THE LITTLE STONE PASSAGE.
Queenie kept Dudley's half-confessed secret to herself for the whole of
that day. She was hoping against hope that he would change his mind
again and speak to Doreen himself. Since there must be a definite and
final breach, she thought it would be better for the principals
themselves to come to an understanding, without the intervention of
outsiders. She would have told him so, but she got no further
opportunity of speaking to him alone.
The day passed uncomfortably for everybody, although the only person who
gave vent to his feelings by open ill-temper was Mr. Wedmore, who was
waiting for the promised explanation which Dudley never attempted to
give. And before dinner-time that evening the young barrister returned
to town.
Mr. Wedmore, who had been out shooting with Doctor Haselden, was
furious, on returning home, to learn of Dudley's departure.
"He has left a note for you, papa, in the study," said Doreen, who was,
perhaps, a little paler than usual, but who gave no other outward sign
of her feelings.
Her father went into the study, after a glance at his daughter, and read
the letter. It was not a very long one. Following the lines of his
guarded confession to Queenie, Dudley expressed the sorrow he felt at
having to give up the hopes he had had of being something more than the
mere old friend he had been for so many years. He had thought it better,
at the last, to say this on paper instead of by word of mouth, and he
ended by expressing the deep gratitude he should always feel for the
kindness shown to him by Mr. Wedmore and all his family during the
happiest period of his life.
Mr. Wedmore read this letter with little astonishment. It was, in fact,
what he had been prepared to hear. He read it to his wife, who cried a
great deal, but acquiesced in her husband's desire that Dudley should
drop not only out of the ranks of their intimate friends, but even, as
much as possible, out of their conversation.
"Let us do our best," said he, "to make Doreen forget him."
Mr. Wedmore showed the letter also to Doctor Haselden, who, perhaps,
from pure love of contradiction, persisted in maintaining that the
letter confessed nothing, and that the cause of the young man's
withdrawal was, in all probability, quite different from what Mr.
Wedmore supposed. The two gentlemen had quite a wrangle over the matter,
at the end of which each was settled more firmly in his own opinion than
before.
When they went upstairs for the night, Doreen came to Queenie's room and
demanded to know what her younger sister and Dudley had been talking
about so earnestly in the breakfast-room that morning.
"What do you mean by talking earnestly?" said Queenie, in the calm, dry
manner which would have made any one but her sister think she was really
surprised.
"Max told me," said Doreen, "and I mean to stay here until I know."
It needed very little reflection to tell Queenie that it was better for
her sister to hear the truth at once. So she told her.
Doreen listened very quietly, and then got up and wished her sister good
night.
"Well," said Queenie, "you take it very quietly. What do you think about
it?"
"I'll tell you--when I know myself," answered Doreen, briefly, as she
left the room. The first result of the talks, however, was a
conversation, not with Queenie, but with her brother, Max. Doreen ran
after him next morning as he was on his way to the stables and made him
take a walk through the park with her instead of going for a ride.
"Max," she said, coaxingly, when they had gone out of sight of the
house, "you have been my confidant about this unhappy affair of
Dudley's--"
But her brother interrupted her, and tried to draw away the arm she had
taken.
"Look here, Doreen," said he earnestly, "you'd better not think any more
about him--much better not. I do really think the poor fellow's right in
what he hinted to my father, and that he's going off his head; or,
rather, I _know_ enough to be sure that he's not always perfectly
sane. Surely you must see that, in the circumstances, the less you think
about him the better."
"There I disagree with you altogether," said Doreen, firmly. "Max, papa
and mamma can't understand; they've forgotten how they felt when they
were first fond of each other. Queenie's not old enough, and she's too
good besides. Now, you do know, you do understand what it is to be head
over ears in love."
"Good heavens, Doreen, don't talk like that! You mustn't, you know!"
"Don't talk nonsense," interrupted his sister, sharply. "I tell you I
love Dudley, and ever so much more since I've found out he is in great
trouble; as any decent woman would do. Now I don't feel nearly so sure
as everybody else as to what his trouble is, but I want you to find out,
and to help me if you can."
"What, play detective--spy? Not me. It's ridiculous, unheard of. I've
done it once on your account, and I never felt such a sneak in my life.
I won't do it again, even for you, and that's flat."
And Max thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
"Won't you?" said Doreen, with a quiet smile. "Then I must, and I will."
Her brother started and stared at her.
"You! _You!_ What nonsense!"
"It's not nonsense, as you will find when you hear me get permission to
go up to town to stay with Aunt Betty."
Max grew sincerely alarmed.
"Look here, Doreen, be reasonable," said he. "You can do no good to
Dudley, believe me. He has got into some dreadful mess or other; but
it's nothing that you or I or any earthly creature can help him out of.
I confess I didn't tell you all I found out when I went up to town. I
couldn't. I can't now. But if you will persist, and if nothing else will
keep you quietly here, I--well, I promise to go up again. And I'll
warrant if I do I shall learn something which will convince even
_you_ that you must give up every thought of him."
"Will you promise," said Doreen, solemnly, "to tell me all you find
out?"
"No," replied Max, promptly, "I won't promise that. I can't. But I think
you can trust me to tell you as much as you ought to know."
With this promise Doreen was obliged to be content. And when, at
luncheon time, it was discovered that certain things were wanted from
town, and Max offered to go up for them, Doreen and her brother
exchanged a look from which she gathered that he would not forget her
errand.
Max had plenty of time, while he was being jolted from Datton to Cannon
Street, to decide on the best means of carrying out his promise. He
decided that a visit to Limehouse, to the neighborhood where the
property of the late Mr. Horne had been situated, would be better than
another visit to Dudley.
Plumtree Wharf was, he knew, the name of the most important part of the
property which had belonged to Dudley's father. Putting together the two
facts of the discovery of a ticket for Limehouse in Dudley's possession,
and of the disappearance of Edward Jacobs after a visit to that locality
on the same day, Max saw that there was something to be gleaned in that
neighborhood, if he should have the luck to light upon it.
It was late in the afternoon, and already dark, before he got out of the
train at Limehouse station, and began the exploration of the unsavory
district which fringes the docks.
Through street after street of dingy, squalid houses he passed; some
broken up by dirty little shops, some presenting the dull uniformity of
row after row of mean, stunted brick buildings, the broken windows of
many of which were mended with brown paper, or else not mended at all.
Here and there a grimy public house, each with its group of loafers
about the doors, made, with the lights in its windows, a spot of
comparative brightness.
Many of the streets were narrow and tortuous, roughly paved, and both
difficult and dangerous to traverse by the unaccustomed foot passenger,
who found himself now slipping on a piece of orange peel, the pale color
of which was disguised by mud, now risking the soundness of his ankles
among the uneven and slimy stones of the road.
Max had to ask his way more than once before he reached the Plumtree
Wharf, the entrance to which was through a door in a high wooden fence.
Rather to his surprise, he found the door unfastened and unguarded. And
when he had got through he looked round and asked himself what on earth
he had expected to find there.
There was nothing going on at this late hour, and Max was able to take
stock of the place and of the outlook generally. Piles of timber to the
right of him, the dead wall at the side of a warehouse on the left, gave
him but a narrow space in which to pursue his investigations. And these
only amounted to the discovery that the troubled waters of the Thames
looked very dark and very cold from this spot; that the opposite bank,
with little specks of light, offered a gloomy and depressing prospect,
and that the lapping of the water among the black barges which were
moored at his feet in a dense mass was the dreariest sound he had ever
heard. He turned away with a shudder, and walked quickly up the narrow
lane left by the timber, calling himself a fool for his journey.
And just as he was reaching the narrow street by which he had come he
was startled to find a girl's face peering down at him from the top of a
pile of timber.
Max stopped, with an exclamation. In an instant the girl withdrew the
head, which was all he had seen of her, and he heard her crawling back
quickly over the timber, out of his sight.
Although he had seen her for a moment only, Max had been chilled to the
bone by the expression of the girl's face. Ghastly white it had looked
in the feeble light of a solitary gas lamp some distance away, and
wearing an expression of fear and horror such as he had never seen on
any countenance before. He felt that he must find out where she had
gone, his first belief being that she was a lunatic. Else why should she
have disappeared in that stealthy manner, with the look of fear stamped
upon her face? There was nothing in the look or manner of Max himself to
alarm her; and if she had been in need of help, why had she not called
to him?
He got a footing upon the timber and looked over it. But he could see
nothing more of the girl. Beyond the stacks were some low-roofed
outbuildings and the back of a shut-up warehouse. Reluctantly he got
down, and passed into the narrow street. Not willing to leave at once a
neighborhood which he had come so far to investigate, he turned, after
going some dozen yards down the street, into a narrow passage on his
left hand which led back to the river.
The width between the high walls and the warehouses on either side was
only some five feet. It was flagged with stone, very dark. About ten
yards from the entrance there was a small warehouse, on the left hand,
on which hung an old board, announcing that the building was "To Let."
And next door to this was a dingy shop, with grimy and broken windows,
the door of which was boarded up. This shop, also, was "To Be Let," and
the board in this case had been up so long that the announcement had to
be divined rather than read.
Rather struck by the dilapidated appearance of these two buildings in a
place where he supposed land must be valuable, Max paused for an
instant. And as he did so, he became aware that there was some one by
his side.
Looking down quickly, he saw the young girl of whom he had caught a
glimpse a few minutes before.
He started.
She looked up at him, and, still with the same look of stereotyped
horror on her thin, white face, whispered, in a hoarse voice, as she
pointed to the boarded-up shop-door with a shaking forefinger:
"You daren't go in there, do you? There's a dead man in there!"