THE REVELATIONS OF “MR. GEORGE WITHERS”
Miss Adair was a tall, commandingly built young woman, with about
her more than a suggestion of muscularity. I had recognized her at
once. On the stage she was accustomed to play the part of the dashing
adventuress; the sort of person who could not, under any possible
circumstances, be put down. I realized that she might be disposed to
carry something of her stage manner into actual life. She confronted
me as if I were some despised, but lifelong enemy, whose attacks she
was prepared to resist at every point.
“When are you going to tell me what has happened to Bessie? In the
first place, where is she?”
“She’s at Imperial Mansions.”
“What’s she doing there?”
“She’s in charge of the housekeeper--Mrs. Peddar.”
“In charge! What do you mean?”
“Miss Moore is not--not herself.”
“You men have been playing some trick on her. You shall pay for it
dearly if you have!”
I caught her by the arm; she evincing a strong inclination to rush off
to Imperial Mansions there and then.
“Miss Moore came through my bedroom window, at an early hour this
morning, in--a curious condition.”
“Your bedroom window! This morning! She must have been in a curious
condition!”
“A man was murdered in the building about the same time that she
appeared at the window. His set of chambers are on the same floor as
mine; they communicate by the balcony along which she came. When she
entered the cloak she wore was soaked in blood, and her hands were wet
with it.”
Miss Adair drew back, staring at me with distended eyes.
“Man! Are you a man, or are you a devil? Do you dare to hint that
Bessie, my Bessie Moore, could by any possibility be guilty of
murder!”
“I simply state to you the facts. That she was in the dead man’s room
there is irrefutable evidence to show; that she had anything to do
with his murder I do not for a moment believe--I am as convinced of
her innocence as you can be. My theory is that she was an unwilling
witness of what took place, and that the horror of it temporarily
unhinged her brain.”
“Is she--mad?”
“No; but she suffers from entire loss of memory. Her life might have
commenced with her entrance through my window; she can remember
nothing of what occurred before, not even her own name. I believe that
if she could be brought to recall what she actually saw take place,
her innocence would be at once made plain.”
“What is the name of the man who was--murdered?” I told her.
“Lawrence? Edwin Lawrence? I don’t remember ever having heard the
name.”
“She said nothing to you last night about having an appointment with
him? Or with any one?”
She hesitated.
“Are you--Bessie’s friend?”
“I am. At least, I hope I may call myself her friend, although I never
spoke to her before last night. I do not think that there is anything
which I would not do to save her from misconstruction.”
She eyed me--quizzically.
“I think I’ll trust you, Mr. Ferguson, though I never trusted a man
yet without regretting it. I hope you won’t feel hurt, but there is
something about you which reminds me of a St. Bernard. You’re
big--very big; you look strong--awfully strong; you’re hairy.” I
involuntarily put my hand up to my beard. “Oh, I don’t mean that
you’re too hairy, the beard’s becoming; but you are hairy. You look
simple; somehow one associates simplicity with trustworthiness; and
now you’re blushing.” She would have made any one blush! “The blush
settles it; I will repose my confidence in you, as I have done in
others!”
Her manner changed; she became serious.
“The truth is that last night Bessie did seem worried, frightfully
worried; and that’s what’s been worrying me. She was not like her
usual self a bit; I couldn’t make her out at all. I hadn’t the
faintest notion what was wrong; when I asked her if she was ill she
snapped my head off. And for Bessie to be snappish was an unheard-of
thing; her temper’s not like mine, always going off, she’s the
gentlest, sweetest soul. She dressed herself, and walked out of the
theatre, without saying a word to me; I only ran against her in the
street, by accident, just as she was getting into a cab.
“I said, ‘Bessie, aren’t you coming home with me?’--because we always
do come home together. But she answered, quite huffishly, that she was
not--she had an appointment to keep. I did not dare to ask with whom,
or where; though it did seem odd that she should have made an
appointment, at that hour of the night, without saying a word of it to
me; but I did venture to inquire when I might expect her to return.
Leaning her head out of the cab, just as it was starting, she called
out to me, ‘Perhaps never.’ I didn’t suppose that she was entirely in
earnest, but somehow I couldn’t help feeling that, about the answer,
there was something which might turn out to be unpleasantly
prophetic.”
“One thing is plain, Miss Adair, you must come with me at once to
Imperial Mansions. Your presence may restore to your friend her
memory. But, whether or not, you must bring her home, or at any rate
you must take her away from the Mansions, and that immediately.”
“Your manner, Mr. Ferguson, is autocratic. You don’t ask me, you
command; but I’ll obey. That is, if you’ll condescend to wait while I
put a hat on.”
She went upstairs. Almost immediately she had done so there came a
ring at the front door. The door was opened and shut again. After it
had been shut, Miss Adair called down the stairs:
“Ellen, who was that?”
The maid’s voice replied, “It was some one who wished to see Miss
Moore. He said his name was Withers--Mr. George Withers.”
“George Withers!” I shouted.
Without a moment’s hesitation I rushed out of the sitting-room, flung
open the front door, and dashed into the street. I dare say that
Ellen, and Miss Adair, too, thought that I had suddenly become a
raving lunatic. But Ellen’s mention of the caller’s name recalled to
me the fact that the peculiar letter which I had found in the pocket
of the plum-coloured cloak had been addressed to “George Withers.”
A young man was going down the street, walking rather quickly. I
shouted to him.
“Hallo! Mr. George Withers!”
He stopped and turned with something of a start; then stared, as if
uncertain what to make of me or what to do. I called to him again.
“I want you!”
As I spoke I moved towards him, intending, since he seemed indisposed
to come to me, to go to him and then explain. But no sooner had I
started than he swung round on his heels, tore off at full speed, and,
before I realised what it was that he was doing, had vanished round
the corner. Although I was unable to guess why he should run away from
me as if I were the plague, I had no intention, if I could help it, of
being run away from; so, as hard as I could pelt, I went after him.
It was a lively chase while it lasted; I must have presented an
elegant figure as, hatless, my coat tails flying, I raced through
those respectable streets. Fortunately, he was no match for me in
pace; I had him before he reached the Fulham Road. He must have been
in shocking condition, for he had already run himself right out, and,
gasping for breath, was panting like a blown rabbit.
Saying nothing--I felt that that was not the place in which to carry
on the sort of conversation I had in my mind’s eye--I took him by the
shoulder and marched him back again. He, on his part, was equally
mute, and made not the slightest effort at resistance. Miss Adair
received us at the door.
“What on earth is the matter? Where have you been? And who is this
man?”
Her trick of speaking in italics reminded me of her manner on the
stage. I led my companion into the sitting-room. There I introduced
him.
“This is Mr. George Withers. I fancy he can give us information on a
subject on which, at this moment, information is very much needed.”
“Mr. George Withers” was a mere youth, scarcely more than a boy. I was
not prepossessed by his appearance, though he was well dressed and had
a handsome face. He had proved himself a cur; I felt sure that he was
a sneak, and perhaps something worse as well. I handed him the letter
which I had taken from the lady’s pocket.
“I believe, Mr. Withers, that this letter is for you.”
He seemed at first reluctant to take it, as if fearful that it
contained something which might disturb his peace of mind. He eyed it
doubtfully; read the address; perceived that the envelope had been
opened. A disagreeable look came upon his handsome countenance; he
turned on me with a snarl.
“Who are you? What do you mean by treating me as you have done? And
how dare you open a letter that’s addressed to me?”
“First read your letter, Mr. Withers. Put your questions afterwards.”
He scanned the brief epistle with looks which did not improve as he
went on. Then he snapped at me as if he would have liked to bite as
well.
“You stole it; you must have stolen it! I’ve half a mind to give you
in charge; you don’t know what mischief you mayn’t have done.”
“Is the person alluded to as ‘that scoundrel’ in the letter which you
are holding Mr. Edwin Lawrence of Imperial Mansions?”
“What do you want to know for? What do you mean by meddling in my
affairs? What business is it of yours?”
“Because, if it is, Mr. Edwin Lawrence is dead.”
“Dead!”
“He was murdered last night.”
“Murdered!” The fashion of his countenance changed. “Then she--she
killed him.”
He staggered back till he staggered against a chair. A pitiful object
he presented as he perched himself upon the edge. Neither Miss Adair
nor I said a word. After a moment’s interval, during which the muscles
of his face twitched as if he had become suddenly possessed with St.
Vitus’ Dance, he went rambling on, apparently not altogether conscious
of what it was that he was saying.
“I knew there’d be mischief--I knew there would. I said if she would
meddle in my affairs she’d make a mess of it. I told her she didn’t
know what she was going in for, that he was dangerous. But she’s as
obstinate as a mule; she never would take my advice, never!”
“Which shows that she is a lady of considerable discretion. What
connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?”
He started forward on the chair, casting a frightened look about him.
“Is she--taken? And are you a policeman?”
“No, I am not a policeman; I have not that honour. And she is not
taken--as yet. I repeat my inquiry. What connection, Mr. Withers, have
you with Miss Moore?”
“Never mind! That’s my business, not yours. She’s got into this mess
by herself, and she must get out of it by herself; I wash my hands of
her. I’ve got an appointment which I must keep. You let me go.”
He got up with a little air of bluster which was pitiful; it was such
a poor attempt at make-believe.
“Listen to me, Mr. Withers--correct me if I am wrong; but you seem to
be a nice young man--a very nice young man. And it’s because you’re
such a very nice young man, always attending, Mr. Withers, your
correction, that I desire to inform you that if you don’t answer my
questions, as truthfully as your nature will allow you, there’ll be
trouble. You understand? Trouble. So be so good as to tell me at once
what there can possibly be in common between a lady of Miss Moore’s
class and a person of yours?”
“‘Yours’ is good. I don’t see what difference there can be between our
classes, considering that she’s my sister.”
Miss Adair interposed.
“Your sister? Bessie’s your sister. Then you’re Tom Moore, her
vagabond of a brother, who’s robbed her of hundreds and hundreds of
pounds. I thought I knew your face, it’s like a bad copy of Bessie’s,
with all her goodness left out and your own wickedness put in. You
ungrateful scamp, to speak of her in that cold-blooded manner, when
she has done all that she possibly could for you, and you, in return,
have been to her the one trouble of her life.”
He confronted the frank-spoken lady with looks which were alive with
impudence. I perceived that he was a better match for a woman than a
man.
“I know who you are; you call yourself ‘Miss Adair.’ ‘Adair!’ Go on!
Sure that’s your proper name? I know more about you than you perhaps
think. And for Bessie to let out things to you about me shows the sort
she is; telling a pack of lies about her only relative.”
“Her only relative! It’s her misfortune that she has you.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Then from this day forward she hasn’t got me;
tell her so, with my kind regards. As I’ve said already, I wash my
hands of her; I cut the relationship. Willingly I’ll never own to
bearing her name again. It’s not a name I ever have been particularly
proud of, and now it’s one of which I shall have less cause to be
proud than ever, from what I’m told. Good-day to you, Miss Adair!”
He was now actually marching from the room. I had to give him a gentle
hint in order to detain him. He winced under my touch like a hound
which fears punishment.
“What was the nature of your business, Mr. Moore, which took your
sister last night to Mr. Edwin Lawrence?”
“That’s my business; it’s none of yours.”
“Answer my question.”
He actually whimpered. It was beginning to dawn on me that I might be
constrained to wring his neck before he went.
“Don’t! You hurt! It was about some bills.”
“Some bills of yours which you had given to Mr. Lawrence?”
“No, it wasn’t then. Don’t! It was about some bills which he got me
to--to fake.”
“I see. And might some of them have borne the name of Mr. Philip
Lawrence?”
“Who told you? How do you know?”
“Never mind who told me. Answer!”
“It was all his fault! I should never have thought of such a thing if
it hadn’t been for him; he egged me on. I--I owed him a few pounds,
and he said if I were to fake up some bills, with his brother’s name
on them, he’d let me off.”
“And put the forgeries on the market, dividing the proceeds of the
fraud with you?”
“Nothing of the kind, I’ll take my oath to it; I swear I never had a
penny. I never dreamt that he’d discount them, not for a moment! I
thought it was a game he was going to play off on his brother--some
sort of joke.”
“Keen sense of humour yours, Mr. Moore.”
“That’s where he had me; he must have gone straight off and cashed the
bills. Then his brother found it out, and then he came to me and
threatened to tell his brother that it was I who’d done it.”
“And then you went to your sister and asked her, probably on your
bended knees, to save you from exposure.”
“There was no bended knees about it; you’re very much mistaken if you
think there was. I’m not that kind. But I--I certainly mentioned to
her something about it--she’s my own flesh and blood.”
“Being your own flesh and blood she, possibly, offered to do her best
to square it for you.”
“That’s the mistake she made. She talked about giving him a hundred or
two, as though that would be of any use. I said to her that if she’d
give the money to me I could go abroad and start afresh, and it might
be the making of me. But she never would take my advice, never!”
“So your sister, a young, unprotected girl, at your urgent
solicitation, went alone to this man at that hour of the night, at the
risk of--a good many things; and, in order to save you from the
well-merited consequences of your being a cowardly rascal, offered to
hand over to him her hard-won savings, and, in all probability, to
pledge to the fullest extent her future earnings. And when, in the
morning, he is found to have been murdered, you immediately jump to
the conclusion that she killed him. With you, Mr. Moore, the sense of
gratitude takes a peculiar form. In a state of civilisation in which
logic prevailed, the breath would be crushed out of your body; sharing
the fate of other vermin, you would not be allowed to exist.
Unfortunately for you, this is not a moment in the world’s history in
which logic does prevail.”
So I shook him--gently. I did not treat him to a thousandth part of
his deserts, for his sister’s sake. Yet, when I dropped him back on to
the floor, to judge from his looks and his behaviour, he might have
been used with considerable severity. He seemed to be under the
impression that I had murdered him.
“That was good!” said Miss Adair. “I feel better.”
I don’t know what prompted her to make such a remark, but I felt
better too.