"A gentleman--I?" I exclaimed blandly. "I assure you, my dear sir,
that I don't pose as a gentleman. I am quite a common man--just like
yourself."
Considerable laughter greeted this remark, but it was at once
suppressed. Still, I knew that this single quick rejoinder had biased
"the gallery" in my favour. Common people enjoy witnessing the
discomfiture of any individual in authority.
Two days later, I left Oakham and returned to London, feeling like a
schoolboy going home for Christmas.
The days went by. On the following week I again went to Oakham to
attend the adjourned inquest. In the case of the butler, an open
verdict was returned, but in the case of the driver, one of murder by
some person unknown.
Of Vera I had had no news.
"Twenty-six Upper..." That might be in London, or in Brighton. It
might even be in some other town. I thought it probable, however, that
the address she had been about to give was a London address, so I had
spent the day before the inquest in trying the various London "Uppers"
contained in "Kelly's Directory."
Heavens, what an array! When my eyes fell upon the list, my heart sank.
For there were no less than fifty-four "Uppers" scattered about the
Metropolis. Some, obviously, might be ruled out at once, or so I
conjectured. Upper Street, Islington, for instance, close to the
_Angel_, did not sound a likely "residential locality"--as the estate
agents say--for people of Sir Charles and Lady Thorold's position to be
staying in. Nor did Upper Bland near the _Elephant and Castle_, nor
Upper Grange Road, off the Old Kent Road; nor Upper Chapman Street,
Shadwell. On the other hand, Upper Brook Street; Upper George Street,
Sloane Square; Upper Grosvenor Street, Park Lane; even Upper Phillimore
Gardens, Kensington, seemed possible spots, and these and many other
"Uppers" I tried, spinning from one to another in a taxi, until the
driver began to look at me as though he had misgivings as to my sanity.
"Twenty-six don't seem to be your lucky number, sir," he said jocularly,
when he had driven me to thirty-seven different "Uppers" and called in
each at the house numbered twenty-six. "It wouldn't be twenty-six in
some `Lower' Street, or Place, or Road, or Gardens, would it, sir?"
He spoke only half in jest, but I resented his familiarity, and I told
him so. His only comment, muttered beneath his breath, but loud enough
for me to hear, was--
"Lummy! the cove's dotty in 'is own `upper,' that's what _'ee_ is."
On my return from Oakham I went to Brighton, wandering aimlessly about
the streets and on the esplanade, hoping against hope that some
fortunate turn in the wheel of Fate might bring me unexpectedly face to
face with my sweet-faced beloved, whose prolonged and mysterious absence
seemed to have made my heart grow fonder. Alas! fate only grinned at me
ironically.
Vera had vanished with her family--entirely vanished.
But not wholly ironically. I had been distressed to find that the
little silver flask picked up at Houghton had been mislaid. For hours I
had hunted high and low for it in my flat. John had turned out all my
clothes, and pulled the pockets inside out, and I had bullied him for
his carelessness in losing it, and almost accused him of stealing it.
It was while in the train on my way back to London, after my second
futile visit to Brighton, that I sat down on something hard. Almost at
once I guessed what it was. Briefly, there had been a hole in the
inside breast-pocket of my overcoat. It had been mended by John's
wife--whose duty it was to keep all my clothes in order--before I knew
of its existence. Therefore, when I had naturally enough suspected
there being a hole in one of my pockets, and sought one, I had found all
the pockets intact. The woman had mended the hole without noticing that
the little flask, which had dropped through it, lay hidden in the bottom
of the lining.
I ripped open the lining at once, and pulled out the flask, delighted at
the discovery. And, as soon as I reached town, I took the flask to a
chemist I knew and asked him to analyse its contents. He would do so
without delay, he said, and let me know on the following morning the
result of his analysis.
"It's a mixture of gelsiminum and ether," he said, as soon as I entered
his shop next day.
"Poison, of course," I remarked.
He smiled.
"Well, I should rather think so," he answered drily. "A few drops would
send a strong man to sleep for ever, and there is enough of the fluid
here to send fifty men to sleep--for ever. Therefore one wouldn't
exactly take it for one's health."
So here was a clue--of a sort. The first clue! My spirits rose. My
next step must be to discover the owner of the flask, presumably some
one with initials "D.P.," and the reason he--or she--had carried this
fluid about.
I lunched at Brooks's, feeling more than usually bored by the members I
met there. Several men whom I had not seen for several weeks were
standing in front of the smoking-room fire, and as I entered, and they
caught sight of me, they all grinned broadly.
"`The accused then left the Court with his friends,'" one of them said
lightly, as I approached. "`He was granted a free pardon, but bound
over in his own recognisances to keep the peace for six months.'"
"You _have_ been getting yourself into trouble, Dick, and no mistake,"
observed his neighbour--I am generally called Dick by my friends.
"Into trouble? What do you mean?" I retorted, nettled.
"Why--you know quite well," he answered. "This Houghton affair, the
scandal about the Thorolds, of course. How came you to get mixed up in
it? We like you, old man, but you know it makes it a bit unpleasant for
some of us. You know what people are. They will talk."
"I suppose you mean that men are judged by the company they keep, and
that because I happened to be at Houghton at the time of that affair,
and was unwillingly dragged into prominence by the newspapers, therefore
that discredit reflects on me."
"Well, I should not have expressed it precisely in that way, but
still--"
"Still what?"
"As you ask me, I suppose I must answer. I do think it rather
unfortunate you should have got yourself mixed up in the business, and
both Algie and Frank agree with me--don't you, Algie?" he ended, turning
to his friend.
"Awe--er--awe--quite so, quite so. We were talking of you just as you
came in, my dear old Dick, and we all agreed it was, awe--er--was--awe--
a confounded pity you had anything to do with it. Bad form, you know,
old Dick, all this notoriety. Never does to be unusual, singular, or
different from other people--eh what? One's friends don't like it--and
one don't like it oneself--what?"
Their shallow views and general mental vapidity, if I may put it so,
jarred upon me. After spending ten minutes in their company, I went
into the dining-room and lunched alone. Then I read the newspapers,
dozed in an armchair for half-an-hour, and finally, at about four
o'clock, returned to my flat in King Street. John met me on the stairs.
"Ah! there you are, sir," he exclaimed. "Did you meet them?"
"Meet whom?"
"Why, they haven't been gone not two minutes, so I thought you might
have met them in the street, sir. They waited over half-an-hour."
"But who were they? What were their names?" I asked, irritated at John
for not telling me at once the names of the visitors.
"A young lady and a gentleman--there's a card on your table, sir; I
can't recall the names for the moment," he said, wrinkling his forehead
as he scratched his ear to stimulate his memory. "The gentleman was
extremely tall, quite a giant, with a dark beard."
I hurried up the stairs, for the lift was out of order, and let myself
into my flat with my latch key. On the table, in my sitting-room, was a
lady's card on a salver.
"Miss Thorold."