“_What door will fit this key?_”
--Castillo Soprani.
[Illustration: 9033]
S I ate my solitary dinner before starting upon my expedition to Mr.
Hankey's house, I began to think less enthusiastically of the adventure.
Here was I; comfortable in my hotel, though, I admit, rather lonely;
safe, so far, and apparently suspected by none to be other than the
blameless Bunyan. Besides, now that I could find a friend for the
seeking, my loneliness suddenly diminished. Also I was buoyed by the
thought that I was a real adventurer, a romantic exile, as much so, in
fact, as Prince Charles of Scotland or my own beloved king. Now I was to
knock upon the window of a house that might be either number 114 or 115,
and give myself blindfold to strangers.
Yet on second thoughts I reflected that I knew nothing of English laws
or English ways. Was I not in “perfidious Albion,” and might I not be
handed over to the French government in defiance of all treaties, in
order to promote the insidious policy of Chamberlain? Yes, I should go,
after all, and I drank to the success of my adventure in a bottle of
wine that sent me forth to the station in as gay a spirit as any gallant
could wish.
[Illustration: 0034]
I had made cautious inquiries, asking of different servants at the
hotel, and I had little difficulty in making my way by train as far
as the suburb in which Mr. Hankey lived. There I encountered the first
disquieting circumstance. Inquiring of a policeman, I found there was
no such place as George Road, but a St. George's Road was well known to
him. If F. II had been so inaccurate in one statement, might he not be
equally so in another?
I may mention here that the name of this road is my own invention. The
mistake was a similar one to that I have narrated. In all cases I
have altered the names of my friends and their houses, as these events
happened so recently that annoyance might be caused, for the English
are a reticent nation, and shrink from publicity as M. Zola did from
oblivion.
Up an immensely long and very dark road I went, studying the numbers of
the houses on either side, and here at once a fresh difficulty presented
itself. In an English suburb it is the custom to conceal the number
provided by the municipal authorities, and decorate the gates instead
with a fanciful or high-sounding title. Thus I passed “Blenheim Lodge,”
“Strathcory,” “Rhododendron Grove,” and many other such residences, but
only here and there could I find a number to guide me. By counting
from 84, I came at last upon two houses standing with their gates close
together that must either be 114 and 115, or 115 and 116. I could not be
sure which, nor in either case did I know whether the one or the other
sheltered the conspiring Hankey. The gate on the left was labelled
“Chickawungaree Villa,” that on the right “Mount Olympus House.” In the
house I could see through the trees that all was darkness, and the gate
was so shabby as to suggest that no one lived there. In the villa, on
the contrary, I saw two or three lighted windows. I determined to try
the villa.
The drive wound so as to encircle what appeared in the darkness to be a
tennis-court and an arbor, and finally emerged through a clump of trees
before a considerable mansion. And here I was confronted by another
difficulty. My directions said, knock upon the third window. But there
were three on either side of the front door, and then how did I know
that Hankey might not prefer me to knock upon his back or his
side windows? My friend F. II might be a martyr and a patriot; but
business-like? No.
“Blind fortune is the goddess to-night,” I said to myself, and with that
I tapped gently upon the third window from the door counting towards the
right. I have often since consoled myself by thinking that I should have
exhibited no greater intuition had I counted towards the left.
I tap three times. No answer. Again three times. Still no answer. It was
diabolically dark, and the trees made rustling noises very disconcerting
to the nerves of one unaccustomed to practise these preliminaries before
calling upon a friend.
“The devil!” I say to myself. “This time I shall make Mr. Hankey hear
me.”
And so I knocked very sharply and loudly, so sharply that I cracked the
pane.
“Unfortunate,” I thought; “but why should I not convert Hankey's
misfortune into my advantage?”
With the intention of perhaps obtaining a glimpse into the room, I
pushed the pane till, with an alarming crash, a considerable portion
fell upon the gravel.
[Illustration: 9037]
With a start I turned, and there, approaching me from either side, were
two men. Hankey had evidently heard me at last.
“Who are you?” said one of them, a stout gentleman, I could see, with
a consequential voice. I came a step towards him. “For the King,” I
replied.
He seemed to be staring at me.
“What the devil--?” he exclaimed, in surprise.
My heart began to sink.
“You are Mr. Hankey?” I inquired.
“I am not,” he replied, with emphasis.
Here was a delicate predicament!
But I was not yet at the end of my resources.
“May I inquire your name?” I asked, politely.
“My name is Fisher,” he said, with a greater air of consequence than
ever, but no greater friendliness.
“What, Fisher himself!” I exclaimed, with pretended delight. “This is
indeed a fortunate coincidence! How are you, Fisher?”
Still no answer.
I held out my hand, but this monster of British brutality paid no
attention to my overture.
“Who are you?” he asked once more.
Not having yet made up my mind who I was, I thought it better to
temporize.
“My explanations will take a few minutes, I am afraid,” I answered. “The
hour also is late. May I call upon you in the morning?”
“I think you had better step in and explain now,” said Fisher, curtly.
They were two to one, and very close to me, while I was hampered with
my British ulster. I must trust to my wits to get me safely out of this
house again.
“I shall be charmed, if I am not disturbing you.”
“You are disturbing me,” said the inexorable Fisher. “In fact, you have
been causing a considerable disturbance, and I should like to know the
reason.”
Under these cheerful circumstances I entered Chickawungaree Villa,
Fisher preceding me, and the other man, whom I now saw to be his butler,
walking uncomfortably close behind.
“Step in here,” said Fisher. He showed me into what was evidently his
dining-room, and then, after saying a few words in an undertone to his
servant, he closed the door, drew forward a chair so as to cut off my
possible line of flight, sat upon it, and breathed heavily towards me.
Figure to yourself my situation. A large, red-faced, gray-whiskered
individual, in a black morning-coat and red slippers, staring stolidly
at me from a meat-eating eye; name Fisher, but all other facts
concerning him unknown.
[Illustration: 0039]
A stiff, uninhabited-looking apartment of considerable size, lit with
the electric light, upholstered in light wood and new red leather, and
ornamented by a life-sized portrait of Fisher himself, this picture being
as uncompromising and apoplectic as the original. Finally, standing in
an artificially easy attitude before a fireplace containing a frilled
arrangement of pink paper, picture an exceedingly uncomfortable
Frenchman.
“You scarcely expected me?” I begin, with a smile.
“I did not,” says Fisher.
“I did not expect to see you,” I continue; but to this he makes no
reply.
“I was looking for the house of Mr. Hankey.”
“Were you?” says Fisher.
“Do you know him?” I ask.
“No,” says Fisher.
A pause. The campaign has opened badly; no doubt of that. I must try
another move.
“You will wonder how I knew him,” I say, pleasant.
Fisher only breathes more heavily.
“Our mutual friend, Smith,” I begin, watching closely to see if his mind
responds to this name. I know that Smith is common in England, and think
he will surely know some one so called. “Smith mentioned you.”
But no, there is no gleam of recognition.
“Indeed,” is all he remarks, very calmly.
There is no help for it, I must go on.
“I intended to call upon you some day this week. I have heard you highly
spoken of--'The great Fisher,' 'The famous Fisher.' Indeed, sir, I
assure you, your name is a household word in Scotland.”
I choose Scotland because I know its accent is different from English.
My own also is different. Therefore I shall be Scotch. Unhappy
selection!
“Do you mean to pretend you are Scotch?” says Fisher, frowning as well
as breathing at me.
I must withdraw one foot.
“Half Scotch, half Italian,” I reply.
Ah, France, why did I deny you? I was afraid to own you, I blush to
confess it. And I was righteously punished.
“Italian?” says he, with more interest. “Ah, indeed!”
[Illustration: 9041]
He stares more intently, frowns more portentously, and respires more
loudly than ever.
“A charming country,” I say.
“No doubt,” says Fisher.
At this moment the door opens behind him and a lady appears. She has a
puffy cheek, a pale eye, a comfortable figure, a curled fringe of gray
hair, and slightly projecting teeth; in a word, the mate of Fisher.
There can be no mistake, and I am quick to seize the chance.
“My dear Mrs. Fisher!” I exclaim, advancing towards her.
With a movement like a hippopotamus wallowing, Fisher places himself
between us. Does he think I have come to elope with her?
I assume the indignant rôle.
“Mr. Fisher!” I cry, much hurt at this want of confidence.
“Who is this gentleman?” asks Mrs. Fisher, looking at me, I think, with
a not altogether disapproving glance.
“Ask him,” says Fisher.
“Madame,” I say, with a bow, “I am an unfortunate stranger, come to
pay my respects to Mr. Fisher and his beautiful lady. I wish you could
explain my reception.”
“What is your name?” says Mrs. Fisher, with comparative graciousness,
considering that she is a bourgeois Englishwoman taken by surprise, and
fearing both to be cold to a possible man of position and to be friendly
with a possible nobody.
A name I must have, and I must also invent it at once, and it must be
something both Scotch and Italian. I take the first two that come into
my head.
“Dugald Cellarini,” I reply.
They look at one another dubiously. I must put them at their ease at any
cost.
“A fine picture,” I say, indicating the portrait of my host, “and an
excellent likeness. Do you not think so, Mrs. Fisher?”
She looks at me as if she had a new thought.
“Are you a friend of the artist?” she asks.
“An intimate,” I reply with alacrity.
“We have informed Mr. Benzine that we specially desired him not to bring
any more of his Bohemian acquaintances to our house,” says the amiable
lady.
I am plunging deeper into the morass! Still, I have at last accounted
for my presence.
“Mr. Benzine did not warn me of this, madame,” I reply, coldly. “I
apologize and I withdraw.”
I make a step towards the door, but the large form of Fisher still
intervenes.
“Then Benzine sent you?” he says.
“He did, though evidently under a misapprehension.”
“And what about Smith?” asks Fisher, with an approach to intelligence in
his bovine eye.
“Well, what about him?” I ask, defiantly.
“Did he send you, too?”
“My reception has been such that I decline to give any further
explanations.”
“That is all very well,” says Fisher--“that is all very well--”
He is evidently cogitating what is all very well, when we hear heavy
steps in the passage.
“They have come at last!” he exclaims, and opens the door.
“More visitors!” I say to myself, hoping now for a diversion. In another
moment I get it. Enter the butler and two gigantic policemen.
[Illustration: 8000]