pillared arcade that protects the entrance of the Ritz Restaurant from
the gross changes of London’s climate; and it was as he strode under
this arcade, his steps ringing sharply on the dry white stones, that it
was distinctly brought to his notice that he was being followed.
He did not, however, turn his head or show any other sign of interest,
merely dismissing his pursuer as an optimist. Mr. Maturin’s, in point of
fact, was a nature peculiarly lacking in any interest as to what might
or might not at any moment be happening behind him; and one of his
favourite _mots_ had ever been, whether in discussion, distress or
danger, “Well, my friends, let’s face it!” There were, of course, not
wanting those who ventured to doubt whether Beau Maturin had so readily
faced “things” had he not had such a prepossessing face with which to
conciliate them. “Ah,” Mr. Maturin would say to such, “you’re envious,
let’s face it.”
On this occasion, so absorbed was he in absence of thought, he allowed
himself to reach the corner of Arlington Street before swinging round to
“face it.”
“Well?” said Mr. Maturin.
“’Ere!” said the other _sans_ courtesy. “You do walk a pace, you do!”
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Maturin. “What do you want?”
“Want!” said the other. “I like that! What do _I_ want! Jerusalem!”
“If you want Jerusalem,” said Mr. Maturin severely, “you should apply to
the Zionist Society. They would be company for you. It must be very
depressing for a man of your size to go about wanting Jerusalem all by
yourself.”
That the pursuer had no evil intentions, at least to one of Mr.
Maturin’s stature, had instantly been obvious. He was a small
seedy-looking man in a bowler-hat of some past civilisation: his clothes
sadly reflected the inclemencies of the weather, but had the air of not
being very valuable, while the coloring of his face was that of one who
had not in recent times suffered the delightful but perilous
purification of water; and, as he stood panting beneath our gentleman,
his expression was one of such bitter disgust that Mr. Maturin, being
able to account for it only by the continued action of acid foods on the
liver, thought it but right to advise him not to take so much vinegar
with his tinned salmon.
“Am I,” snapped the small seedy man, “talking to Mr. Chapel Matcherin,
or am I not?”
“More or less,” Mr. Maturin could not but admit.
“Orl I knows is,” snapped the small seedy man, “that you was the gent
pointed out to me as yer left that club in Belgrave Square. Gent told me
to give yer this. ’Ere.”
Mr. Maturin quickly opened the envelope, which was addressed to his
name, and drew from it a folded sheet of note-paper and a folded
bank-note. The small seedy man looked bitterly surprised and hurt.
“Money!” he sighed. “Money! ’Ow I ’ate money! And me carrying it abaht!
I like that! Me!”
“You’re still here?” said Mr. Maturin.
“Still ’ere!” said the small seedy man. “I like that! Still ’ere! Me!”
But Mr. Maturin was giving his full attention to the note-paper, the
while the folded bank-note depended tantalisingly from between the
knuckles of two fingers. The small seedy man stared at it fascinated.
“If I’d _known_!” he sighed bitterly.
The letter addressed to Mr. Maturin ran thus:
“Enclosed Mr. Maturin will find a bank-note, which is in the nature of a
present to him from the correspondent: who, if he was not misinformed,
this night saw Mr. Maturin lose the last of his fortune at _chemin de
fer_. Should Mr. Maturin’s be a temperament that does not readily accept
gifts from strangers, which the correspondent takes the liberty to
doubt, he may give the bank-note to the bearer, who will no doubt be
delighted with it. The correspondent merely wishes Mr. Maturin to know
that the money, having once left his hands and come into contact with
Mr. Maturin’s, interests him no further. Nor are there any conditions
whatsoever attached to this gift. But should Mr. Maturin retain some
part of honour, which the correspondent takes the liberty to doubt, he
may return service for service. In so remote a contingency Mr. Maturin
will find a closed motor-car awaiting him near the flower-shop in
Clarges Street.”
Mr. Maturin thoughtfully tore the note into several parts and dropped
them to the pavement. The folded bank-note he, very thoughtful indeed,
put into an inner pocket.
“’Ere!” whined the small seedy man.
“Tell me,” said Mr. Maturin, “what manner of gentleman was the gent who
gave you this?”
“Bigger than you!” snarled the small seedy man. “Blast ’im for an old
capitalist, else my name isn’t ’Iggins!”
“I am sorry your name is Higgins if you don’t like it. But why,” asked
Mr. Maturin, “do you blast the gent who sent you after me?”
“I like that! Why hell! ’Ere he gives me two bob to go chasing after you
to give you a bank-note! Two bob! You couldn’t offer two bob for a
bloater in Wapping without getting arrested for using indecent language.
And you’re so blarsted superior, you are, that you ain’t even looked to
see ’ow much it is!”
“Why, I had forgotten!” smiled Mr. Maturin, and, producing the
bank-note, unfolded it. It was a Bank of England note for £1,000.
“It’s not true!” gasped the small seedy man. “Oh, Gawd, it can’t be
true! And in my ’and all that time and me chasing orl up Piccadilly with
it to _give_ away!”
“Well, good-night,” said Mr. Maturin. “And thank you.”
“’E thanks me!” gasped the small seedy man. “’Ere, and ain’t you even
going to give me a little bit of somethink extra so’s I’ll remember this
ewneek occasion?”
“I’m very afraid,” said Mr. Maturin, feeling carefully in all his
pockets, “that this note you have brought me is all I have. I am really
very sorry. By the way, don’t forget what I said about the salmon. And
be very careful of what you drink. For what, let’s face it, do they
know of dyspepsia, who only Kia-Ora know?”
“’Ere!” whined the small seedy man, but Mr. Maturin, crossing Piccadilly
where the glare of an arc-lamp stamped the mire with a thousand yellow
lights, was already lost in the shadow of the great walls of Devonshire
House. In Clarges Street, near the corner, he came upon a long, closed
car. The chauffeur, a boy, looked sleepily at him.
“I believe you have your directions,” said Mr. Maturin.
“_And_ I’ve had them for hours!” said the boy sleepily. A nice boy.