CHAPTER VII.
IN BISHOP STREET POLICE STATION.
Availing itself of the privilege to creep through every chink andcrevice, to steal up backstairs and take advantage of every keyhole,and to make its dismal presence felt equally within the habitations ofman as without, the white fog had insinuated itself into the BishopStreet Police Station, where it lay in the form of a semi-transparentshroud, and where Inspector Robson looked more like the ghost of a manthan the man himself. In the brightest of weather the office was not acheerful apartment; under the thrall of the white fog, an hour aftermidnight, it assumed a funereal aspect inexpressibly depressing.
Busily employed in making out the charge sheet for the following day,Inspector Robson still found time to cast an occasional eye uponanother ghostly form who, with one foot resting on the end of a woodenbench, was leaning against the wall in a negligent attitude, engagedin the insubstantial occupation of chewing a ghostly straw. TheInspector wrote a fine copperplate hand, and his steel pen neitherscratched nor spluttered. On the present occasion he was takingextraordinary care over his task, as though more than usuallyimportant issues hung upon the perfect outlines of his pothooks andhangers. The absence of sound within the office and the shroud whichlay upon it, rendering objects within a few yards of him indistinct,imparted so strong an air of unreality to the scene, that his slow andmeasured movements bore some resemblance to the movements of anautomaton. The other ghostly person in the office chewed his straw andmoved his lips with so regular and unintelligent a motion that _his_movements, also, bore some resemblance to the movements of anautomaton. But for the difference in their ages these two men mighthave been posing to an invisible artist for a picture of theIndustrious and the Idle Apprentices.
That there was something in the negligent figure that discomposed theInspector was evident from the expression on his face when he raisedhis head from the charge sheet and glanced in that direction, and itwas quite as evident that his discomposure was powerless to arouse thecause of it from his apparent insensibility to all external objectsand impressions. He was young and good-looking, his age probablytwenty-four or five; Inspector Robson was old enough to be his father,and on his features were stamped the effects of long years of officialresponsibilities and steady application to duty. In this relation ofthe Idle and the Industrious Apprentices the marked contrast theypresented was capable of a dramatic interpretation.
"Do you intend to remain much longer?" inquired the Inspector, goadedat length into breaking the oppressive silence. "Because I'd like youto know I'm pretty well tired of you."
"I'm pretty well tired of myself," replied the young man, in alistless tone. "As to remaining much longer I can't exactly say."
"You have no right to be in this place, you know, unless you are hereupon business. Now, the question is, are you here upon business? Ifyou are, I'm ready to take it down."
The young man turned the straw in his mouth, and appeared to reflect.Coming to a conclusion he languidly said, "I can't think of anyparticular business."
"That's a pity," said the Inspector.
"That's a pity," echoed the young man, with distinct indifference.
"Well, then," said the Inspector, bracing himself up for a greateffort, "as you have no business to be here unless you have businessto be here----" This was so involved that it brought him to a fullstop; scratching his head with whimsical perplexity he extricatedhimself from the difficulty by adding, "The best thing you can do isto clear out."
The young man, deciding that he had sufficiently rested one foot,lowered it, and lifted the other upon the bench. This was the onlymovement he made.
The Inspector resumed his writing with the manner of a man driven to ahelpless pass. A peculiar feature of the defeat he had met with wasthat it did not seem to anger him. Presently he spoke again.
"I don't often get into a temper, Dick."
"Not often."
"But when I do," said the Inspector, with an anticipatory chuckle,"it's a thing to remember."
"When you do, uncle, I'll remember it."
The Inspector finished the charge sheet, tidied up his papers, andlooking over his shoulder at Dick, suddenly burst out laughing.
Dick's face cleared; a light stole into his eyes; his lips quivered.These tokens of serious emotion were like the passing of a cloud. Thenext moment he joined the Inspector in the laugh, and the storm was atan end.
"Where are you going to sleep, Dick?"
"Let me see," Dick answered. "Buckingham Palace sounds tempting; theremust be several beds unoccupied there. Could a fellow get between thesheets of one? Do you think it might be managed? I hope they keep afire in the rooms and the sheets well aired."
"Don't be a fool."
"Can I help it?"
"No, Dick, no," said the inspector, advancing and laying his handkindly upon Dick's shoulder. "Upon my soul I don't believe you can."
Dick lifted his eyes, with an implied suggestion that the Inspector,by the barest possibility, might be mistaken; but he did not put thisinto words.
"I can't take you home with me," said the Inspector. "Aunt Rob won'thave it. She's put her foot down, and when she puts her foot down,why, there it is."
The comic helplessness expressed in this obvious statement seemed toamuse Dick, but he said, gravely enough, "Yes, there it is."
"And there's Florence."
At the introduction of this name a look of sad tenderness stole intoDick's eyes, but he said calmly, "Ah, and there's Florence."
"Now, Dick, let us have this out, once and for all."
"I'm agreeable."
"It's altogether too bad," exclaimed the Inspector. "What with you andFlorence, bless her! _and_ Aunt Rob, I haven't a moment's peace of mylife. What Aunt Rob says is this. 'Here's Dick Remington,' she says,'that you've behaved as a father to, and that I've behaved as a motherto. Ever since he was left an orphan, having lost his father, then hismother--you were three years old when my poor sister died--he's livedwith us as one of our own, and so we've treated him. He had a claimupon us, and that claim we've met.' And she says--her foot beingdown--'It's time Dick looked after himself.' She gave you a hint,which you took pretty quick. I'll say that of you; you took it almosttoo quick."
"What else could I do?"
"It was a mistake, Dick, to get into a huff as you did. The minute shebegan to speak you took her up sharp--and if there's one thing morethan another that puts her back up it is to be took up sharp. You see,Dick, it's a delicate matter. Aunt Rob says, 'We must think ofFlorence. She comes first.' And she's right, Dick."
"She is, uncle. Florence comes first--always first!"
"'Here's Dick,' says Aunt Rob, 'that I'm as fond of as if he was myown son, what is he good for? What prospects has he got? He's been inone situation and another, and never keeps to one thing for more thana few weeks at a time. Here he is, a grown man, and here is Florence,almost a grown woman.' To think of it!" said Inspector Robson,pensively, breaking off. "It was only yesterday that she was in shortfrocks, going backward and forward to school, and climbing up on myknee to pull my whiskers, and cuddling up in my arms, and singing herlittle songs in a voice as sweet as music. And now! a grown woman! Tothink of it--to think of it!"
"Loving you no less as a woman, uncle, than she did as a child."
"I know it, my lad, I know it, but it sets a man on the think."
And Inspector Robson fell forthwith into a brown study which lastedquite five minutes, during which the image of his only child, mosttenderly and dearly beloved, presented itself to him in its sweetestand most engaging aspects.
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 8
