Meldon left the hotel and mounted his bicycle without speaking another
word. He rode rapidly out of the town, followed at some distance by
O'Donoghue, who was a cyclist of inferior strength and energy. For the
first four miles the road to Ballymoy goes steadily up hill. Meldon,
gripping his handle-bars tightly, rode at a fast rate. O'Donoghue was
left further and further behind. At the top of the hill Meldon had a
lead of a full quarter of a mile. Then the left pedal of his bicycle
came off, and he was obliged to dismount. He was working at it with a
spanner when O'Donoghue, breathless and in a bad temper, came up with
him. Meldon greeted him cheerfully.
"Obstinate old swine the judge is," he said. "You would have thought a
man like that whose business in life consists very largely in weighing
evidence, and who has been specially trained to arrive at sound
conclusions from the facts presented to him, would have seen the
necessity of giving up this ridiculous expedition of his to Ballymoy."
"Why did you ride on like that and leave me behind?" said O'Donoghue
shortly.
"If I were inclined to be captious and wanted to find fault," said
Meldon, "I might say why did you lag behind and leave me to ride by
myself? I don't want to ride by myself. I want to discuss the judge's
conduct."
O'Donoghue also wanted to discuss the judge's conduct. He was even
more anxious to find out, if he could, why Meldon disliked the idea of
this particular judge paying a visit to Ballymoy. He recovered his
temper with an effort.
"I don't think," he said, "that he believed a word you said about the
drains."
"That's exactly what I'm complaining of. He ought to have believed us.
According to all the rules of evidence, no stronger testimony could
possibly have been offered than the statements of a clergyman and a
doctor, neither of whom had any personal interest in the condition of
the drains. Unless we'd brought a bottle of water out of Doyle's well,
and shown him the bacilli swimming about in it, I don't see what more
we could have done."
"I wish I knew," said O'Donoghue, "exactly why it is that you want to
keep Sir Gilbert out of Ballymoy. What harm is there for him to do if
he comes?"
"He won't do me any harm at all. In fact I shall be delighted to have
him there. He struck me as a very intelligent and highly-educated man.
You saw how he caught my point about 'Samson Agonistes' at once.
Neither you nor Doyle, nor for the matter of that the Major, would have
known in the least what I was talking about. A man like that about the
place would be a great comfort to me. I should have some one to talk
to. I wish I could get you all to understand that I'm acting in this
whole business from purely disinterested and altruistic motives. _I_
don't want to get rid of Simpkins. You and Doyle and the Major do."
"The thing I can't understand," said O'Donoghue, "is what the judge has
to do with Simpkins. If I was clear about that-- What I mean to say
is if I could make out why--"
"Thank goodness," said Meldon, "I've got that beastly pedal fixed
again. Come on, doctor. We haven't a minute to waste. I want to be
in Ballymoy a clear hour before the judge arrives there."
He mounted the bicycle as he spoke, and rode off at full speed. The
slope of the road was downwards from the place of the halt, and
O'Donoghue was able to keep close to Meldon for some time. He made a
number of breathless attempts to speak.
"If you'd only tell me," he panted, "why--"
Sometimes he got a little further than the "why."
He never succeeded in completely finishing his sentence. After a while
he began to drop behind again. On a long level stretch of road Meldon
drew rapidly ahead and might have reached Ballymoy a whole mile in
front of O'Donoghue if the pedal of Doyle's bicycle had not failed him
again. The accident gave the doctor his opportunity. He came up with
Meldon and asked his question.
"What difference will the judge make to Simpkins? That's what I want
to know, and I won't go on blindfold doing exactly what you tell me.
If I saw my way it would be different."
"I can't explain the position fully to you," said Meldon, "without
giving away a secret which isn't really mine; a secret which involves
the honour of a lady. But when I tell you that my plan for getting rid
of Simpkins permanently involves my marrying him to Miss King, you'll
no doubt be able to make out for yourself why it is absolutely
necessary to keep Sir Gilbert Hawkesby out of Ballymoy. Any
intelligent man, able to put two and two together, ought to see the
whole thing, especially if he's been reading the newspapers."
O'Donoghue sat down on the bank at the side of the road and thought
deeply. Meldon worked vehemently at the pedal.
"I can't see in the least what you're at," said O'Donoghue at last.
"But it doesn't matter. If your plan of making Simpkins marry that
lady depends on your keeping the judge out of the place, then, so far
as I can see, it's done for. He's coming in spite of you."
"My plan will be all right," said Meldon, "if he doesn't stay; and I
think he won't stay."
"He doesn't seem to mind drains a bit; and he'll mind them less when he
sees them. They're bad, of course; but they're not near so bad as you
made out. I don't expect a man that age will catch anything."
"I'm not now relying on the drains," said Meldon. "I quite give in
that they've failed. I'm on my way back to make other arrangements
which will have him out of Ballymoy in twenty-four hours."
"You mean the chloride of lime in his bedroom."
"That and other things. I'm convinced that we run a grave risk every
hour he spends in Ballymoy, and so I shall naturally take pretty strong
measures to get him out."
"Don't mix me up in them if you can help it. I backed you up about the
drains, but for a man in my position it doesn't do to go too far,
especially with a judge."
"All you have to do," said Meldon, "is to supply the chloride of lime
and the Condy's Fluid. I shan't ask you to do anything else. You
can't complain about a trifle like that. Most men would do a great
deal more in order to get rid of Simpkins."
The pedal was fixed again. Meldon shook it violently to make sure that
it was really firm.
"I hope," he said, "it will stick on this time. These delays are most
exasperating when one's in a hurry. We shall have to buck up now,
O'Donoghue, and ride really fast."
O'Donoghue groaned. He had been riding at the top of his speed since
he left Donard, and there were still six miles between him and
Ballymoy. Meldon led off at a racing speed, leaving the doctor to
follow him through a choking cloud of dust. About three miles outside
Ballymoy, O'Donoghue, having entirely lost sight of Meldon, sat down to
rest on the side of the road. The pedal was holding to its place, and
he had no hope of seeing his companion again.
Meldon propped his bicycle up outside the door of the hotel, walked
into the hall, and shouted for Doyle.
"I could do," he said, "with a cup of tea, if you'll be so good as to
tell Sabina Gallagher to make it for me."
"I'll do that," said Doyle. "I'd do more than that for you, Mr.
Meldon. The tea will be laid out for you in the commercial room in
five minutes if so be Sabina has the kettle on the boil, and it's what
I'm always telling her she ought to see to."
"I don't want it set out in the commercial room," said Mr. Meldon, "nor
yet in the drawing-room. I want to take it in the kitchen along with
Sabina."
"Is it in the kitchen? Sure that's no place for a gentleman like
yourself to be taking his tea."
"All the same it's there I mean to have it. The fact is, I have a word
or two to say to Sabina privately."
Doyle opened a door at the end of the hall in which they stood, and
shouted down a long passage:
"Sabina, Sabina Gallagher! Are you listening to me? Very well then.
Will you wet some tea in the silver teapot which you'll find beyond
in--"
"I'd prefer the brown one," said Meldon, "if it's all the same to you.
I hate the taste of plate-powder. I don't think it's likely that
Sabina has been wasting her time polishing your silver, but you never
can tell what a girl like that would do."
"In the brown teapot," shouted Doyle. "And set out a cup and saucer on
the kitchen table--"
"Two cups," said Meldon. "I want Sabina to join me, so that I'll be
sure of getting her in a good temper."
"Two cups," shouted Doyle. "And when you have that done be off and
clean yourself as quick as you can, for the Reverend Mr. Meldon will be
down in a minute to take tea with you. If there isn't a pot of jam
down below--and it's likely you have it ate if there is--go into the
shop and ask for one. Is it strawberry you'd like, Mr. Meldon?"
"That or raspberry," said Meldon. "I don't care which. And now I want
to say a word or two to you."
"Come inside," said Doyle. "There isn't a soul in the bar, and maybe
you'd like a drop of something before your tea."
"I would not. You know very well, Doyle, that I never touch whisky
before my meals, especially when I've any business to do; and you ought
to be ashamed of yourself for offering it to me."
Doyle pushed forward a chair, selected another for himself, and sat
down opposite Meldon.
"Is it about the judge that's coming this evening that you wanted to
speak to me?"
"It is," said Meldon.
"I was thinking it might be. When you asked for the loan of my bicycle
this morning, and told me that you and the doctor was off to Donard in
a hurry, I made full sure it was him you were after. What have you
done with the doctor?"
"He'll be here in a few minutes," said Meldon, "and when he comes he'll
give you some chloride of lime and a bottle of Condy's Fluid. You're
to sprinkle the lime on the floor of the judge's bedroom, and to damp
the sheets on his bed with a solution of Condy's Fluid. O'Donoghue
will give you exact directions about the quantities."
"And what would that be for?"
"The judge wants it done," said Meldon, "and that ought to be enough
for you."
"I was reading a bit in the paper one day about what they call the
Christian Science. I suppose, now, he'll be one of them?"
"No," said Meldon. "He's not. If you'd read a little more carefully
you'd have understood that no Christian Scientist would walk on the
same side of the street as a bottle of Condy's Fluid. The principal
article of their creed is that there are no such things as germs,
consequently it's mere waste of time trying to kill them. And as
Condy's Fluid exists chiefly for the purpose of killing germs, it
strikes the Christian Scientist as an immoral compound. I don't know
exactly what religion your judge professes, but one thing is clear from
his insisting on Condy's Fluid, he's not a Christian Scientist."
"It's as well he's not," said Doyle. "What I say, and always did say,
is this: The Catholic religion is the right religion, meaning no
offence to you, Mr. Meldon. And the Protestant religion is a good
religion for them that's brought up to it. And if a man can't make up
his mind to one or other of the two of them, it's better for him not to
have a religion at all."
"Don't let your interest in theological controversy distract your
attention from seeing after the thorough disinfection of the judge's
bedroom."
"I will not," said Doyle; "but I'll see that your orders are carried
out. It's a queer notion, so it is, to be sleeping in damp sheets.
But a man like that ought to know what suits him."
"Right," said Meldon. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be off to
the kitchen and have my tea. You keep your eye lifting for the doctor,
and get those things out of him as soon as you can."
Sabina Gallagher, blushing and embarrassed, with a clean apron on,
stood with her back against the dresser when Meldon entered the
kitchen. He shook hands with her, and noticed at once that she had
obeyed her master's orders and made some effort to clean herself. Her
hands were damp and cold.
"I'm glad to see you looking well," said Meldon, "Is the tea ready?"
"It is," said Sabina.
Meldon sat down and poured out two cups.
"Come along," he said, "and keep me company."
Sabina sidled towards the table.
"I'm just after my tea," she said, "and I'd be ashamed to be sitting
down with a gentleman like yourself."
"Nonsense," said Meldon, "I want to talk to you, and I can't do that if
you're standing there in the middle of the floor so as I'd get a crick
in my neck trying to look at you. Sit down at once."
Sabina grinned sheepishly and sat down. Meldon drank off his cup of
tea at a draught, and poured out a second.
"Have you taken the advice I gave you the other day about your
cooking?" he asked.
"Is it making them things with olives?"
"It is."
"Well, I have not; for I wouldn't be fit."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Meldon. "Circumstances have arisen since I
last saw you which render it desirable that you should cook as badly as
possible during the next few days. There's a judge coming here this
evening."
"I heard Mr. Doyle saying that same," said Sabina.
"And he'll be expecting some sort of a dinner to-night."
"There's a chicken ready to go into the oven for him any minute."
"What you have to do," said Meldon, "is to see that he gets as bad a
dinner as possible, and a worse breakfast to-morrow morning."
"Bad, is it?"
"Uneatable," said Meldon. "Serve him up food that a pig wouldn't look
at. Can you do that, do you think?"
"I might, of course," said Sabina; "but--"
"Then do."
"Sure if I do he'll not be for stopping in the hotel."
"Exactly," said Meldon. "He's not wanted to stop."
"Mr. Doyle will lacerate me after, if the gentleman leaves, and the
language he'll use will be what I wouldn't like to be listening to."
"Mr. Doyle," said Meldon, "may take that view at first. He's a
short-sighted man, and is inclined to consider only the immediate
present; but, in giving you the directions I am giving about the
judge's food, I am acting in Mr. Doyle's best interests. I'm looking
into the future, and doing what will be best for Mr. Doyle in the long
run. After awhile he'll come to understand that, and then he'll be
extremely pleased with you, and most probably he'll raise your wages."
"He'll not do that," said Sabina confidently.
"In any case," said Meldon, "whatever view he ultimately takes of your
action, you will have the feeling that you are securing the greatest
good of the greatest number, and that's a reward in itself--a much
better reward than a few shillings extra wages."
"It might be," said Sabina; but she spoke without conviction.
"As to the exact method that you ought to pursue," said Meldon, "I
don't lay down any hard and fast rules; but I should suggest that
paraffin oil is a thing that has a most penetrating kind of taste, and
I don't know that I ever met any one who liked it. I remember once a
servant we had at home cleaned the inside of the coffee-pot with
paraffin oil. I tasted the stuff for weeks afterwards, and I couldn't
make out for a long time where the flavour came from."
"Would there be any fear," said Sabina, "but I might poison him?"
"Not a bit," said Meldon. "You'll do him good if he eats the things.
You may not know it, but vaseline is made from paraffin oil, and it's
well known that vaseline is an extraordinarily wholesome sort of stuff,
good for almost anything in the way of a cut or a burn. Then there's a
kind of emulsion made from petroleum--that's the same as
paraffin--which cures consumption. For all we know this judge may be
suffering from consumption, and a little paraffin may be the best thing
in the world for him."
"I wouldn't like if he was to die on us."
"Nor would I; but he won't. You needn't be the least bit afraid of
that. For one thing, the moment he smells the paraffin he'll stop
eating the food. However, all this is only my idea. Better plans may
suggest themselves. For instance, I have noticed that if you chop up
an onion with a knife, and then spread butter with the same knife, the
butter gets a most objectionable taste. You have onions about the
house, I suppose."
"I have."
"Then you might try that. And there's a way of dealing with bacon.
I'm not quite sure how it's done, but the taste all goes out of it, and
it gets extremely tough. Then you fry it in such a way that it's quite
limp, and sprinkle a little soot on it. I've often tried to eat bacon
done that way--before I was married, of course--and I never could. I
don't suppose the judge will be able to either. Boiled eggs are
difficult things to tamper with, but you could always see that they
were stale."
"I could not, then."
"You could, Sabina. Don't raise frivolous difficulties. Anybody could
keep an egg until it was stale."
"Not in this house."
"And why not?"
"Because they'd be ate," said Sabina. "Whatever many eggs the hens
might lay they'd be ate by some one before they were a day in the
house, and I couldn't keep them. There was a little Plymouth Rock hen
that was wanting to sit here last week, and it took me all I could do
and more to get the eggs saved up for her, and at the latter end I had
only nine."
"Is she sitting yet!"
"She is, of course."
"Then you might try the judge with the eggs that's under her."
"I will not, then. Is it after all the trouble I had with her, and the
chickens will be out early next week. I never heard of the like."
"Well," said Meldon, "I'll have to leave the boiled eggs to you,
Sabina, but I'll be disappointed in you if the judge eats them. Do you
think now that you thoroughly understand what you've got to do?"
"I do. Why wouldn't I?"
"Then I'll say good-bye to you. I'm much obliged to you for the cup of
tea. And remember, Sabina, this isn't any kind of a joke. It's
serious business, and I mean every word I say. It's most important
that the judge should leave Ballymoy as soon as possible."
"Is it persecuting the League boys he's after?" said Sabina. "For
there's a cousin of my own that's in with them, and--"
"Brother of the red-haired girl at Mr. Simpkins?"
"He is; and I wouldn't like any harm would come to him."
"You act as I have told you, and no harm will come to him. But if the
judge stays on here it's impossible to say what may happen. You know
what judges are, Sabina."
"I've heard tell of them, and it's mighty little good is ever said of
them or their like."
"Quite so," said Meldon. "So you do your best to get this one out of
Ballymoy."