For now it all seemed straight and plain before me; now I saw clearly the pointing finger of Fate, and trembled no more at the task I had to face. Who was I, that I should ever have hung back at all, or should ever have dreaded the road on which my feet had been firmly set from the first. I looked down at the sleeping girl, and my heart was filled with a great gratitude that God had snatched me from death and from prison, and had reserved me for this. I thanked Him humbly that there was no other man in all the wide world so trained and fitted for the task as I was.
I saw it all clearly enough at last. The time was coming when this poor tangled love story would be set right; when the boy would come naturally and by instinct to the girl, and would take her in his arms, with a very perfect understanding of her purity and her innocence; so much had been ordained from the first. If they gave a thought to me, it would only be as the poor unknown grey-headed man that had been called Tinman, and had flitted into their lives for a brief hour, and flitted out again, and so been done with. Even the woman who stood beside me—that elder Barbara—was only mercifully permitted to look on at the completion of the love story she and I might have lived ourselves. After all, God had been very good to me.
"I don't understand," Barbara was saying to me, as we stood beside the sleeping girl. "What way will you take?—what will you do?"
"You will know presently," I whispered, lest I should wake the sleeper. "In any case, I want you to promise one thing: I want you to take the girl back to her father, and to leave her safely in his hands. Promise me—swear to me that nothing shall turn you from that purpose; nothing that you hear—nothing that you suspect. All that I hope to do, and all that I shall strive to do, will be brought to naught if you fail me in that."
"I promise, my dear," she said solemnly. "But Olivant?"
"Will trouble her no more," I replied. "I wonder if you remember what I said to you once—twenty long years ago?"
"I hope I remember," she whispered. "Say the words again."
"I lay under sentence of death; I was to die the next morning. You came to me; you had travelled hard and fast to reach me before they killed me. Do you remember?"
She bowed her head, and whispered that she did. I went on—repeating the words I had used so long before; they had been in my mind many many times since, and I had not forgotten them.
"This is what I said to you. 'In the years that are coming it may happen, in God's own good time, that some child you love may stand in need of a friend who will strike as I struck—fight as I fought—for her honour. It may happen, long after I am dead and forgotten by all but you, that some such an one may spring up, to do again more perfectly what I did—springing from the dead ashes of my past to work out the pitiful story I began.' Do you remember?"
"Perfectly," she whispered; and now she looked at me with startled eyes.
"I never thought then," I went on, "that it would fall to me to do again what I did then; I was as one dead when I spoke those words. But all things have fitted in so wonderfully and so strangely; there is no drawing back for me, and there is no one else who can strike the blow—no one with a greater right."
She drew me away out of the room, and closed the door; we stood together on the landing outside, looking into each other's eyes—I very calm and resolute, and she trembling and afraid.
"You must not think of it," she whispered; "you must never think of it. There must be some other way—some better way. Not again, Charlie—for the love of God!—not again!"
"There is no other way," I replied. "It is her soul against his body; when you think of that, there is no question. Besides, what does it matter? In the sight of men my hands are stained with blood——"
(She seized my hands suddenly, and put her lips to them!)
"—And at the worst it may happen that I pay the penalty I earned before. Besides," I added solemnly, "I do not do this of myself. Step by step—day by day—I have seen what was coming; I dare not draw back now, whatever happens. If it is a crime, then the man himself has drawn it down upon his own head. Think of what he has done: to get hold of this girl he has banished himself out of the world; has played a trick, to persuade people that he is going on a long voyage, while in reality he is in hiding—waiting like a spider in his web—crouching ready to spring. Think of that, Barbara; if I kill him to-night, I kill a man who has no name, who is unknown; Murray Olivant will be in another place altogether. For his own purposeshe has covered up my footsteps—the footsteps of the man setting out to kill him. There is a fate in this; I dare not draw back."
She clung to me, and begged that I would think of her and of the girl; implored me to remember that whereas the crime for which I had been shut away before was one of personal vengeance, with the hot blood of youth for excuse, this was a deliberate thing, done for others with whom I was not personally concerned. Upon that point, however, I threw a new light.
"The girl sleeping there is but the image of the Barbara I loved; the boy who would strike this blow, if I did not, represents what I was—must represent in the future what I might have been under happier circumstances. I strike now for the love I bore you, Barbara, and bear you still; and because I know that if I do not this boy must step in, and commit the crime for which I suffered through twenty long years. There is no hope that he will turn back, any more than there is any hope that Murray Olivant will give up his purpose."
She wept and implored me; to comfort her a little I presently promised that if I saw any other way I would take it; but in my own heart I knew there was no other way.
"Remember—my dear—my dear," she pleaded, "that we have both had to suffer so much—to lose so much—to give up so much. Remember, too, what my position is now; that it is my fate to stand as a mere kindly stranger beside my child, and never to let her know who I really am. I must live out my life alone, as I have lived it these many years; I cannot go back now; the old Barbara Savell lies in the depths of the sea. That is my punishment, Charlie; don't make it harder to bear than it is."
I went out into the streets, and made my way to the rooms occupied by Fanshawe. Not that I wanted tosee the man: I hated him too cordially for that; but that I felt I must be strong for the work that was before me, and must get some proper rest. I was worn out already with that long night spent in tramping about the streets; I knew I must sleep, if sleep was possible; I set all my mind upon that, because so much depended on whether my nerves served me well when the time came for what I had to do.
Fanshawe was out when I arrived, but he came back within a few minutes—coming into the room in some excitement, I thought, as though he had been hurried. He tossed his hat on to the bed, and came across to where I was seated, and clapped me on the shoulder jocosely.
"Well, my Charlie!" he exclaimed, "what's the news with you—eh?"
I looked up at him sourly enough. "No news," I replied.
"No sign of the girl yet? No whisper of where she is?"
I faced round upon him angrily. "Leave her name alone," I said. "If I knew anything I shouldn't tell you, and I warn you that if you try to meddle in any way in the matter, you'll have to reckon with me in a fashion you little suspect. Mind—I mean it!"
I had half expected that he would fly into a passion, as I had seen him do on other occasions; instead, he looked at me almost wistfully out of his deep eyes for a moment before he turned away.
"You won't understand, Charlie," he said. "I only want to help the girl—I only want her to think well of me."
I laughed at him openly; I thought he played the game poorly enough; I felt that he had perhaps got a notion that if he was soft with me, I might be led to tell him anything I knew. I hardened my heart; for Ihad had too much of this man not to be able to judge him for what he really was.
He brought out some liquor presently, and I, being faint and weary, readily drank with him. Not a word was said for a long time; until presently, leaning across the table, and tapping upon it with his long bony fingers, he whispered a word or two that startled me.
"Charlie—Charlie!" Then, as I glanced up at him, and saw his hungry eyes fixed upon me, he went on in tones little above a whisper, and with a curious mocking grin on his face: "Charlie!—how does it feel to kill a man?"
I turned round slowly; I saw in a moment that he had read my secret. My fear was not that he might do anything to me; my only dread was that he might warn Murray Olivant, if indeed he had not already done so.
"What do you mean?" I asked hoarsely.
"You're a man of evil passions, Charlie—of hot and sudden passions," he said. "Twenty years ago you killed Gavin Hockley—struck him down, as you might have struck any noxious beast in your way. Your blood was up, Charlie"—he had risen excitedly to his feet, and was leaning across the table towards me, with his hands gripping the edges, and his eyeballs almost starting from their sockets—"you were like a man rushing into battle, caring nothing for what you did. That was fine—that was noble; but afterwards, Charlie—afterwards?"
"I don't understand you," I said feebly.
"When the thing was done; when you crept out into the streets, knowing what you'd left behind you. Tell me, Charlie—tell me; did it creep down the stairs in your wake—bloody and horrible; did you hear its feet pattering on the stones in quiet streets; did you look over your shoulder, and see its glazing eyes staringat you—its mouth with the drooping jaw striving to scream 'Murder!' after you? Tell me, Charlie."
"I forget," I replied. "After all—what does it matter now?"
"But suppose, Charlie—only suppose," he went on, in that same hoarse whisper—"imagine for a moment that you set out to do it again?"
I sprang to my feet, and confronted him. "What madman's talk is this?" I demanded, with a glance at the door. "What are you talking about?"
"Suppose, Charlie," he went on, paying no heed to my excitement—"suppose that this time you set out—not in the heat of passion—not because the man had injured you—but to do it in cold blood! Suppose you crept up his stair—and listened at his door—and stole in upon him——"
I clapped my hand suddenly over his lips. "Silence!" I cried—"you don't know what you're talking about. I've forgotten all I did; it's twenty long years ago. Don't remind me of it." For I thought in that way I might divert his thoughts into another channel; I was firmly persuaded that in some amazing fashion he had guessed what I was about to do, and was endeavouring to screw the truth of it out of me.
He had dropped back into his chair, and was looking at me cunningly between half-closed lids. I had determined by that time that he should not stop me; I was certain of that, even while I realized that the time must surely come when he would denounce me, and cry out that I had done this thing. The thought of that did not stay me in the least; I meant to go on. But the natural desire to shield myself, if possible—the sheer human instinct of self-preservation—told me that I must if possible throw him off the scent. I began to talk to him with what ease I might.
"Come, Fanshawe—it's not for you and me to talkof murder," I said. "Why should I do again what I have done once already? What reason would there be in it?"
"No reason—no reason at all, Charlie," he said, plucking at his lips with his long fingers, and watching me. "I don't know what put the idea into my mind to-night—I don't know what made me think of it. Only I would give something to know just what a man feels, when he creeps away, and leaves behind him that dead thing that was but a moment before alive and strong. It would be something to know what one feels like then. And the weapon, Charlie—what of the weapon?"
I remembered then that I had seen that day in a marine-store dealer's, not a hundred yards from the place where now we talked, the weapon I meant to serve my purpose. It was a strong sailor's knife in a leather sheath—a powerful thing, with a hilt well worn by hands that had grasped it many times; I had stood outside the shop, and had looked at my own hand, and had felt how perfectly it would fit round the handle. I stared at him now as he spoke, and wondered if by any chance he had seen me looking in at that window, and had read my thoughts.
"You know the weapon I used," I said, in a low voice. "It was an old sword."
"I know, Charlie—I know," he said, nodding. "But if you did it again—if you wanted to do it more quickly and more cleanly—what then? A knife's a good weapon; what about a knife, Charlie?"
I felt sick and faint; I got up, and went to the window, and threw it open. It was a fine night—a night of stars and of peace, even with London throbbing in the streets down below me. I thought of the child who had lain asleep—of the mother who watched over her; I thought of the man who was plotting against thatlittle Barbara, and my heart hardened. Though a hundred Fanshawes stood in the way, I meant that this thing should be done, and that the man should die. I had bungled it somehow, so that Fanshawe knew; I must pay the penalty of that afterwards. One thought was in my mind, and one only: he should not stop me.
"Have you seen the boy—young Arnold Millard?" I asked, more for the sake of saying something than in the hope of gaining information.
"I saw him to-day," replied Fanshawe slowly: "still hanging about that place. I wonder what would happen if by chance he found out where Olivant is going?"
"I'm afraid we know what would happen," I replied. "What's the use of talking about it?"
It seemed impossible for him to get away from that subject; he came back to it again and again. I remember that he crossed the room, and came and stood near to me, looking down into the street, and speaking in a whisper.
"If a man struck down another like that—for a fine noble reason, Charlie—would that be wrong? I mean, would it be so vile as it might be if a man did it for any worse motive? If he did it—and escaped; for how long would it haunt him afterwards? You remember, Charlie; for how long did you think about it—and remember it? Did the blood-stained thing come to you in dreams—mock at you, and haunt you. One would like to know that."
"Look here," I said roughly. "You've got some strange idea in your head."
"No—no; not in my head, Charlie; I was only supposing—putting a case," he broke in hurriedly.
"Well, don't suppose—and don't put cases," I cried savagely. "All that has been done is donewith; why should you rake it up? Am I likely to do again what I did before?—to put my neck once again in the noose?"
"No, Charlie," he faltered—"of course not."
"Very well, then—leave it alone," I urged. "I'm worn out, and I need sleep; I mustn't be late to-morrow; there are many things to be seen to."
He said he would sit up for a time; at his suggestion I threw myself down on the bed, dressed as I was, and fell asleep. The last vision I had of him was as he sat at the table, with a flaring candle throwing ghostly shadows of him on the wall and ceiling, and with his plucking hands for ever at his lips. He watched me, even as I watched him, out of half-closed eyes; I wondered how much he knew, or how much he guessed.
I woke long after daylight, to find him gone. There was for a moment in my heart that little swift pang of excitement that comes to any one of us, when, on waking, we remember some urgent and difficult thing that has to be done before we sleep again—a journey, or an interview, or anything else shut in between sunrise and sunset of one particular date; but no more than that. I had no worldly affairs to set right—no one I need consult; no peace to make with any one. I had long ago told myself that this was right, and that to this end I must surely come. In doing it I was to save two people: the girl in the first place, and the boy in the second. For I knew inevitably that young Arnold Millard would carry out his threat, and that, too, with less hesitation if he found his enemy hidden away, as Murray Olivant was to be hidden away that day.
I went again to the marine-store dealer's; saw with satisfaction that the knife was still there. I had money in my pocket—part of the amount that hadbeen handed to me on the previous day by Olivant; I went into the shop, and asked that I might look at the knife. A dingy old man behind the counter adjusted his spectacles to look at me; perhaps he wondered that a tall grey-haired man, with bowed shoulders and with a respectable black suit on, should want such a weapon as that. But he pulled it out of the window, and spread it out before me; I muttered something about wanting it for a present. I pulled it out from its sheath, and felt the edge of it; there was a deadly sharpness about it that made me shudder involuntarily, as I remembered where that sharpness was to be planted.
It was old and well-worn, but in good condition; the sheath was suspended from a narrow black belt, meant to buckle round the waist. I did not care to put it on there; I got the man to wrap it up for me, paid him for it, and came away. Presently, in a quiet street, I tore away the paper wrapping, and buckled the thing round my waist, setting the sheath in such a way at my back that I could easily reach the hilt of the knife. Then I buttoned my coat, and went on towards Lincoln's Inn Fields.
When I got there I found that Olivant had not yet arrived; it flashed across me in a moment that he did not even know yet that I had secured the rooms, and that he would be waiting until I could reach him, and give him the keys of the place. Cursing myself for my carelessness, and fearing that he might decide after all, on some whim, not to take the rooms, I hurried off to his flat. I climbed the stairs to reach it, and knocked at the door.
After some little delay he opened the door himself, and peered out at me; flung the door wide, on seeing who it was, and let me in. He was in his dressing gown, and as he strode across the hall and into hissitting-room I remembered suddenly that the manservant had been sent away the night before, and that Olivant was alone there. A sudden feeling that I might do it then swept over me, and my hand instinctively went to the knife at my back.
I was sane enough to remember in a moment that I had been seen coming and going from that place over and over again; to remember also that young Millard had waited outside there, and had forced his way into those rooms, and had been ejected from them. That momentary impulse on my part, if carried out, might ruin everything; I must wait until Murray Olivant had voluntarily hidden himself.
He was in a vile temper; in sending away his manservant he had forgotten that he could get no breakfast without the man's assistance. I hurriedly set to work to prepare coffee; he fumed about the rooms, roundly cursing me, and declaring over and over again that he'd give up this fool's business, and remain comfortably where he was.
"I've been in too much of a hurry," he declared. "I might have known I should have to suffer every sort of discomfort; I ought not to have been afraid of what Millard would do. It's absurd."
"The rooms are taken, and they're very snug and comfortable," I reminded him. "You'll have the laugh of every one if you slip off there. The thing has been so well planned."
"So it has," he replied, with a smile breaking over his face. "By Jove!—you're right there, Tinman; it's been devilishly well planned. As soon as I've had my breakfast I'll slip out—(by the back way, Tinman, for fear of accidents)—and later in the day I'll make my way to Lincoln's Inn Fields. I'll wander about for a bit—enjoying a new sort of freedom; dine somewhere quietly, and go there this evening. Haveyou got in a stock of what I shall need—wines and spirits, and so forth?"
I assured him that he would find everything he required; I left the keys with him, explaining carefully which of them fitted the various doors. One thing only I did not tell him: that I had a duplicate key of the outer door, given to me by the agents from whom I had taken the place. They had explained to me that the rooms had been previously occupied by two friends, so that the second key had been necessary. I remember that when that second key came into my hands I felt again that Fate had played her cards well, and had given me all I asked, and more.
"I don't quite know what time I shall be there, Tinman," said Olivant, just before I left. "You can hang about a bit if I'm not there, and wait till I come. I'm expecting Jervis Fanshawe to come here this morning; he may have some news for me. By the way, don't blunder over this, Tinman."
"Blunder?" I stared at him stupidly.
"Yes; don't be telling people that I'm still in London; remember that I've sailed on the Eaglet, and that I'm not coming back for months. Tell everybody that. And if you see Fanshawe at his lodgings, send him to me at once."
I decided, of course, that I would not do that in any case. Already I began to fear that what I had said I should do would not be done after all; Fanshawe had guessed my secret, and was going that morning to see Olivant; obviously the first thing he would do would be to put Olivant upon his guard. I wondered how Fanshawe had come to guess what I had believed to be so securely locked in my own heart; I blamed myself that I had not been more careful in guarding the very expression of my face. However, I knew that I must risk all now upon the one throw.
The events of that day are stamped clearly enough upon my recollection; almost I seem to see myself walking again through the streets, waiting for the hour when I could make for Lincoln's Inn Fields. Just as on that other occasion, when I had set about a similar business, so now I found myself going back to scenes I knew, and looking again at various places, as it were for the last time. For I had counted my chances; and I knew that even while every door seemed closed that could by any possibility let suspicion in, one might be standing open, and I unable to see it. If once Murray Olivant were recognized, that confidential servant who had been seen about with him must be looked for; must be discovered to be a certain Charles Avaline—who had killed a man before, and barely escaped the gallows for his crime. I counted the chances, and the scale weighed heavily against me.
I drifted back in the course of that long day to the rooms from which Murray Olivant must long since have gone, and there caught a glimpse of a lurking figure that I knew must be Arnold Millard. He did not see me; he was doggedly pacing up and down, watching that empty cage, and waiting for his man, who would not come out of that place again.
Then I went to the lodging where Barbara and the girl had been the night before; I wondered if Barbara had yet kept her promise to take the girl away, back to her father. Surely in time, I thought, young Millard must drift back there, and meet the girl; and so round off the love story in which I was so strongly interested.
I found I could not eat; twice I had gone into various places, and ordered a meal, and left the food untouched. And yet I did not seem to need food; all sensation seemed dead within me, or at all eventsonly sharpened to the point of what I had to do. And so at last I came in the dusk into Lincoln's Inn Fields; found the house, and climbed the stairs.
I listened at the door for a moment or two; then softly pushed the key into the lock, and passed into the rooms. They were in darkness, and for a moment or two I stood listening, wondering if the man had yet arrived. Then I called his name, and heard it echoing through the ghostly silent place, and coming back at me as though in mockery—
"Mr. Olivant! Mr. Olivant!"
I came out again, and lingered about near the house. There were few people about at that time; only once a pair of lovers passed me, as another pair of lovers, twenty years before, had walked in front of me on such a night in that place. I found myself wondering idly what had become of that first pair; whether they had been parted, or whether they had married, or what had become of them. Even while I thought that, I saw Murray Olivant striding along the pavement in the distance, with his cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth, and a thin trail of smoke floating behind him.
I got out of the way hurriedly, and let him go into the house without seeing me. I stood there, trying to think how he would climb the stairs—how long it would take him to reach this landing, and now that; so many more moments for his fumbling with a lock he did not understand; and now he was in the place, waiting for me!
And then all at once I felt that I could not do it. I turned away, sick at heart; I began to invent excuses why I should not do it. I had soiled my hands once with blood in my own cause; I would not do it again for another. I was afraid; I weakly told myself that another way would be found, and that Murray Olivant'striumph would be cut short. But not by me.
I went away into the busier streets, and I walked about for more than an hour. It was quite dark when I got back at last to the place, and even then I think I had made up my mind that I could not do it. I found myself praying, as I went up the stairs, that he might insult me—might even attack or strike me—so that I might be forced to do the thing, and to do it not in cold blood. If only it might be a matter of fighting—some desperate business that should nerve my arm for the one necessary moment—then I would not mind.
I climbed the stairs, and reached the door of the rooms. As I fumbled for my key, I suddenly discovered that the door was open a couple of inches; I put my hands against it, and went quietly in. The place was in darkness; but I remember that I had that curious feeling that one has, even in the darkness, that there was some one there near me. I called out the man's name again, as I had done before—
"Mr. Olivant! Mr. Olivant!"
Only the echoes floated back to me; I could not understand what the silence meant. At last with trembling fingers I got out a match-box, and struck a light, and looked about me.
I saw that the table had been set out with a decanter and a glass; there was a half-smoked cigar lying there, and it had burnt a hole in the faded table-cloth. A candlestick had been overturned, and the candle had rolled away a few inches from it. I set them upright, and put the match to the candle. In doing that I came to the edge of the table, and mechanically looked over; I started back with a cry.
Murray Olivant was there in his own rooms, after all. But he lay stiff and stark, with his face upturned to the ceiling, and his dead eyes staring up at me. Hewas stone dead; his hand still gripped the knife that had been plunged straight into his breast, as though in his death agony he would have torn it out.
I was too late; some one had been there before me.
My first thought, after that ghastly discovery, was to run to the outer door and close it. After that, the mere coming back into the room was an effort; I was afraid of that grim thing lying there, stark and still, with the knife sticking in its breast—afraid most of all of what it suggested.
For I saw now that a hatred greater and deeper than mine had pursued this man, and had struck him down before my slower vengeance could reach him. As I stood in the room, in that silence greater than any silence I had known before, I realized that all that I had feared, and all that I had fought against had happened, after all: the boy had been here before me, and had struck down his enemy. There was no doubt about that at all: all the precautions Murray Olivant had taken had availed him nothing. Surely and resolutely young Arnold Millard had tracked him down, and had killed him, as he had sworn to do.
I stood there by the table for what seemed a long time, wondering what I should do. For now the instinct to cover up this crime was stronger in me than it would have been had the man been struck down by my own hands. In a pitiful fashion I knew the business, and had paid the penalty of it before; I should have gone into it, and indeed had meant to go into it, with my eyes open, knowing well the desperaterisk I ran. But with the boy it was different; he was only poor Charlie Avaline again, of twenty years before, who had flung himself upon this man in sheer bitter rage, and without thought of what he must pay for the blow.
I looked about the room. A chair had been overturned, and I guessed that Murray Olivant had made something of a struggle with his murderer, but had had no chance really to defend himself. The candle I had seen knocked over seemed to suggest that the man who had struck the blow had knocked over the light, in sheer horror of that dying face staring up at him: that seemed natural enough. There was nothing else disturbed; a glass upon the table held a little whisky and soda still, and on the rim of it were to be seen the impression of the lips of the drinker. The cigar that had burnt its way into the table-cloth had long since gone out. The whole place was unnaturally still.
I stood there looking down at the dead man; for if the truth be told I dared not put the table between us; there was an uncanny feeling in me that he might stir, and get up, and come towards me—dead, and yet moving—with that knife sticking out of him. I kept near him, that I might be sure where he was, and above all that he was still. And I began to calculate the chances again—not for myself this time, but for the boy.
For in this, of course, I had the advantage of a dreadful experience. I seemed to know that Arnold Millard would strike down his man without fear of any consequences—without thought of any penalty he might have to pay. That done, he would walk out of the place, and would take his way through the streets, not caring greatly what happened to him. I had done that, ever so many years before; and therein Ihad been mistaken. I had walked straight into the arms of those who waited for me; I had not cared. But this boymustcare; in a sense, he must be saved from himself. There was no one now that could guide him out of the labyrinth into which he had gone but myself; I only knew where the hammers were going, and where the scaffold was being built, with its black arm pointing to the grave; I only could meet him on that road, and from bitter experience turn him aside, and show him another secret road to travel—a road by which he might escape. I blessed God for my knowledge then.
In the dread silence of the room I found myself addressing the dead man; leaning over the table to look down at him fearfully, as though he could hear me.
"It may be thatyouwill save him, after all," I whispered. "You have hidden yourself here—you are an unknown man; they cannot find out anything about you. If he is silent, it may happen that no one will ever suspect. But will he be silent?—that is the point. Or will he feel, in a cooler moment, that this deed cuts him off for ever from those for whose sake it was done. What will he do?"
Once again I found myself counting and calculating the chances—not for myself, but for another this time. In some strange fashion the boy must have tracked Murray Olivant to this place; must have struck him down; and must now be wandering, with that brand of Cain upon him, fighting the desperate battle with himself that a man must fight who has in one moment put himself outside the sphere of ordinary things; and so is hiding and dodging in a crowded world to escape.
I remembered that certain steamer tickets had been bought, in order to carry out that deception which had after all been useless; I knew that those tickets must be in the possession of the dead man. With thecowardice of one who puts off what he knows to be inevitable until the last moment, I searched everywhere for them about the room—looking on the mantelshelf, and in a small new portmanteau in the inner room—everywhere but where I knew instinctively they must be. Then at last, when there was nothing else to be done, I turned to the man himself, and knelt beside him.
Even as I did so I raised my head, and listened. The night was very still and windless; there was not a sound anywhere about the house. But I had distinctly heard the scrape of a footstep on the landing outside—that, and the movement of some one against the door. I got up very slowly and stealthily from my knees, and suddenly blew out the candle; then I felt my way to the door of the room, and stood listening again.
There was a small lobby outside this room, and at the further side of it the door leading to the staircase. While I stood there, I distinctly heard some one pressing against the door: heard the heavy breathing of some one who was evidently striving to peer through the keyhole. I stood perfectly still in the darkness, and listened; heard cautious footsteps moving away from the door, and then with greater confidence going more loudly down the stairs. And I knew instinctively that the murderer had been there, and had gone away again.
There had been a sudden thought in my mind for a moment that I would follow him; would overtake him, and so, coming face to face with him, make him understand that I knew the truth. With that understanding there might have come the knowledge that I was his friend, who had suffered just as he must be suffering now, and who was ready and willing to help him. But that thought was gone as quickly as it hadcome; I felt that I should only be met with furious denials; I knew that I must keep my knowledge to myself for the present.
It was difficult work going back into that room, and standing there fumbling to get a light. But I accomplished it at last, and once more went upon my knees beside the dead man, and began to fumble dreadfully in his pockets for the tickets. They were easily found, because the man seemed to have nothing else of any value in his pockets at all; he had carried out what he had promised, in that he had destroyed all marks of identification. So with the tickets in my hand I sat down on a chair (still keeping him well in view, lest he should dreadfully come to life again), and thought about what I had to do.
I fitted the thing together like a puzzle. Murray Olivant on the sea, on board the Eaglet; Murray Olivant so far accounted for, for some considerable time at least. On the other hand, Murray Olivant here as an unknown man—dead by an unknown hand. The first thing to be done obviously was to get rid of the tickets. For the present I thrust them into my own pocket, meaning to destroy them at the first opportunity.
Then I went carefully through the rooms, to be certain that there was nothing by which Olivant could be identified. I found, as I had expected, that there was no scrap of clothing anywhere that was marked; everything was of that newer cheaper kind that he had purchased for the better carrying out of his trick. I had left the most dreadful task to the last; and that was to examine the knife.
I had not the courage to pull it out; I took the candle from the table, and bent down to examine it. It was a knife not unlike that which I carried; it had been well worn, but was a powerful weapon, of thesort carried by sailors. I looked at it carefully, and was relieved to find that there were no distinguishing marks upon the handle: it was a common thing, such as the boy might have bought for a few shillings, just as I had bought the one that was slung about my waist.
I had done all that it was possible for me to do, and I now prepared for departure. I extinguished the candle, and got to the door; stood listening for a moment, in the fear that that visitor of a little time before might have returned, and might be waiting. But there was no sound, and after a moment or two I opened the door, and peered out. No one there, and the house wrapped in silence.
Emboldened by that, I pulled the door wide, and stepped out, and closed it behind me. I turned to put my hand against it, to be certain that it was fastened, and recoiled with a cry. For there was a man standing there, flat against the wall at one side of the door, looking at me. It was Jervis Fanshawe.
"What—what's the matter?" I asked hoarsely.
He grinned at me; his voice when he spoke was the mere thread of a whisper. "Nothing—nothing at all," he said. "How's our friend?" He jerked his head towards the closed door as he spoke.
"He—he's all right," I faltered, stooping to fumble with the lock for a moment, the better to hide my face. "Tired—gone to sleep."
Jervis Fanshawe moved away from me to the head of the stairs; peered over there down into the darkness below for a moment or two in silence. Then he turned swiftly, and laid his hand on my arm, and without looking at me began to pull me towards the stairs. "Come away," he whispered—"come away!"
I was halfway down the stairs before I realized what he meant, or what he thought. And then in amoment it flashed upon me that he knew in his own mind that Murray Olivant was dead, and believed that I had killed him. I had seen that thought growing in his mind when he had spoken to me about what my feelings must have been when I had killed Gavin Hockley; I knew now that the man was absolutely certain as to what had happened, and that he had fastened the crime upon me. For a moment I stopped on the stairs, and looked at him with a momentary feeling of dismay in my heart—momentary only, because the next instant I realized that this was, after all, the best thing that could happen. He might say or do anything, so far as I was concerned; it would be like flogging a dead man; my only dread had been that he might fasten the crime upon the right pair of shoulders.
"Why do you stare at me like that?" I asked.
"Was I staring?" he asked, with that grin again stealing over his features. "I was only thinking," he added; and then, dropping his voice to a whisper, he asked, as he glanced up the stairs towards the door we had left: "Tell me—does he sleep soundly?"
"I suppose so," I said hoarsely; and turned and went down the stairs, with Fanshawe following. He spoke no further words; as I strode on through the streets he came after me at a sort of trot—ever keeping a little behind me and at my elbow.
Knowing what I knew, and guessing that he had put that fearful interpretation upon my words, I found him presently to be a very ghost of a man, coming along always with that soft footfall just behind me. Once or twice I stopped on some pretext; but he always stopped too, and would not be shaken off. And so at last we came to that lodging down by the river, and were admitted by the girl Moggs. While we stood for a moment in the little dingy passage of the house,the girl jerked her head towards the stairs, and said, without looking at us—
"'E's up there."
Then she disappeared into her own quarters. I could not understand what she meant; I was puzzling my brains to know who could possibly have called upon us, or what fresh disaster this might mean, when I became aware of a sudden change that had come over my companion. He was leaning against the wall, mouthing and shivering, and plucking at his lips, and staring towards the staircase. I looked back at him, and called—
"What's wrong with you? What are you afraid of?"
He came towards me, edging along the wall of the passage until he could lay his hand upon mine and grip me. "Didn't you hear what she said?" he whispered. "He's up there—waiting for us! Don't you understand, you fool, that he'd come quicker than we could; didn't you think of that?"
The sheer terror in the man's face unnerved me; I found myself gripping him, as if I, too, had suddenly grown afraid.
"What the devil do you mean?" I whispered. "It's some chance caller. Don't be a fool!"
I was shaken to my very soul; but I went on up the stairs, looking back, to find him following more slowly. I saw that he was ready, at a chance word or gesture, to go tumbling down the stairs again, and screaming out into the night. I hesitated for a moment at the door of the room, and opened it, and went in. Standing before the cheerless hearth was the man Dawkins.
I glanced over my shoulder, to see a ghastly face coming round the door—a face that changed in a moment from terror to relief—from relief to a sort ofchildish rage. Jervis Fanshawe came into the room a little blusteringly, and scowled at the visitor.
"What do you want here at this time of night?" he demanded. "Startling people—and making them think—— What do you want?"
Dawkins stared at this hitherto humble man in some amazement. "Don't be insolent," he said at last. "I want to find Murray Olivant."
"What do you want with him?" snapped Jervis Fanshawe, before I could say a word. "And why do you seek him here?"
"Because I can't find him at his rooms," retorted Dawkins. "The place is shut up, and apparently deserted; even his servant has gone. What's the mystery?"
"There is no mystery," I said slowly. "Mr. Murray Olivant has gone on a voyage——"
"Yes, yes; on a voyage," corroborated Fanshawe eagerly. "That's true enough."
"He sails to-morrow on theEaglet, bound for the Mediterranean," I went on. "I am to join him—to sail with him."
"Strange that I've heard nothing about it," muttered Dawkins, looking from one to the other of us. "I think I can guess what has happened, however; our friend has got hold of the girl, and is slipping away quietly with her—eh?"
"I couldn't say," said Fanshawe. "In any case, I wouldn't trouble about it, if I were you; it's not worth while."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Dawkins, with a grin. "Murray Olivant mustn't imagine for a moment that he is going to use me as he likes, and then fling me aside, without so much as a 'Thank you.' I don't believe in this sailing business; I don't believe he's going at all. There's some trick in this."
"There's no trick," exclaimed Fanshawe eagerly. "He sails to-morrow, and Tinman here goes with him."
I confess I was a little surprised at this eager advocacy of my cause on the part of Fanshawe; I could not understand it. I firmly believed that he thought I had killed the man Olivant; but I should have imagined he was the last person to endeavour to shield me. Yet here he was carrying on that trick that had been practised on every one, and assisting me to hide Murray Olivant away. I could not understand it.
"Tell me one thing," persisted Dawkins. "Does he take the girl with him?"
I answered immediately: "No; he does not take her. He does not even know where she is, and he has decided to give up the whole business."
"I can't understand it, and I don't believe it," said Dawkins, moving towards the door. "You're hiding something from me."
I slipped my hand into my pocket, and drew out the envelope containing the steamer tickets. Without a word I pulled out the tickets, and showed them to him. "I am to meet my master early to-morrow morning with these, and to take him on board. Does that convince you?"
He looked at the tickets and at me; something in my manner evidently impressed him. "Well," he said, "it's no affair of mine—and he was always an erratic sort of fellow. But why couldn't he have let me know that he was going?"
"You forget," I reminded him, "that you have been endeavouring to get a large sum of money out of him."
"There's something in that," he replied, with a laugh. "I don't like being made a fool of; I hope the infernal vessel will blow up, or sink, or something, with the pair of you on board."
"Thank you, sir," I responded quietly, as he went out, slamming the door after him.
Jervis Fanshawe was seated on the bed, rubbing his hands, and laughing softly to himself. "That was well done, Charlie; that was excellently done," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "You're a clever fellow, Charlie; you've covered up the traces beautifully."
"I don't understand you," I replied coldly. "There are no traces to cover up, beyond those we know already. Murray Olivant is in hiding——"
"That's it—in hiding," he whispered, nodding his head many times, and sucking in his lips, and rubbing his long bony hands together. "In hiding's the word. And he'll sleep soundly to-night—won't he, Charlie?"
"I imagine so," I replied, looking at him steadily. "Why do you insist upon that point?"
"Do I insist upon it, Charlie?" he asked innocently. "Not at all—not at all. Only I like to think of him in those snug rooms of his in Lincoln's Inn Fields—sleeping well—sleeping as long as he likes, Charlie—eh?"
There was that between us which seemed to make it necessary that my eyes should seek his, and that his should be fastened on mine. Even when I moved round the room, I saw that his eyes followed me. And I knew what was in his mind. I would not trust him; I would never trust him again; for the sake of the boy who had done this thing in a moment of madness, I must let Fanshawe think what he would.
"We'd better sleep," I said, as I turned the key in the door. "And, as for Murray Olivant—let him sleep."
"Quite right, Charlie—we can leave him—to sleep soundly," he said, nodding his head at me. "He's safe enough."
He stretched himself on the bed, and seemed to fallasleep at once. I had curled myself up in a corner, and was slowly nodding to slumber, when I thought he moved; I asked sleepily if he wanted anything. There was no reply, and the only sound in the room was his steady breathing. I decided sleepily that everything might well wait until the morrow; my head dropped forward on my breast, and I slept heavily.
I had no recollection of anything during the night, save that it seemed to me once that some one touched me, and that I fretfully begged to be left alone. But I awoke in the morning to find the bed unoccupied, and only myself in the room. Fanshawe was gone. I wondered about it a little, and yet was relieved to be rid of him.
I had got clearly in my mind what I was to do. I wanted to know that Barbara and the girl were safe at Hammerstone Market; I wanted to be certain that the girl was back again in her father's house. Always when I got to that point I stopped, and my thoughts refused to travel further. For while Murray Olivant was safely out of the way, never to trouble the child's peace again, there always came on top of that the shuddering remembrance that the boy had killed him, and that only afterwards, if he was the boy I knew him to be, would there come upon him the knowledge that with that knife thrust he had killed not only Murray Olivant, but all hope of any love story with Barbara. That was one of the problems I had to solve; to know what the boy would do.
I was certain in my own mind that Barbara, at least, would keep her promise to me, and would take the girl to Hammerstone Market. It seemed at once to become vitally necessary that I should see Barbara—should let her understand, in however vague a fashion, what had happened, and should get the clear light of her reason upon it. Up to a certain point I had takenmy way strongly, without fear and without question; but now I had come to a point when I was afraid to move—afraid to take any step that might involve young Arnold Millard. One man I feared, and feared greatly; and that man was Jervis Fanshawe.
I knew he would not hesitate for a moment to denounce me, if it served his purpose to do so. I knew that he believed that I had killed Murray Olivant, and I did not know how far that old vengeance with which he had pursued me before would stir him to pursue me again. I did not like, above all things, that secret creeping away in the night on some unknown errand.
Not that I feared for myself; but that I thought I knew enough of the boy to know that, if another were threatened with the penalty of his crime, he would not hesitate to step forward and tell the truth. And in that case all that I had striven so hard to do would be lost, and the boy's fate would be that of a certain poor Charlie Avaline, long since forgotten.
I hurried to Barbara's lodging, only to find, as I had anticipated, that she and the girl had gone. From there I went straight to the railway station, and took train for Hammerstone Market—still with that feeling in my mind that I must know, before everything else, what the boy was going to do.
In the train I remembered that the vessel on which Murray Olivant was supposed to sail with me started that morning; I wondered what was going to happen in that direction, or whether it was already known that we had not sailed at all. The thought of that sent my hand to my pocket in search of the tickets; I found that they were gone.
I searched every pocket wildly, striving as I did so to remember exactly when I had had them last, and under what circumstances. I remembered distinctly taking them from the pocket of the dead man andputting them into my own; knew—or thought I knew—that I had had them at the time when Dawkins doubted my statement about Olivant. But had I produced them then for his inspection, or had I merely told him that I had them? I could not be sure of that; I went over and over the conversation of the previous night, only to find myself more and more muddled and vague about it. One dreadful thought came to me: had I by any chance dropped them in that room in Lincoln's Inn Fields where Murray Olivant lay murdered?
I was making my way out of the station, when I felt a quick touch on my arm; I looked round sharply, and saw young Arnold Millard beside me. I suppose my face must have shown in a moment the fear that was in my heart for him, and for his safety; but there was a fine assumption of astonishment in his tones when he spoke to me.
"Why, Tinman, what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost. What's wrong?"
"What should be wrong, sir?" I asked, as we walked together out of the station. "Have you any news of your brother—of Mr. Olivant?" I looked at him fully, and wondered that his eyes did not shrink from mine.
"The best of news," he exclaimed. "He's shown the white feather, Tinman; he's made up his mind to leave the country. I'm not sorry that he's slipped through my fingers; he wasn't worth killing, was he?"
"No; God knows he wasn't worth killing," I said passionately.
"His flat is shut up, and I'm told he sails this morning; the people in the house even knew the name of the vessel—theEaglet. I wouldn't believe it at first,but the housekeeper opened the doors for me, and let me go all over the rooms. Everything was packed up or covered up; he's going to be away a long time, I should think."
I wondered how he could lie in such a cheerful fashion; my heart ached at the thought that I had sacrificed myself for such a man as this. Of course, I understood that he had a right to protect himself, and to suspect everyone who might by any possibility guess his secret; but I would have given anything then to have heard one word from him that even hinted at the truth—to have seen in his eyes the faintest suggestion of fear. I began to understand that in the event of Murray Olivant being identified, that faithful servant Tinman might well hang, after all, for what he had not done.
"And so I've come down here, to see if I can get any news of poor Barbara," he went on. "I've a shrewd suspicion that I may hear something of her; I don't think Murray would have bolted like that, unless he had found that the game was up, do you?
"Miss Barbara is down here—with her father," I said.
He turned to me quickly. "How do you know that?" he asked in surprise.
"I know it—that is all," I said.
Presently he found my slow steps too slow for his impatience; he excused himself, and hurried away at a great rate in the direction of the house, leaving me walking more slowly in his wake, and looking sadly after him. For this was different from anything I had anticipated; this was but a mean slipping-out of the business, with nothing heroic about it. I felt sorry for the child who was to trust her life to him.
It was with a great sense of relief that, as I camenearer to the house, I met the elder Barbara. She stopped for a moment on seeing me, and then came towards me rapidly, with her hands clasped at her breast, looking at me. Only then did I remember, miserably enough, on what errand I had set out when last I had seen her, and with what threat on my lips. I realized that my troubles were not over.
"My dear, you have news for me?" she whispered, looking straight into my eyes. "Tell me everything."
"First tell me if you have seen the boy—young Millard?"
"Yes, I've seen him; he's happy enough now. I saw him go to Barbara; there seemed a perfect understanding between them in a moment. They trust each other so completely."
"They trust each other so completely," I replied mechanically. "Well—perhaps that is well. Now for my news, Barbara. What would you wish me to tell you?"
"The truth," she whispered, still looking at me intently.
I thought of the boy, with the brand of Cain upon him, who was at that moment doubtless holding the child of this Barbara in his arms, and whispering that he loved her; and she trusted him so completely! "You want the truth?" I responded with a smile. "Then I have no news for you."
She took me in her arms—there, in that quiet country lane; she spoke to me, as I knew, out of the depth of her great love for me. "The truth, Charlie—the truth to me, at least," she pleaded.
I saw that it had come once again to the parting of the ways for us, just as it had done twenty years before; I knew that for the boy's sake, and for the sake of the girl who loved him, I must again thrustmyself out of life. For I must lie to this woman, who held me in her arms and pleaded for the truth. And in giving her that which she must for ever believe to be the truth, I must wound her again, as I had wounded her long ago. "You shall know the truth," I said slowly—"if you will promise to do what I ask. Promise."
"I will promise anything—and everything."
"I went away from you, meaning to kill Murray Olivant," I said, like one repeating a lesson. "You should know that I do not fail in such a matter. I have killed him." She clapped her hand upon my lips, and looked round her quickly; I took the hand, and drew it away, and kissed it, and went on with what I had to say. "All the world believes that he sails this morning for the Mediterranean; it is possible that the murder will not be discovered. That's the truth."
She clung to me, shuddering; she asked me in a whisper what it was that I wanted her to do.
"Go back to your husband," I said. "It is not he that needs you, so much as the girl. She needs you more than she ever needed you in her life before. Will you keep your promise to me?"
"Yes," she said in a whisper, as her arms fell to her sides—"I will go back to him."
She turned away, and left me standing there, looking after her as she went.
While I stood there in that country lane, looking after the woman who was going from me for the last time, I had time for many thoughts. For now I stood in the world more absolutely alone than I had ever been; there was no hand I could touch again in friendship, for even this dear hand that I loved most of all was withheld from me. I had killed a man once, long ago; it was my strange fate to take the place of another man who had killed his fellow—to bear the blame for that, even in the eyes of the woman I loved—to suffer death for it, if necessary.
So much I owed to my memories—so much I owed to the new Barbara, and to the boy who loved her, and whom I must save from the fate that had befallen a certain Charlie Avaline.
But a strange thing was to happen—something showing the very irony of Fate—before I left that old life behind me for ever. Some mad desire to see again these people for whom, in a sense, I was laying down my life—or so much of it as mattered—came upon me; I went on, unsteadily and hesitatingly, towards the house. It was a bleak winter day, with a rough and surly wind playing havoc with the dead leaves in the grounds, and whirling them up in clouds, and tossing them upon the terrace, and against the windows. As I pushed open the gate—to look into thatplace of my dreams for the last time—I saw a little picture before me that seemed, as it were, to round off all that had happened there, or all that might happen in the future.
I saw young Arnold Millard and the girl standing, arm in arm; the girl's disengaged hand was stretched out to the woman who was her mother. That elder Barbara seemed to be saying something to them both, and pointing to the house. The girl was smiling; and suddenly she turned, and drew the elder woman towards the terrace, with the boy following. Scarcely knowing what I did, I crept through the neglected garden, and went towards the terrace after them; they did not turn their heads, and they did not see me.
I knew, of course, that the woman who was supposed to have died so many years before was but keeping her promise to me, and was on her way to confront her husband. I felt that I must know what happened—must understand under what circumstances, whether of possible happiness or of misery, I left her. I crept nearer until, as the girl and Arnold Millard opened the narrow door at the end of the terrace, and passed into that room I knew so well, I was close at hand. The elder Barbara waited outside, looking into the room, and evidently hesitating what to do. I was within a dozen yards of her.
Inside the room I saw Lucas Savell seated; the girl was on her knees beside him, talking to him. In the silence I heard her voice quite clearly.
"Dear father—only a good, kind friend, who has been almost like a mother to me—who has helped and protected me. I want you to see her."
Even as Lucas Savell feebly got to his feet, and stared in bewilderment at his daughter, I understoodthat Barbara had not told her child of the relationship between them; that was to be left for the moment when she should greet her husband. The elder Barbara had passed through the doorway, and was now inside the room; Lucas Savell was still staring in a dazed fashion at his daughter.
"I—I don't understand," I heard him say.
The elder woman stepped forward into the room. "Lucas!—Lucas Savell!" she said falteringly; and stood still.
I was totally unprepared for what happened; it was all over in a mere matter of seconds. Savell swung round quickly, with a cry, and then took a step towards the woman who stood just within the doorway of the room; cried out her name in a terrible voice, and dropped to his knees—
"Barbara! Oh!—my God!—Barbara!"
She made a swift movement towards him; I saw him put up his hands, as though he would beat her off; then he plunged forward on his face at her feet. The girl was the first to reach him, and she raised him, and called to him wildly. But he hung limply in her arms.
"Father!—you called me, father!"
He slowly raised his head; I saw his mouth open, the while he made a frantic effort to speak; he even smiled, and seemed to try to raise himself in the girl's arms. As the elder woman moved towards him, he shrank away from her, with horror written in every line of his face, and seemed to dread that she might touch him; when she did, in order to assist the girl to raise him, it was curious to see the way in which he looked at her, like a dumb stricken thing that did not understand. By that time I was in the room, and my presence seemed to stir young Millard at once to action.
"I'll go and get a doctor," he said. "He's had a stroke."
The elder woman and I contrived to get him upstairs to his room, assisted by the woman who acted as servant in the house. And while we moved him he strove always to keep his eyes fixed on the wife who had so mysteriously come back to him from the grave; he watched her incessantly. More than once he contrived to move a hand, to touch hers; and again that puzzled expression would come over his face. Now and then, too, his mouth would slowly open, in that effort to speak, and then would close again.
The doctor came at last, and very gravely shook his head; muttered something to the boy about old habits and Time's revenges; predicted that the man might live for a long time, or might die at any moment. "One thing is very certain," said the doctor, as he pulled on his gloves—"he'll never speak again."
There was nothing that I could do there, and there was work waiting for me in London. I felt that I must not then leave ragged ends; I must settle firmly upon my shoulders the burden I had taken up. I whispered to the elder Barbara that I was going; she came with me out of the house, and only left me at the gate.
"This is the end for us, Charlie," she said; and yet she spoke quite bravely. "My place is here, and I shall not leave him again. I come here as the unknown woman—the friend of my own child; for he will never be able to say who I am, and I shall never tell any one on my own account. And you, my dear"—she wound her fingers about mine for a moment, and looked at me with the old steadfast look—"what will you do—alone?"
"I don't know, Barbara," I said. "I shall goback, to meet whatever fate is in store for me—and it does not really matter, after all. I have been greatly blessed; I have seen the dear woman I love again, and I hold her hands now; and I once looked upon a dreary world that held her not, because she was supposed to be dead. And the child you love is near you, and happiness beckons her with a sure hand. It might have been ever so much worse, Barbara."
"If it should never happen that we meet again, Charlie, let it at least be understood that I have forgotten and forgiven and understood all that you have done," she said. "And now good-bye—good-bye—for the last time!"
I did not dare to look back, although I knew that she stood there, watching me as I went. It might have unnerved me had I seen her again; and I had need of all my nerve for what was before me. I got to the station, and once more took train for London. For I felt that, in the first place, I must solve the mystery of the steamer tickets.
I blamed myself bitterly that I had not destroyed them, as I had first intended. The thought that they had got into other hands, or had even been dropped by me in that closed room in Lincoln's Inn Fields, haunted me; I seemed to see them found, and inquiries made about them; and so a gradual tracing back, to find a certain Mr. Murray Olivant who should have sailed on theEaglet. I had two causes for dread: the one, so far as Jervis Fanshawe was concerned, because I knew that he believed I had killed Olivant; the second, as regarded the boy, because I feared that he would not hesitate to fling the blame upon me, if it happened that he was driven into a tight corner. And, above all things, I wanted to know what had happened behind the door of thatroom in Lincoln's Inn Fields, or if any discovery had yet been made.
When I got to London I found myself in the position again of that poor Charlie Avaline who had wandered about with the shadow of murder hanging over him, watching for newspaper placards. I scanned each one I came across, expecting every moment to see a flaring headline that should seem to point directly to me; but I saw nothing.
I bought a morning paper, thinking that it might be possible for something to be in that; but again I saw nothing. And then it struck me that, even if the body had not been found yet, I might be running my neck into the noose if I went back to those rooms, and was discovered there. I remembered horribly enough that I had a key of the outer door, and that the only other keys were doubtless in the pocket of the dead man. And yet I must go back there—I must know what had happened, or if anything had yet been discovered.
Exactly how many times I walked up and down the stones of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and round about the neighbourhood, I should not like to say. For I knew that behind the windows of one particular set of rooms that I could see from the pavement on the opposite side there lay a dead man; and already some one might have been hammering at the door of those rooms—might even have beaten it in, and cried out what was there for all men to see. Twice I actually walked to the door of the house, and twice turned back, for no better reason than that a clerk or a whistling office boy marched in at the door, and began to climb the stairs to some office above. Once, as I stood there irresolutely, a policeman sauntered along towards me; stopped for a moment to look in at the doorway of the house, and then turned hisback and stood there, staring at the cab rank opposite, as though waiting. Sick and faint, I hurried away, and went again on that round I had taken so many times already.
It was dark, and the lamps had long been lighted, and the last clerks and office boys had dashed out of the various doorways, with letters for post, or intent upon trains to be caught, when at last I summoned up courage to creep in at that doorway, and to begin to climb the stairs. Even then I looked back, again and again; paused as I got to each landing, with the absolute certainty in my own mind that some one was following me stealthily. Once, as I stopped like that, a door was flung open within a yard of me, and a man, after staring at me for a moment, slammed the door, and raced off down the stairs. Almost I think I shrieked after him to stop, and to listen to what I had to say. But that shriek was only, fortunately for me, in my own imagination.
I reached the door at last; it seemed that I had been travelling for hours to get to it. I listened intently for a minute or two; then I slipped my key into the lock, and opened the door. The little lobby in which I stood after I had closed that outer door was in complete darkness; for a second or two I know that I stood there afraid to open the door of the inner room, and yet afraid to remain where I was.
I opened the door at last, and stepped in boldly. You may perhaps have some faint idea of what my feelings were when I saw that the candle standing on the table was alight, and the whole room flooded with the glow from it!
I know that I stood for quite half a minute, staring at the thing stupidly, and wondering what had happened, or if I were going mad. I had found the outer door locked, and now, when I was in the room, a death-likesilence reigned; yet here was the candle alight. When at last I mustered courage to take a step or two into the place, and to look round the corner of the table, I think I fully expected to see the man with the knife in him gone, and to know, in some horrible fashion, that he was in that inner room, waiting for me. It took me a long time, even after I had seen him lying there, with that stiff hand still gripping the hilt of the knife, to realize that he was dead, and that he could not possibly have lighted the candle. Even in the horror of that moment, when it dawned upon me slowly and dreadfully that some one else was hidden in those rooms, I know that I laughed softly at the absurdity of the notion that the dead man could have lighted the candle.