Fully six months had elapsed, and on returning from Singapore I had
forgotten all about Adderley and the unsavoury stories connected with
his reputation. Then, one evening as I was strolling aimlessly along
St. James's Street, wondering how I was going to kill time--for almost
everyone I knew was out of town, including Paul Harley, and London can
be infinitely more lonely under such conditions than any desert--I saw a
thick-set figure approaching along the other side of the street.
The swing of the shoulders, the aggressive turn of the head, were
vaguely familiar, and while I was searching my memory and endeavouring
to obtain a view of the man's face, he stared across in my direction.
It was Adderley.
He looked even more debauched than I remembered him, for whereas in
Singapore he had had a tanned skin, now he looked unhealthily pallid and
blotchy. He raised his hand, and:
“Knox!” he cried, and ran across to greet me.
His boisterous manner and a sort of coarse geniality which he possessed
had made him popular with a certain set in former days, but I, who
knew that this geniality was forced, and assumed to conceal a sort of
appalling animalism, had never been deceived by it. Most people found
Adderley out sooner or later, but I had detected the man's true nature
from the very beginning. His eyes alone were danger signals for any
amateur psychologist. However, I greeted him civilly enough:
“Bless my soul, you are looking as fit as a fiddle!” he cried. “Where
have you been, and what have you been doing since I saw you last?”
“Nothing much,” I replied, “beyond trying to settle down in a reformed
world.”
“Reformed world!” echoed Adderley. “More like a ruined world it has
seemed to me.”
He laughed loudly. That he had already explored several bottles was
palpable.
We were silent for a while, mentally weighing one another up, as it
were. Then:
“Are you living in town?” asked Adderley.
“I am staying at the Carlton at the moment,” I replied. “My chambers are
in the hands of the decorators. It's awkward. Interferes with my work.”
“Work!” cried Adderley. “Work! It's a nasty word, Knox. Are you doing
anything now?”
“Nothing, until eight o'clock, when I have an appointment.”
“Come along to my place,” he suggested, “and have a cup of tea, or a
whisky and soda if you prefer it.”
Probably I should have refused, but even as he spoke I was mentally
translated to the lounge of the Hotel de l'Europe, and prompted by a
very human curiosity I determined to accept his invitation. I wondered
if Fate had thrown an opportunity in my way of learning the end of the
peculiar story which had been related on that occasion.
I accompanied Adderley to his chambers, which were within a stone's
throw of the spot where I had met him. That this gift for making himself
unpopular with all and sundry, high and low, had not deserted him, was
illustrated by the attitude of the liftman as we entered the hall of the
chambers. He was barely civil to Adderley and even regarded myself with
marked disfavour.
We were admitted by Adderley's man, whom I had not seen before, but who
was some kind of foreigner, I think a Portuguese. It was characteristic
of Adderley. No Englishman would ever serve him for long, and there
had been more than one man in his old Company who had openly avowed his
intention of dealing with Adderley on the first available occasion.
His chambers were ornately furnished; indeed, the room in which we sat
more closely resembled a scene from an Oscar Asche production than a
normal man's study. There was something unreal about it all. I have
since thought that this unreality extended to the person of the man
himself. Grossly material, he yet possessed an aura of mystery, mystery
of an unsavoury sort. There was something furtive, secretive, about
Adderley's entire mode of life.
I had never felt at ease in his company, and now as I sat staring
wonderingly at the strange and costly ornaments with which the room was
overladen I bethought me of the object of my visit. How I should have
brought the conversation back to our Singapore days I know not, but a
suitable opening was presently offered by Adderley himself.
“Do you ever see any of the old gang?” he inquired.
“I was in Singapore about six months ago,” I replied, “and I met some of
them again.”
“What! Had they drifted back to the East after all?”
“Two or three of them were taking what Dr. Matheson described as a
Busman's Holiday.”
At mention of Dr. Matheson's name Adderley visibly started.
“So you know Matheson,” he murmured. “I didn't know you had ever met
him.”
Plainly to hide his confusion he stood up, and crossing the room drew
my attention to a rather fine silver bowl of early Persian ware. He was
displaying its peculiar virtues and showing a certain acquaintance with
his subject when he was interrupted. A door opened suddenly and a girl
came in. Adderley put down the bowl and turned rapidly as I rose from my
seat.
It was the lady of Katong!
I recognized her at once, although she wore a very up-to-date gown.
While it did not suit her dark good looks so well as the native dress
which she had worn at Singapore, yet it could not conceal the fact that
in a barbaric way she was a very beautiful woman. On finding a visitor
in the room she became covered with confusion.
“Oh,” she said, speaking in Hindustani. “Why did you not tell me there
was someone here?”
Adderley's reply was characteristically brutal.
“Get out,” he said. “You fool.”
I turned to go, for I was conscious of an intense desire to attack my
host. But:
“Don't go, Knox, don't go!” he cried. “I am sorry, I am damned sorry,
I------”
He paused, and looked at me in a queer sort of appealing way. The girl,
her big eyes widely open, retreated again to the door, with curious
lithe steps, characteristically Oriental. The door regained, she paused
for a moment and extended one small hand in Adderley's direction.
“I hate you,” she said slowly, “hate you! Hate you!”
She went out, quietly closing the door behind her. Adderley turned to me
with an embarrassed laugh.
“I know you think I am a brute and an outsider,” he said, “and perhaps I
am. Everybody says I am, so I suppose there must be something in it.
But if ever a man paid for his mistakes I have paid for mine, Knox. Good
God, I haven't a friend in the world.”
“You probably don't deserve one,” I retorted.
“I know I don't, and that's the tragedy of it,” he replied. “You may
not believe it, Knox; I don't expect anybody to believe me; but for more
than a year I have been walking on the edge of Hell. Do you know where I
have been since I saw you last?”