-----
When I say that my name is Samuel Chillip, of course you will know who I
am. Yes, I am the author--it has been said the famous author--of "The
Poisoned Waterbottle," "Steeped in Gore," "The Demon Detective," and
other highly sensational and blood-curdling stories. But though these
tales of mine have brought me some fame and a fair amount of profit, I
am not particularly proud of them. I really don't know how I, so to
speak, drifted into crime. I never liked it, and, of course, never
practised it myself. I would much rather have written sentimental or
moral stories, but I seemed somehow fated to turn my attention to fraud
and violence, and I could not get away from such subjects.
I am a family man with a wife and children, and live the most
domesticated and harmless of lives. I rent a small villa at St. John's
Wood, and have got a pretty garden, which I cultivate myself. I take my
children out for walks in the Park, and have even been known to nurse
the baby. Never was there a man whose mode of life was so different from
his mode of getting a living. I burn the midnight oil, that is to say, I
do my best work at night. The cares of a large family distract me so
much that I can never concentrate my attention on my plots and
situations in the daytime. It is only when the wife has retired, and the
children, the darlings! are put to bed, that I can sit down quietly and
develop my deeds of darkness.
[Illustration: "I BURN THE MIDNIGHT OIL."]
Nothing out of the usual course had happened on the memorable evening of
which I am about to tell, and which was destined to have so marked an
influence on my literary career. I had had tea with my beloved Seraphina
and our six children at seven o'clock, and afterwards we all sat round
the fire, and I told stories--stories not of crime and cruelty, but of
good fairies and enchanted princesses, of boys and girls at school, and
innocent loves and faithful lovers, which always started with "once upon
a time," and ended with "happy ever after."
During the evening my little flock gradually melted away till nothing
was left of it but my dear wife and our eldest girl, aged fourteen. At
ten o'clock we supped off cold roast pork and rice pudding, with a
little mild ale as a beverage, and then my beloved ones kissed me,
wished me good night, and left me to my labours.
By half-past ten I was hard at work in my study, deep in the most
critical chapter of my new story, "The Chemist's Revenge." I rather
prided myself on the originality of the crime committed in this
thrilling tale. The wicked hero had invented a hideous pill, compounded
of ingredients which would explode within a human body and blow it to
atoms. And now I was approaching the terrible scene in which the fatal
dose was about to be administered to the hapless victim.
It was a quiet night; there was not a breath of wind even to stir the
trees out of doors, and all was still within, save when a coal fell from
the fireplace into the grate and the clock on my mantelpiece chimed the
hour. Midnight had just struck, when my ears were suddenly startled and
my heart set beating by a sound out of doors. It was that of a slow,
heavy step, crunching the gravel of the garden path and coming nearer
and nearer to my door. And then the footsteps ceased, and there was a
knock--a single knock.
If I had made the flesh of my readers to creep in my time, now it was
the turn of my own. No one had ever visited me before by night in this
way. I could not imagine who it could be or what he--for it was the
tread of a man that I had heard--could want.
I turned cold and shivered. But a moment's thought told me that after
all it might be only a policeman, suspecting burglars, come to inquire
why my light was burning, or it might be a "mistake."
So I went to the door and opened it without removing the chain.
"Who is there?" I asked.
Then a voice inquired, "Is this Mr. Samuel Chillip's?" It was a somewhat
hoarse, gruff voice, but its tone was subdued and quiet. It threatened
nothing unpleasant.
"Yes, I am Mr. Chillip," I said.
"Can I speak with you a moment?"
"About what? Who are you?"
"I am a stranger, and I cannot well explain my business here, but it is
important and urgent."
This was said in so tranquil and respectful a manner as to allay any
apprehension I might have felt, while exciting my curiosity. Still I
hesitated. The stranger might be a beggar. But he anticipated my
thought.
"I have not come to beg," he said, "or to trouble you in any way. I have
an important communication to make to you, likely to be useful to you in
your occupation, and it must be made at once or it will be too late."
Here was a mystery equal to many that I myself had invented. What could
it mean? I was eager to know, and alas! let the stranger in.
[Illustration: "WHO IS THERE?"]
He asked me to allow him to accompany me to my study, and I did so.
There was but a dim light in the passage, and it was not till he had
entered my room, and the rays of my lamp had fallen upon him, that I
discovered what manner of man it was that I had rashly admitted.
He was a tall, big man, with a hard, square face, and deep-set,
glittering eyes, and his chin fringed with a round, shaggy beard, while
he was attired in a rough pilot coat, and on his head he wore a
broad-brimmed felt hat. He looked like a seafaring man, and was not a
prepossessing person.
[Illustration: "HE WAS A TALL, BIG MAN."]
I asked him to take a seat, and seated myself in my round-backed writing
chair beside my desk.
He had taken off his hat, and held it on his knee with his left hand,
while the other he buried in his capacious side pocket. I thought he was
going to produce something, but he did not.
He merely opened a conversation, and I may say that the tone of his
voice throughout was always as quiet, as calm, as subdued, as when he
addressed me at the door.
"You are Mr. Samuel Chillip?" he asked, or remarked, again.