Coming out of the Law Courts on the afternoon of January 28th, at the
triumphant end of a desperately fought will case, Keith saw on a poster
the words: “Glove Lane Murder: Trial and Verdict”; and with a rush of
dismay he thought: 'Good God! I never looked at the paper this morning!'
The elation which had filled him a second before, the absorption he had
felt for two days now in the case so hardly won, seemed suddenly quite
sickeningly trivial. What on earth had he been doing to forget that
horrible business even for an instant? He stood quite still on the
crowded pavement, unable, really unable, to buy a paper. But his face
was like a piece of iron when he did step forward and hold his penny
out. There it was in the Stop Press! “Glove Lane Murder. The jury
returned a verdict of Guilty. Sentence of death was passed.”
His first sensation was simple irritation. How had they come to commit
such an imbecility? Monstrous! The evidence--! Then the futility of even
reading the report, of even considering how they had come to record such
a verdict struck him with savage suddenness. There it was, and nothing
he could do or say would alter it; no condemnation of this idiotic
verdict would help reverse it. The situation was desperate, indeed! That
five minutes' walk from the Law Courts to his chambers was the longest
he had ever taken.
Men of decided character little know beforehand what they will do in
certain contingencies. For the imaginations of decided people do not
endow mere contingencies with sufficient actuality. Keith had never
really settled what he was going to do if this man were condemned. Often
in those past weeks he had said to himself: “Of course, if they bring
him in guilty, that's another thing!” But, now that they had, he was
beset by exactly the same old arguments and feelings, the same instincts
of loyalty and protection towards Laurence and himself, intensified by
the fearful imminence of the danger. And yet, here was this man about
to be hung for a thing he had not done! Nothing could get over that!
But then he was such a worthless vagabond, a ghoul who had robbed a
dead body. If Larry were condemned in his stead, would there be any less
miscarriage of justice? To strangle a brute who had struck you, by the
accident of keeping your hands on his throat a few seconds too long, was
there any more guilt in that--was there even as much, as in deliberate
theft from a dead man? Reverence for order, for justice, and established
fact, will, often march shoulder to shoulder with Jesuitry in natures to
whom success is vital.
In the narrow stone passage leading to his staircase, a friend had
called out: “Bravo, Darrant! That was a squeak! Congratulations!” And
with a bitter little smile Keith thought: 'Congratulations! I!'
At the first possible moment the hurried back to the Strand, and hailing
a cab, he told the man to put him down at a turning near to Borrow
Street.
It was the girl who opened to his knock. Startled, clasping her hands,
she looked strange to Keith in her black skirt and blouse of some soft
velvety stuff the colour of faded roses. Her round, rather long throat
was bare; and Keith noticed fretfully that she wore gold earrings. Her
eyes, so pitch dark against her white face, and the short fair hair,
which curled into her neck, seemed both to search and to plead.
“My brother?”
“He is not in, sir, yet.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“He is living with you here now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still as fond of him as ever, then?”
With a movement, as though she despaired of words, she clasped her hands
over her heart. And he said:
“I see.”
He had the same strange feeling as on his first visit to her, and when
through the chink in the curtains he had watched her kneeling--of pity
mingled with some faint sexual emotion. And crossing to the fire he
asked:
“May I wait for him?”
“Oh! Please! Will you sit down?”
But Keith shook his head. And with a catch in her breath, she said:
“You will not take him from me. I should die.”
He turned round on her sharply.
“I don't want him taken from you. I want to help you keep him. Are you
ready to go away, at any time?”
“Yes. Oh, yes!”
“And he?”
She answered almost in a whisper:
“Yes; but there is that poor man.”
“That poor man is a graveyard thief; a hyena; a ghoul--not worth
consideration.” And the rasp in his own voice surprised him.
“Ah!” she sighed. “But I am sorry for him. Perhaps he was hungry. I have
been hungry--you do things then that you would not. And perhaps he has
no one to love; if you have no one to love you can be very bad. I think
of him often--in prison.”
Between his teeth Keith muttered: “And Laurence?”
“We do never speak of it, we are afraid.”
“He's not told you, then, about the trial?”
Her eyes dilated.
“The trial! Oh! He was strange last night. This morning, too, he got up
early. Is it-is it over?”
“Yes.”
“What has come?”
“Guilty.”
For a moment Keith thought she was going to faint. She had closed her
eyes, and swayed so that he took a step, and put his hands on her arms.
“Listen!” he said. “Help me; don't let Laurence out of your sight. We
must have time. I must see what they intend to do. They can't be going
to hang this man. I must have time, I tell you. You must prevent his
giving himself up.”
She stood, staring in his face, while he still held her arms, gripping
into her soft flesh through the velvety sleeves.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes-but if he has already!”
Keith felt the shiver which ran through her. And the thought rushed into
his mind: 'My God! Suppose the police come round while I'm here!' If
Larry had indeed gone to them! If that Policeman who had seen him here
the night after the murder should find him here again just after the
verdict! He said almost fiercely:
“Can I trust you not to let Larry out of your sight? Quick! Answer!”
Clasping her hands to her breast, she answered humbly:
“I will try.”
“If he hasn't already done this, watch him like a lynx! Don't let him go
out without you. I'll come to-morrow morning early. You're a Catholic,
aren't you? Swear to me that you won't let him do anything till he's
seen me again.”
She did not answer, looking past him at the door; and Keith heard a key
in the latch. There was Laurence himself, holding in his hand a great
bunch of pink lilies and white narcissi. His face was pale and haggard.
He said quietly:
“Hallo, Keith!”
The girl's eyes were fastened on Larry's face; and Keith, looking from
one to the other, knew that he had never had more need for wariness.
“Have you seen?” he said.
Laurence nodded. His expression, as a rule so tell-tale of his emotions,
baffled Keith utterly.
“Well?”
“I've been expecting it.”
“The thing can't stand--that's certain. But I must have time to look
into the report. I must have time to see what I can do. D'you understand
me, Larry--I must have time.” He knew he was talking at random. The only
thing was to get them away at once out of reach of confession; but he
dared not say so.
“Promise me that you'll do nothing, that you won't go out even till I've
seen you to-morrow morning.”
Again Laurence nodded. And Keith looked at the girl. Would she see that
he did not break that promise? Her eyes were still fixed immovably on
Larry's face. And with the feeling that he could get no further, Keith
turned to go.
“Promise me,” he said.
Laurence answered: “I promise.”
He was smiling. Keith could make nothing of that smile, nor of the
expression in the girl's eyes. And saying: “I have your promise, I rely
on it!” he went.