THE RECOGNITION OF THE PHOTOGRAPH
When I had succeeded in extricating Mr. Morley from the clutches of
Inspector Symonds, after a considerable wordy warfare, during which I
had difficulty in keeping the inspector’s language within
parliamentary bounds, I started on a little errand of my own.
The inspector appeared to be under the impression that, for some
malevolent reason, I wished to interfere with the due and proper
execution of the law; and he told me, quite frankly, that so soon as
Mr. Morley was off my premises he would bring, not only the old
gentleman, but, so far as I understood, myself also, to book.
Therefore, feeling that, under such circumstances, two might be better
than one, so soon as the interview was ended, I proceeded, since his
way was mine, to escort Mr. Morley at least part of his way home.
The old gentleman was in a condition of great mental perturbation. He
was sorry, for his master’s sake, that he had said as much as he had
done to the inspector, and he was also sorry, for his own sake, that
he had not said more; for he was uncomfortably conscious that, by his
comparative reticence, he had incurred the officer’s resentment.
“Do you think, sir,” he said, as we were parting--and I thought, as he
was speaking, how old he seemed and tremulous--“that that Mr. Symonds
will hunt me up, and worry me, as he as good as said he would? Because
I know that I shan’t be able to stand it, if he does; my nerves are
not what they were, and I never dreamed that I should have trouble
with the police at my time of life.”
I endeavoured to reassure him.
“Mr. Morley, be at ease; fear nothing. You are the sole proprietor of
your own tongue, use it to preserve silence; no one can force you to
speak unless you choose.”
I was not by any means so sure of this, in my own mind; but this was a
detail. My object was to comfort Mr. Morley.
It was at the door of the house in Arlington Street that we parted;
after all, I went with him the whole way--it was practically mine. I
waited while he inquired if his master had returned. The face of the
old lady who opened the door, and who I immediately concluded was Mrs.
Morley, was answer enough; she looked as if she bore all the trouble
of the world upon her shoulders. He had not; nothing had been seen or
heard of him.
The point at which I was aiming was the photographer’s. As I walked
away from Philip Lawrence’s house, I could not but feel conscious that
every moment he remained absent made the case look blacker. What
reason could he have to stay away, save one?
An assistant came forward to greet me, as I crossed the threshold of
the building which housed that famous firm of photographers.
“I want you to tell me who is the original of one of your portraits.”
“We don’t, as a rule, sir, give the names of sitters, without their
express permission.”
“This is one of the exceptions to the rule. Here is the portrait--who
is the lady it represents?”
I handed him the photograph which I had taken off Edwin Lawrence’s
mantelshelf. So soon as he saw it he smiled; looking up at me with
what was suspiciously like a twinkle in his eye.
“As you say, this is one of the exceptions to the rule. I certainly
have no objection to tell you who this lady is; that is, if you don’t
know already. In which case I should imagine that you are one of the
few persons in London who does not.”
“What on earth do you mean? Who is the lady?”
“You are not a theatre-goer, sir?”
“Why do you say that? I suppose I go to the theatres as often as other
people.”
“You haven’t been to the Pandora lately.”
“The Pandora? I’ve been there three times within the last month or
so.”
“Then, on the occasion of your visits was Miss Bessie Moore not
acting?”
“Miss Bessie Moore!”
“This is the portrait of Miss Bessie Moore, and an excellent likeness,
too. She has honoured us several times with sittings, and this is
about the most favourable result we have had so far. It is not easy to
do justice to the lady.”
Bessie Moore! The assistant was a much smaller man than I; but if, at
that moment, he had given me a push, though ever such a gentle one, I
believe he would have pushed me over. What an idiot I had been! No
wonder that her face had seemed familiar. Bessie Moore--admittedly one
of the loveliest women in town, whose name was on every tongue, who
was honoured by all the world! At that moment her acting was drawing
all London to the Pandora Theatre. I had seen something of theatres,
whatever that assistant might suppose to the contrary, but I had never
before seen such acting as hers, nor had I ever seen so lovely a
woman! And it was Bessie Moore who had come through my bedroom window,
at dead of night, in that plum-coloured cloak. Every moment the wonder
grew.
Either the expression of my face or something else about me appeared
to afford that assistant considerable amusement. In the midst of my
bewilderment I was conscious that he grinned.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“It is possible for persons of even ripened years to feel surprised,
as you will discover when you yourself attain to years of discretion.”
I fancy that it was my intention to crush that smiling youngster,
though I suspect that the result of my little effort was only to
increase my appearance of imbecility. At any rate, his grin did not
grow less. I proceeded with my inquiries.
“What is Miss Moore’s address?”
“The Pandora Theatre.”
“Thank you; I am aware of that. It is her private address which I
require.”
“That, I am afraid, we cannot give you.”
No doubt they were pestered with similar inquiries by individuals who
were more or less idiots, and altogether impertinent; and, quite
possibly, he took me for a member of that considerable family. I gave
him my card.
“There is my name. The lady who is the original of that portrait has
met with an accident. I did not know that she was Miss Moore until you
told me, but it is important that I should be able to communicate with
her friends at once.”
“An accident? I am sorry to hear that Miss Moore has met with an
accident. If you will wait a moment I will make inquiries.”
The assistant disappeared; presently returning with an older man, who
examined my card as he came. He addressed me:
“You are Mr. Ferguson?”
“I am.”
“You say that Miss Moore has met with an accident?”
“I do.”
“What is its nature?”
“That I am not at liberty to tell you. I can only say that it is of
the first importance that I should be able to communicate with her
friends without delay.”
He hesitated, considering me attentively; then he gave me the
information I required.
“Miss Moore lives with Miss Adair, who, as you perhaps know, is also
acting at the Pandora Theatre. The address is 22, Hailsham Road, The
Boltons, Brompton.”
As I sped towards Brompton in a hansom, I tried to assimilate the
tidings I had just received. In vain. It may be that I am dull-witted,
and that my mental processes are slow; but the more I sought the
solution of the puzzle the more insoluble it seemed. It did appear
incredible that the woman who had all the world, like a ball, at her
feet, with whose fame London was ringing, should have come to me, at
such an hour, in such a fashion, from such a scene. The mystery was
beyond my finding out.
Hailsham Road proved to be a nice, wide, clean, old-fashioned street,
and No. 22 a nice, clean, old-fashioned house. It was not large, but
the impression which its exterior made upon me was a distinctly
pleasant one. It was detached; it stood back, behind railings, at a
little distance from the pavement; in the sunshine it looked as white
as snow; there was a flower-bed in front, and flowers made the
window-sills resplendent. My ring was answered, on the instant, by a
maid who was quite in keeping with the house; she was unmistakably
neat, and I have no hesitation in affirming she was pretty.
“Can I see Miss Adair? I have brought news of Miss Moore.”
The maid left me in the hall--it was the daintiest hall I remembered
to have seen, and very prettily papered--while she conveyed my message
up the stairs.
It appeared that I could see Miss Adair; for, presently, a lady came
flying down the stairs, about seven steps at a time, and all but flung
herself into my arms.
“You’ve brought me news of Bessie? Oh, I am so glad! I’ve been
half-beside myself; I haven’t slept a wink all night. I was really
just wondering if I hadn’t better communicate with the police. Oh,
please will you step in there?”
I stepped in there. “There” was a sitting-room. From the wall looked
down on me, as I entered, a life-size portrait of my visitor of the
plum-coloured cloak. The face was turned directly towards me; the eyes
seemed to be subjecting me to a serious examination. I did not care to
meet them; in their presence I was conscious of a vague discomfort.
The atmosphere was redolent of a feminine personality. On every hand
were the owner’s little treasures. I pictured her flitting here and
there among them, touching this, altering the position of that, dumbly
inquiring of me all the time, with, in her air, a touch of resentment,
what I did in her apartment.
Miss Adair perceived that I was not so ready with my tongue as I might
have been. There was a sharp note of anxiety in her voice.
“There’s nothing wrong with Bessie, is there?”
I stammered, like an ass, “I--I’m afraid there is.”
“She’s not--dead?”
“Dead! Good gracious, no! Nothing of the kind.”
“Then what has happened to her? Tell me! Quick! Don’t you see that I’m
on tenterhooks?”
“First of all let me be certain of my ground. I take it that that is
Miss Moore.”
I handed her the, by this time, historical photograph.
“Of course it is. What do you mean by asking? Where is she? Who are
you? What have you done to her? Don’t stand there as if you were
afraid to open your mouth!”
“The truth is, Miss Adair, that I am rather at a loss for words with
which to express myself. But, if you will bear with me, I will
endeavour to make myself as plain as I can; it is rather a difficult
task which I have to perform.”
It was a difficult task, nor was it made easier by the two shrewd eyes
which were regarding me as if I were some curious and unnecessary kind
of creature.