LEIGH PROMISES ONE VISIT AND PAYS ANOTHER.
That morning when Edith Grace fell asleep in the corner of the
third-class carriage, on her way from Millway to London, she sank into
the most profound unconsciousness. No memory of life disturbed her
repose. No dreams intruded. The forward movement of the train was
unheeded. The vibration did not break in upon her serenity. At the
various stations where the train stopped people got in or out, the
door banged, men and women talked to one another, the engine shrieked,
and still Edith not only slept, but slept as peacefully and free from
vision or fear as though all were silent and at rest. Before closing
her eyes she took fully into her mind the friendly porter's assurance
there would be no need to change her carriage between Millway and the
end of her journey.
When she opened her eyes they had arrived at Grosvenor Road, where
tickets are taken up for Victoria. She was conscious of being shaken
by the shoulder; she awoke and saw opposite her a stout, kind-faced
countrywoman, with a basket on her arm. The woman said: "This is
Grosvenor Road. We are just at Victoria. They want your ticket."
Two other women were in the carriage--no man. A ticket-collector
standing at the door, impatient of delay, was flicking the tickets in
his hand.
She started and coloured, and sat upright with all haste and began
searching quickly, anxiously, despairingly. Her memory up to the
moment of giving the money to the friendly porter was perfect. After
that all was dim until all became blank in sleep. She could not
clearly recollect the man's giving her the ticket. She remembered a
dull sensation in her hand, as though she had felt him thrust the
ticket into it, and she remembered a still duller sensation of peace
and ease, as though she believed all was right till her journey's end.
Then came complete oblivion. She was now burning with confusion and
dismay.
"Ticket, please, the train is waiting."
"I--I can't find my ticket."
"Pray, try. The train is waiting."
"I cannot find it."
The collector said nothing, but made a sign, and entered the
compartment. The train moved on. "Try your pockets well, miss," said
the collector civilly; "you are sure to find the ticket. You had one,
of course?"
She tried her pocket and stood up and looked around her. Misfortunes
came thick upon her. She had but just escaped from Eltham House, had
thrown up her situation, had been wandering about the country all the
morning, and now was back in London without a ticket or a sixpenny
piece! People were sent to prison for travelling without a railway
ticket. She had slept nothing last night, was she to spend this night
in gaol? She sat down in despair.
"Indeed, I cannot find it." She was white now, and the trembling with
which she had been seized on finding her loss had gone. She was pale,
cold, hopeless, indifferent.
"Where did you come from?"
"Millway. I got in at Millway. The porter said he would get my ticket
for me. I gave him all the money I had, only enough for the ticket,
and----"
"Did he give you the ticket?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know! Don't know whether he gave you the ticket or not?" The
collector's manner, which had been sympathetic and encouraging,
hardened into suspiciousness.
"I do not know. I fell asleep in the carriage, and did not wake up
until just now. What shall I do?"
"You will have to pay your fare from Millway."
"But I can't. I told you I haven't any money. I gave it all to the
porter."
"If you haven't a ticket and can't pay it will be a bad job. Is it
likely any friend of yours will be waiting for you at the station?"
"Oh, no! I am coming up quite unexpectedly."
"It's a bad job, then," said the collector.
"But you will let me go home? You will not keep me here? You will not
detain me?" she asked piteously. Her indifference was passing away and
she was becoming excited at hideous possibilities conjured up by her
imagination while the train glided slowly into the terminus.
"I don't know. We must see what the Inspector says."
The train had stopped and the two other women got out, the one who had
spoken to her saying: "I hope it will be all right, my dear. You don't
look as if you was up to anything bad. You don't look like one of them
swindling girls that they sent to prison for a fortnight last week."
"Oh, my God!" cried Edith piteously, as she stepped out on the
platform. She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
She was one of the last passengers to leave the train and the shallow
fringe of alighting passengers had thinned and almost cleared away.
She felt completely overwhelmed, as if she should die. She caught with
one hand the side of the open carriage door for support, and kept the
other hand before her face. She ceased to sob, or cry or weep. The
collector and two guards were standing round her, waiting until she
should recover herself. Presently a fourth man came up slowly from the
further end of the train and stood among the three men.
"What is the matter?" he asked softly of one of the guards. "Has
anything happened to the lady? Is she ill?"
A shiver went through Edith. There was something familiar in the
voice, but unfamiliar in the tone.
"Lost her ticket and hasn't got any money. We have sent for the
Inspector," answered the collector.
"Pooh, money," said the new-comer contemptuously. "I have money. Where
has the lady come from? How much is the fare?"
"Come from Millway," answered the collector.
"Millway! So have I. What class? First?"
"No; Third. Five and twopence."
"Here you are." The new-comer held out his hand to the collector with
money in it.
"This gentleman offers to pay, miss," said the collector turning to
Edith. "Am I to take the money?"
The girl swayed to and fro, and did not answer. It was plain she heard
what had been said. Her movement was an acknowledgment she had heard.
She did not answer because she did not know what to say. Two powerful
emotions were conflicting in her. The feeling of weakness was passing
away. She was trying to choose between gaol (for so the matter seemed
to her) and deliverance at _his_ hands.
"Of course, the lady will allow me to arrange this little matter for
her. She can pay me back at any time. I will give her my name and
address: Oscar Leigh, Forbes's bakery, Chetwynd Street."
"Am I to take the money, miss? We are losing time. The train is going
to back out. Here's the Inspector. Am I to take the five and twopence
from this gentleman?"
"Yes," she whispered. She loosed her hold upon the carriage door, but
did not take down her hand from her face.
The collector wrote out and thrust a ticket into her disengaged hand.
The touch of the hand recalled the dim memory of what had happened
earlier that day. Her fingers closed firmly, instinctively, on the
paper.
"Now, miss, it's all right. Please stand away. The train is backing
out."
She dropped her hand from her face, moved a pace from the edge of the
platform and looked round. She knew she should see him with her eyes,
she had heard him with her ears. She shrank from the sight of him, she
shrank still more from the acknowledgment she should have to make.
Leigh was standing in front of her, leaning on his stick and gazing
intently at her. With a cry of astonishment he let his stick fall and
threw up his arms. "Miss Grace! Miss Grace, as I am alive! Miss Grace
here! Miss Grace here now!"
He dropped his arms. His cry and manner bereft her of the power of
speech. She felt abashed and confounded. She seemed to have treated
badly this man who had just delivered her from a serious and
humiliating difficulty.
"Pray excuse me," he said, bowing low and raising his hat as he picked
up his stick. "The sight of you astonished me out of myself. I thought
you were miles and miles away. I thought you were at Eltham House. To
what great misfortune does my poor mother owe your absence? You are
not--please say you are not ill?"
"I am not ill." It was very awkward that he should speak of his
mother's loss, of her abandoning his mother. She had felt a liking in
their short acquaintance for the poor helpless old woman. She had come
away without saying a word to Mrs. Leigh. True, she had left a note,
and as she was quitting the place that morning the note had not been
where she had placed it. Perhaps it had merely been blown down or
knocked away by the wind or by herself, or by him in the dark. She was
conscience-stricken at having deserted Mrs. Leigh, she was bewildered
at the inconsistency of his words now, and his visit to that room from
which he believed she had fled last night. She had, too, overheard him
say to his mother that he would put something right in Eltham for her
this day. She had gathered he had had no intention of leaving Eltham
until about noon, and it was not nine o'clock yet! He surely did not
know she was in that dark room when he made the soliloquy. To suppose
he thought she was there would be madness. He knew at that time she
had left the house with the intention of not returning and he believed
she had not returned. How then could he imagine she was still at
Eltham? Why had he left Millway so early? Ah, yes, of course, as far
as that went, Mrs. Brown must have discovered her flight on missing
the key of the gate from its hook in the little hall of the
gate-house. She must have given information and he must have come up
by this train, but why? Ah, the whole thing was horribly confused, and
dull, and dim, and she heard a buzzing in her ears.
All this went through her mind as quickly as wind through a tree, and
like wind through a tree touching and moving the many boughs and
branches of thought in her mind simultaneously.
Leigh, upon hearing her say "I am not ill," drew back with a gesture
of astonishment and protest, and said, "You were not ill, and yet you
fled from us, Miss Grace! Then we must have been so unfortunate as to
displease Miss Grace unwittingly. But you are tired, child, and I am
inconsiderate to keep you waiting. You are going where?" His voice
became suave and gracious. His manner showed to advantage contrasted
with his half sly and wholly persistent manner of yesterday.
"I was going home to Grimsby Street."
"Then this is our way. You have no baggage, I presume?"
"No, I left it behind me. I also left a note----"
"Hah! Here we are. Now Miss Grace, you must be far too tired and put
out by your early journey and this most unpleasant experience on the
platform to be allowed by me to speak a word of explanation. Pray step
in. I shall call to enquire how you are later in the day."
He hurried her into a four-wheeler and gave the driver his fare and
the address before she had time to hesitate or protest. Then he turned
briskly away, and leaving the terminus, clambered to the top of an
omnibus going east.
When he arrived at the Bank he descended. He looked sharply around,
and after scrutinizing the faces of all those standing or moving
slowly near him, walked rapidly a few hundred yards back over the way
the omnibus had come, along clattering and roaring Cheapside. Then he
pulled up suddenly, and cast quick, furtive glances at the men on
either side, particularly those who were standing, and those moving
slowly.
It was certain Oscar Leigh was trying to find out if he was watched.
"Hah!" cried he under his breath. "No one. All right." He then turned
into one of the narrow streets leading south out of the main
thoroughfare and walked rapidly. Here were large, slow-moving vans and
carts and drays in the roadway and a thin stream of men, with now and
then a woman of homely aspect and dingy garments, hurrying by. As one
walked it was quite possible to take note of every person and no one
escaped the dark flashing eyes of Leigh. In the eyes of City men when
they walk about through the mazes of their own narrow domain there is
always an introspective look. They are not concerned with the sticks
and stones or the people they encounter. They know every stick and
stone by rote and they are not abroad to meet people in the street,
but to call upon people in warehouses, shops, or offices. Their eyes
are turned inward, for their minds are busy. As they step swiftly
forward they are devising, inventing, calculating, plotting, planning.
They are on their way from one place to another and all the
things they pass by are to them indifferent. They have the air of
sleep-walkers who have only their bournes in their minds and are
heedless of all things encountered by the way.
Oscar Leigh was the very opposite to the denizens of the City. His
whole attention was given to his environment. He kept on the left-hand
pavement and close to the houses so that he could see all before him
without turning his head. Thus he obviated any marked appearance of
watchfulness.
When he came to a cross street he stood still, looked back and mopped
his forehead with his handkerchief. He waited a minute and then,
muttering again a satisfied "Hah! No one," struck into the cross
street by the left and proceeded very slowly. This was a still
narrower artery than the former one. When he reached the end of it he
paused once more, and stood regarding the ground he had just covered.
It was plain that by this time all anxiety had been removed from his
mind.
He faced about, threading his way through alleys of great secrecy and
gloom and silence, and moved in a south-easterly direction until he
emerged at the head of London Bridge.
He crossed the river on foot, and keeping to the right through mean
streets out of Borough High Street found himself in London Road, where
from noon to midnight, all the year round, a market for the poor is
held on the pavement and in the kennel.
He crossed this street and entered another, Tunbridge Street, the
dirtiest and dingiest one he had yet traversed. It seemed given up
wholly to vehicles out of work. Here were a couple of dozen large,
unhandsome, stores, warehouses and small factories, and half-a-dozen
of very poor houses, let in tenements. An ill-smelling, close, foul,
low-lying, little-used street.
The ground floor of one of the houses was devoted to commerce. The
floor, as far in as one could see, was littered with all kinds of
odds and ends of metal machines and utensils and implements. On a
washed-out blue fascia-board, in washed-out white letters, over the
door, were the words "John Timmons," in large letters, and beneath in
small letters, once black and now a streaky grey, "marine store
dealer." Into the misty twilight of this house of bankrupt and
forgeless Vulcan Leigh disappeared. Any one passing down Tunbridge
Street a quarter of a minute after he stepped across the threshold
would not have been able to detect any living being in the business
establishment of Mr. John Timmons, marine-store dealer.
But if a listener had been at the back of the store, behind the boiler
of a donkey-engine, or leant over the head of the dark cellar in the
left corner, he would have heard the following dialogue carried on by
careful whispers in the darkness below:
"Yes. I have come back sooner than I expected. I went to Birmingham
yesterday morning to consult a very clever mechanist there about the
new movement for the figures of time in my clock--Hah!"
"You told me you were going away, but I thought it was to Edinburgh."
"Hah!" said the former speaker, "I changed my mind about Edinburgh and
went to Birmingham instead. I thought when I was speaking to you last
that Edinburgh would be best, but I got the name of the best man in
Birmingham and went to him instead. My friend in Birmingham not only
put me right about the new movement, but when I told him I thought I
was on the point of perfecting my discovery of the combination in
metals he told me he would be able to find a market for me if I was
sure the new compound was equal to representation. Of course, I told
him the supply would be limited until I could arrange for a proper
laboratory and for help. I explained that no patent could protect all
the processes of manufacture and that for the present the method must
be a profound secret. I also told him I proposed calling my invention
Miracle Gold."
"No doubt about no patent being sufficient to protect. You were right
enough there. Ho-ho-ho-ho."
"It was best to say that. Anyway, he is ready to take any quantity, if
the thing is equal to representation."
"There's no doubt it will be. Ho-ho-ho-ho."
"I told him my great difficulty at present, was the colour--that it
was very white--too like Australian gold--too much silver."
"Ho-ho-ho-ho, that was clever, very clever. You are the cleverest man
I ever met, Mr. ----."
"Hah--stop. Isn't it best not to mention names here?"
"Well, it's always best to be on the safe side and even walls can't
tell what they don't hear, can they?"
"I told him also that for the present the quantity would be small of
the miracle gold, but that I hoped soon to increase the supply as soon
as I got fully to work."
"That's true."
"He says he will take all I can make, no matter how much, if it is
equal to representation----"
"Ho-ho-ho-ho! Equal to representation! That's splendid. I can't help
laughing at that."
"No. It was clever of me. But the affair is hardly a laughing matter.
May I beg of you not to laugh in that way again? I dare say the most
uncomfortable place after a prison into which anyone goes is a grave,
and this place looks and smells like a grave. Besides, there is
fearful danger in this affair, fearful danger. Pray don't laugh."
"But you will go on with the thing now?"
"Yes, I will go on with it. But, observe, I cannot increase my risk by
a grain weight. I am already risking too much. I deal, mind you, with
nothing but the _alloy_."
"I don't want you to deal with anything else. You know nothing of the
matter beyond the alloy. What did the Birmingham gentleman say the
stuff would be worth?"
"In the pure metal state?"
"Of course. After you are done with it?"
"Hah! He will not say until he has a specimen. When can you have some
ready?"
"Now. This minute. Will you take it away with you?"
"No, not now. What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing particular."
"Can you come to my place between twelve and half past?"
"Certainly."
"Without fail?"
"I'll be there to the minute you say."
"Very well. Let it be twelve exactly. I have a most excellent reason
of my own for punctuality. Bring some of the alloy with you. Knock at
the door once, one knock, the door in Chetwynd Street, mind. I'll open
the door for you myself. Mind, not a word to a soul, and above all
don't go into the Hanover hard by. I have reasons for this--most
important reasons."
"Do not fear. I shall be there punctually at twelve. I never go into
public houses. I can't afford it. They are places for only talking and
drinking and I can't afford either. Are you going?"
"Yes. I must run away now. The National Gallery folk are in a fog
about a Zuccaro. They are not certain whether it is genuine or not.
There is a break in the pedigree and they will do nothing until I have
seen the picture and pronounced upon it. Good-bye. Twelve sharp."
"Good-bye. I'll not keep you waiting for me to-night."
Oscar Leigh came quickly out into Tunbridge Street and thence into
London Road, and got on the top of an omnibus going north. He changed
to the top of one going west when he reached Ludgate Circus.
If you have sharp eyes, and want to see with them that you are not
followed, the top of an omnibus is an excellent way of getting about
through London.
Leigh alighted from the second omnibus at Charing Cross, and walked
from that straight to the Hanover in Chetwynd Street. The nation was
not that day made richer by his opinion of the genuineness of the
alleged Zuccaro, nor had he up to this moment conceived the
advisability of inventing the mummified Egyptian prince, much less of
buying his highness, with a view to painting the dial of his clock
with the asphalatum from the coffin.
He had spent the time between his arrival at Victoria and his brandy
and soda with Williams at the Hanover in going to and coming back from
Tunbridge Street, and in his visit to John Timmons, marine-store
dealer.