A person in authority addressed himself to me.
“Are you a friend of this gentleman’s, sir?”
“I know him well.”
“Are you willing to undertake the charge of him? You see he’s not in a fit state to go about alone.”
“I’ll take charge of him.”
“Then you’ll be so good as to remove him from the station at once. He’s already given us more than sufficient trouble.”
Lawrence interposed with what he intended to be an assumption of the grand manner.
“My good Mr. Railway-porter, or whatever you may be, I will remove myself from your objectionable station without any hint from you. My destination was Ostend, and is now Pimlico. This is an acquaintance of mine who owes me £1880; but I don’t require him to take charge of me. There already is somebody who does that. Can’t you hear her? That’s her laughing.”
“Come,” I said. “Let’s get into a cab.”
“Thank you, I prefer walking. Nothing like exercise when you are liverish. Are you alone?”
Miss Moore came through the crowd.
“No; I am with him.”
He stared at her as if in doubt; then with sudden recognition—
“Ah! It is the sister of the brother—the affectionate relative of our dear Tom—the beautiful Miss Moore! It is like a scene out of one of the plays in which you are the bright, particular star. The ghosts are gathering round. You were there; you saw her?”
“Who?”
“The Goddess!”
“Was it—a Goddess?”
“That’s a demon!”
“What do you mean?” She took me by the arm. “Ask him what he means.”
Lawrence answered.
“It’s not a thing the meaning of which can be clarified by words. Come, and you shall see; come together—Mr. Ferguson and you.”
She looked at me, inquiry in her eyes. I questioned him.
“Where do you propose to take us?”
“To a little place of mine, where the Goddess is.”
“What is this stuff about the Goddess?”
“Come, and you shall see.”
I glanced at her.
“Let’s go,” she said.
He caught her words.
“There speaks the lady who would learn; the woman possessed of the spirit of inquiry.”
I repeated my former suggestion.
“Let’s get into a cab.”
But he declined.
“No; I’ll have none of your cabs, I’ll walk. I’m cribb’d, cabined, and confined out in the open; in a cab I’d stifle. There’s a hand upon my heart, a grip upon my throat, a weight upon my head; they make it hard to breathe. I’ll be in close quarters soon enough; I’ll keep out of them as long as I can.”
I turned to the officials. “Can’t you keep these people back? I don’t want to have them following us through the streets. The man’s not drunk, he’s ill.”
“I should get him into a cab.”
Lawrence, hearing what the fellow said, rushed at him in a fit of maniacal fury, repeating, in a crescendo scale—
“You’d get me into a cab! You’d get me into a cab! You’d get me into a cab! I’d kill you first.” The man shrank back as if fearful that his last hour had come.
We went out of the station, a motley crowd—Lawrence with Miss Moore, and me close at his heels; behind, before, on either side, a miscellaneous assemblage of fools. I would have prevented her from coming had I had my way. I told her so at starting; but she whispered in my ear—
“I’m not afraid. Are you?”
“I am afraid for you—of these blackguards; of the mood he’s in; of where he’s taking us; of what may happen. I don’t know what devil’s trick it is he has been playing, but I’m sure it is a devil’s trick, and there may be worse to come.”
“I’m safe with you.”
“I doubt it.”
“But I am sure. The light is coming; I’d like to see the brightness of the day, for mine honour’s sake, which I thought might be a consideration, perhaps, with you. Still, I’m under orders. If you bid me I will go. But—mayn’t I come?”
I could deny her nothing which she asked in such a tone, though it were an apple out of Eden. But I was gruff.
“Then take my arm.”
“I’d like to.”
I know I was a fool, and should have forbidden her to go with us, nor have allowed her, wheedle as she might, to have run the risk of what might be to come; but when I felt her little hand upon my arm, I would not have had her take it off again, not—not for a great deal.
When we had gone a little way from the station, Mr. Bernstein, corkscrewing his way through the crowd, reached Lawrence’s side. Apparently, although he had made an effort to screw his courage to the sticking point, he was still not quite satisfied as to the sort of reception which he might receive; he spoke with such an air of deprecation.
“Now, Ted, dear boy, don’t be shirty, it’s only me. Do take my advice—be careful! Don’t go too far! Be reasonable, and I’ll be the best friend you ever had, as I always have been; only—do pull up before it’s too late!”
Lawrence, standing still, addressed himself to the crowd.
“Gentlemen—and ladies!—because I believe there are some ladies among you—real ladies!—allow me to introduce to you Mr. Isaac Bernstein, usurer, Jew, who makes a speciality of dealing in forged bills. He keeps a school for forgers, where young penmen are trained in the delicate arts of imitating other people’s signatures. He’s been the cause of many a good man’s being sent to gaol; where, one day, as sure as he’s alive, he’ll go to join them.”
Mr. Bernstein stammered and stuttered.
“Don’t—don’t talk to me like that! The—the man’s stark mad!”
“Not yet. Still sane enough to make the world acquainted with Isaac Bernstein, trafficker in forgeries.”
With his open palm he struck the Jew a resounding blow on either cheek. The people roared with laughter. I turned to the lady.
“You see? I must go to him. I shall have to leave you.”
“We will go together.”
She kept close to my side as I went forward. I expected to see Lawrence repeat his assault. Bernstein stood looking at him, motionless, gasping for breath, as if he were on the verge of an apoplectic fit. Taking him by the shoulder I sent him spinning off the pavement.
“Leave him alone. The fellow will get his deserts elsewhere.”
Lawrence clapped his hands like a child.
“Bravo! Twirl him round—roll him in the mud! She enjoys it; can’t you hear how she’s laughing?”
He raised his hand in an attitude of attention.
“I can hear nothing.”
“But I can.” Miss Moore spoke from behind my shoulder. “I can hear It.”
“What do you mean?”
“It which was present in the room; It which did it all; the sound which we heard in the Fulham Road just now. Listen! Can’t you hear it, too?”
It might have been my imagination—probably was—but, as she spoke, I certainly did think that I recognised, as if it issued from the lips of some one who was within reach of where we stood, the woman’s laughter which had in it so singular and disagreeable a quality. It had on me a most uncomfortable effect. I returned to Lawrence, fearful lest, if I was not careful, the proceedings might take a shape in which I might relish them less even than I did at present.
“Come. Let’s be moving.”
“With pleasure. Life is movement, and exercise is the thing for the liver.”
“What is the address of the place to which you are taking us?”
He laid his finger against his nose.
“That’s a secret which I wouldn’t divulge for worlds. There’s a lady there—a goddess! And a demon! Would you have me tell all the world where she’s to be found, as if she were a person of no reputation. She’s with me all the time; she never leaves me for a moment alone; and yet, all the while, she waits for me at home. That’s to have a familiar in attendance, if you please.”
I made no reply. That his words had meaning, and were not the mere ravings which they seemed, I did not doubt. I was asking myself what was the solution of the problem to which they pointed, and was still obliged to own that I had no notion. I had, also, my attention partly occupied by my efforts to keep the rabble from a too close attendance on the lady, whose little hand again caressed my arm.
Lawrence was swinging along at a good round pace, his hat a little at the back of his head; his eyes, lips, every muscle of his face were in constant motion. His arms were as if they had been hung on wires, which continually thrust them this way and that. He was not for a moment still. If not speaking aloud, he muttered to himself. Presently he began upon a theme which I would have thanked him to have avoided.
“So, Ferguson, you’re a humorist—practical and actual. I’ve been reading the news—still sane enough to read the papers—how you locked the coroner in his court. I’d have given one of Bernstein’s forged bills to have been there to see, though it was on me that they were sitting. I thought I never should have done laughing. And she—the Goddess—she’s laughing still.”
The lady put a question.
“What’s that he’s saying?”
“He’s telling about some nonsense which he saw in the papers.”
Lawrence interposed.
“Nonsense, he calls it! And excellent nonsense, too! Haven’t you heard? Has no one told you? Don’t you know? Charming sister of my dear friend Tom, to-day the coroner’s been sitting on my corpse—as I live, upon my corpse! Ferguson’s been there as witness. They wanted him to say, it seems, that you had killed me—yes, you, with your own two small hands; but he wouldn’t. He said he’d see them—warmer first; as warm as I am now. I can’t think where, at this time of the year, the heat can come from. I’m on fire inside and out. So they talked of sending him to gaol.
“But, bless their simple souls, they didn’t know their man; how that he was a fellow of infinite jest. For when they talked of locking him up, he locked them up instead; marched straight out, turned the key in the lock, with them on the other side of the door—coroner and jury, counsel and witnesses, audience and policeman—the whole noble, gallant company. And so he left them, sitting on my corpse.”
As might have been expected, the rabble, which still hung round us like a fringe, hearing what he said, caught something of his meaning. They bandied it from mouth to mouth.
“That’s Ferguson, that there tall bloke. He’s the cove as locked the coroner up this afternoon, Imperial Mansions murder case. Didn’t you hear the other bloke a-saying so? No lies! I tell you it is!”
While the gutter-snipes wrangled, playing fast and loose with my name—with my reputation, too—the lady whispered in my ear. Despite the noise they made I heard her plain.
“So that’s why you came to fetch me? Now I understand; the secret’s out. It’s another service you have done me! Aren’t you afraid that the weight of obligation will be more than I can carry? Yet you needn’t fear! They’re the kind of debts I don’t at all mind owing—you, since one day I hope to pay them every one.”
“You exaggerate. And Lawrence is a fool.”
“Yes. So are we all fools; perhaps that’s why some of us are wise.”
I liked to hear her voice; to feel her hand upon my arm. Yet, every moment, my concern was getting greater. The crowd was growing, both in numbers and in impudence. Any second they might make an ugly rush, then there would be trouble; and that was not a scene in which I should wish the lady to play a part. Lawrence was marching on as if he meant to march for ever. I began seriously to ask myself if he was not playing us still another of his tricks; if he was not leading us he himself did not know where. On a sudden, he determined the question by stopping before a building which, outwardly, was more like a warehouse than a private residence.
“At last,” he cried, “we are arrived. The Goddess waits for us within.”
“Is this your place?”
“It is—and hers.Enter omnes!”
He threw open the door as if he were offering the whole crowd the freedom of the premises. I placed myself in front of it.
“I’m hanged if it shall beenter omnes!In you go.” I thrust him in. “Now you and I together!”
The lady and I were across the threshold. I was about to slam the door in the face of the rabble, when some one came hurrying through the crowd. A voice exclaimed—
“Stop that! Don’t shut that door! Let me in!”
It was Inspector Symonds; with, as it seemed, a friend or two.
Theinspector I dragged in by the collar of his coat. I slammed the door in the faces of his friends, keeping my foot against it while I shot the bolts.
“This won’t do! I’m not going to stand any more of your nonsense! You let my men in!”
There was a flaming gas-bracket in the passage. By its flare I eyed the inspector.
“You be so good as to understand, Mr. Symonds, that I’m going to have no more of your nonsense.” He put his hand up to his mouth—a whistle between his fingers. Gripping his wrist, I pinned him by the throat against the wall. “If you are not careful, you’ll get hurt.”
He gasped out, between his clenched teeth, “I’ll make you pay for this! You let my men in!”
“I’ll not let your men in—until you and I have had an explanation.”
The lady interposed. “Don’t hurt him!”
“I’ll not hurt him—unless he compels me. Look here, Symonds, there’s been a mystification—a hideous blunder.”
“I don’t want to have anything to say to you. You open that door!”
His hands returned to his lips. Again I had to pin him against the wall; this time I wrenched the whistle from between his fingers.
“If you give any sort of signal, you’ll be sorry.”
“You’ve broken my wrist!”
“I haven’t; but I will if you don’t look out. I tell you, man, that we’ve been on the wrong scent; you and I, and all of us. It isn’t Edwin Lawrence who’s been murdered; he isn’t even dead.”
“Don’t tell your tales to me.”
“Tales! I tell you tales! Here’s Mr. Edwin Lawrence to tell his own.”
Lawrence was standing a few steps farther down the passage, an apparently interested spectator of what had been taking place. Symonds turned to him.
“This man? Who is this man?”
Lawrence thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes.
“I’m the corpse on whom the coroner’s been sitting.”
“Don’t play your mountebank tricks with me, sir.”
“I’m the murdered man.”
“Indeed? And pray what may be your name?”
“Edwin Lawrence—at your service, entirely to command. Though I may mention that that’s only a form of words; since, at present, I’m really, and actually, in the service of another—a lady. Bound to her hand and foot by a tie there’s no dissolving.”
Symonds perceived that in his manner, to say the least, there was something curious. As he looked at me I endeavoured to give him the assurance which I saw that he required.
“It is Mr. Edwin Lawrence, you may safely take my word for it. The lady can confirm what I say.”
Which the lady did upon the instant. The inspector was still, plainly, in a state of uncertainty; which, under the circumstances, was scarcely strange.
“I don’t know if this is a trick which you have got up between you, and which you think you can play off on me; but, anyhow, who do you say the dead man is?”
Lawrence chose to take the question as addressed to him. He chuckled; there was something in the chuckle which suggested the maniac more vividly than anything which had gone before.
“Who’s the dead man? Ah! there’s the puzzle—and the joke! The dead man must be me. It’s in the papers—in people’s mouths—it’s the talk of the town. The police are searching for the wretch that slew me—the coroner and his jury have viewed my body. It’s plain the dead man must be me. And yet, although it’s very odd, he isn’t. It’s the rarest jest that ever yet was played—and all hers.” He pointed with his thumb along the passage. “It’s all her doing, conception and execution, both. And how she has enjoyed it! Ever since she has done nothing else but laugh. Can’t you hear her? She’s laughing now!”
There did seem to come, through the door which was at the end of the passage, the sound of a woman’s laughter. We all heard it. The lady drew closer to me; I gritted my teeth; the inspector, with whom, as yet, it had no uncomfortable associations, treated it as though it were nothing out of the way.
“Who’s it you’ve got in there?”
Lawrence raised his hands as if they had been notes of exclamation.
“A goddess! Such an one!—a pearl of the pantheon! A demon!—out of the very heart of hell!” He fingered his shirt-collar as if it were tight about his neck. “That’s why she relished her humorous conception more than I have. The qualities which go to the complete enjoyment of the jokes she plays, I lack. The laughter she compels has characteristics which I do not find altogether to my taste. It gets upon my brain; steals my sleep; nips my heart; fills the world with—faces; grinning faces, all of them—like his. And so I’m resolved to tell the joke, and I promise that it shan’t be spoilt in telling.” This with a smile upon his lips, a something elusive in his eyes, which, to my mind, again betrayed the lunatic. He threw out his arms with a burst of sudden wildness. “Let them all come in—the whole street—the city-ful! So that as many as may be may be gathered together for the enjoyment of the joke!”
Symonds and I exchanged glances. I spoke to him in an undertone.
“If you take my advice, you will listen to what he has to say. Before he’s finished, the whole story will have come out.”
All the time there had been knockings at the door. Now some one without made himself prominent above the others. A shout came through the panels.
“Symonds! Is that you in there? Shall we break down the door?”
The voice was Hume’s. I proffered a suggestion to the inspector.
“There is no reason why Dr. Hume should not come in. He will be able to resolve your doubts as to whether or not this is Mr. Edwin Lawrence. Your men I should advise you to keep outside. They will be close at hand if they are wanted.”
He regarded me askance, evidently still by no means sure as to the nature of the part which I might be playing.
“You are a curious person, Mr. Ferguson. You have your own ideas of the way in which justice is administered in England. However, you shall have your own way. Let Dr. Hume come in. My men can wait outside till they are wanted.”
I unbolted the door, keeping my foot against it, to guard against a sudden rush. The crowd was still in waiting. It had evidently grown larger. As the people saw that the door was being opened, there were cries and exclamations. Hume was standing just outside. It seemed that it had been his intention to make a dart within; but the spectacle of me in the doorway caused him to hesitate. By him were the inspector’s friends. Misunderstanding the situation, they made an effort to force the door wider open. It was all I could do to hold it against them.
“Hume, you can come in. Inspector Symonds, give your men their instructions.”
“Gray, are you there?”
“Yes, sir! Do you want us?”
“Not just now. I may do shortly; keep where you are. Send along for some one to keep those people moving.”
“Very good, sir. Are you all right in there?”
“For the present I am. Keep a sharp look-out. If you hear me give the word, come in at once—if you have to break down the door to do it.”
“Right, sir!”
I rebolted the door, boos and groans coming from the crowd as they perceived themselves being shut out from the sight of anything which there might be to see. Hume had entered. He was looking about him as if the position of affairs were beyond his comprehension.
“Symonds, what does all this mean? Ferguson, what new madness have you been up to? Miss Moore, you here! This is no place for you!”
“I think it is.”
“I say it’s not. You ought to be in bed. Who gave you permission to leave your room?”
“I gave myself permission, thank you. I am quite able to take care of myself. And, if I’m not, here’s Mr. Ferguson.”
“Mr. Ferguson! Mr. Ferguson stands in need of some one to take care of him.” He turned to me. “If you’ve had a hand in bringing Miss Moore here, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, if you’re capable of shame, which I’m beginning to doubt. Surely your own sense of decency, embryonic though it may be, ought to have told you that it is no place for her. What is this den which you have brought her to?”
“Here is some one who can tell you better than I. Ask him, not me.”
Lawrence broke into laughter.
“That’s it, Ferguson. Hume, ask the corpse.”
Hume stared at the speaker, as if he had been a spectre; which, apparently, he was more than half disposed to believe that he was.
“Lawrence! Edwin Lawrence! Is it a living man, some demoniacal likeness, or is it a ghost? My God! is it a ghost?”
Again Lawrence laughed. He went closer to the bewildered doctor; his eyes flaming, his manner growing wilder as he continued speaking.
“A ghost, Hume, write it down a ghost! I wonder if I could cheat myself into believing I’m a ghost? Hume, you’re an authority on madness. Look at me; do you think I’m mad? It’s a question I’ve been putting to myself since—she began to be humorous. I see things—I hear things—like the men who’ve been—thirsty. There’s a face which looks into mine—a face all cut and slashed and sliced into ribbons; and, as the blood streams down the cheek-bones, which are laid all bare, its teeth grin at me, inside the torn and broken jaws, and it says, ‘After all I’ve done, this is the end!’ I strike at it, with both my fists, where the eyeballs ought to be, but I can’t knock it away; it won’t go, it keeps on being there. I can’t sleep, though I’d give all the world to. I’m afraid to try, because, when I shut my eyes, I see it plainer. The blood gets on my hands; the taste gets into my mouth; the idiot words get on my brain, ‘After all I’ve done, this is the end!’ I can’t get away from the face and the words; whatever I do, wherever I go, they’re there. I seem to carry them with me. I’ve been drinking, but I can’t drink enough to shut them out; I can’t get drunk. And, Hume, do you think I’m mad? I hope I am. For while I’m being tortured she laughs; she keeps laughing all the time. It’s her notion of a jest. I hope that it’s but a madman’s fancy, what I see and hear; and that, when I get my reason back again, they’ll go—the face and the words. You’re a scientific man. Tell me if I’m mad.”
Hume turned towards me. His countenance was pasty-hued.
“What devil’s trick is this?”
Lawrence answered, in his own fashion, as if the question had been addressed to him.
“That’s what it is—a devil’s trick! Hers! The Goddess’s! She’s a demon! I’ll—I’ll tell you how it was done. She’s got me—by the throat; bought me—body and soul. But I don’t care, I’ll be even. She shan’t do all the scoring; I will play a hand, although, directly afterwards, she drags me down to hell with her. Let her drag! I’m in hell already. It can’t be worse—where she has sprung from.”
Taking Hume by the shoulder with one hand, with the other he pointed to the door which was at the end of the passage. He was dreadful to look at. As he himself said, he already looked as if he were suffering the torments of the damned.
“She’s in there—behind that door. But although she is in there she’s with me here. She’s always with me, wherever I am; she, the face, and the words. You think I’m romancing, passing off on you the coinage of a madman’s brain. I would it were so. I wish that they were lies of my own invention, a maniac’s imaginings. Come with me; judge for yourself. You shall see her. I will show you how the devil’s trick was done.”
He led the way along the passage. We followed. I know not what thoughts were in the minds of the others. I do know that I myself had never before been so conscious of a sense of discomfort. The lady slipped her hand into mine. It was cold. Her fingers trembled. Even then I would have stayed her from seeing what we were to see if I could; but I could not. It was as if we were being borne onward together in a dream. All the while I had a suspicion that, of us all, Inspector Symonds was most at his ease, while it seemed to me that Hume carried himself like a man who moved to execution.