Another Kettle-Drum.
Commotion at Mrs. Jinks's. Another afternoon kettle-drum on a grand
scale. The two pastors, and more guests than could squeeze into the
parlour. All the Foxwood ladies and an omnibus load or two from
Basham.
Mr. Strange at in his drawing-room, on a three-legged stool; the one
that supported Mrs. Jinks's tub on washing days. His chairs had been
borrowed. He had good-naturedly given up every one: so Mrs. Jinks
introduced the wooden stool. These crowded meetings below had amused
him at first; but he was getting a little tired with the bustle and
the noise. Every time the street door was knocked at, it shook his
room; the talking below could be heard nearly as plainly as though he
were taking part in it. Still it made a little diversion in Mr.
Strange's solitary existence, if only to watch the arrival of the
articles needed for the feast, and to smell the aroma of the coffee,
made in the kitchen in a huge kettle. The supplies did not concern Mr.
Cattacomb; his gentle flock took that on themselves, cost and all.
There was no lack of good things, but rather a superabundance: since
the Rev. Mr. Puff had come to augment the clerical force, the
contributions had been too profuse. So that every one connected with
the entertainment was in the seventh heaven of enjoyment and good
humour; except Mrs. Jinks.
Perched on the hard stool, Mr. Strange, for lack of other employment,
had noted the dainties as they came in. The wisest of us must unbend
sometimes. A basket of muffins full to the brim; eleven sorts of
jam--since it was discovered that the Reverend Guy loved preserves to
satiety, the assortments had never failed; thirteen kinds of biscuits,
trays of cake, glass pots of marmalade and honey, ripe rich fruits of
all tempting colours, chocolate creams, candied oranges, lovely
flowers.
Mr. Strange grew tired of looking; his head ached with the noise, his
eyes with the splendour of the ladies' dresses. For the company was
arriving now, thick and threefold.
There had arisen a slight, a very slight, modicum of displeasure at
Mr. Cattacomb. That zealous divine had been met four or five times
walking with Mr. Moore's third daughter, Jemima: at the last lecture
he had distinctly been seen man[oe]uvring to get the young lady next
to him. It gave offence. While he belonged to them all, all adored
him; but let him once single out one of them for favour more than the
rest, and woe betide his popularity. "And that little idiot of a
Jemima Moore, too, who had not two ideas in her vain head!" as Jane
St. Henry confidentially remarked. However, the Reverend Guy, upon
receiving a hint from Miss Blake that he was giving umbrage, vowed and
protested that it was all accident and imagination--that he hardly
knew Miss Jemima from her sisters. So peace was restored, and the
kettledrum grew out of it.
"I must have my chop all the same, Mrs. Jinks," said Mr. Strange to
the widow; who had come upstairs to ask the loan of his sugar tongs,
and looked very red and excited over it.
"In course, sir, you shall have it. It might be ten minutes later,
sir, than ord'nary, but I do hope you'll excuse it, sir, if it is. You
see how I'm drove with 'em."
"I see that there seems to be a large company arriving."
"Company!" returned Mrs. Jinks, the word causing her temper to
explode; "I don't know how they'll ever get inside the room. I shall
have to borrow a form from the school next door but one, and put it in
the passage for some of 'em; and, when that and the chairs is filled,
the rest must stand. Never as long as I live, will I take in a
unmarried parson-gent again, if he's one of this here new sort that
gets the ladies about him all day in church and gives drums out of it.
Hark at the laughing! Them two parsons be in their glory."
"The ladies must be fond of drums, I should think, by their getting
them up so frequently," remarked Mr. Strange.
"Drat the huzzies! they'd be fond of fifes too if it brought 'em round
Cattakin," was the widow's uncomplimentary rejoinder. "Better for 'em
if they'd let the man alone to drink his tea in quiet and write his
sermons--which I don't believe ever does get writ, seeing he never has
a minute to himself. Hark at that blessed door!" she continued; and
indeed the knocking was keeping up a perpetual chorus. "If they'd only
turn the handle they could come in of theirselves. I said so to the
Miss St. Henrys one cleaning day that I had been called to it six
times while scrubbing down the kitchen stairs, and the young ladies
answered me that they'd not come in to Mr. Cattakin's without
knocking, for the world."
"I suppose not," said Mr. Strange, slightly laughing.
"Hang that knocker again. There it goes! And me with all the drum on
my shoulders. You should see the muffins we've got to toast and butter
downstairs, sir; your conscience 'ud fail you. Betsey Chaffin has come
in to help me, and she and the girl is at it like steam. I'm afeared
that there stool's terrible hard for you, Mr. Strange, sir!" broke off
the widow, in condolence.
"It's not as soft as velvet," was the reply. "But I'm glad to oblige:
and I am going out presently. Get my chop and tea up when you can."
Mrs. Jinks disappeared; the hum continued. Whether the two parsons, as
Mrs. Jinks surmised, felt "in their glory," cannot be told: the ladies
were certainly in theirs. These kettledrums at Mr. Cattacomb's were
charmingly attractive.
When Mr. Strange did not return home for his chop at midday, he took
it with his tea. His tray was yet before him when the kettledrum
trooped out to attend vespers. At least, the company who had formed
the drum. The two reverend gentlemen hastened on together a little in
advance; Miss Blake led the van behind; and curious Foxwood ran to its
windows to see.
Mr. Strange, who had nothing particular on his hands or mind that
evening, looked after them. Example is infectious. He felt an
inclination to follow in their wake--for it had not been his good
fortune yet to make one of the worshippers at St. Jerome's; he had
never indulged himself with as much as a peep inside the place.
Accordingly, Mr. Strange started, after some short delay, and gained
the edifice.
The first object his eyes rested on, struck him as being as ludicrous
as an imp at the play. It was Tom Pepp in a conical hat tipped with
red, and a red cross extending down his white garmented back. Tom Pepp
stood near the bell, ready to tinkle it at parts of the service. It
may as well be stated--lest earnest disciples of new movements should
feel or take offence--that the form and make of the services at St.
Jerome's were entirely Mr. Cattacomb's own; invented by himself
exclusively, and not copied from any other standard, orthodox or
unorthodox. The description of it is taken from facts. Mr. Strange,
standing at the back near to Tom Pepp, enjoyed full view of all: the
ladies prostrate on the floor, _actually prostrate_, some of them, the
Reverend Guy facing them with the whites of his eyes turned up; Damon
Puff on his knees, presenting his back to the room and giving every
now and then a surreptitious stroke to his moustache. The detective
had never seen so complete a farce in his life, as connected with
religion. He thought the two reverend gentlemen might be shut up for a
short term as mutinous lunatics, by way of receiving a little
wholesome correction: he knew that if he had a daughter, he would shut
_her_ up as one, rather than she should make a spectacle of herself as
these other girls were doing.
The services over, Tom Pepp set on at the bell to ring them out with
all his might--for that was the custom. Most of them filed out; as did
Mr. Damon Puff; and they went on their way. A few of them stopped in,
for confession to Mr. Cattacomb.
It was growing dusk then. A train was just in, and had deposited some
passengers at the station. One of them came along, walking quickly, as
if in haste to get home. Happening to turn his head towards St.
Jerome's as he passed it, attracted by the bell, he saw there,
rather to his surprise, standing just outside the door, Mr. Moore's
strong-minded sister. She peered at him in the twilight; she was no
longer so quick of sight as she had been; and recognized Sir Karl
Andinnian.
"What, is it you, Miss Diana!" he cried, stopping to hold out his
hand. "Have you gone over to St. Jerome's?"
"I'd rather go over to Rome, Sir Karl," was the candid answer. "I may
lapse to St. Jerome's when I get childish perhaps, if it lasts so
long. There's no answering for any of us when the mind fails."
Sir Karl laughed slightly. He saw before him the receding crowd
turning down towards Foxwood village, and knew that vespers must be
just over. The ringing of Tom Pepp's bell would have told him that. It
was clanging away just above Miss Diana's head.
"You have been to vespers, then," remarked Sir Karl again, almost at a
loss what to say, and unable to get away until Miss Diana chose to
release his hand.
"Yes, I have been to what they call vespers," she rejoined tartly;
"more shame for a woman of my sober years to say it, as connected with
this place. Look at them, trooping on there, that Puff in the midst,
who is softer than any apple-puff ever made yet!" continued Miss
Diana, pointing her hand in the direction of the vanishing
congregation. "_They_ have gone; but there are five staying in for
confession. Hark! Hark, Sir Karl! the folly is going to begin."
A sweet, silvery-toned bell rang gently within the room, and the
clanging bell of Mr. Pepp stopped at the signal. The Reverend Guy had
gone into the confessional box, and all other sounds must cease.
"I should think they can hardly see to confess at this hour," said Sir
Karl jestingly.
"They light a tallow candle, I believe, and stick it in the vestry,"
said Miss Diana. "Five of them are staying to-night, as I told you: I
always count. They go in one at a time and the others wait their turn
outside the vestry. Do you think I am going to let my nieces stay here
alone to play at that fun, Sir Karl? No: and so I drag myself here
every confessional night. One of them, Jemima, is always staying. She
is a little fool."
"It does not seem right," mused Sir Karl.
"Right!" ejaculated Miss Diana in an angry tone, as if she could have
boxed his ears for the mild word. "It is wrong, Sir Karl, and doubly
wrong. I do not care to draw the curb-rein too tightly; they are not
my own children, and might rebel; but as sure as they are living, if
this folly of stopping behind to confess is to go on, I shall tell the
doctor of it. I think, Sir Karl--and you must excuse me for saying so
to your face--that you might have done something before now, to put
down the pantomime of this St. Jerome's."
"Only this very morning I was with St. Henry, asking him what I could
do," was the reply. "His opinion is, that it will cease of itself when
the cold weather comes on."
"_Will_ it!" was the sarcastically emphatic retort. "Not if Cattacomb
and the girls can help it. It's neither cold nor heat that will stop
them!"
"Well, I am not sure about the law, Miss Diana. I don't know that St.
Henry is, either."
"Look here, Sir Karl. If the law is not strong enough to put down
these places, there's another remedy. Let all the clergy who officiate
at them be upwards of fifty years old and _married_. It would soon be
proved whether, or not, the girls go for the benefit of their souls."
Sir Karl burst into a laugh.
"It is these off-shoots of semi-religious places, started up here and
there by men of vanity, some of whom, I venture to say it, are not
licensed clergymen, that bring the shame and the scandal upon the true
church," concluded Miss Diana. "There: don't let us talk of it
further. Have you come from the train?"
"Yes. I had to run up to London for an hour or two to-day."
"Then I daresay you are tired. Give my love to your wife," added Miss
Diana, as she wished Sir Karl good evening and turned into St.
Jerome's again to watch over her niece Jemima.
Sir Karl strode onwards. He had just come home from his interview with
Mr. Burtenshaw. Miss Diana Moore and her sentiments had served to
divert his mind for a moment from his own troubles, but they were soon
all too present again. The hum of the voices and sound of the
footsteps came back to him from the crowd, pursuing its busy way to
the village: he was glad to keep on his own solitary course and lose
its echo.
Some one else, who had come out of St. Jerome's but who could not
be said properly to pertain to the crowd, had kept on the solitary
road--and that was Mr. Strange. He knew the others would take the
direct way to the village and Mrs. Jinks's, and perhaps that was the
reason why he did not. But there was no accounting for what Mr.
Strange did: and one thing was certain--he had been in the habit
lately of loitering in that solitary road a good deal after dusk had
fallen, smoking his cigar there between whiles.
Sir Karl went on. He had nearly reached the Maze, though he was on the
opposite side, when at a bend of the road there suddenly turned upon
him a man with a cigar in his mouth, the end of it glowing like an
ember. The smoker would have turned his head away again, and passed
on, but Sir Karl stopped. He had recognized him: and his mind had been
made up on the way from London, to speak to this man.
"I beg your pardon. Mr. Tatton, I think."
Mr. Tatton might possibly have been slightly taken to at hearing
himself addressed by his own name: but there was no symptom of it in
his voice or manner.
"The same, sir," he readily answered, taking the cigar from his mouth.
"I wish to say a few words to you," pursued Sir Karl. "As well perhaps
say them now as later."
"Better, sir. No time like the present: it's all we can make sure of."
"Perhaps you know me, Mr. Tatton?"
"Sir Karl Andinnian--unless I am mistaken," replied the detective,
throwing away his cigar.
Sir Karl nodded, but made no assent in words. He would have given a
portion of his remaining life to discern whether this man of law, whom
he so dreaded, knew, or suspected, that he had not a right to the
title.
"I have just come from London," pursued Sir Karl. "I saw Mr.
Burtenshaw there to-day. Finding that you were down here, I wished to
ascertain whether or not you had come here in search of one Philip
Salter. And I hear that it is so."
The officer made no remark to this. It might be, that he was uncertain
how far he might trust Sir Karl. The latter observed the reticence:
guessed at the doubt.
"We may speak together in perfect confidence, Mr. Tatton. But for me,
you would not have been sent here at all. It was in consequence of a
communication I made myself, that the suspicion as to Salter reached
Scotland Yard."
"I know all about that, Sir Karl," was the reply. "To tell you the
truth, I should have made my presence here at Foxwood known to you at
once, and asked you to aid me in my search; but I was warned at
Scotland Yard that you might possibly obstruct my work instead of
aiding it, for that you wished to screen Salter."
"Scotland Yard warned you of that!" exclaimed Sir Karl.
"Yes. They had it from Grimley."
"The case is this," said Sir Karl, wishing with his whole heart he
could undo what he had done. "Some short while back, I had a reason
for making some enquiries respecting Philip Salter, and I went to my
solicitors, Plunkett and Plunkett. They could not give me any
information, and referred me to Mr. Burtenshaw. Burtenshaw introduced
Grimley to me, and I saw them both twice. But I most certainly never
intended to imply that Salter was in this neighbourhood, or to afford
just grounds for sending down to institute a search after him."
"But I presume that you do know Salter is here, Sir Karl."
"Indeed I do not."
The officer was silent. He thought Sir Karl was intending to deceive
him.
"I can tell you that he is here, Sir Karl--to the best of my belief. I
could put out my hand at this minute and almost touch the dwelling
that contains him."
They were nearly opposite the Maze gates, close upon the gate of
Clematis Cottage. Karl wondered, with an anxiety, amounting to agony,
_which_ of the two dwellings was meant. It would be almost as bad for
this man to take Salter as to take Adam Andinnian, since the capture
of the former might lead to that of the latter.
"You say to the best of your belief, Mr. Tatton. You are not sure,
then?"
"I am as sure as I can be, Sir Karl, short of actual sight."
"Good night, Sir Karl."
The interruption came from Mr. Smith, who was leaning over his gate,
smoking a pipe. Karl returned the salutation and passed on.
"He seems to have a jolly kind of easy life of it, that agent of
yours, Sir Karl?" remarked the officer. "Do you know him?" questioned
Karl.
"Only by sight. I have seen Mr. Smith about on the land; and I took
the liberty this afternoon, meeting him by chance near the Brook
field, of asking him what the time was. The spring of my watch broke
last night as I was winding it."
Karl's heart was beating. Had he been mistaken in supposing Philip
Smith to be Philip Salter? Had he been nursing a foolish chimera, and
running his head--or, rather, his poor brother's head--into a noose
for nothing? God help him, then!
"You seem to know my agent well by sight," he breathed, in a tone kept
low, lest its agitation should be heard.
"Quite well," assented the officer.
"Is he--does he bear any resemblance to Salter?"
"Not the slightest."
Karl paused. "You are sure of that?"
Tatton took a look at Sir Karl in the evening dusk, as if not able to
understand him. "He is about the height of Salter, and in complexion
is somewhat, similar, if you can call that a resemblance," said he.
"There is no other."
Karl spoke not for a few moments: the way before him was darkening.
"You knew Salter's person well, I conclude?" he said presently.
"As well as I know my own brother's."
Another pause; and then Karl laid his hand upon the officer's arm,
bespeaking his best attention.
"I am sorry for all this," he said; "I am vexed to have been the cause
of so much trouble. Your mission here may terminate as soon as you
will, Mr. Tatton, for it is Smith that I was suspecting of being
Salter!"
"No!" cried Tatton in surprised disbelief.
"On my solemn word, I assert it. I suspected my agent, Smith, to be
Salter."
"Why, Sir Karl, I can hardly understand that. You surely could not
suppose it to be within the bounds of probability that Philip Salter,
the fugitive criminal, would go about in the light of day in England
as your agent goes--no matter how secluded the spot might be! And five
hundred pounds on his head!"
How a word of ridicule, of reason even, will serve to change our
cherished notions! Put as the cool and experienced police officer put
it, Karl seemed to see how poor and foundationless his judgment had
been.
"The whole cause of the affair was this," he said, hoping by a candid
explanation to disarm the suspicions he had raised. "A circumstance--I
own it was but a slight one--put it into my head that Philip Smith, of
whom I had known nothing until he came here a few months ago as my
agent, might be the escaped prisoner Philip Salter. The idea grew with
me, and I became anxious--naturally you will say--to ascertain whether
there were any real grounds for the suspicion. With this view I went
up to see if Plunkett's people could give me any information about
Salter or describe his person; and they referred me to Mr.
Burtenshaw."
"Well, sir?" interposed Tatton, who was listening attentively.
"I am bound to say that I obtained no corroboration of my suspicions,
except in regard to the resemblance," continued Sir Karl. "Burtenshaw
did not know him; but he summoned the man who had let him escape,
Grimley. As Grimley described Salter, it seemed to me that it was the
precise description of Smith."
"There is a kind of general resemblance, I admit, Sir Karl, and the
description of one might perhaps sound like that of the other. But if
you knew the two, you would see how unlike they are."
"Grimley's description seemed to me to be that of Smith," went on
Karl. "I came back here, strengthened in my opinion: but not fully
confirmed. It was not a satisfactory state of things, and the matter
continued to worry me. I longed to set it at rest, one way or the
other; and I went up again to town and saw Grimley and Mr. Burtenshaw.
When I came back once more, I felt nearly as sure as a man can feel
that it was Salter."
"And yet you did not denounce him, Sir Karl. You would never have done
it, I suppose?"
"I should not," admitted Karl. "My intention was to tax Smith with it
privately, and--and send him about his business. Very wrong and
illegal of me, no doubt: but I have suffered too severely in my own
family by the criminal law of the land, to give up another man
gratuitously to it."
At this reference to Sir Adam Andinnian, Mr. Tatton remained silent
from motives of delicacy. He could understand the objection;
especially as coming from a refined, sensitive, and merciful natured
man, as Sir Karl appeared to be.
"Well, sir, I can only say for myself that I wish your agent had been
Salter," he resumed: "my hands would have been upon him before
to-night. But is it true that you have no other suspicion, Sir Karl?"
"What suspicion?"
"That the real Salter is in hiding at Foxwood."
Karl's heart beat a shade faster. "So far from having any suspicion of
that kind, I am perfectly certain, now that you have proved to me
Smith is not Salter, that he is not at Foxwood. I know every soul in
the place and around it."
"Were you acquainted with the real Salter, Sir Karl?"
"No."
"You take no interest in him, I presume?"
"None whatever."
During the conversation they had been slowly pacing onwards, had
passed the Court gates, and were now fairly on the road to Foxwood. It
seemed as if Sir Karl had a mind to escort Mr. Tatton to his home.
"By the way," he said, "why did you call yourself Strange down here?"
"I never did," answered Tatton, laughing slightly. "The widow Jinks
gave me that name: I never gave it myself. I said to her I was a
stranger, and she must have misunderstood me; for I found afterwards
that she was calling me Mr. Strange. It was rather convenient than
otherwise, and I did not set it right."
Karl strolled on in silence, wondering how all this would end and
whether this dangerous man--dangerous to him and his interests--was
satisfied, and would betake himself to town again. A question
interrupted him.
"Do you know much of a place here called the Maze, Sir Karl?"
"The Maze is my property. Why?"
"Yes, I am aware of that. What I meant to ask was, whether you knew
much of its inmates."
"It is let to a lady named Grey. Her husband is abroad."
"That's what she tells you, is it? Her husband is there, Sir Karl, if
he be her husband. _That_ is where we must look for Philip Salter."
Something born of emotion, of sudden fear, seemed to flash across
Karl's eyes and momentarily blind him. A wild prayer went up for
guidance, for help to confront this evil.
"Why do you say this?" he asked, his voice controlled to a calm
indifference.
"I have information that some gentleman is living at the Maze in
concealment, and I make no doubt it is Salter. The description of his
person, so far as I have it, answers to him. Until to-night, Sir Karl,
I have believed that it was to the Maze your own suspicions of Salter
were directed."
"Certainly not--on my word of honour as a gentleman," was the reply.
"I feel sure you are mistaken; I know you are. Mrs. Grey lives alone
at the Maze, save for her servants: two old people who are man and
wife."
"I am aware the general belief is that she lives alone. It's not true,
though, for all that, Sir Karl."
"Indeed it is true," returned Karl, calmly as before, for he did not
dare to show too much zeal in Mrs. Grey's cause. "I have been over
there pretty often on one matter or another--the house is an old one,
and no end of repairs seem to be wanted to it--and I am absolutely
sure that no inmate whatever is there, save the three I have
mentioned: the lady, and the man and woman. I do not count the
infant."
"Ay; there; the infant. What does that prove?"
"Nothing--as to your argument. Mrs. Grey only came to the place some
five or six months ago. Not yet six, I think."
"Rely upon it, Sir Karl, the lady has contrived to blind you, in spite
of your visits, just as she has blinded the outside world. Some one is
there, concealed; and I shall be very much surprised if it does not
turn out to be Salter. As to the two old servants, they are bound to
her interests; are of course as much in the plot as she is."
"I know you are mistaken. I could stake my life that no one else is
there. Surely you are not going to act in any way on this idea!"
"I don't know," replied Mr. Tatton, with inward craft. "Time enough.
Perhaps I may get some other information before long. Should I require
a search-warrant to examine the house, I shall apply to you, Sir Karl.
You are in the commission of peace, I believe."
Sir Karl nodded. "If you must have one, I shall be happy to afford
it," he said, remembering that if it came to this pass, his being able
to avert the Maze privately beforehand, would be a boon. And with that
they separated: the detective continuing to pace onwards towards
Paradise Row, Sir Karl turning back to his own house.
But the events, of the evening, as concerning the Maze interests, were
not altogether at an end. Miss Blake was the last to come out of the
confessional, for the rest had taken their turn before her. It was
tolerably late then; quite dark; and both Aunt Diana and Tom Pepp were
rampant at being kept so long. They all turned out of St. Jerome's
together, including Mr. Cattacomb; and all, save Miss Blake and the
boy, went in the direction of the village. Tom Pepp, having locked up
and doffed his bell-ringing garments, proceeded the other way,
accompanied by Miss Blake.
She was going to visit a sick woman who lived next door to Tom's
mother. Miss Blake had her good points, though she was harsh of
judgment. This poor woman, Dame Bell, was dying of consumption; the
end was drawing near, and Miss Blake often went to sit by and read to
her. The boy had told her at vespers that night that it was thought
she could hardly live till morning: hence the late visit. She found
her very ill, and stayed to do what she could.
It was striking ten when Miss Blake quitted the cottage: she heard the
quarters and the strokes told out from the distant church at Foxwood.
The night was a still one. Tom Pepp, waiting outside, gallantly
offered to attend her home. She accepted the escort readily, not
caring to go alone, as it was so late.
"But I fear it will be keeping your mother up, Tom," she said, in
hesitation. "I know you go to bed early."
"That's nothing, um," said Tom. "Mother have got her clothes from the
wash to fold to-night. She telled me I was not to let you go back
alone. It have been a rare good day for drying."
So they set off together, talking all the way, for Tom was an
intelligent companion, and often had items of news to regale the
public with. When they came within view of the Maze gates and Clematis
Cottage, the loneliness of the way was over, and Miss Blake sent the
lad back again, giving him a three-penny-bit.
She was on the Maze side of the way, not having crossed since leaving
Mrs. Bell's cottage. And she had all but reached the gates, when the
sound of advancing footsteps grew upon her ear. Drawing back amidst
the trees--not to watch for Sir Karl Andinnian as she had watched at
other times, for she believed him to be in London, but simply to
shield herself from observation, as the hour was so late--Miss Blake
waited until the footsteps should have gone by.
The footsteps did not go by. They halted at the gate: and she, peeping
through the leaves, saw it was Sir Karl. He took the key from his
pocket as usual, opened the gate, locked it after him, and plunged
into the maze. Miss Blake heaved a sigh at man's inventions, and kept
still until there was no fear that her rustling away would be heard.
Then she moved.
She had never been in all her life so near screaming. Taking one step
forward to depart, she found herself right in the arms of somebody who
had coat sleeves on; another watcher like herself.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am."
"Good gracious, Mr. Strange, how you frightened me!" she whispered.
"Whatever are you doing here?"
"Nay, I may ask what you were doing," was the smiling retort. "On your
way home, I take it. As for me, I was smoking my cigar, and it has
gone out. That was our friend, Sir Karl Andinnian, I fancy, who let
himself in there."
"Oh yes, it was Sir Karl," was the contemptuous answer, given as they
walked on together. "It is not the first night by a good many he has
been seen stealing in at those gates."
"Paying his court to Mrs. Grey!" returned Mr. Strange, really speaking
without any sinister motive, and his mind full of Salter.
Miss Blake, in the honest indignation of her heart, and lately come
from the upright exhortations of the Reverend Guy, allowed her
sentiments their play. Mr. Strange's remark, made in all innocence,
had seemed to show her that he too knew of the scandal.
"It is shameful!" she said. "Doubly shameful in Sir Karl, a married
man."
Mr. Strange pricked up his ears. He caught her meaning instantly.
"Nonsense!" said he.
"I wish it was nonsense," said Miss Blake. "When the woman, Betsy
Chaffen, was telling the tale in your rooms that day, of the gentleman
she saw, and whom she could never see afterwards, I could hardly
contain myself, dear sir, knowing it was Sir Karl."
"And--and--do you mean--do you think that there's no Mr. Grey
there--no gentleman inmate, I would say?" cried the detective,
surprised for once.
"Mr. Grey!" she repeated, scoffingly. "The only 'Mr. Grey' that exists
is Sir Karl Andinnian; I have known it a long while. One or two others
here know it also. It is a scandal."
She wished him good night with the last words, crossed the road, and
let herself into the grounds of the Court by one of the small gates,
leaving Mr. Strange looking after her like a man in a dream, as he
tried to solve the problems set a-working in his brain.