MR. LAMB IN A COMMUNICATIVE MOOD
In the evening of that day Margaret Wallace and Harry Talfourd
dined with Dr. Twelves. The young lady, who throughout the day
had remained in a curious mood, was indisposed to avail herself
of the doctor's hospitality; but she was over-persuaded by the
doctor, who was insistent, and by Mr. Talfourd, who was on his
side. Throughout the day they had talked and talked and talked.
Harry was of opinion that, on a certain theme, they had talked
too much. There was something about Margaret which was new to
him; which he did not understand. It troubled him. So when the
doctor changed the subject by asking them to dine with him he
accepted, for himself, at once; and when Margaret hummed and
hawed, and began to make excuses, for her also. He told her that
she would have to dine with the doctor--and she had to. The two
men bore her off with them in triumph.
The doctor entertained his guests at the Holborn Restaurant. In
his youth he had known the place when it was a dancing-hall; had
visited it while undergoing various transformations during his
recurrent trips to town, and, whenever he came to London, made a
point of patronising it still. The meal was hardly a jovial one.
The host and Harry did all they could to keep the conversation
on impersonal and frivolous lines, but Margaret would have none
of it. She could scarcely be induced to open her lips to put
food between them; talk she would not. The colloquial gifts for
which she was famous seemed to have deserted her entirely; she
was tongue-tied. When, in a dinner party of three, the lady, who
is both young and charming, cannot be persuaded to speak, the
meal is apt to prove but a qualified success. The doctor's
little festive gathering turned out to be not quite so festive
as it might have been.
As chance, or fate, had it, the two men's well-meant efforts to
keep the conversation in exhilarating channels were doomed to
meet with complete fiasco. After the meal was finished, as they
strolled along Holborn, enjoying the fine evening, considering
whether to take a cab, and if so, where to tell the cabman to
take them to--for the doctor was firm in his conviction that
this was an occasion on which they were bound to make a night of
it--the issue was taken out of their hands in a wholly
unexpected fashion. A gentleman, who did not seem to be so
capable of seeing where he was going as he ought to have been,
all but cannoned against Mr. Talfourd, drawing back to apologise
just in time.
"Beg pardon! Why, it's Talfourd! Hollo, Talfourd! who's the
lady? and who's----" The speaker was staring at the doctor.
"Hollo! I've seen you somewhere before!"
The doctor was returning him look for look.
"And I've seen you. You're Mr. Gregory Lamb, who lodged one
time at David Blair's over the other side of Pitmuir, to
whom I was foolish enough to loan a brace of sovereigns, for
four-and-twenty hours, as I understood, but which you've never
paid me back unto this day."
Mr. Lamb was not at all abashed; he never was by reminders of
that kind--they were legion.
"Why, of course, it's the doctor--the cranky old doctor. I
remember you quite well. How are you, old chap? You haven't--you
haven't a brace of sovereigns on you now?"
"I have not a brace which you are likely to be able to bag, Mr.
Lamb. I understand that you have married since I saw you last."
"Since you saw me! I was married then."
"Indeed? But I gathered that you had since married the widow of
an old friend of mine--Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame."
"Widow? She wasn't his widow; she never was his wife."
"Pardon me, but she went through the Scotch form of marriage
with him in my presence."
"That was all her dashed impudence. She was my wife long before
that; before she ever knew that he was in the world. Doctor, my
wife's a devil of a woman, and she's been treating me in a devil
of a way. If I were to tell you all that she's been doing, so
far as I can understand, mind you--it's quite between
ourselves--you'd go straight to a police station, and you'd
ask for a warrant; but I'm her husband, so I can't. Listen to
me--this is between ourselves--if you'll come to a place I know,
and where they know me--most respectable place--and do me the
pleasure of having a drink with me--and Talfourd, and the
lady--never leave out a lady when it's a question of a little
refreshment--I'll tell you what she's just been telling me, not
five minutes ago. It'll surprise you. Good as confessed to
committing murder; half expected her to murder me--give you my
word it's a fact. Come and have a little something and I'll tell
you all about it--between ourselves, you know."
The doctor exchanged glances with Mr. Talfourd and with
Margaret.
"It seems to me, Mr. Lamb, that you've had more than a little
something already."
"You're wrong, old chap--quite wrong; do assure you. It's
ether--beastly ether."
"Ether?"
"Ever heard of the stuff before? I never did. Seems she lives
on it; takes it in quarts. She crammed some of it down my
throat--fairly took me by the throat and crammed it down. I'm
like a child in her hands--give you my word. She's a devil of a
woman. Never tasted anything like it before; seems to have sent
me stark staring mad. Don't know whether I'm standing on my head
or heels. Let's go and have some Christian liquor, and I'll tell
you all about it."
Again the doctor exchanged glances with his companions.
"If you'll allow me to offer you a seat in my cab I'll take you
to a friend who'll be able to give you some of the finest whisky
in England, and there, at your leisure, you can tell us all
about it."
"My dear old chap, when they called you cranky I always said
that there was more in you than they might think, and I stand to
it to the present moment. I say----"
The doctor did not wait to hear what he said; he bundled him
into a four-wheeled cab after Margaret and Harry. When the cab
had started Margaret asked--
"Where are you taking us?"
"I am taking you to my friend, Andrew McTavish, who has a
commodious residence in Mecklenburg Square--just handy. There,
over a glass of whisky, Mr. Lamb will be able to tell us just
what his wife told him. He'll find us interested listeners."
There was a dryness in the doctor's tone which was lost upon the
gentleman at his side, who occupied the short distance they had
to traverse by protestations of the regard he had always felt
for the old acquaintance whom fortune, or destiny, had again
thrown across his path.
That night Mr. Brown was his partner's guest at dinner. Both
gentlemen were still smarting from the outrage to which Mrs.
Gregory Lamb had subjected them that afternoon. Dinner was
finished; they were in the library, planning schemes of
vengeance, when the servant announced that Dr. Twelves was
outside, and was desirous of seeing Mr. McTavish. Before the
servant was able to explain that the visitor was not alone, the
doctor himself marched in with his retinue. The partners rose
from their chairs in surprise.
"McTavish--Brown--I have the honour to introduce you to Miss
Margaret Wallace, a young lady of whom you have heard a good
deal, and whom I am sure you'll be delighted to know. This is
Mr. Harry Talfourd, of whom you may have also heard something.
And this, gentlemen--this is Mr. Gregory Lamb, the husband of
the lady of whom, I fancy, you have perhaps heard rather too
much."
If the look upon the partners' faces meant anything, there could
be no doubt upon the latter point. Both Mr. McTavish and Mr.
Brown stared at Mr. Lamb as if he were not only the strangest,
but also the most unwelcome, object they had ever beheld. Then
Mr. McTavish turned to the doctor, with a gasp.
"I'd have you to know, Dr. Twelves, that you're taking a great
liberty. You're presuming on our friendship in venturing to
bring this individual to my house, and at this time of night.
Brown, I'll trouble you to ring the bell. Mr. Lamb shall be
shown to the door, before we have him behaving as his wife did
this afternoon."
Mr. McTavish had become rubicund with agitation; the doctor
remained placid.
"In less than five minutes, Andrew, you'll be acknowledging that
I've done you a very considerable service in bringing Mr. Lamb
to this house, and you'll be begging my pardon for the remarks
which you have just made."
Mr. Brown, obedient to his partner's request, had rung the bell.
A servant appeared. Him Dr. Twelves addressed before Mr.
McTavish had a chance of speaking.
"You'll have the goodness to bring a decanter of whisky, and the
other necessaries, at once."
When the man looked at his master for an endorsement of this
order the doctor explained.
"Andrew, Mr. Lamb has a communication to make which I think you
will find of interest; he proposes to make it while enjoying a
glass of prime whisky."
"I cannot imagine what Mr. Lamb has to say which can be of
interest to me, but, since you wish it--John, bring the whisky."
A decanter being placed upon a table, the doctor prepared a
potent mixture which he handed to Mr. Lamb.
"I think, Mr. Lamb, I understood you to say that Mrs. Lamb was
married to you before she met Cuthbert Grahame?"
"Of course she was--ever so long. She was never his wife; that
was only her bluff. This is something like whisky. Gentlemen,
your very good health, and the lady's--never overlook a lady."
"You perceive, Andrew, that Mrs. Lamb was already Mrs. Lamb when
she encountered your late client, Mr. Cuthbert Grahame, and,
therefore, any document in which she is described as his wife
is, I believe, on the face of it, null and void."
Mr. McTavish made as if about to speak, but a movement of the
doctor's left eyelid seemed to act as a check. The doctor turned
to Mr. Lamb, grimly affable.
"You like this whisky, Mr. Lamb?" Judging from the fact that
that gentleman had already emptied his tumbler it seemed as if
he did. "Allow me to fill your glass." The speaker suited the
action to the word; he did very nearly fill the glass with neat
spirit. "From what you said I should imagine that you have
recently had rather a singular scene with your wife, Mr. Lamb.
You were about to tell us what occurred. Was it anything very
remarkable?"
"I should think it was remarkable. Your very good health,
gentlemen. After the stuff she forced down my throat this is
something like whisky; ether she forced down my throat--rank
poison. Why, do you know she sees things--actually sees
things--give you my word--makes your blood cold to hear her
talking. She made out we were in a bedroom--Cuthbert Grahame's
bedroom she called it; it was only the boudoir. She talked
about the things which were in it just as if they were in it,
when of course they were nothing of the kind--just the ordinary
furniture! 'You see that bed?' she said. Of course I didn't;
there wasn't a bed to see; not even the ghost of a bed. 'That's
Cuthbert Grahame lying in it. You see how he's propped up by
pillows?' The idea of such a thing in a boudoir! 'Now I'm going
to pull away those pillows from under his head.' She actually
pretended to be pulling at pillows, or something--positive fact!
'Now,' she said, 'you see how his head's fallen? You hear what a
noise he makes in trying to breathe? He's choking. I've only got
to leave him like that for a time and he'll be dead. He almost
choked to death when a pillow slipped the other day, so I know.'
Quite serious she was all the time--frightfully serious; made me
all over creeps to hear her--give you my word."
"Do we understand you to tell us that she said, 'Now I'm going
to pull away those pillows from under his head,' and that then,
in pantomime, she went through the action of pulling them?"
"Certainly; that's just what she did do--just exactly. Then she
pretended to drop them on to the floor, and talked about the
noise he made in trying to breathe. Awful!--really awful!"
"Was that all she said? or did?"
"I should think not; there were all sorts of things; she kept on
for a devil of a time. But I can't remember just what they were
just now--strange how you do forget things. Oh yes! there was
one thing--I remember one thing!--most extraordinary thing. She
said, 'You see that fireplace'. Of course there wasn't a
fireplace; she was standing right back in front of a window.
Absurd! But she saw it--stake my life she saw it--you could
tell. 'There's something about that fireplace which I ought to
see, but I can't think what it is; something which I ought to
understand, but I can't. If I only could!' You never heard
anything like the way she said it; you never heard anything more
impressive on the stage--positive fact! 'You see those two
wooden posts,' she went on. Of course I saw nothing of the kind,
because, as I've told you, there was nothing to see--I don't see
things. 'Those two pillar things, I mean, which have been carved
out of the woodwork of the mantelpiece, one on either side, just
near the bottom. Do you know, Gregory, I believe that there's
something about those two posts which I ought to see, which I
ought to understand! But I can't! I can't!' Give you my word
that she began to cry; twisted her hands together and went on
like anything--actually. Seemed so silly! 'I believe,' she
cried,' that if I could only see, if I could only understand, I
should know where Cuthbert Grahame's money is, that I should
find the quarter of a million which is lost.'"
As Mr. Lamb gave a dramatic imitation of his wife's manner,
which, considering all the circumstances, was not so bad,
Margaret, who hitherto had remained in the background, came to
the front with a question.
"Are you sure she said that there was something about those two
posts which--if she saw, if she understood it--would make known
to her where Cuthbert Grahame's money was?"
Mr. Lamb had something of an aggrieved air as he replied.
"Am I sure? Of course I'm sure; I shouldn't say she said it if I
wasn't sure. My statements are absolutely to be relied upon,
Miss Whoever-you-are."
The doctor glanced from Mr. Lamb to Margaret.
"What's he mean, or what's she mean about two wooden posts? It's
all double Dutch to me; I don't understand in the least. Is it
any plainer to you?"
"I think that it is all quite plain to me; that I can understand
what she doesn't; that I can see what she can't." Her voice
sank. Although she spoke gently her tones, to adopt Mr. Lamb's
word, were most "impressive". "I believe that, unwittingly, she
has delivered herself into my hands; that the duel which she and
I are fighting has advanced another stage; that soon we shall be
exchanging shots; and that then there will be but one of us two
left to tell how it all fell out."