So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter.
As luck would have it, the servant returned with him within five minutes. It appeared that he had been lunching with Dora Grayling, who lives just at the end of the street, and the footman had met him coming down the steps. I had him shown into my own room.
‘I want you to go to the man whom I found in the street, and listen to what he has to say.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘To listen to what he has to say?—I believe so.’
‘Can I trust you to respect my confidence?’
He was not at all abashed,—I never saw Sydney Atherton when he was abashed. Whatever the offence of which he has been guilty, he always seems completely at his ease. His eyes twinkled.
‘You can,—I will not breathe a syllable even to papa.’
‘In that case, come! But, you understand, I am going to put to the test the affirmations which you have made during all these years, and to prove if you have any of the feeling for me which you pretend.’
Directly we were in the stranger’s room, Sydney marched straight up to the bed, stared at the man who was lying in it, crammed his hands into his trouser pockets, and whistled. I was amazed.
‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s you!’
‘Do you know this man?’ I asked.
‘I am hardly prepared to go so far as to say that I know him, but, I chance to have a memory for faces, and it happens that I have met this gentleman on at least one previous occasion. Perhaps he remembers me.—Do you?’
The stranger seemed uneasy,—as if he found Sidney’s tone and manner disconcerting.
‘I do. You are the man in the street.’
‘Precisely. I am that—individual. And you are the man who came through the window. And in a much more comfortable condition you appear to be than when first I saw you.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘It is just possible, Miss Lindon, that I may have a few remarks to make to this gentleman which would be better made in private,—if you don’t mind.’
‘But I do mind,—I mind very much. What do you suppose I sent for you here for?’
Sydney smiled that absurd, provoking smile of his,—as if the occasion were not sufficiently serious.
‘To show that you still repose in me a vestige of your confidence.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. This man has told me a most extraordinary story, and I have sent for you—as you may believe, not too willingly’—Sydney bowed—‘in order that he may repeat it in your presence, and in mine.’
‘Is that so?—Well!-Permit me to offer you a chair,—this tale may turn out to be a trifle long.’
To humour him I accepted the chair he offered, though I should have preferred to stand;—he seated himself on the side of the bed, fixing on the stranger those keen, quizzical, not too merciful, eyes of his.
‘Well, sir, we are at your service,—if you will be so good as to favour us with a second edition of that pleasant yarn you have been spinning. But—let us begin at the right end!—what’s your name?’
‘My name is Robert Holt.’
‘That so?—Then, Mr Robert Holt,—let her go!’
Thus encouraged, Mr Holt repeated the tale which he had told me, only in more connected fashion than before. I fancy that Sydney’s glances exercised on him a sort of hypnotic effect, and this kept him to the point,—he scarcely needed a word of prompting from the first syllable to the last.
He told how, tired, wet, hungry, desperate, despairing, he had been refused admittance to the casual ward,—that unfailing resource, as one would have supposed, of those who had abandoned even hope. How he had come upon an open window in an apparently empty house, and, thinking of nothing but shelter from the inclement night, he had clambered through it. How he had found himself in the presence of an extraordinary being, who, in his debilitated and nervous state, had seemed to him to be only half human. How this dreadful creature had given utterance to wild sentiments of hatred towards Paul Lessingham,—my Paul! How he had taken advantage of Holt’s enfeebled state to gain over him the most complete, horrible, and, indeed, almost incredible ascendency. How he actually had sent Holt, practically naked, into the storm-driven streets, to commit burglary at Paul’s house,—and how he,—Holt,—had actually gone without being able to offer even a shadow of opposition. How Paul, suddenly returning home, had come upon Holt engaged in the very act of committing burglary, and how, on his hearing Holt make a cabalistic reference to some mysterious beetle, the manhood had gone out of him, and he had suffered the intruder to make good his escape without an effort to detain him.
The story had seemed sufficiently astonishing the first time, it seemed still more astonishing the second,—but, as I watched Sydney listening, what struck me chiefly was the conviction that he had heard it all before. I charged him with it directly Holt had finished.
‘This is not the first time you have been told this tale.’
‘Pardon me,—but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of fairy tales?’
Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me.
‘Sydney!—Don’t tell me a story!—Paul has told you!’
‘I am not telling you a story,—at least, on this occasion; and Mr Lessingham has not told me. Suppose we postpone these details to a little later. And perhaps, in the interim, you will permit me to put a question or two to Mr Holt.’
I let him have his way,—though I knew he was concealing something from me; that he had a more intimate acquaintance with Mr Holt’s strange tale than he chose to confess. And, for some cause, his reticence annoyed me.
He looked at Mr Holt in silence for a second or two.
Then he said, with the quizzical little air of bland impertinence which is peculiarly his own, ‘I presume, Mr Holt, you have been entertaining us with a novelty in fables, and that we are not expected to believe this pleasant little yarn of yours.’
‘I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know it.’
This seemed to take Sydney aback.
‘I protest that, like Miss Lindon, you credit me with a more extensive knowledge than I possess. However, we will let that pass.—I take it that you paid particular attention to this mysterious habitant of this mysterious dwelling.’
I saw that Mr Holt shuddered.
‘I am not likely ever to forget him.’
‘Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.’
‘To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my best.’
If the original was more remarkable than the description which he gave of him, then he must have been remarkable indeed. The impression conveyed to my mind was rather of a monster than a human being. I watched Sydney attentively as he followed Mr Holt’s somewhat lurid language, and there was something in his demeanour which made me more and more persuaded that he was more behind the scenes in this strange business than he pretended, or than the speaker suspected. He put a question which seemed uncalled for by anything which Mr Holt had said.
‘You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?’
‘No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.’
There was a note in Sydney’s voice which suggested that he had received precisely the answer which he had expected.
‘Did you think it was a woman?’
‘I did think so, more than once. Though I can hardly explain what made me think so. There was certainly nothing womanly about the face.’ He paused, as if to reflect. Then added, ‘I suppose it was a question of instinct.’
‘I see.—Just so.—It occurs to me, Mr Holt, that you are rather strong on questions of instinct.’ Sydney got off the bed. He stretched himself, as if fatigued,—which is a way he has. ‘I will not do you the injustice to hint that I do not believe a word of your charming, and simple, narrativ
e. On the contrary, I will demonstrate my perfect credence by remarking that I have not the slightest doubt that you will be able to point out to me, for my particular satisfaction, the delightful residence on which the whole is founded.’
Mr Holt coloured,—Sydney’s tone could scarcely have been more significant.
‘You must remember, sir, that it was a dark night, that I had never been in that neighbourhood before, and that I was not in a condition to pay much attention to locality.’
‘All of which is granted, but—how far was it from Hammersmith Workhouse?’
‘Possibly under half a mile.’
‘Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on leaving Hammersmith Workhouse,—I suppose there are not many turnings you could have taken.’
‘I think I could remember.’
‘Then you shall have an opportunity to try. It isn’t a very far cry to Hammersmith,—don’t you think you are well enough to drive there now, just you and I together in a cab?’
‘I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the doctor’s orders I have stayed in bed.’
‘Then, for once in a while, the doctor’s orders shall be ignored,—I prescribe fresh air.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘Since Mr Holt’s wardrobe seems rather to seek, don’t you think a suit of one of the men might fit him,—if Mr Holt wouldn’t mind making shift for the moment?—Then, by the time you’ve finished dressing, Mr Holt, I shall be ready.’
While they were ascertaining which suit of clothes would be best adapted to his figure, I went with Sydney to my room. So soon as we were in, I let him know that this was not a matter in which I intended to be trifled with.
‘Of course you understand, Sydney, that I am coming with you.’
He pretended not to know what I meant.
‘Coming with me?—I am delighted to hear it,—but where?’
‘To the house of which Mr Holt has been speaking.’
‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure, but—might I point out?—Mr Holt has to find it yet?’
‘I will come to help you to help him find it.’
Sydney laughed,—but I could see he did not altogether relish the suggestion.
‘Three in a hansom?’
‘There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab,—or I could order a carriage if you’d like one.’
Sydney looked at me out of the corners of his eyes; then began to walk up and down the room, with his hands in his trouser pockets. Presently he began to talk nonsense.
‘I need not say with what a sensation of joy I should anticipate the delights of a drive with you,—even in a four-wheeled cab; but, were I in your place, I fancy that I should allow Holt and your humble servant to go hunting out this house of his alone. It may prove a more tedious business than you imagine. I promise that, after the hunt is over, I will describe the proceedings to you with the most literal accuracy.’
‘I daresay.—Do you think I don’t know you’ve been deceiving me all the time?’
‘Deceiving you?—I!’
‘Yes,—you! Do you think I’m quite an idiot?’
‘My dear Marjorie!’
‘Do you think I can’t see that you know all about what Mr Holt has been telling us,—perhaps more about it than he knows himself?’
‘On my word!—With what an amount of knowledge you do credit me.’
‘Yes, I do,—or discredit you, rather. If I were to trust you, you would tell me just as much as you chose,—which would be nothing. I’m coming with you,—so there’s an end.’
‘Very well.—Do you happen to know if there are any revolvers in the house?’
‘Revolvers?—whatever for?’
‘Because I should like to borrow one. I will not conceal from you—since you press me—that this is a case in which a revolver is quite likely to be required.’
‘You are trying to frighten me.’
‘I am doing nothing of the kind, only, under the circumstances, I am bound to point out to you what it is you may expect.’
‘Oh, you think that you’re bound to point that out, do you,—then now your bounden duty’s done. As for there being any revolvers in the house, papa has a perfect arsenal,—would you like to take them all?’
‘Thanks, but I daresay I shall be able to manage with one,—unless you would like one too. You may find yourself in need of it.’
‘I am obliged to you, but, on this occasion, I don’t think I’ll trouble. I’ll run the risk.—Oh, Sydney, what a hypocrite you are!’
‘It’s for your sake, if I seem to be. I tell you most seriously, that I earnestly advise you to allow Mr Holt and I to manage this affair alone. I don’t mind going so far as to say that this is a matter with which, in days to come, you will wish that you had not allowed yourself to be associated.’
‘What do you mean by that? Do you dare to insinuate anything against—Paul?’
‘I insinuate nothing. What I mean, I say right out; and, my dear Marjorie, what I actually do mean is this,—that if, in spite of my urgent solicitations, you will persist in accompanying us, the expedition, so far as I am concerned, will be postponed.’
‘That is what you do mean, is it? Then that’s settled.’ I rang the bell. The servant came. ‘Order a four-wheeled cab at once. And let me know the moment Mr Holt is ready.’ The servant went. I turned to Sydney. ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and put my hat on. You are, of course, at liberty to please yourself as to whether you will or will not go, but, if you don’t, then I shall go with Mr Holt alone.’
I moved to the door. He stopped me.
‘My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such injustice? Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is which you are setting out upon,—or you would hear reason. I assure you that you are gratuitously proposing to thrust yourself into imminent peril.’
‘What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,—why don’t you speak right out?’
‘I can’t speak right out, there are circumstances which render it practically impossible—and that’s the plain truth,—but the danger is none the less real on that account. I am not jesting,—I am in earnest; won’t you take my word for it?’
‘It is not a question of taking your word only,—it is a question of something else beside. I have not forgotten my adventures of last night,—and Mr Holt’s story is mysterious enough in itself; but there is something more mysterious still at the back of it,—something which you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul. My duty is clear, and nothing you can say will turn me from it. Paul, as you are very well aware, is already over-weighted with affairs of state, pretty nearly borne down by them,—or I would take the tale to him, and he would talk to you after a fashion of his own. Things being as they are, I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul’s wife, I can make his interests my own as completely as though I were. I can, therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,—alone.’
‘Understand that, when the time for regret comes—as it will come!—you are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.’
‘My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you responsible for anything I either said or did.’
‘Very well!—Your blood be on your own head!’
‘My blood?’
‘Yes,—your blood. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to blood before we’re through.—Perhaps you’ll oblige me with the loan of one of that arsenal of revolvers of which you spoke.’
I let him have his old revolver,—or, rather, I let him have one of papa’s new ones. He put it in the hip pocket in his trousers. And the expedition started,—in a four-wheeled car.
CHAPTER XXIX
; THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE
MR HOLT LOOKED AS IF he was in somebody else’s garments. He was so thin, and worn, and wasted, that the suit of clothes which one of the men had lent him hung upon him as on a scarecrow. I was almost ashamed of myself for having incurred a share of the responsibility of taking him out of bed. He seemed so weak and bloodless that I should not have been surprised if he had fainted on the road. I had taken care that he should eat as much as he could eat before we started—the suggestion of starvation which he had conveyed to one’s mind was dreadful!—and I had brought a flask of brandy in case of accidents, but, in spite of everything, I could not conceal from myself that he would be more at home in a sick-bed than in a jolting cab.
It was not a cheerful drive. There was in Sydney’s manner towards me an air of protection which I instinctively resented,—he appeared to be regarding me as a careful, and anxious, nurse might regard a wrong-headed and disobedient child. Conversation distinctly languished. Since Sydney seemed disposed to patronise me, I was bent on snubbing him. The result was, that the majority of the remarks which were uttered were addressed to Mr Holt.
The cab stopped,—after what had appeared to me to be an interminable journey. I was rejoiced at the prospect of its being at an end. Sydney put his head out of the window. A short parley with the driver ensued.
‘This is ’Ammersmith Workhouse, it’s a large place, sir,—which part of it might you be wanting?’
Sydney appealed to Mr Holt. He put his head out of the window in his turn,—he did not seem to recognise our surroundings at all.
‘We have come a different way,—this is not the way I went; I went through Hammersmith,—and to the casual ward; I don’t see that here.’
Sydney spoke to the cabman.
‘Driver, where’s the casual ward?’
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