THE YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY HEARS SOME NEWS
"I say, mister."
Douglas started round, cramped with his long lingering against the stone
wall. A girl was standing by his side. There were roses in her hat and
a suspicion of powder upon her cheeks.
"Were you speaking to me?" he asked hesitatingly.
She laughed shortly.
"No one else within earshot that I know of," she answered. "I saw you
throw that parcel over."
"I was just wishing," he remarked, "that I could get it back."
"Well, you are a mug to chuck it over and then want it back. I guess
it's lost now, anyway, unless the river police find it--and that ain't
likely, is it?"
"I should think not," he answered gravely. "Good evening." He would
have moved away, but she stopped him. "Come, that's not good enough,"
she said, in a harder tone. "You ain't going to bluff me. What was in
that parcel, eh?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"I don't quite see how it concerns you, anyway," he said, "but I don't
know that I mind telling you that it contained a suit of clothes."
"Your own?"
"Yes."
"What have you been up to?"
"I am afraid I don't understand you," he said.
"Oh, rot! People don't sneak their clothes over into the river for
nothing. What are you going to stand me not to tell that bobby, eh?"
"I really don't care whether you do or not," he answered. "I had a
reason for wanting to get rid of my clothes, but I am afraid you
wouldn't understand it."
"Well, we'll try the bobby, then," she said. "There's a horrible murder
this morning on the placards. How do I know that you're not the chap?
It looks suspicious when you come out in a new suit of clothes and throw
the old ones into the river. Anyway, the bobby would want to ask you a
few questions about it."
"Well, you can try him, then," Douglas answered. "I'll wait here while
you fetch him."
The girl laughed--it was not a pleasant sound.
"Where'd you be by the time I'd brought him, I'd like to know?" she
remarked. "Never mind. I see you ain't likely to part with a lot.
Stand us a drink, and I won't tell a soul."
"I would rather not, thanks," Douglas said. "I'll give you the money
for one."
She looked at him angrily.
"Too much of a toff, eh? No, you can keep your money. You'll come
along and have one with me, or I'll tell the bobby."
Douglas hesitated. He thought for a moment of De Quincey's Ann
wandering out of the mists to cross the bridge with weary footsteps, and
turned towards the girl with a courtesy which was almost tenderness.
"I will come with you if you like," he said, "only--"
The girl laughed hardly.
"All right. We'll go to the 'Cross.' The port wine's A1 there. You a
Londoner?" she added, as they turned towards the Strand.
He shook his head.
"I have never been in London before to-day," he answered.
"More fool you to come, then," she said, shortly. "You don't look like
a Cockney. I guess you're a gentleman, aren't you--run away from home
or something?"
"I have come to live in London," he said, evasively. "I have always
wanted to."
She shook her head.
"You'd better have stopped away. You are young, and you look good.
You'll be neither long. Ugh! Here we are."
He stepped aside and let her pass in first through the swing doors. She
led the way into what was called a private bar. They sat in cushioned
chairs, and Douglas gave his order mechanically. A few feet away, with
only a slim partition between them, was the general room full of men.
The tinkle of glasses and hum of conversation grew louder and louder.
It was a cold evening and a busy time. Douglas sipped his wine in
silence. The girl opposite was humming a tune and beating time with her
foot. She was watching him covertly but not unkindly.
"He'll be caught right enough. They even know 'is name. Serve 'im
right, too, for it was an 'orrible murder . . . Douglas Guest."
Douglas started suddenly in his chair, a cry upon his lips, his eyes
almost starting from his head. The girl's gloved hand was pressed
against his mouth and the cry was stifled. Afterwards he remembered all
his life the smell of patchouli or some cheap scent which assailed him
at her near presence.
"Hush!" she whispered. "Don't be a silly fool."
He sat back in his chair, pale to the lips, trembling in every limb.
The mirrors, the rows of glasses, the cushioned seats seemed flying
round, there was a buzzing in his ears. Again she rose and poured wine
down his throat.
"Sit still," she said, hoarsely. "You'll be all right in a moment."
The whole story, in disconnected patches, came floating in to them. He
heard it, gripping all the while the sides of his chair, struggling with
a deadly faintness. She too listened, watching him carefully all the
time lest he should call out. In their corner they were scarcely to be
seen even from the bar, and she had moved her seat a little so as to
wholly shield him. It sounded bad enough. An old man over sixty, a
farmer living in a northern village, had been found in his bedroom dead.
By his side was a rifled cash box. There had been the best part of a
hundred pounds there, all of which was gone. There were no signs of any
one having broken in, but a young man named Douglas Guest, an inmate of
the house and a distant relative, was missing. The thing was clear
enough.
Another voice chimed in--its owner possessed a later edition. Only that
night there had been a violent quarrel between the dead man and this
Douglas Guest concerning money. Guest had been seen to enter the London
train secretly at the nearest large station. His arrest was only a
matter of a few hours. The police knew exactly where to put their hands
upon him. A description followed. The girl and her companion exchanged
stealthy glances.
The buzz of voices continued. Covering Douglas all she could, the girl
called for more wine. The barmaid, seeing his pale face, nodded across
towards him.
"Your friend don't look well," she said.
"Had too much yesterday," the girl answered, promptly. "He was fairly
on 'the do,' and he ain't strong. He'll be all right when he gets a
drop of this inside him."
The barmaid nodded and turned away. The girl made him drink and then
roused him.
"Can you walk?" she said shortly. "We're best away from here."
He nodded.
"Yes."
She rose and paid for the last drinks. He followed her out on to the
pavement and stood there, dazed, almost helpless. She looked at him
critically.
"Come, pull yourself together," she said. "You've had a bit of a knock,
I guess, but you don't want to advertise yourself here. Now listen.
You'd best get some quiet lodging and lie low for a bit. I don't know
anything and I don't want to know anything, but it's pretty clear you're
keeping out of the way. I'm not going to take you down my way. For one
thing, you ain't exactly that sort, I should say, and for another, the
coppers are on to us like hot bricks when any one's wanted. Do you know
London at all?"
"I was never here before this evening," he answered, in a low tone.
She looked at him critically.
"You're a bit of a green 'un," she said, bluntly. "You don't need to go
giving yourself away like that, you know. Come along. I'm going to
take you out to a quiet part that'll do for you as well as anywhere."
He walked by her side passively. Once he stopped and bought an evening
paper, and under the next gas lamp he read a certain paragraph through
carefully. She waited for him without remark. He folded the paper up
after a minute or two and rejoined her. Side by side they threaded
their way along Pall Mall, across the Park and southwards. A walk
which, an hour or two ago, would have filled him with wonder and
delight, he undertook now with purely mechanical movements and unseeing
eyes. When they reached Chelsea she paused.
"Look here," she said, "are you feeling all right now?"
He nodded.
"I am quite myself again," he said, steadily. "I am much obliged to you
for looking after me. You are very kind."
He drew some gold pieces hesitatingly from his pocket. She motioned him
to replace them.
"I don't want any money, thanks," she said. "Now listen. That street
there is all lodging-houses. Go and get a room and lie quiet for a bit.
They're used to odd folk down here, and you look like a painter or a
writer. Say you're an actor out of a job, or anything that comes
handy."
"Thank you," he said. "I understand."
She turned away.
"Good night, then."
"Good night."
He heard something that sounded like a sob, and the quick rustling of
skirts. He turned round. She was by the corner--out of sight already.
At the bottom of the street was the glitter of a gas lamp reflected from
the walk. He walked down and found himself on Chelsea Embankment. He
made his way to the wall with the gold which she had refused still in
his hand, and without hesitation threw the coins far out into the river.
Then he looked around. There was not a soul in sight. He drew a
handful of money from his pocket and flung it away--a little shower of
gold flashing brightly in the gaslight for a moment. He went through
his pockets carefully and found an odd half sovereign and some silver.
Away they went. Then he moved back to a seat and closed his eyes.