Slowly and solemnly the clock of St. James's, Piccadilly, chimed nine.
In his comfortable chambers in Jermyn Street, Hugh Trethowen sat alone.
The graceful indifference of the Sybarite had vanished, the cloud of
apprehension had deepened, and with eyes fixed abstractedly upon the
flickering fire, he was oblivious of his surroundings, plunged in
painful reverie.
The silk-shaded lamp shed a soft light upon the objects around,
revealing that the owner of the apartment had debarred himself no
luxury, and that, although a typical bachelor's abode, yet the dainty
nick-nacks, the cupboard of old china, the choice paintings, and the
saddle-bag furniture--all exhibited a taste and refinement that would
have done credit to any drawing-room. Upon a table at his elbow was a
spirit stand, beside which stood a glass of brandy and soda; but it was
flat, having been poured out half an hour before.
Suddenly he tugged vigorously at his moustache, as if in deep
contemplation, and, rising, crossed the room and touched a gong.
His summons was answered by an aged male servant, the venerable
appearance of whose white hair was enhanced by his suit of spotless
black and narrow strip of shirt front.
"Anybody called, Jacob?"
"No, sir; nobody's called, sir," replied the old man in a squeaky voice.
"You may close the door, Jacob, and sit down. I want to have a word
with you."
The aged retainer shut the door, and stood near the table, opposite his
master, fully prepared to receive a reprimand for having performed his
work unsatisfactorily. "Sit down, Jacob; we must have a serious talk."
Surprised at these unusual words, the old man seated himself upon the
edge of a chair, waiting for his master to commence.
"Look here, Jacob," said Trethowen; "you and I will have to part."
"Eh? what? Master Hugh? Have I done anything wrong, sir? If I have,
look over it, for I'm an old man, and--"
"Hush, you've done nothing wrong, Jacob; you've been a good servant to
me--very good. The fact is, I'm ruined."
"Ruined, Master Hugh? How, sir?"
"Well, do you ever take an interest in racing?"
"No, sir; I never do, sir."
"Ah, I thought not. Fossils such as you do not know a racehorse from a
park-hack. The truth is, I've chucked away nearly every farthing I
possess upon the turf and the card-table; therefore I am compelled to go
somewhere out of the reach of those confounded duns. You understand?
When I'm gone they'll sell up this place."
"Will the furniture be sold, sir? Oh, don't say so, Master Hugh!"
exclaimed the old servant, casting a long glance around the room.
"Yes; and, by Jove, they'd sell you, too, Jacob, only I suppose such a
bag of bones wouldn't fetch much."
"You--you can't mean you are going to leave me, sir?" he implored. "For
nigh on sixty years, man and boy, I've been in the service of your
family, and it does seem hard that I should remain here and see the
things sold--the pictures and the china that came from the Hall."
"Yes, I know, Jacob: but it's no use worrying," said Hugh, somewhat
impatiently. "It cannot be avoided, so the things from the old place
will have to travel and see the world, as I am compelled to."
"And you really mean to go, Master Hugh?"
"Yes; I tell you I must."
"And cannot I--cannot I come with you?" faltered the old man.
"No, Jacob--that's impossible. I--I shall have no need of a servant. I
must discharge you, but here's fifty pounds to keep you from the
workhouse for the present. I'd give you more, Jacob, but, indeed the
fact is, I'm deuced hard up."
And he took some notes from a drawer in his escritoire, and handed them
to his faithful old servant.
"Thank you very kindly, sir--thank you. But--hadn't you better keep the
money, sir? You might want it."
"No," replied Hugh, with a sad smile. "I insist upon you taking it;
and, look here, what's more, the basket of plate is yours. It is all
good stuff, and belonged to the dear old governor; so sell it to-morrow
when I'm gone, and put the money into your pocket. Take anything else
you like as well, because if you don't others will. And, by the way,
should you ever want to write to me, a letter to the `Travellers' will
be forwarded. I--I'm busy now, so good-night, Jacob." Grasping the
venerable servant's bony hand, he shook it warmly.
"Good-night, Master Hugh," murmured the latter in a low, broken voice.
"Good-night; may God watch over you, sir."
"Ay, Jacob, and may this smash bring me good luck in the future.
Good-night."
The old man tottered out, closing the door noiselessly after him.
"Poor old Jacob," said Hugh aloud, as he stood before the fireplace with
his hands thrust deep in his pockets in an attitude of despair. "It
must be truly hard for him to leave me. He was my father's valet when
he was a young man; he has known me ever since I could toddle, and now
I'm compelled to throw him out of doors, as if he were a common drudge
who didn't please me. He's been more than a servant--he was the friend
and adviser of my youth. Yet now we must part, owing to my own mad
folly. Some people carry wealth in their pockets, others in their
hearts."
With a sigh and a muttered imprecation, he paced the room with
deliberate, thoughtful steps.
Suddenly he noticed the evening newspaper that had been placed upon the
table by his servant. Anxious to know the result of a race, he took it
up mechanically, when his eyes fell upon the head-line in large
capitals, "Mysterious murder in the Strand."
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Why, I had really forgotten
that strange incident last night. It must be the man I saw taken from
the omnibus. By Jove, that was a curious affair; I wonder what the
paper says about it?"
Reseating himself, he commenced to read the column of elaborately
worked-up sensation with which the journal regaled its readers.
It certainly was an extraordinary case, inasmuch as the crime must have
been committed with a swiftness and dexterity that was little short of
marvellous. As far as the representative of the journal had been able
to ascertain, the body was still unidentified, and, after advancing an
extravagant theory of his own, the enterprising scribe terminated with
the stereotyped phrase, invariably used on such occasions, declaring
that the police, "though very reticent upon the matter, were prosecuting
diligent inquiries."
"Remarkable!" ejaculated Trethowen, when he had finished reading this
account. "I wonder who the victim is, and what object anybody could
have had in murdering him? So daring, too--in a public conveyance in
the very heart of London. There was some motive, I suppose; but
evidently the person who committed the crime was no novice, and went to
work with swiftness and caution for the purpose of baffling the police.
I've been thinking so much of my own affairs to-day that the remembrance
of last night's tragedy had entirely gone out of my head. Yet, after
all, why should I puzzle my brains over a case that will require all the
wit and cunning of skilled detectives before the guilty person is
revealed?"
He cast the paper aside, and passed his hand wearily across his aching
brow.
"No," he continued, after a brief silence. "I've got too much to think
of with my own affairs. Here am I, ruined irretrievably, with no hope
beyond that of dragging out a miserable existence in a poverty-stricken
sort of way, while my friends laugh over my misfortunes, and make
themselves fat upon what they've won from me by foul means as well as
fair. Bah! I've been a downright consummate fool, and deserve all this
punishment; by Heaven I do!"
And he sprang to his feet, and again paced the room.
"What is my punishment?" he asked of himself, after some soliloquy.
"Social ostracism, perpetual poverty, interminable despair. Yet, after
all, what have I done to deserve it? I've not been more wild than other
fellows during the sowing of my wild oats, as old fogies term it. No;
the simple reason for it all is merely because I'm a younger son. My
brother has enough to keep him in luxury, whereas I had but a pittance
at most, and upon it was expected to keep up appearances and spend it
like other fellows. I've done so, and now am doomed to pay the penalty
of poverty. Even death would be preferable to the life before me."
He halted, suddenly impressed by the idea. His face was pale and
haggard, and in his eyes was a strangely intense look.
"Death! Why not?" he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "I have no longer
any interest in life, therefore death would be the easiest means to end
my difficulties. It would be all over in a moment."
Shuddering, he sank slowly into the chair, and resting his arms upon the
table, buried his face in his hands.
"Yes," he muttered in bitter despair. "I've staked everything, and
lost, through my cursed ill-luck. If I exiled myself it would be
running away from my creditors, as if I feared them. No, by God! I--I
won't do that; I'll choose the other alternative."
With a firm, resolute expression upon his grave features he rose, strode
quickly across the room, and, unlocking a Japanese cabinet, took
therefrom a tiny phial of colourless liquid.
Holding it up to the light, he gazed upon it with a curious smile of
gratification at having the poison in his possession. Strange that a
man should laugh when about to take his own life; yet such is frequently
the case. What is the motive that prompts him to smile when the grave
is before him? What, perhaps, but the fascination of suicide. There
are some men who at first feel like jumping from a high elevation into
the void below. The feeling grows if at all indulged. There is a
strange and, indeed, wonderful fascination in high precipices. The very
fact that life can be taken is fascinating often to fatality. The
majority of cases of suicide by pistol or by poison would not have
occurred if the weapon or potion had been absent. Their very presence
keeps the temptation to use them before the would-be suicide with more
or less power.
In this case it was the same as many others. Hugh Trethowen's lucidity
of mind, granting that there was mental aberration, could not have been
fully absent. The fascination of rest, of a possible life beyond, of
dramatic sensationalism--all combined--may have been the chief
motive-power.
Nevertheless, he stood looking at it calmly. He was bent upon his
purpose.
Lifting the glass of brandy and soda, he poured the contents of the
phial into it, afterwards tossing the bottle into the grate. His hand
trembled a little, but by setting his feet firmly he overcame this
sudden nervousness, and looked around him for the last time calmly and
seriously.
"Well, here's health to my creditors, and long life to the men who,
posing as my friends, have ruined me!" he said bitterly, with a harsh
laugh.
Heaving one long sigh, he raised the glass to his lips. He was
preparing to drink it at one gulp.
At that moment there came Jacob's well-known tap at the door, and he
entered, bearing a letter upon a salver.
Trethowen started, and quickly replaced the glass upon the table. He
was confused, and felt ashamed of being caught in the act of
self-destruction, although the old man could not have been aware of what
the glass contained.
Without a word he took the letter, and Jacob retired.
Tearing it open impatiently, he eagerly read its contents. It was a
purely formal communication from Messrs. Graham and Ratcliff, an
eminently respectable legal firm, who, some years before, had transacted
his late father's business, and who now expressed a desire that he
should call at their offices in Devereux Court, Temple, at noon on the
following day, as they wished to have an interview with him on a most
important and pressing matter.
He re-read the letter several times; then, without a word escaping his
lips, flung the contents of the glass upon the fire.
The letter puzzled him sorely. He resolved to call at the address given
and ascertain the nature of the mysterious business.
It had saved him.