But they did not have Tom there much longer, for he departed, looking
even worse-tempered than when he came. Wimp went soon after, and Crowl
and Denzil were left to their interminable argumentation concerning the
Useful and the Beautiful.
Wimp went West. He had several strings (or cords) to his bow, and he
ultimately found himself at Kensal Green Cemetery. Being there, he went
down the avenues of the dead to a grave to note down the exact date of a
death. It was a day on which the dead seemed enviable. The dull, sodden
sky, the dripping, leafless trees, the wet, spongy soil, the reeking
grass--everything combined to make one long to be in a warm, comfortable
grave away from the leaden _ennuis_ of life. Suddenly the detective's
keen eye caught sight of a figure that made his heart throb with sudden
excitement. It was that of a woman in a grey shawl and a brown bonnet,
standing before a railed-in grave. She had no umbrella. The rain plashed
mournfully upon her, but left no trace on her soaking garments. Wimp
crept up behind her, but she paid no heed to him. Her eyes were lowered
to the grave, which seemed to be drawing them towards it by some strange
morbid fascination. His eyes followed hers. The simple headstone bore the
name, "Arthur Constant."
Wimp tapped her suddenly on the shoulder.
"How do you do, Mrs. Drabdump?"
Mrs. Drabdump went deadly white. She turned round, staring at Wimp
without any recognition.
"You remember me, surely," he said; "I've been down once or twice to your
place about that poor gentleman's papers." His eye indicated the grave.
"Lor! I remember you now," said Mrs. Drabdump.
"Won't you come under my umbrella? You must be drenched to the skin."
"It don't matter, sir. I can't take no hurt. I've had the rheumatics this
twenty year."
Mrs. Drabdump shrank from accepting Wimp's attentions, not so much
perhaps because he was a man as because he was a gentleman. Mrs. Drabdump
liked to see the fine folks keep their place, and not contaminate their
skirts by contact with the lower castes. "It's set wet, it'll rain right
into the new year," she announced. "And they say a bad beginnin' makes a
worse endin'." Mrs. Drabdump was one of those persons who give you the
idea that they just missed being born barometers.
"But what are you doing in this miserable spot, so far from home?"
queried the detective.
"It's Bank Holiday," Mrs. Drabdump reminded him in tones of acute
surprise. "I always make a hexcursion on Bank Holiday."