MR. TOWNSEND'S DOUBLE.
That Thursday was wet. It drizzled all day long. I was not feeling
well. I had had trouble with one of my maids--caught her tampering with
a lock, and sent her packing on the spot. Altogether I was feeling run
down.
The best of us women get the blues at times!
Things were worrying me, as things will if one is not feeling quite the
thing. I was almost disposed to tell myself that I had made a mistake
in coming to England. After all, I should have done better by remaining
on the other side. Here there were so many things which were against
me--in England there is no mercy for the woman that repenteth. And
getting myself mixed up in this business was scarcely a promising
beginning.
The arrival of my friend, the gentleman, acted as a pick-me-up. It did
a poor, nerveless creature good to gaze on so vivid a representative of
sunshine and of strength. I was leaning back upon a couch when he came
in--somehow his knocking at the door had set all my pulses twittering.
It was with an effort I looked up and met his eyes.
He looked so well in evening dress--it was the first time I had seen
him in it. When one has lived for years with savages one notices such
little things.
"It is good of you to come to cheer me. I am so much in want of being
cheered."
He laughed, retaining my hand for a minute in his.
"The want is common to us both. I am in want of being cheered as much
as you--we will cheer each other." He sat down on a little easy-chair,
which he drew in front of me. "I have only just returned from
Devonshire, which is like coming from the sunshine into the night."
"Have you been there alone?"
"I have been staying with a friend--Sir Haselton Jardine."
Sir Haselton Jardine? Where, quite recently, had I heard that name? Of
course! It was the name of the famous counsel. I had seen it stated in
that day's paper that he was to be retained by the Crown to prosecute
Tommy.
I wondered if that item of news had come Mr. Townsend's way.
"Sir Haselton Jardine? Is that the lawyer?"
"Yes. I suppose he's the greatest barrister at the Bar just now."
"Didn't I see that he was going to have something to do with this
murder there's all the stir about?"
I had to let it out--I could not help it. So far as any effect which
the allusion had upon my visitor was concerned I need not have tried.
He never turned a hair. I was watching the white hands, which were
resting on his knee. Not a muscle quivered.
He replied to my question without a moment's hesitation, and in his
ordinary tone of voice.
"He tells me that he's going to prosecute. He seems rather eager about
the business, too. If the chap is guilty I don't fancy Jardine will let
him slip."
I was still for a moment. I looked into my visitor's eyes with wonder,
and--I don't mind owning it--with admiration. This was the sort of man
it was worth one's while to know--he was a man.
"Don't you think the affair is rather an odd one?"
"Very odd, indeed--and not the least odd part of it is that I know this
fellow Tennant very well."
"No!" I was startled.
"I do. He's a stockbroker. He's done a good deal of business for me.
Unless I am mistaken, he is, or was, almost a neighbour of yours."
"I know. He lives five doors down the street. But fancy your knowing
him. It seems so strange."
He made a little movement with his hands.
"In this world it is the strange things which happen."
"That is true."
As I sat there, looking at him, I realised how true it was with a
vividness of which he probably had no notion. This man was a study for
the gods. His attitude of perfect unconcern was not acting, it was
nature.
I felt that, having gone so far, I must go farther.
"Do you think he's guilty?"
"It seems almost incredible. He always struck me as being one of the
pleasantest and most inoffensive little chaps alive."
"Every one seems to think he's guilty."
He smiled.
"Every one's an ass."
"Suppose he were to be found guilty, and was hanged, and all the time
he was innocent; how dreadful it would be."
Another little movement with his hands.
"It's the way of the world. The innocent are always being hung. Half
the time we guilty ones go free."
This was a man. I went still further.
"Do you know that we met each other, for the first time, on the night
which the murder happened?"
"Am I likely to forget it?"
"Thank you. It's very kind of you to say so. But do you know that we
must have met each other quite close to what they call the scene of the
tragedy."
"I believe that we were within half a mile of it."
"And it must just have happened."
"Probably within twenty minutes of our meeting. By all of which you
will perceive that our acquaintance in the beginning was cemented with
blood."
What did he mean? What kind of creature was he? I really began to
wonder.
We went in to dinner, for which, by the way, he already had given me an
appetite.
I had seen a good deal of men--of all sorts and conditions of men!--but
I never saw a man who came within measurable distance of Mr. Reginald
Townsend in the exercise of that very rare, and wholly indescribable
gift, the gift of fascination. I should say that he would have been a
favourite alike with men and women--I will stake my bottom dollar, as
poor, dear Daniel would have said, that he would have been popular with
every woman. To me the average "fascinating man" is a monstrosity. He
so obviously bears his honours thick upon his brow. He so plainly tries
his hardest to live up to them. There was nothing of that sort about
Mr. Townsend. The charm was in him; it would come out of him whether he
would or he would not. He was not conscious of it. There was no sign of
effort. There was no effort. He was always natural, always completely
at his ease. He could not help but give you pleasure. You yourself did
not notice the glamour of his manner and his presence till, as it were,
it had compassed you about.
Nor were his powers of fascination decreased by the fact that he was
the best bred, the best dressed, the most graceful, and the handsomest
man I ever saw.
This sounds like tall talking. But it is not. I am no tall talkist,
especially where men are concerned. It is the simple truth. My friend,
the gentleman, was a man in twenty millions; any woman would have been
proud to own him.
I felt this very strongly, with a tendency to personal application,
before the dinner was through. His conversation did me good. He talked
as if he had been brought up in the same cradle with all the leading
members of the British aristocracy. There was nobody who was anybody
whom he did not seem to know, male and female. To listen to him talking
was like reading the Almanach de Gotha and the Court Guide bound up
together. Only it was better, and a deal more satisfying.
He began to speak of a particular friend of his, one Lord Archibald
Beaupré, in a way which set me all of a tremble.
"I will bring Archie to call on you--if I may."
This Lord Archibald Beaupré was a son of the Duke of Glenlivet, and, so
far as blood went, not very distant from the Throne itself.
"I shall be very glad to see him, or, indeed, any of your friends. Is
this Sir Haselton Jardine, with whom you have been staying, a married
man?"
"He is a widower."
"Has he any family?"
"He has a daughter."
I don't know what there was in his tone, but there was something when
he said "He has a daughter" which made it almost seem as if he had
slapped my face. I felt almost as if he had taken my breath away. I
found myself echoing his words.
"A daughter? I see."
There was silence. Something seemed, all at once, to have taken the
heart out of the conversation. It floundered, fell flat; seemed, for a
time, to die. I knew very well what that something was just as plainly
as if it had been told to me.
It was that daughter of Sir Haselton Jardine.
It may seem odd. I had never seen the girl. I had never heard of her
before. But, all the same, I hated her right then. She spoilt my
dinner. That's a fact. And, straight on the spot, she made me stand to
arms.
I knew he loved her. And it made me feel--well, I had never thought
that a little thing like that could have made me feel so queer.
I had meant to talk to him about my plans for the future. To have asked
his advice upon points on which I wished him to think I needed it. I
wanted to beguile him into showing interest in what I had set my heart
upon, until he had drifted, though but a little, into the current of my
affairs. But, somehow, after all, I did not seem to care to try. At
least, not then. I let him go.
He was very nice. I was conscious that the man was almost like a woman
in the quickness of his intuition. That, if it came to shooting I
should have to move like lightning to get my shot in first. That he
would detect any intended movement towards my gun even before the
intention was wholly formed. And instinct told me that he was aware
that I had perceived the intonation with which he had said "He has a
daughter," and that it rankled. I do believe that for the first time in
my life I had given myself away. And to a man. But this man could read
the stars. And after dinner, he was particularly nice, because he
happened to have read them.
After he was gone I sat for ever so long in the drawing-room forming
plans. The first wild notion had come to me before. I gave it form and
fashion then. I, too, would buck the tiger. Why not? Who would have
more cause than I? It is a peculiarity of my constitution that,
whatever the game, I always play better when the stakes are high.
I would win my friend, the gentleman. I would go the limit every time
until I did.
In winning him I should win all. Everything my soul desired. At a
single coup, the game.
First of all, I should win the man. He was well worth winning--just the
man.
Then I should win social recognition. By becoming Mrs. Reginald
Townsend I should be spared years of struggling--struggling, too, which
might only bring failure at the end. He wanted a clever wife, and he
should have her. He wanted a good wife, and he should have her too. He
wanted a wife who believed in him; he would never meet one who believed
in him more than I did. He wanted a wife with money; probably there was
not in England half a dozen possible women who had as much as I had.
Given a wife who had all these things I doubted if there was a
drawing-room in which he could not make her welcome--from the Queen's
own drawing-room, downwards or upwards. Practically he could place
Society--with a big S!--at her feet, to do with as she chose.
To think of it! What a realisation of one's dream. What a short and
what an easy cut to the Kingdom of the Blest!
Again, in making him the captive of my sword and of my bow, I should be
giving one to the daughter of Sir Haselton Jardine. That, also, would
be worth the doing. To dislike any one is a mistake. I reminded myself
of that over and over again. But I knew I hated her.
As to whether I should be able to win him--on that point I had no
shadow of doubt. It was true that the overtures might have to come from
me, but they should come. And when they came they should come in a
guise which he would find resistless.
Or we should see!
I slept very well that night--soothed by my own fancies. I remember
very well that, when I was in my bedroom, just before I got between the
sheets, I looked at the hand which he had held in his, and, just where
his hand pressed it, I kissed it. It was a silly thing to do, but it
did me good.
I wondered if, when he had held her hand in his, she was silly too.
But, no doubt, she had freehold rights--or she thought that she had
freehold rights--to what was much better worth the kissing.
Never mind! But bide a wee!
Days slipped by. At his next examination before the magistrates things
began to look very black indeed against poor Tommy. I suppose the
witnesses supposed they spoke the truth--so far as I could see, there
was no possible cause for their wishing to do otherwise. But how they
lied! Unconsciously, we will hope, and in their haste. It was becoming
plainer and plainer that unless something, as yet wholly unsuspected,
turned up in his favour, Tommy bade fair to hang.
Well, I have seen a man hung on suspicion of stealing a horse, and
directly he was hung the horse in question has turned up underneath the
thief that really stole him. As Mr. Townsend observed, sometimes it
seems as if the innocent were born to hang. If everything in life were
certain, where would be the sport, and what would be the use of
betting?
It is the element of chance that makes the game!
One afternoon something happened which struck me as being distinctly
curious. It was after lunch. I was thinking of taking the air. I had
just gone into the drawing-room for a moment, when there came a
knocking at the door.
"Now, who's that, I wonder?" I stopped the servant on her way to answer
the door. "Eliza, let me know who it is before you say I'm in."
I knew who it was directly she opened the door. It was no good telling
him that I was not in. He did not even ask. He came himself to see. It
was old Jack Haines, and with him was a stranger.
It was the stranger who made me open my eyes. I had to stare. For he
was--and yet he wasn't--the living, breathing image of my friend, the
gentleman. He was Reginald Townsend, with a difference. And the
difference--which was all the difference--was this: Reginald Townsend
was a gentleman; this man was emphatically quite another kind of thing.
And Jack Haines treated him as if he was quite another kind of thing.
He treated him as if he had been nothing but a cur, and the man bore
himself as if he was used to being treated like a cur.
Mr. Haines strode into the middle of the room. He pointed to the
stranger.
"You see this creature?"
It was an awkward sort of introduction. I scarcely knew what to make of
it. The more I looked at him, the more I wondered who the man could be.
"He's a detective--a private detective. That's what he calls himself.
If he is, he's the English kind. When first I landed on this darned old
island I went to him, like the fool I was, and I said, 'I want to find
my girl.' And he said, 'I'm the man to find her.' And I said, 'You
are?' And he said, 'You bet. It's only a question of money, that's all
it is.' And that's all it has been ever since--a question of money.
That's the only time he told the truth. If you knew the amount of money
he's had out of me you would laugh. He kept thinking that he's found a
clue, and wanting twenty pounds to find out if he'd found it, and every
time he got that twenty pounds he found out he hadn't. And now he
thinks he's found another clue, and I've brought him along with me in
here to find out what sort of clue he thinks he has found."
The man coughed behind his hand. He puffed out his chest. He drew
himself upright. He tried to think himself a man.
"You are severe, Mr. Haines, uncommonly severe. Even detectives are but
fallible. But, on this occasion I do not only think I have a clue, I am
positive--quite positive."
"What's the figure?"
"Figure? Expenses--merely!"
"And what's the clue?"
The man seemed a trifle fidgety.
"I am afraid that I am scarcely in a position at present----"
Mr. Haines cut him uncivilly short.
"Stow that! You don't touch a nickel till you tell me what's the clue."
The man cleared his throat. He looked round and round the room, as
though looking for the clue. Mr. Haines's inquisition seemed more than
he had bargained for.
"As you are aware, Mr. Haines, I have searched all England for Miss
Louise O'Donnel."
"Judging from the amount of money you've had I should think you've
searched all Europe."
Again the stranger cleared his throat, as if he deprecated the
allusion.
"You probably have it in your recollection that at one time I believed
that I had traced her to Liverpool. Circumstances have recently
occurred which have brought to me the knowledge that in so believing I
was right. She is in Liverpool."
Mr. Haines began to tremble like a leaf. I saw how easily this man, or
any other man, could play upon what seemed to have become the
dominating passion of his existence.
"Whereabouts in Liverpool? Tell me that!"
"Unfortunately, at this moment, that is beyond the limit of my power.
But this I will undertake to do. If you are disposed to expend a
further sum of fifty pounds I will undertake to place you in
communication with her within, yes, certainly, within fourteen days."
"You swear it?"
The man threw himself into an attitude which he, no doubt, intended to
be sublime. "As one gentleman to another I undertake, sir, to do what I
have said."
"You shall have your fifty pounds. I will go and get it. Stay here."
Mr. Haines turned to me. "Do you mind my leaving him here while I go
and cash a cheque? I want to give him the money in your presence, and
on conditions which you shall hear."
"I have no objection."
I had not. Indeed, I had been wondering how I might find the
opportunity to ask the man a question which should be entirely between
ourselves. Whether he was as willing to be left alone with me as I was
to be left alone with him, is more than I can say. He ought to have
been. Mr. Haines took me at my word. He stamped through the hall and
from the house. The stranger and I were _tête-à-tête_.
He did not seem to be exactly at his ease. Mr. Haines had not offered
him a chair. He seemed to think that he would like one. Indeed, he said
as much.
"With your permission, madam, I will sit down."
"I would rather you did not."
He was about to act on his own suggestion when my words arrested him.
He seemed disconcerted, looking at me as if wondering what it was that
I might mean. I went on, "Of course you are lying again?"
The man drew himself up with what he intended to be an air of dignity.
"Lying?--Again?--Madam! May I inquire what you mean?"
"Pray don't put on that sort of air with me. I understand you very
well, my man. You are too common a type not to be understood. Of
course, you are lying again and of course I shall tell Mr. Haines so
when he returns." He looked as if he felt that in exchanging Mr.
Haines' society for mine he had made a change for the worse. "Or,
rather, I shall tell Mr. Haines unless you give me satisfactory answers
to the questions I am about to put to you."
"I assure you, madam, that, as a gentleman----"
"Stop! Confine yourself to answering my questions. On your answers will
depend whether or not I shall keep silence. What is your name?"