‘I shouldn’t have minded, so far as that went, if he’d set fire to the place, for, between ourselves, it’s insured for a good bit over its value. So I decided that I’d let things be as they were, and see how they went on. But from that hour to this I’ve never spoken to the man, and never wanted to, and wouldn’t, not of my own free will, not for a shilling a time,—that face of his will haunt me if I live till Noah, as the saying is. I’ve seen him going in and out at all hours of the day and night,—that Arab party’s a mystery if ever there was one,—he always goes tearing along as if he’s flying for his life. Lots of people have come to the house, all sorts and kinds, men and women—they’ve been mostly women, and even little children. I’ve seen them hammer and hammer at that front door, but never a one have I seen let in,—or yet seen taken any notice of, and I think I may say, and yet tell no lie, that I’ve scarcely took my eye off the house since he’s been inside it, over and over again in the middle of the night have I got up to have a look, so that I’ve not missed much that has took place.
‘What’s puzzled me is the noises that’s come from the house. Sometimes for days together there’s not been a sound, it might have been a house of the dead; and then, all through the night, there’ve been yells and screeches, squawks and screams,—I never heard nothing like it. I have thought, and more than once, that the devil himself must be in that front room, let alone all the rest of his demons. And as for cats!—where they’ve come from I can’t think. I didn’t use to notice hardly a cat in the neighbourhood till that there Arab party came,—there isn’t much to attract them; but since he came there’s been regiments. Sometimes at night there’s been troops about the place, screeching like mad,—I’ve wished them farther, I can tell you. That Arab party must be fond of ’em. I’ve seen them inside the house, at the windows, upstairs and downstairs, as it seemed to me, a dozen at a time.
CHAPTER XL
WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW
AS MISS COLEMAN HAD PAUSED, as if her narrative was approaching a conclusion, I judged it expedient to make an attempt to bring the record as quickly as possible up to date.
‘I take it, Miss Coleman, that you have observed what has occurred in the house to-day.’
She tightened her nut-cracker jaws and glared at me disdainfully,—her dignity was ruffled.
‘I’m coming to it, aren’t I?—if you’ll let me. If you’ve got no manners I’ll learn you some. One doesn’t like to be hurried at my time of life, young man.’
I was meekly silent;—plainly, if she was to talk, every one else must listen.
‘During the last few days there have been some queer goings on over the road,—out of the common queer, I mean, for goodness knows that they always have been queer enough. That Arab party has been flitting about like a creature possessed,—I’ve seen him going in and out twenty times a day. This morning—’
She paused,—to fix her eyes on Lessingham. She apparently observed his growing interest as she approached the subject which had brought us there,—and resented it.
‘Don’t look at me like that, young man, because I won’t have it. And as for questions, I may answer questions when I’m done, but don’t you dare to ask me one before, because I won’t be interrupted.’
Up to then Lessingham had not spoken a word,—but it seemed as if she was endowed with the faculty of perceiving the huge volume of the words which he had left unuttered.
‘This morning—as I’ve said already,—’ she glanced at Lessingham as if she defied his contradiction—‘when that Arab party came home it was just on the stroke of seven. I know what was the exact time because, when I went to the door to the milkman, my clock was striking the half hour, and I always keep it thirty minutes fast. As I was taking the milk, the man said to me, “Hollo, Miss Coleman, here’s your friend coming along.” “What friend?” I says,—for I ain’t got no friends, as I know, round here, nor yet, I hope no enemies neither.
‘And I looks round, and there was the Arab party coming tearing down the road, his bedcover thing all flying in the wind, and his arms straight out in front of him,—I never did see anyone go at such a pace. “My goodness,” I says, “I wonder he don’t do himself an injury.” “I wonder someone else don’t do him an injury,” says the milkman. “The very sight of him is enough to make my milk go sour.” And he picked up his pail and went away quite grumpy,—though what that Arab party’s done to him is more than I can say.—I have always noticed that milkman’s temper’s short like his measure. I wasn’t best pleased with him for speaking of that Arab party as my friend, which he never has been, and never won’t be, and never could be neither.
‘Five persons went to the house after the milkman was gone, and that there Arab party was safe inside,—three of them was commercials, that I know, because afterwards they came to me. But of course they none of them got no chance with that there Arab party except of hammering at his front door, which ain’t what you might call a paying game, nor nice for the temper but for that I don’t blame him, for if once those commercials do begin talking they’ll talk for ever.
‘Now I’m coming to this afternoon.’
I thought it was about time,—though for the life of me, I did not dare to hint as much.
‘Well, it might have been three, or it might have been half past, anyhow it was thereabouts, when up there comes two men and a woman, which one of the men was that young man what’s a friend of yours. “Oh,” I says to myself, “here’s something new in callers, I wonder what it is they’re wanting.” That young man what was a friend of yours, he starts hammering, and hammering, as the custom was with every one who came, and, as usual, no more notice was taken of him than nothing,—though I knew that all the time the Arab party was indoors.’
At this point I felt that at all hazards I must interpose a question.
‘You are sure he was indoors?’
She took it better than I feared she might.
‘Of course I’m sure,—hadn’t I seen him come in at seven, and he never hadn’t gone out since, for I don’t believe that I’d taken my eyes off the place not for two minutes together, and I’d never had a sight of him. If he wasn’t indoors, where was he then?’
For the moment, so far as I was concerned, the query was unanswerable. She triumphantly continued:
‘Instead of doing what most did, when they’d had enough of hammering, and going away, these three they went round to the back, and I’m blessed if they mustn’t have got through the kitchen window, woman and all, for all of a sudden the blind in the front room was pulled not up, but down—dragged down it was, and there was that young man what’s a friend of yours standing with it in his hand.
“Well,” I says to myself, “if that ain’t cool I should like to know what is. If, when you ain’t let in, you can let yourself in, and that without so much as saying by your leave, or with your leave, things is coming to a pretty pass. Wherever can that Arab party be, and whatever can he be thinking of, to let them go on like that because that he’s the sort to allow a liberty to be took with him, and say nothing, I don’t believe.”
‘Every moment I expects to hear a noise and see a row begin, but, so far as I could make out, all was quiet and there wasn’t nothing of the kind. So I says to myself, “There’s more in this than meets the eye, and them three parties must have right upon their side, or they wouldn’t be doing what they are doing in the way they are, there’d be a shindy.”
‘Presently, in about five minutes, the front door opens, and a young man—not the one what’s your friend, but the other—comes sailing out, and through the gate, and down the road, as stiff and upright as a grenadier,—I never see anyone walk more upright, and few as fast. At his heels comes the young man what is your friend, and it seems to me that he couldn’t make out what this other was a-doing of. I says to myself, “There’s been a quarrel between them two, and him as has gone has hooked it.” This yo
ung man what is your friend he stood at the gate, all of a fidget, staring after the other with all his eyes, as if he couldn’t think what to make of him, and the young woman, she stood on the doorstep, staring after him too.
‘As the young man what had hooked it turned the corner, and was out of sight, all at once your friend he seemed to make up his mind, and he started off running as hard as he could pelt,—and the young woman was left alone. I expected, every minute, to see him come back with the other young man, and the young woman, by the way she hung about the gate, she seemed to expect it too. But no, nothing of the kind. So when, as I expect, she’d had enough of waiting, she went into the house again, and I see her pass the front room window. After a while, back she comes to the gate, and stands looking and looking, but nothing was to be seen of either of them young men. When she’d been at the gate, I daresay five minutes, back she goes into the house,—and I never saw nothing of her again.’
‘You never saw anything of her again?—Are you sure she went back into the house?’
‘As sure as I am that I see you.’
‘I suppose that you didn’t keep a constant watch upon the premises?’
‘But that’s just what I did do. I felt something queer was going on, and I made up my mind to see it through. And when I make up my mind to a thing like that I’m not easy to turn aside. I never moved off the chair at my bedroom window, and I never took my eyes off the house, not till you come knocking at my front door.’
‘But, since the young lady is certainly not in the house at present, she must have eluded your observation, and, in some manner, have left it without your seeing her.’
‘I don’t believe she did, I don’t see how she could have done,—there’s something queer about that house, since that Arab party’s been inside it. But though I didn’t see her, I did see someone else.’
‘Who was that?’
‘A young man.’
‘A young man?’
‘Yes, a young man, and that’s what puzzled me, and what’s been puzzling me ever since, for see him go in I never did do.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not as to the face, for he wore a dirty cloth cap pulled down right over it, and he walked so quickly that I never had a proper look. But I should know him anywhere if I saw him, if only because of his clothes and his walk.’
‘What was there peculiar about his clothes and his walk?’
‘Why, his clothes were that old, and torn, and dirty, that a ragman wouldn’t have given a thank you for them,—and as for fit,—there wasn’t none, they hung upon him like a scarecrow—he was a regular figure of fun; I should think the boys would call after him if they saw him in the street. As for his walk, he walked off just like the first young man had done, he strutted along with his shoulders back, and his head in the air, and that stiff and straight that my kitchen poker would have looked crooked beside of him.’
‘Did nothing happen to attract your attention between the young lady’s going back into the house and the coming out of this young man?’
Miss Coleman cogitated.
‘Now you mention it there did,—though I should have forgotten all about it if you hadn’t asked me,—that comes of your not letting me tell the tale in my own way. About twenty minutes after the young woman had gone in someone put up the blind in the front room, which that young man had dragged right down, I couldn’t see who it was for the blind was between us, and it was about ten minutes after that that young man came marching out.’
‘And then what followed?’
‘Why, in about another ten minutes that Arab party himself comes scooting through the door.’
‘The Arab party?’
‘Yes, the Arab party! The sight of him took me clean aback. Where he’d been, and what he’d been doing with himself while them there people played hi-spy-hi about his premises I’d have given a shilling out of my pocket to have known, but there he was, as large as life, and carrying a bundle.’
‘A bundle?’
‘A bundle, on his head, like a muffin-man carries his tray. It was a great thing, you never would have thought he could have carried it, and it was easy to see that it was as much as he could manage; it bent him nearly double, and he went crawling along like a snail,—it took him quite a time to get to the end of the road.’
Mr Lessingham leaped up from his seat, crying, ‘Marjorie was in that bundle!’
‘I doubt it,’ I said.
He moved about the room distractedly, wringing his hands.
‘She was! she must have been! God help us all!’
‘I repeat that I doubt it. If you will be advised by me you will wait awhile before you arrive at any such conclusion.’
All at once there was a tapping at the window pane. Atherton was staring at us from without.
He shouted through the glass, ‘Come out of that, you fossils!—I’ve news for you!’
CHAPTER XLI
THE CONSTABLE,—HIS CLUE,—AND THE CAB
MISS COLEMAN, GETTING UP in a fluster, went hurrying to the door.
‘I won’t have that young man in my house. I won’t have him! Don’t let him dare to put his nose across my doorstep.’
I endeavoured to appease her perturbation.
‘I promise you that he shall not come in, Miss Coleman. My friend here, and I, will go and speak to him outside.’
She held the front door open just wide enough to enable Lessingham and me to slip through, then she shut it after us with a bang. She evidently had a strong objection to any intrusion on Sydney’s part.
Standing just without the gate he saluted us with a characteristic vigour which was scarcely flattering to our late hostess. Behind him was a constable.
‘I hope you two have been mewed in with that old pussy long enough. While you’ve been tittle-tattling I’ve been doing,—listen to what this bobby’s got to say.’
The constable, his thumbs thrust inside his belt, wore an indulgent smile upon his countenance. He seemed to find Sydney amusing. He spoke in a deep bass voice,—as if it issued from his boots.
‘I don’t know that I’ve got anything to say.
It was plain that Sydney thought otherwise.
‘You wait till I’ve given this pretty pair of gossips a lead, officer, then I’ll trot you out.’ He turned to us.
‘After I’d poked my nose into every dashed hole in that infernal den, and been rewarded with nothing but a pain in the back for my trouble, I stood cooling my heels on the doorstep, wondering if I should fight the cabman, or get him to fight me, just to pass the time away,—for he says he can box, and he looks it,—when who should come strolling along but this magnificent example of the metropolitan constabulary.’ He waved his hand towards the policeman, whose grin grew wider. ‘I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then when we’d had enough of admiring each other’s fine features and striking proportions, he said to me, “Has he gone?” I said, “Who?—Baxter?—or Bob Brown?” He said, “No, the Arab.” I said, “What do you know about any Arab?” He said, “Well, I saw him in the Broadway about three-quarters of an hour ago, and then, seeing you here, and the house all open, I wondered if he had gone for good.” With that I almost jumped out of my skin, though you can bet your life I never showed it. I said, “How do you know it was he?” He said, “It was him right enough, there’s no doubt about that. If you’ve seen him once, you’re not likely to forget him.” “Where was he going?” “He was talking to a cabman,—four-wheeler. He’d got a great bundle on his head,—wanted to take it inside with him. Cabman didn’t seem to see it.” That was enough for me,—I picked this most deserving officer up in my arms, and carried him across the road to you two fellows like a flash of lightning.’
Since the policeman was six feet three or four, and more than sufficiently broad in proportion, his scarcely seemed the kind of figure to be picked up in an
ybody’s arms and carried like a ‘flash of lightning,’ which,—as his smile grew more indulgent, he himself appeared to think.
Still, even allowing for Atherton’s exaggeration, the news which he had brought was sufficiently important. I questioned the constable upon my own account.
‘There is my card, officer, probably, before the day is over, a charge of a very serious character will be preferred against the person who has been residing in the house over the way. In the meantime it is of the utmost importance that a watch should be kept upon his movements. I suppose you have no sort of doubt that the person you saw in the Broadway was the one in question?’
‘Not a morsel. I know him as well as I do my own brother,—we all do upon this beat. He’s known amongst us as the Arab. I’ve had my eye on him ever since he came to the place. A queer fish he is. I always have said that he’s up to some game or other. I never came across one like him for flying about in all sorts of weather, at all hours of the night, always tearing along as if for his life. As I was telling this gentleman I saw him in the Broadway,—well, now it’s about an hour since, perhaps a little more. I was coming on duty when I saw a crowd in front of the District Railway Station,—and there was the Arab, having a sort of argument with the cabman. He had a great bundle on his head, five or six feet long, perhaps longer. He wanted to take this great bundle with him into the cab, and the cabman, he didn’t see it.’
‘You didn’t wait to see him drive off.’
‘No,—I hadn’t time. I was due at the station,—I was cutting it pretty fine as it was.’
‘You didn’t speak to him,—or to the cabman?’
‘No, it wasn’t any business of mine you understand. The whole thing just caught my eye as I was passing.’
‘And you didn’t take the cabman’s number?’
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