The very day after the rediscovery of Rolston I fell ill. The strain had
been too much, a severe nervous attack was the result, and my vet.
ordered me to the quietest watering-place in Brittany that I could find.
I protested, but in vain. The big man told me what would happen if I
didn't go, so I went, _faute-de-mieux_, and took Rolston with me.
I acquainted Arthur Winstanley and Pat Moore of my movements by letter,
and I engaged the seedy Mr. Sliddim to abide permanently in Richmond and
to forward me a full report of all he observed, and of all rumors,
connected with the City in the Clouds. When I had subscribed to a
press-cutting agency to send me everything that appeared in print
relating to Gideon Morse and his fantastic home, I felt I had done
everything possible until I should be restored to health.
Of my month in Pont Aven I shall say nothing save that I lived on fine
Breton fare, walked ten miles a day, left Rolston--who proved the most
interesting and stimulating companion a man could have--to answer all my
letters, and went to bed at nine o'clock at night.
Heartache, fear for Juanita, occasional fits of fury at my own inaction
and impotence? Yes, all these were with me at times. But I crushed them
down, forced myself to think as little as possible of her, in order that
when once restored to health and full command of my nerves, I might
begin the campaign I had planned. You must picture me therefore, one
afternoon at the end of October, arriving from Paris by the five o'clock
train, dispatching Rolston to Piccadilly with the luggage, and driving
myself to Captain Moore's quarters at Knightsbridge Barracks.
I had summoned a meeting of our league, which we had so fancifully named
"Santa Hermandad"--a fact that was to have future consequences which
none of us ever dreamed of--by telegram from Paris.
Pat and Arthur were awaiting me in the former's comfortable
sitting-room. A warm fire burned on the hearth as we sat down to tea and
anchovy toast.
I had been in more or less frequent communication with both of them
during my sick leave, and when we began to discuss the situation we
dispensed with preliminaries.
It was Pat who, so to speak, took the chair, leaning against an old
Welsh sideboard of oak, crowded with polo and shooting cups, shields for
swordsmanship and other trophies.
"Now, you two," he said, "we know certain facts, and we have arrived at
certain conclusions.
"First of all, as to the facts. Miss Morse is as good as engaged to Tom
here. Arthur and I are 'also ran.' Fact number one. Fact number two, she
has been suddenly and forcibly taken away from the world, and is in
great distress of mind. That so, brother leaguers?"
We murmured assent.
"Now for our deductions. Morse, divil take him! has some deadly
important reason for this fantastic, spectacular show of his. The public
see it as the fancy of a chap who's so much money he don't know what to
do with it, a fellow that's exhausted all sensation and is now trying
for a new one. Let 'em think so! But _we_ know--here in this room--a
long sight more than the general public knows. Tom and that young
fly-by-night, with the red hair and the stained-glass-window ears, he's
been cartin' about with him, have got behind the scenes."
Pat's face hardened.
"We alone are certain that the man Morse, for all his equanimity and the
mask he has presented to London during the season, has been living under
the influence of some dirty, cowardly fear or other!"
Arthur interrupted.
"Fear, if you like, Pat, but I don't think it is probably dirty, or even
cowardly. You forget Miss Morse."
"Perhaps you're right. At any rate, if Gideon Morse is really menaced by
some great danger, what cleverer trick could he have played? To let the
world suppose that it's his whim and fancy to live like a rook at the
top of an elm tree, when all the time he's providing against the
possibility of annihilation, that's a stroke of genius."
"Good for you, Pat," said Arthur with a wink to me, "you're on the track
of it."
"Indeed, and I think I am," said the big guardsman simply, "and here's
the cunning of it, the supreme sense of self-preservation. If that man
Morse is in fear of his life, and in fear for his daughter's too, he
couldn't have invented a more perfect security than he has done. From
all we know, from all Tom has told us, no one can get at them now but an
archangel!"
Then Arthur spoke.
"For my part," he said, "as I'm vowed to the service, I'm going straight
to Brazil and I'm going to find out everything I can about the past life
of Gideon Morse. I speak Spanish as you know. I think I'm fairly
diplomatic, and in a little more than a couple of months I'll return
with big news, if I'm not very much mistaken. And there's always the
cable too. We are pledged to Tom, but beyond that we're united together
to save the little lady from evil or from harm. To-morrow I sail for
Rio."
"And I," I said, "have already made my plans. To-morrow I disappear
absolutely from ordinary life. Only two people in London will know where
I am, and what I am doing--Preston, my servant in Piccadilly, and one
other whom I shall appoint at the offices of my paper. While Arthur is
gathering information which will be of the greatest use, I must be
working on the spot. I imagine there isn't much time to lose."
"And what'll I do?" asked Pat Moore.
"You, Pat, will stay here, lead your ordinary life, and hold yourself
ready for anything and everything when I call upon you. And as far as I
can see," I concluded, "there will be a very pressing necessity for your
help before much more water has flowed under Richmond Bridge."
There was an end of talking; we were all in deadly earnest. We grasped
hands, arranged a system of communication, and then I and Arthur went
down the stone steps, across the parade ground, and said good-by at Hyde
Park corner.
"You--?" he said.
"You will see in the papers that Sir Thomas Kirby is gone for a voyage
round the world."
"And as a matter of fact?"
"I think I won't give you any details, old man. My plan is a very odd
one indeed. You wouldn't quite understand, and you'd think it
extraordinary--as indeed it is."
"It can't be more fantastic than the whole bitter business," he said,
and his voice was full of pain.
I saw, for the first time, that he had grown older in the last few
months. The boyishness in him which had been one of his charms, was
passing away definitely and forever. He was hard hit, as we all were,
and I reproached myself for my egotism. After all, if there was any hope
at all, I was the most fortunate. Arthur and staunch old Pat Moore were
giving up their time, their energies, to bring about a conclusion from
which I alone should benefit.
We were crossing the Green Park as this was borne in upon me. It was a
dull, gray afternoon, rapidly deadening into evening. There seemed no
color anywhere. But when I thought of the faithful, uncomplaining, even
joyous adherence to our oath, when I understood for the first time how
these two friends of mine were laboring without hope of reward, then I
saw, as in a vision, the wonder and sacredness of unselfish love.
"Arthur," I said, as we were about to part at Hyde Park corner, "God
forgive me, but I believe your love for her is greater than mine."
"Don't say that, Tom. When we threw the dice, if the Queen had come to
me you would be doing what I am doing now, or what Pat is ready to do."
Well, of course, that was true, but when we gripped hands and turned our
backs upon each other, I walked slowly towards my flat with a hanging
head.
For one brief moment I had caught a glimpse of that love which Dante
speaks of--that love "which moves earth and all the stars"--and in the
presence of so high a thing I was bowed and humbled.
Let me also be worthy of such company, was my prayer.
* * * * *
At ten o'clock the next morning I stood in my bedroom with Preston in
attendance. Preston's face, usually a well-bred mask which showed
nothing of his feelings, was gravely distressed.
"Shall I do, Preston?" I asked.
"Yes, Sir Thomas, you'll _do_," he said regretfully, "but I must say,
Sir Thomas, that--"
"Shut up, Preston, you've said quite enough. Am I the real thing or
not?"
"Certainly not, Sir Thomas," he said with spirit. "How could you be the
real thing? But I'm bound to say you _look_ it."
"You mean that your experience of a small but prosperous suburban
public-house, visited principally by small tradespeople, leads you to
suppose that I might pass very well for the landlord of such a place?"
"I am afraid it does, Sir Thomas," he replied with a gulp, as I surveyed
myself once more in the long mirror of my wardrobe door.
I was about six feet high in my boots, fair, with a ruddy countenance
and somewhat fleshy face--not gross I believe, but generally built upon
a generous scale.
That morning I had shaved off my mustache, had my hair arranged in a new
way--that is to say, with an oily curl draping over the forehead--and I
had very carefully penciled some minute crimson veins upon my nose. I
ought to say that I have done a good deal of amateur acting in my time
and am more or less familiar with the contents of the make-up box.
[NOTE.--My master, Sir Thomas Kirby, has long been known as one of
the handsomest gentlemen in society. He has a full face certainly,
but entirely suited to his build and physical development. Of
course, when he shaved off a mustache that was a model of such
adornments, it did alter his appearance considerably.--HENRY
PRESTON.]
Instead of the high collar of use and wont, I wore a low one,
permanently attached to what I believe is known as a "dicky"--that is to
say, a false shirt front which reaches but little lower than the opening
of the waistcoat. My tie was a made-up four-in-hand of crimson
satin--not too new, my suit of very serviceable check with large
side-pockets, purchased second-hand, together with other oddments, from
a shop in Covent Garden. I also wore a large and massive gold
watch-chain, and a diamond ring upon the little finger of my right hand.
That was all, yet I swear not one of my friends would have known me, and
what was more important still, I was typical without having overdone it.
No one in London, meeting me in the street, would have turned to look
twice at me. You could not say I was really disguised--in the true
meaning of the word--and yet I was certainly entirely transformed, and
with my cropped hair, except for the "quiff" in front, I looked as
blatant and genial a bounder as ever served a pint of "sixes."
Preston had left the room for a moment and now came back to say that Mr.
W. W. Power had arrived.
W. W. Power was the youngest partner in a celebrated firm of solicitors,
Power, Davids and Power--a firm that has acted for my father and myself
for more years than I can remember.
Under his somewhat effeminate exterior and a languid manner, young Power
is one of the sharpest and cleverest fellows I know, and, what's more,
one that can keep his mouth shut under any circumstances.
I went into the dining-room, hoping to make him start. Not a bit of it.
He merely put up his eyeglass and said laconically: "You'll do, Sir
Thomas"--not more than two years ago he had been an under-graduate at
Cambridge!
"You think so, Power?"
He nodded and looked at his watch.
"All right then, we'll be off," I said, and Preston called a taxi, on
which were piled a large brass-bound trunk and a shabby
portmanteau--also recent purchases, and with the name H. Thomas painted
boldly upon them. Preston's Christian name by the way is Henry and I had
borrowed it for the occasion.
I got into the cab with a curious sensation that some one might be
looking on and discover me. Power seated himself by my side with no
indication of thought at all, and we rolled away westward.
"Nothing remains," he said, "but to complete the documents of sale.
Everything is ready, and I have the money in notes in my pocket. The
solicitor of the retiring proprietor will be in attendance, and the
whole thing won't take more than twenty minutes. Newby, the present man,
will then step out and leave you in undisturbed possession."
"Very good, Power, and thank you for your negotiations. Seven thousand
pounds seems a lot of money for a little hole like that."
"It isn't really. You see the place is freehold and the house is free
also. It's not under the dominion of any brewer, and when your purpose
in being there is over, I'll guarantee to sell it again for the same
money, probably a few hundreds more. As an investment it's sound
enough."
He relapsed into silence and we rattled through Hammersmith on our way
to Richmond. I was curious about this imperturbable young man, whom I
knew rather well.
"Aren't you curious, Power," I said, "to know why I'm doing this
extraordinary, unprecedented thing? I can trust you absolutely I know,
but haven't you asked yourself what the deuce I'm up to?"
He favored me with a pale smile.
"My dear Sir Thomas," he replied, "if you only knew what extraordinary
things society people _do_ do, if you knew a tenth of what a solicitor
in my sort of practice knows, you wouldn't think there was anything
particularly strange in your little freak."
Confound the cub! I could have punched him in the jaw. I knew his
assurance was all pose. Still it was admirable in its way and I burst
into hearty laughter.
I had the satisfaction of seeing Master Power's cheeks faintly tinged
with pink!
On the slope of the hill, at what one might describe as the back of the
high wall which inclosed the grounds at the foot of the three
towers--that is to say, it was exactly opposite the great central
entrance, and I suppose nearly quarter of a mile from it if one drew a
straight line from one to the other--was a crowded huddle of mean
streets. It was not in any sense a slum--nothing so picturesque--small,
drab, shabby, and respectable. In the center of this area was a
fair-sized, but old-fashioned, public-house, known as the "Golden Swan."
This was our destination, and in a few minutes more we had climbed the
hill and the taxi stood at rest before a side door.
Opening it we entered, Power leading the way, and as we approached some
stairs I caught a glimpse of a little plush-furnished bar to the left,
where I could have sworn I saw the melancholy Sliddim in company with a
pewter pot.
We waited for a moment or two in a long upstairs room. The walls were
covered with beasts, birds, and fishes, in glass cases, all of which
looked as if they ought to be decently buried. Upon one wall was an
immense engraving framed in boxwood of the execution of Mary, Queen of
Scots, and upon a huge mahogany sideboard which looked as if it had been
built to resist a cavalry charge, was a tray with hospitable bottles.
Then the door opened and a dapper little man with side whiskers, the
vendor's solicitor, came in, accompanied by Mr. Newby, the retiring
landlord himself.
Mr. Newby, dressed I was glad to notice, very much as myself, only the
diamond ring upon his finger was rather larger, was a short, fat man of
benevolent aspect, and I should say suffering from dropsy. We shook
hands heartily.
"Thirty years have I been landlord here," wheezed Mr. Newby, "and now
it's time the 'ouse was in younger 'ands. Your respectability 'as been
vouched for, Mr. Thomas--I wouldn't sell to no low blackguard for twice
the money--and all I can say is, young feller, for you are a young
feller to me, you know--I 'ope you'll be as 'appy and prosperous in the
'Golden Swan' as Emanuel Newby 'ave been."
I thought it was best to be a little awkward and bashful, so I said very
little while the lawyers fussed about with title deeds, and at last the
eventful moment came when one does that conjuring trick in which the
gentlemen of the law take such infantile delight. "Put your finger here,
yes, on this red seal and say...."
When it was all done and Mr. Newby had stowed away seven thousand pounds
in bank-notes in a receptacle over his heart, we drank to the occasion
in some remarkably good champagne and then, with a sigh, the
ex-proprietor announced his intention of being off.
"My luggage has preceded me," he said, "and I have nothing to do now but
retire, as I 'ave long planned, to the city of my birth."
"And where may that be, Mr. Newby?" I asked politely.
"The University City of Oxford," he replied, "which, if you've not known
intimate as I 'ave, you can never begin to understand. There's an
atmosphere there, Mr. Thomas, but Lord, you won't be interested!" and he
wheezed superior.
The situation was not without humor.
When he had gone, together with his solicitor, Power rang the bell.
"As you wish me to manage everything for you," he said, "I have done so.
Your entire ignorance of the liquor trade will be compensated by the
knowledge and devotion of the assistant I have procured for you, after
many inquiries. His name is Whistlecraft, and he is an Honest Fool. He
won't rob you, though he'll probably diminish your profits greatly by
his stupidity--but as I understand, profit from the sale of drinks isn't
your object. He will obey orders implicitly, without even trying to
understand their reason, and in short you couldn't have a better man for
your purpose."
When Whistlecraft appeared I perfectly agreed with Power. He was a
powerful fellow in shirt sleeves, aged about thirty-five, with arms that
could have felled an ox. Had he shaved within the last three days he
would have been clean shaved, and his hair was polished to a mirror-like
surface with suet--I caught him doing it one day. I never saw such calm
on any human face. It was the tranquillity of an entire absence of
intellect, a rich and perfect stupidity which nothing could penetrate,
nothing disturb. His eyes were dull as unclean pewter, without life or
speculation, and I knew at once that if I told him to go down into the
cellar, wait there till a hyena entered, strangle it, skin it, and bring
the pelt upstairs to me, he would depart upon his errand without a word!
Power went away with the most conventional of handshakes--we might have
been parting in Pall Mall--and I was left alone, monarch of all I
surveyed.
"What's the staff beside you, Whistlecraft?" I asked.
"Mrs. Abbs, sir, cooks and sweeps up, sleeps out. Peter, the odd-job
boy, washes bottles and such, and that's all."
"Then at closing time, you and I are left alone in the house?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a loud and impatient knocking from somewhere below.
"I'd better go and serve, sir, hadn't I?" said Whistlecraft--I found
later his name was Stanley--and I let him go at that.
I spent the next hour going over the premises from cellar to roof and
making many mental notes, for I had come here with a definite purpose,
and plans already made.
It was an extraordinary situation to be in. I sat in a little private
room behind the bar and every now and again Stanley's idiot countenance
appeared, and I had to go behind the counter and be introduced to this
or that regular frequenter. I asked every one to have a drink, for the
good of the house, and trust I made a fair impression. They all seemed
quiet, respectable people enough, who knew each other well.
In the evening I was greatly helped by Sliddim, who was now a seasoned
habitue of the "Golden Swan," and whom from the moment of my arrival
slipped into the position of Master of the Ceremonies, which saved me a
great deal of trouble.
It will be remembered that all the time that I was in Brittany, Sliddim
had been employed in my interests at Richmond. Bill Rolston vouched
absolutely for the man's fidelity: had told me I could safely trust him
in any way. Accordingly, there was perhaps a little misgiving, I had
released him from his employment at the third-class detective agency
where he worked, and took him permanently into my service. I may say at
once, though he took no prominent part in the great events which
followed until the very end, he was of considerable use to me and kept
my secrets perfectly.
At closing time that night, Mrs. Abbs, the cook, having spread a hot
supper in the private room behind the bar and left, I called the potman
in from his washing-up of glass and bade him share the meal.
"Now I tell you what, Stanley," I said, when we had filled our pipes,
"in the tower inclosure there's a whole colony of Chinks, isn't there?"
"Yes, sir; gardeners, stokers for the engines and such like. They say as
there isn't a white man among 'em, except only the boss, and he's an
Irishman."
"They don't always live inside that wall?" I jerked my head towards a
window which looked out into my back yard, not a hundred feet away from
the towering precipice of brick which overshadowed the "Golden Swan,"
and the surrounding houses.
"Oh, not by no means. They comes out when their work's done in the
evenings, though they goes back to sleep and has to be in by a certain
time. They do say," and here something happened to Stanley's face which
I afterwards grew to recognize as a smile, "they do say as some of the
girls downtown are takin' up with 'em, seein' as they dress well, and
spend a lot of money."
"I suppose they have somewhere where they go?"
"It's mostly the 'Rising Sun' down by the station, I am told. The boss
there was a sailor and understands their ways. He's given them a room to
themselves."
I was perfectly aware of all this, but I had a special motive for the
present conversation.
"Now, it's come into my mind," I said, "that there's a lot of custom
going downtown that ought by rights to come to the 'Golden Swan,' seeing
that we are close at the gates, so to speak, and I mean to do what I
can to get hold of it. A Chink's money is as good as anybody else's,
Stanley, that's my way of looking at it."
He chewed the cud of that idea for a minute or two and then it dawned in
the pudding of his mind.
"Why, yes," he said, in the voice of one who had made a great discovery.
"Now, there's that room upstairs," I went on, "I shall never use it. If
we could get some of these Chinks to drop in there of a night it would
be good business."
"There's just one thing against it," said Stanley, "if you'll pardon my
speaking of it, sir. I'm willing to do everything in reason, and I'm not
afraid of work. But I don't see as 'ow I can attend to both the saloon
and the four-ale bars if I'm to be going upstairs slinging drinks to the
Chinks."
"Of course you can't and I wasn't going to suggest it. We must get an
extra help--if we can get the Chinks to use the house. We might have a
barmaid."
He shook his head.
"It wouldn't work, sir; you'd have to get a new one every week. A young
woman can't resist a Chink and they'd marry off like--"
Stanley was unable to think of a simile so he buried his face in his
pewter pot.
Really things were going very well for me.
"I believe you are right. Supposing I could get a young fellow who was
one of themselves and could speak their lingo. There are lots to be
picked up about the docks. I mean some quiet young Chink, who would
attend to his fellow-countrymen in the evening, and relieve you of a lot
of the washing-up and things of that sort during the day?"
Mr. Stanley Whistlecraft was not so stupid as to miss the advantages of
such a proposal as this.
"You've 'it on the very plan, sir," he said, "and especial if he could
wash up them thin glasses which the gentlemen in the saloon bar like to
'ave, it would be a great saving. I never could 'andle them things
properly. You put your fingers on 'em and they crack worse than eggs.
Pewters, I can polish with any man alive, pot mugs seldom break, as
likewise them thick reputed half-pints which will break a man's 'ed
open, as I've proved. But these Chinks are as 'andy as any girl, and I
think, sir, you've got 'old of an idea."
"I'll see about it in the morning. I've got a pal that has a nice little
house in the Mile End Road, and I believe he could send me just the lad
I want. Well, now you can go to bed, Stanley. Everything locked up?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I'll put out the lights."
He bade me a gruff good-night and lurched heavily away. I heard him
ascending the stairs to his room at the back of the house and then I was
left alone.
The first thing I did was to turn down the sleeves of my shirt and put
on my coat. It isn't etiquette to sup in your coat, I had gathered from
Mr. Whistlecraft's custom when he accepted my invitation.
Then I unlocked a drawer in which was a box of cigars such as the
"Golden Swan" had never known, and stretching out my legs, stared into
the fire.
I was doing the wildest, maddest thing, but so far all had gone well. I
was, as it were, a solitary swimmer in deep and dangerous waters, on the
threshold of experiences which I knew instinctively would transcend all
those of ordinary life. I was perfectly certain, something in my inmost
soul told me, that I was about to step into unknown perils, and to
contend with bizarre and sinister forces of which I had no means of
measuring the power or extent.
I don't mind admitting that on that first night in the "Golden Swan,"
fate weighed heavily on me and I thought I heard the muffled laughter of
malignant things.
However, I was in for it now. I finished my cigar, went into the bar and
selected a certain bottle of whisky--the excellent Stanley had warned me
that this was the landlord's bottle and of a much more reputable quality
than that served to the landlord's guests. After a very moderate
"nightcap" I put on carpet slippers and went up to my room, which I had
chosen at the very top of the house. It was a large attic, just under
the roof, and in a few days I proposed to make it more habitable with
some new furniture and decoration. Meanwhile, I had chosen it because,
in one corner, some wooden steps went up to a trap-door which opened on
to the roof, where there was a flat space of some three yards square
among the chimneys. Just before going up to bed I turned up the collar
of my dressing-gown, ascended the ladder, pushed open the trap-door and
stepped out on to the leads.
It was a still, moonlight night. Looking over the roofs of the houses I
could see the Thames winding like a silver ribbon far down below, a
scene of utter tranquillity and peace.
Then I wheeled round to be confronted with the great black wall which
rose several yards above me, within a pistol shot of distance.
But my eye traveled up beyond that and was caught in a colossal network
of steel, so bold, towering and gigantic in its nearness that it almost
made me reel. I stared up among the dark shadows and moonlit spaces till
my eye reached an altitude which I knew to be about the height of the
Golden Ball on the top of Saint Paul's Cathedral.
There the vision checked. I could see a blur of low buildings, a web of
latticed galleries, and I knew that I was looking only up at the very
_first stage_ of the City in the Clouds, which must be lying bare to the
moon some sixteen hundred feet above.
I could see no more. The first stage barred all further vision, though
that in itself seemed terrible in its height and majesty. So I closed my
eyes and imagined only those supreme heights where she must be sleeping.
"Good-night, Juanita," I murmured, and then, as I descended into my room
the words of the Psalmist came to me and I said, "Oh, that I had the
wings of a dove!"