BLOOMSBURY
Edward entered the little vestibule of the select Bloomsbury hotel, and
crossing to the office window, behind which sat a sleepy-looking
book-keeper, asked for an envelope. Then taking a card from his pocket
he scribbled a few words on it and enclosing it requested that it be
taken up to Mrs. Povey.
A few minutes later he was following an attendant up the broad flight
of carpeted stairs. It was then five minutes past ten by the clock
which stood ticking sonorously in a corner of the landing.
* * * * *
At twenty minutes to eleven Edward Povey descended the stairs and,
walking quickly through the vestibule, emerged into Russell Square.
There were but few people about, and no one seemed to notice the little
figure which stood in indecision on the curb. Even had they done so it
would have taken a student of human physiognomy of no mean order to
read what was written on Edward's face. Some would have said that
there was an expression of sorrow behind the eyes, others would have
imagined a suggestion of a smile at the corners of the mouth, and on
the whole countenance a look of joyful relief.
For some moments he stood, gazing out across the road at the lights of
the Hotel Russell, and at the cabs and taxis that were drawing up
before it. Then he turned with a little sigh, and made his way down
Southampton Row, and along past the Museum into the glare of light at
the end of the Tottenham Court Road. Here the sight of the restaurants
reminded him that it was mid-day when he had taken his last meal. With
the thought he crossed the road and walked up Oxford Street to
Frascati's.
The supper crush in the great circular room had well began, but Edward
was fortunate in finding a little table near the orchestra, and he
prepared to order himself a meal in keeping with his feelings of the
moment--some soup, a couple of kidneys, a kirsch omelette and a small
bottle of hock.
He ate slowly and in a lazy contentment. At intervals his face changed
its expression, now frowning slightly, now smiling. He asked the
waiter who served him with his coffee to bring him writing materials,
and pushed a clear space among the plates and glasses on the table.
For perhaps ten minutes he sat deep in thought staring at the blotter,
keeping time absently to a rag-time melody the little band had struck
up by tapping his pen on the inkstand.
Then he squared his shoulders, finished his coffee at a gulp, and
wrote--
"_MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,_
"_I have been thinking things over, and I am willing to admit that I am
not, after all, wholly surprised at the reception you gave me when I
called on you this evening. But I may also say, that knowing you as I
do, I was not prepared for the manner in which you acted._
"_It appears to me that you might, perhaps, had you thought, chosen
your expressions better. You could have been quite as effective had
you been a little less vulgar, and you could have couched your
suspicions of me in a less offensive manner. But let it pass._
"_I can only surmise that the life of ease that you have been living
for the past few months has entirely unfitted you for the management
and duties of a home. I take it also that what you are pleased to term
my desertion of you, accompanied as it was by ample provision for your
wants, has not been distasteful to you._
"_Perhaps you are right--that we had better continue to live apart. I
am afraid that the future would hold many little rifts. Personally, I
have led a larger, fuller life since I left England, and have seen many
adventures (you would be surprised to hear that I still have a bullet
in my back which I will carry to my grave). Yes, I am afraid our
former existence would irritate me beyond measure. Your allowance will
be paid to you as formerly. You need have no compunction in taking the
money. It was fairly earned by bringing to a successful issue a
difficult and delicate affair of business._
"_Again, there would always be friction between us on account of our
several acquaintances. I have mixed with the highest in the land, and
could never tolerate the state of intimacy you tell me you are in with
Uncle Jasper, a man I never pretended that I had the least affection
for. He is a low fellow--and you know what I think of your Aunt Eliza._
"_And so, Charlotte, we will go our own ways. The suggestion I made
to-night that we should meet each anniversary of our wedding-day and
dine together, I consider a good one. This will be a standing
appointment, under the clock at Charing Cross Station, at seven, each
third of May._
"_I am glad to think that we remain friends._
"_I am, dear Charlotte,_
"_Your affectionate husband,_
"_EDWARD._"
Povey posted this letter at the office in Oxford Street, afterwards
taking a cab to Victoria. Here he reclaimed his personal luggage, and
had it conveyed into the Grosvenor, in which excellent hotel he engaged
a modest apartment.
The taxi-cab which Edward had seen leave the courtyard of the station,
and which contained Anna Paluda, bowled merrily up Victoria Street,
across Trafalgar Square, and so on to Gower Street, turning off into a
narrow and somewhat dingy thoroughfare which ran behind the Museum.
At Number 9, Dorrington Street, the cab drew up and Anna alighted. The
driver had not particularly noticed the fare who had engaged him or he
would have seen a vast difference in the woman who now tendered him a
shilling and a half-crown, to the one who had entered his cab at
Victoria.
The white hair which was so strong and noticeable a feature in the
personality of Anna Paluda was now entirely covered up by a well-made
wig of black-brown, drawn down over the ears, and a pair of
slightly-smoked spectacles hid the piercing black eyes.
But a heavy veil made this alteration in the appearance of the lady
very slight to the casual observer, and the chauffeur noticed nothing
as, touching his cap, he restarted his car, leaving Anna standing on
the pavement, her jewel case and handbag in her hands, looking up at
Number 9.
It was a cheerless enough sight, dingy in the extreme, and the woman
wondered that the fastidious Gabriel Dasso should have chosen such a
habitation. But it was an admirable hiding-place, and doubtless the
ex-dictator had only intended that it should be a temporary one. Who
would think of looking for the dilettante fugitive among these sordid
surroundings?
A few stone steps flanked by broken iron railings led up to a faded and
blistered street-door that once had been green. The brass numeral
under the knocker was hanging by one screw, and had fallen round so
that it might as well have been six as nine. As Anna ascended the
steps she caught a glimpse of a dirty area in which the street-lamp
showed a littered profusion of bottles and jars. On a spike of one of
the railings hung a tarnished and battered milk-can.
There was a semi-circular fanlight over the door through the grimy
panes of which a gas-jet, innocent of globe, gave a dull glow. A light
also showed beneath the blinds of the windows flanking the door-step.
In the room within some one was thumping out a dismal melody on a
cracked pianoforte.
The woman waited a moment to compose herself, then reached out and
pulled the bell-handle. There was a jangle of wires, and somewhere at
the back of the house a bell tinkled. The musician stopped in the
middle of a bar, and there was silence for a few moments. Then she
heard a door opened, and a shrill feminine voice shouted--
"Liz!"
Shuffling footsteps approached the door, a chain was unfastened, and
the catch pulled back. Framed in the aperture stood a servant girl,
small in stature, and of a dirtiness unbelievable. This presumably was
Liz.
"I see you have a card in the window----"
"Rooms, eh, mum? Come inside, will yer?"
The small domestic stood aside to allow Anna to pass into the hall,
then carefully wiping her hands on the torn square of coarse sacking
which constituted her apron, Liz tapped at a door, and, pushing it
open, motioned the visitor to walk in. Anna Paluda did so, and found
herself in the apartment that contained the piano.
The room showed traces of a glory that had long departed. The
furniture for the most part had been good, and was of that peculiar
comfortless family of horsehair and mahogany with which the
mid-Victorian epoch was blessed. There were a few pictures on the
wall, one or two of which looked as though they might prove valuable
could one penetrate beneath the grime with which they were covered.
There was an oval table in the centre of the room, from which the cloth
had evidently been hurriedly cleared at the visitor's ring. Anna could
see its crumpled dirtiness peeping from a drawer in the sideboard into
which it had been hurriedly thrust. Glimpses of crockery showed
beneath the shabby sofa, and over all was the same objectionable odour
of meals which Anna had noticed even in the hall.
The person who rose from an arm-chair by the fire, and advanced a
little to meet her, fitted the room to a nicety. She, too, was
mid-Victorian, and, like her surroundings, had once been handsome. Her
faded tea-gown was trimmed with still more faded lace, and faded
ribbons nodded wearily in her faded cap.
Her face was pale and thin and worn, but there was a little smile which
came into her pale blue eyes as she guessed Anna's errand.
"You have come about a room, madam?"
Anna nodded.
"Yes, for a few weeks--just a bed-sitting room. I want to be quiet.
By the way, have you many other lodgers?"
"Two, madam; a lady on this floor"--pointing to the folding doors--"and
a gentleman on the floor above. It is the room behind his that you can
have, or one above it in the front."
"I think the back would suit me. The traffic at night cannot keep me
awake there. Is the gentleman of quiet habits?"
"Quite. Mr. Gabriel is a foreigner, but he is most regular in all his
habits. He is at home all day, reading, and he goes out in the
evening. He comes in late, but we never hear him."
Anna followed the faded landlady up the creaking stairs, and gazed
round as the woman held the candle up for her survey of the room. She
did not take much notice of the furniture. The room seemed airy and
clean, and she agreed to the price named without demur, forestalling
the request for references which she saw trembling on the lady's lips
by paying rent for a month in advance.
As she removed her bonnet and cloak she asked that a cup of tea might
be served to her in her room. This in due course was brought up by
Liz, whose appearance had undergone a slight change for the better.
The new lodger made friends at once with the little maid of all work,
seeing in her a possible ally of the future, and, without directly
asking questions, she managed to get Liz to talk, and from her she soon
learnt some of the ways of her fellow-lodger.
She discovered that Mr. Gabriel left the house about eight to half-past
each evening. "An awful swell, mum; puts on a clean shirt every
blessed night, an 'as one of them smash 'ats." When he came in the
girl could not tell; they all went to bed and left his supper ready for
him--"not much, only a basin of cold beef-tea, _consommy_ 'e calls it."
"In his room, I suppose?"
"Lor' love yer, mum, not 'im--you don't catch anybody in 'is room when
'e goes out. 'E locks it up. I makes the bed and all that while 'e's
there in the mornin'."
After the girl had gone up to bed, Anna sat up reading until the chimes
of some near-by church clock told the hour of midnight. All was silent
in No. 9, Dorrington Street. Outside, too, it was quiet, only
sometimes a hansom would rattle past the front of the house, its bells
jingling, and the horse's hoofs beating merrily on the asphalt.
The woman rose and looked out into the hall. On a bracket stood an
evil-smelling oil-lamp turned down low. Beside it a brass tray
contained the basin of _consomme_ and a dingy little metal cruet.
There were two letters there also, addressed to Mr. Gabriel, and Anna
took them up to examine them.
They were in her hands when she started suddenly and put them back on
the tray. There was the sound of a key being inserted in the street
door below, and hastily slipping back into her room, Anna put out her
light and closed the door.
She heard the man come up the stairs and unlock his door and carry the
tray into his room. Then a match was struck, and with a start Anna
noticed a thin streak of light break out in the darkness of the wall
beside her.
She noticed then for the first time that the rooms, like those below,
were separated by folding doors, but in the case of the first floor
they had been fastened up, and on her side had been papered over and a
heavy wardrobe placed against them.
Eagerly Anna Paluda placed her eye to the crack of light beside the
massive piece of furniture, but she could see nothing. She determined
that when Dasso went out on the following evening she would see what
could be done to widen the crack in the papered door.