Hunted Down: The Detective Stories of Charles Dickens

by Charles Dickens

  Transcribed from the 1905 Chapman and Hall “Hard Times and ReprintedPieces” edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

  HUNTED DOWN [1860]

  I.

  MOST of us see some romances in life. In my capacity as Chief Manager ofa Life Assurance Office, I think I have within the last thirty years seenmore romances than the generality of men, however unpromising theopportunity may, at first sight, seem.

  As I have retired, and live at my ease, I possess the means that I usedto want, of considering what I have seen, at leisure. My experienceshave a more remarkable aspect, so reviewed, than they had when they werein progress. I have come home from the Play now, and can recall thescenes of the Drama upon which the curtain has fallen, free from theglare, bewilderment, and bustle of the Theatre.

  Let me recall one of these Romances of the real world.

  There is nothing truer than physiognomy, taken in connection with manner.The art of reading that book of which Eternal Wisdom obliges every humancreature to present his or her own page with the individual characterwritten on it, is a difficult one, perhaps, and is little studied. Itmay require some natural aptitude, and it must require (for everythingdoes) some patience and some pains. That these are not usually given toit,—that numbers of people accept a few stock commonplace expressions ofthe face as the whole list of characteristics, and neither seek nor knowthe refinements that are truest,—that You, for instance, give a greatdeal of time and attention to the reading of music, Greek, Latin, French,Italian, Hebrew, if you please, and do not qualify yourself to read theface of the master or mistress looking over your shoulder teaching it toyou,—I assume to be five hundred times more probable than improbable.Perhaps a little self-sufficiency may be at the bottom of this; facialexpression requires no study from you, you think; it comes by nature toyou to know enough about it, and you are not to be taken in.

  I confess, for my part, that I _have_ been taken in, over and over again.I have been taken in by acquaintances, and I have been taken in (ofcourse) by friends; far oftener by friends than by any other class ofpersons. How came I to be so deceived? Had I quite misread their faces?

  No. Believe me, my first impression of those people, founded on face andmanner alone, was invariably true. My mistake was in suffering them tocome nearer to me and explain themselves away.

  II.

  THE partition which separated my own office from our general outer officein the City was of thick plate-glass. I could see through it what passedin the outer office, without hearing a word. I had it put up in place ofa wall that had been there for years,—ever since the house was built. Itis no matter whether I did or did not make the change in order that Imight derive my first impression of strangers, who came to us onbusiness, from their faces alone, without being influenced by anythingthey said. Enough to mention that I turned my glass partition to thataccount, and that a Life Assurance Office is at all times exposed to bepractised upon by the most crafty and cruel of the human race.

  It was through my glass partition that I first saw the gentleman whosestory I am going to tell.

  He had come in without my observing it, and had put his hat and umbrellaon the broad counter, and was bending over it to take some papers fromone of the clerks. He was about forty or so, dark, exceedingly welldressed in black,—being in mourning,—and the hand he extended with apolite air, had a particularly well-fitting black-kid glove upon it. Hishair, which was elaborately brushed and oiled, was parted straight up themiddle; and he presented this parting to the clerk, exactly (to mythinking) as if he had said, in so many words: ‘You must take me, if youplease, my friend, just as I show myself. Come straight up here, followthe gravel path, keep off the grass, I allow no trespassing.’

  I conceived a very great aversion to that man the moment I thus saw him.

  He had asked for some of our printed forms, and the clerk was giving themto him and explaining them. An obliged and agreeable smile was on hisface, and his eyes met those of the clerk with a sprightly look. (I haveknown a vast quantity of nonsense talked about bad men not looking you inthe face. Don’t trust that conventional idea. Dishonesty will starehonesty out of countenance, any day in the week, if there is anything tobe got by it.)

  I saw, in the corner of his eyelash, that he became aware of my lookingat him. Immediately he turned the parting in his hair toward the glasspartition, as if he said to me with a sweet smile, ‘Straight up here, ifyou please. Off the grass!’

  In a few moments he had put on his hat and taken up his umbrella, and wasgone.

  I beckoned the clerk into my room, and asked, ‘Who was that?’

  He had the gentleman’s card in his hand. ‘Mr. Julius Slinkton, MiddleTemple.’

  ‘A barrister, Mr. Adams?’

  ‘I think not, sir.’

  ‘I should have thought him a clergyman, but for his having no Reverendhere,’ said I.

  ‘Probably, from his appearance,’ Mr. Adams replied, ‘he is reading fororders.’

  I should mention that he wore a dainty white cravat, and dainty linenaltogether.

  ‘What did he want, Mr. Adams?’

  ‘Merely a form of proposal, sir, and form of reference.’

  ‘Recommended here? Did he say?’

  ‘Yes, he said he was recommended here by a friend of yours. He noticedyou, but said that as he had not the pleasure of your personalacquaintance he would not trouble you.’

  ‘Did he know my name?’

  ‘O yes, sir! He said, “There _is_ Mr. Sampson, I see!”’

  ‘A well-spoken gentleman, apparently?’

  ‘Remarkably so, sir.’

  ‘Insinuating manners, apparently?’

  ‘Very much so, indeed, sir.’

  ‘Hah!’ said I. ‘I want nothing at present, Mr. Adams.’

  Within a fortnight of that day I went to dine with a friend of mine, amerchant, a man of taste, who buys pictures and books, and the first manI saw among the company was Mr. Julius Slinkton. There he was, standingbefore the fire, with good large eyes and an open expression of face; butstill (I thought) requiring everybody to come at him by the prepared wayhe offered, and by no other.

  I noticed him ask my friend to introduce him to Mr. Sampson, and myfriend did so. Mr. Slinkton was very happy to see me. Not too happy;there was no over-doing of the matter; happy in a thoroughly well-bred,perfectly unmeaning way.

  ‘I thought you had met,’ our host observed.

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Slinkton. ‘I did look in at Mr. Sampson’s office, on yourrecommendation; but I really did not feel justified in troubling Mr.Sampson himself, on a point in the everyday routine of an ordinaryclerk.’

  I said I should have been glad to show him any attention on our friend’sintroduction.

  ‘I am sure of that,’ said he, ‘and am much obliged. At another time,perhaps, I may be less delicate. Only, however, if I have real business;for I know, Mr. Sampson, how precious business time is, and what a vastnumber of impertinent people there are in the world.’

  I acknowledged his consideration with a slight bow. ‘You were thinking,’said I, ‘of effecting a policy on your life.’

  ‘O dear no! I am afraid I am not so prudent as you pay me the complimentof supposing me to be, Mr. Sampson. I merely inquired for a friend. Butyou know what friends are in such matters. Nothing may ever come of it.I have the greatest reluctance to trouble men of business with inquiriesfor friends, knowing the probabilities to be a thousand to one that thefriends will never follow them up. People are so fickle, so selfish, soinconsiderate. Don’t you, in your business,
find them so every day, Mr.Sampson?’

  I was going to give a qualified answer; but he turned his smooth, whiteparting on me with its ‘Straight up here, if you please!’ and I answered‘Yes.’

  ‘I hear, Mr. Sampson,’ he resumed presently, for our friend had a newcook, and dinner was not so punctual as usual, ‘that your profession hasrecently suffered a great loss.’

  ‘In money?’ said I.

  He laughed at my ready association of loss with money, and replied, ‘No,in talent and vigour.’

  Not at once following out his allusion, I considered for a moment.‘_Has_ it sustained a loss of that kind?’ said I. ‘I was not aware ofit.’

  ‘Understand me, Mr. Sampson. I don’t imagine that you have retired. Itis not so bad as that. But Mr. Meltham—’

  ‘O, to be sure!’ said I. ‘Yes! Mr. Meltham, the young actuary of the“Inestimable.”’

  ‘Just so,’ he returned in a consoling way.

  ‘He is a great loss. He was at once the most profound, the mostoriginal, and the most energetic man I have ever known connected withLife Assurance.’

  I spoke strongly; for I had a high esteem and admiration for Meltham; andmy