The constant surveillance of the irrepressible George was beginning to
tell upon Gray. The golden dreams inspired by the possession of five
hundred pounds a year were slowly fading, and he began to look back
with some relish to the days when he could cheerfully call for a
whisky-and-soda. What was the use of this wealth without the means of
enjoying it? Certainly he might hoard it up for a year or two, then
cast off the yoke. But could he live through the trial? Besides, the
blackmailer must have his due, which considerably diminished the sum.
Gray firmly believed that George had taken infinite pains to worry him,
instead of apportioning his vigilance equally among the three legatees.
Why couldn't he go and live with Busby or Parrott? Gray could only
suppose that these schemers had outwitted the wily George, and it made
him mad to feel that he couldn't do the same. Busby especially
irritated Gray, for lately he had put on airs till his manner became
overbearing.
"If I could only discover what he's being paid to keep off, I'd make it
warm for him," thought Gray, savagely. He pondered over the various
drawbacks he had noticed in Busby previous to Old Joe's death, but
couldn't call to mind any special vice among them.
"He was always a mean-spirited cuss altogether," he thought. "I suppose
he's getting the money to take a Sunday School class and sing hymns."
Gray sounded George on the subject, but met with a cool reception.
"You know my principles," said George. "Do you suppose I'd tell another
man's secrets?"
"No, of course not," said Gray. "You wouldn't do anything wrong; you're
such a good young man."
George smiled at this subtle flattery.
"I'd like to have a go at that hound," Gray said with emphasis. "He's
been putting on airs a bit too much lately, and as you don't seem to be
able to keep him under, you might hand over the responsibility to
somebody else."
"I might," said George; "but it wouldn't be right. You ought not to ask
me such a thing."
"Of course I ought not. I'd give a sovereign to know, all the same."
This tempting offer was lost upon the secretary, who busied himself
with his work.
"I believe I'd venture two," said Gray, "just to get a smack at him.
What do you say to that?"
"It'd be worth it," said George.
"Well, jot it down," said Gray, "and I'll hand you the cash. You
needn't be afraid of my giving the game away to any one else."
"I wonder you can ask me to do such a thing for a paltry two pounds,"
said George. "Now, if you'd offered five----"
"I'll see you hanged before you get a fiver out of me," said Gray,
rudely.
Seeing, however, that George was indifferent as to whether he spoke or
not, he presently ventured to offer him three pounds, and finally
grudgingly promised five.
The secretary showed no inclination to impart the secret until the
money was produced, and even then was loath to speak.
"It's a mean action," he said, fingering the note lovingly. "I'm not
sure that I ought to tell."
"You're sure enough of the money, anyway," Gray pointed out.
"I'll do it for you!" said George, pocketing the money suddenly.
"You're not a bad sort, Gray. And I know that you won't try to make
money out of it, because that would be robbing me of my little bit.
Between ourselves, I must say that there's not another man in the
building I'd do a good turn to so willingly as you. You're a man, Gray,
that a fellow can depend on, and I'll always stick up for you, come
what may. I like you because you are honest and----"
"Hang the honesty, and stop that rot!" said Gray. "Tell me what I've
paid for."
George held up his hand, then tiptoed to the door of Miss Fairbrother's
room. Having satisfied himself that there were no listeners, he drew
Gray out on the staircase, closing the door behind them.
When Gray returned to his seat in the lower office it was with the
consciousness that he had paid a big price for a very small secret. He
looked over at Busby, sitting complacently at his work, and mused on
the garrulity of old age that had led Joseph Fairbrother to try to
reform such a man.
"There's something solid about my failing," he thought. "Drink has
ruined many men, and it's worth all the money I get to keep off it. But
to allow five hundred pounds a year to a person like Busby for not
swearing gets over me. Why, a man like that would be afraid to swear.
It's a waste of money."
So potent is the spirit of vengeance that Gray could not wait for an
opportunity, but must needs force his new-found knowledge upon the
unsuspecting Busby. Avoiding his lodger at the hour of closing, Gray
followed his new enemy homewards. There was a sprightliness in the foot
of Busby as he tripped nimbly along on the greasy pavement, and a
stubbornness in that of Gray as he followed.
Fortune favoured the man from Leytonstone before the couple had gone
the whole length of the street. Busby placed his heel upon some
slippery substance, and cleaved at the air with his hands. He regained
his balance and uttered a most emphatic "Damn!"
A second later he was looking into the stern, relentless eye of James
Gray.
"I was nearly over," said Busby, easily, recognizing his colleague.
"Those fools who throw orange-peel on the pavement ought to be
prosecuted. Mind you don't step on it."
Gray said nothing, but kept a piercing eye on the face of the cashier.
"Do you want me?" said Busby, "or are you coming my way? Don't stand
there looking like that."
Gray took Busby's arm in a vice-like grip. "I heard it," he said,
solemnly.
"Heard it?" said Busby.
"I was close behind," said Gray. "You didn't know it, but I was there."
Busby misunderstood. "I wish you'd been in front," he said, "then
perhaps you'd have found the orange-peel first. I was as near as a
touch going over. When you've quite done with my arm I'll have it for
personal use."
"Don't try to fool me," said Gray, sternly, without relaxing his hold.
"I know what I heard, and you know what I heard."
Busby's temper now began to get out of hand.
"I don't know what you heard," he said, "but I know that you're making
a juggins of yourself. Leave go my arm!"
Gray complied.
"Now, what do you want?" asked Busby, offensively.
Gray lifted one finger dramatically, without appearing to notice the
last remark. "I give you warning," he said, in a sepulchral voice.
"Beware!"
Busby began to laugh.
"There's something wrong with you, Jimmy; you'd better see a doctor.
Come and have a whisky."
"No," shouted Gray. "I refuse to have your whisky."
"Oh, all right," said Busby. "I won't force it on you. You used not to
want asking twice; but I've noticed you've been off it a bit lately."
Gray winced visibly under this remark, and proceeded to turn the
conversation. He drew nearer to Busby, and whispered hoarsely--
"I've warned you once, but the next time I may tell. Be careful, and
remember that Gray is the man who knows."
With this melodramatic exclamation, he turned and disappeared up a side
alley with appropriate mystery.
Busby stood looking after him, quite at a loss to understand.
"The man who knows? What the dickens is he talking about?"
Being satisfied that Gray was either drunk or labouring under a
delusion, he continued his walk towards Fleet Street.
Gray went home alone that evening, the wounds of the past weeks soothed
by this new ointment of retaliation. At the tea-table sat his loving
wife, charming as only a woman can be with news on the tip of her
tongue.
"Hallo!" said Gray, who saw that something had happened. "You've had
some money left you."
Mrs. Gray opened her mouth, perplexed.
"You've found a purse," said her husband, "with three pounds in it, a
lock of hair, and some love-letters."
"Jim!"
"You haven't? Then somebody's given you a valuable recipe for the
complexion, or is it a new hair-wash?"
"What's the matter with you?"
"I know," said Gray. "You've got another lodger. If that isn't right, I
give it up."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Mrs. Gray; "but it's
most ridiculous, whatever it is. I had something to tell you; but if
you don't want to listen, why, of course, it doesn't matter."
"It does matter," said Gray. "I've been trying to guess."
This was not quite what Mrs. Gray expected, for who among us likes to
be read? News, to be news, must burst like a thunder-clap, especially
if it isn't very interesting. Seeing that she had been anticipated, the
little woman was not anxious to talk; but, seeing that to hold what she
had intended to divulge would have been more worrying than to tell it,
she poured out the story of her meeting with Mrs. Busby, the family
gossip, and, lastly, the legacy left by Mr. Fairbrother.
"It's a shame!" she cried hotly. "You ought to have got a legacy, too,
Jim; you're as good as Mr. Busby, I'm sure! Why shouldn't you get a
legacy for studying books?"
"I may get one yet," said the uncomfortable Jim, affecting to pass it
over lightly. "These things often take a long time in the lawyers'
hands. I dare say I shall get one later on."
Inwardly he was smarting from a fresh wound, which he managed to calm
by a great effort. George Early had got the better of him again! He had
made a fool of him, and charged five pounds for it. He waited for
George to come home.
It so happened that he was doomed to disappointment, for some hours at
least. George, with the five pounds chinking in his pocket, had decided
to take an evening off, after the cares of a business day in the City,
and was at the very moment that Gray awaited him partaking of a
comfortable seven-course dinner in no less luxurious a place than the
Café Royal. It was evident, too, from the negligent manner in which he
ordered a coffee and benedictine, that he had no intention of hurrying
home. Gray had therefore ample time in which to think out his plan of
argument.
* * * * *
No sign of impending trouble was visible on the face of George as he
emerged leisurely from the gaily lighted restaurant, and stood in
contemplation for awhile on the pavement, enjoying his Havana. The
fingers of his right hand were in his pocket, toying with the ample
balance of Gray's fiver, and his train of thought, instead of leading
him, as might have been quite natural, to dwell on the ingenuousness of
his landlord, turned to the usefulness of money as an aid to the
enjoyment of life.
George Early was not so young as to have never thought of this before;
but who can help ruminating on the advantages of wealth amid the
luxuriousness of Regent Street? On one side a jeweller's, heavy with
gems, flashes its wealth insultingly upon passers-by; next door, a
furrier calmly displays a two-hundred guinea wrap; lower down, half a
dozen shops are surmounted by the royal arms, and only by turning into
a side street can one realize the significance of any coin under a
sovereign. In Regent Street, every other vehicle bears the stamp of
wealth, with its spotless coachmen, and horses better groomed than half
the men in the City. Languid young lords stroll by arm in arm,
displaying a dazzling amount of shirt-front; elaborately coiffured
ladies, fresh from some Park Lane boudoir, trip across the pavement,
and dive into gorgeous restaurants. Now and again a son of toil passes,
but his poverty is swamped by the surrounding glitter.
George looked on at this everyday scene with a comfortable feeling that
for the time being he was one of the _élite_. He eyed the
dress-suits with the air of a connoisseur, and approved of the toilette
of every pretty woman that passed. Among his other fancies, George had
a keen eye for a good figure and trim ankles, and it must be put down
to his good taste in frocks and frills that he narrowly observed one
young lady in particular, who stood for quite five minutes on the edge
of the kerb without appearing to have made up her mind what to do next.
When a man is attracted by a feminine figure that presents a graceful
and pleasing back view, he comes in time to speculate upon the looks of
the owner, and, if the back view is accorded long enough, to have a
natural desire to see if good looks or the reverse are her portion.
This is precisely how George felt; but as the figure continued to stand
on the edge of the kerb, he was forced to stroll up the street to
satisfy his curiosity. As he did so, the lady made up her mind
suddenly, and crossed the road at the same time as two hansom cabs came
along in opposite directions. To an observer like George the moment for
crossing was obviously ill-timed.
The lady hesitated, went forward, then started back. The drivers
yelled, the horses slid, the lady screamed, and George dashed
forward--just in time to drag her out of danger.
In less than two minutes a crowd had gathered, and George, much to his
own amazement, was handing the lady into a hansom cab, and, what is
more, getting in beside her. For the lady was Miss Fairbrother, head of
the old-established firm of Fairbrother and Co., and employer of George
himself.
It was all so odd and strange and sudden, George couldn't believe it.
Even when he assisted her out and up the steps of the Fairbrother
mansion; even when he paid the cab-man, and walked away, and found that
he was really in Kensington, it didn't seem real. He had a faint
remembrance of hearing her say "Thank you, Mr. Early," and of his
having explained the occurrence to the butler; but it was all hazy and
incomprehensible.
The night was still young when George again set foot in Piccadilly. He
had seen fit to walk all the way back, it suited his frame of mind.
From dreaming of the odd chance that should throw him into Miss
Fairbrother's arms, or her into his, he had come to recalling the plain
facts of the adventure, incident by incident, more minutely each time,
till he stood still, metaphorically, in the middle of Regent Street,
with one arm round the slender waist of his employer.
George was conscious now that it was a very slender waist, although he
hadn't been aware of it at the time. He recollected, too, many other
details that he had observed imperfectly in the rush of events. Her
head had dropped on his shoulder, and one fair hand had clutched
convulsively at his coat. He could see the red lips, the soft cheeks,
the dimpled chin, the brown hair, close to his own. She wore an
elaborate straw-hat creation that had grazed his forehead, the spot
glowed even now as he recalled it. But what he chiefly realized now was
that delicious sense of pleasure he had had in holding her in his arms
for two seconds, a feeling that the exigencies of the moment had
strongly necessitated his suppressing. His present leisure calling for
no such harsh measure, he was at liberty to halt, in his fancy, and
gaze, in his fancy, at the red lips and dimples of Miss Ellen
Fairbrother.
In his present mood, and with his present faculty for handling the
subject, he could have gone on from Regent Street to Brunswick Terrace,
backwards and forwards, for the rest of the evening, halting each time
for a considerable period in the middle of Regent Street, with cabs
behind and before, and Miss Fairbrother's head on his shoulder. He
could have gone on doing this, and have asked for no other amusement,
if the bustling activity of Piccadilly had not led his mind away from
the subject. The real truth is that George woke up from his dream in a
most unpleasant fashion. In plain words, something descended very
heavily on George's right foot.
To recount all that George said, and the uncomplimentary remarks he
made on the other man's want of grace, together with the personal
allusions to his figure, and what he would have done to himself if he
had had such feet, would not be fitting in a respectable book like
this. Such detail is also quite irrelevant. What has to be recorded is
that in one of the intervals of vituperation the other man said
suddenly--
"George!"
A look of astonishment appeared on the face of George Early, and in a
moment his resentment fled. He said, "Well, I'm hanged!" and laughed.
The man he was consigning to other regions was Busby.
Under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but retire to the
nearest hostelry, and endeavour, by means of the flowing bowl, to
re-establish amicable relations. This was done without demur on the
part of either combatant; in fact, the fracture seemed likely to be the
means of making a strong friendship out of what had been at best a mere
business acquaintance. George toasted "his friend Busby," and paid for
the drinks, whereupon Busby toasted "his pal George," and called for
more.
At the third round, Busby, feeling that some explanation of his
presence in that part was necessary, confided to George that he was on
his way to a smoking concert, a confession that prompted George to give
some information regarding himself, which he did with due caution,
especially that part relating to the five-pound note.
"He's a sly dog, Gray," said Busby; "I'll bet you had a tough job to
get a fiver out of him."
George agreed.
"I couldn't be close like that, Early, old chap. You know that what I
give I give freely. I don't blame any man for making a bit when he gets
the chance. It's nothing to me to tip you a sovereign out of a little
windfall like that."
"Of course it isn't," said George, "nor two for that matter."
"No, nor two, you know well enough that I wouldn't make the slightest
bother. But Gray, he's that close----"
"Close!" said George; "he worships it. He keeps every farthing."
"I couldn't be mean like that. It's a pity that he hasn't got a few
more to tackle him harder than you do."
"So it is," said George.
"He ought to have me!" said Busby. "Why, if I knew--but, of course,
it's no business of mine. It would be a spree to get at him. It'd be a
picnic to let him see that I knew all about it. He'd have a fit."
The thought of Gray writhing under the knowledge that a second man
possessed his secret pleased Busby immensely, and his merriment only
subsided on his observing that George was not enjoying the joke.
"Don't you be afraid, old chap," he said. "I wouldn't ask you to tell
anything that you didn't want to."
"I know you wouldn't," said George. "You're not that sort."
But the idea having entered into the head of Busby was not easy to get
rid of. Perhaps, in spite of his unwillingness to draw secrets from his
friend George, he had some idea of doing so when he invited that young
gentleman to turn his steps towards the smoking concert, and be passed
in as a friend. From what we have seen of George Early, it seems
doubtful that he could be easily led into imparting knowledge that was
of sterling value to himself, while he kept it to himself; but one can
never tell what a man will do for friendship's sake when under the
influence of alcoholic liquor.
George Early and Busby went to the concert, and encored the choruses
with great gusto. At intervals they had refreshments, and in due course
made their way to Charing Cross in a very friendly spirit.
Probably George had imbibed as freely as Busby, but to all appearances
the cashier had surrendered himself unreservedly to the strength of
what he had taken. In this mood he was inclined to refer to the subject
of Gray's legacy, which he did at intervals, and at which times George,
with his usual skill, let his own tongue run loose within bounds.
"You're a close dog," said Busby, at length, "nearly as close as Gray
himself."
"What!" said George in astonishment. "You wouldn't have me tell----"
"Tell, be hanged!" said Busby. "He deserves it, doesn't he? Isn't he an
outsider? Doesn't everybody know he is? Why, I'd tell anything about a
man like that. Everybody knows he's a mean----"
"Ssh!" said George, looking behind him. "Don't shout; somebody'll hear
you."
"What does it marrer? Let 'em hear. Everybody knows he's mean."
"Ssh!" said George again.
"Ssh! yourself," said Busby, giving him a playful punch. "Let 'em hear,
I say. What does it marrer? What does----"
He stopped suddenly, and caught George by the arm. They looked each
other steadily in the eye, and then Busby burst into a wild, silly
laugh.
"It's no good, Georgie. It's no good, old man. You've done it--you've
given him away. You've fairly given him away; now, haven't you? That's
the secret--I've got it!"
George walked sullenly on without replying, until Busby persuasively
urged him not to take it to heart.
"You're too clever for me," said George.
"Never mind, old man, I won't cut you out if I can help it."
"Look here," said George, putting on his most serious air; "don't you
go borrowing all his loose cash just because he's obliged to lend it.
That won't be fair, you know. You must give me a chance."
Busby magnanimously promised that George should not be made to suffer
more than he could help.
Elated with his success in one direction, he next began to hazard a
guess at the prominent vice of Parrott, which resulted in George's
imploring him to "draw it mild" for the sake of friendship. But, being
started, it was no easy matter to stop a man like Busby. The only
course for George Early to take was to dexterously swap the vices of
Parrott and Gray, which he did with great success. When Busby hit upon
the drink question, George was seized with a trembling fit, and Busby
laughed again in triumph.
"I told you you were too clever for me," said George. "All I hope is
that you won't over-do it."
Busby hilariously swore at his two absent confreres, and vowed to
"tickle them up a bit," just to pay off old scores.
Having embraced his friend, he rolled into a cab, and trundled off to
the suburbs.
"He's too clever for me," said George, facetiously, with a smile, as
the cab rolled off--"they all are. But I dare say I shall pull through.
Now for a small select hotel, and bed."
Instead of seeking the small hotel straight away, he stood for a full
five minutes gazing absently across Trafalgar Square. Busby and the
smoking concert were entirely forgotten, and George stood again in the
middle of Regent Street, with one arm round his employer's waist.