(From _The Strand Magazine_ and _The Saturday Evening Post_)
1921, 1922
In the public bar of the Wagtail, in Wapping, four men and a woman were
drinking beer and discussing diseases. It was not a pretty subject, and
the company was certainly not a handsome one. It was a dark November
evening, and the dingy lighting of the bar seemed but to emphasize the
bleak exterior. Drifts of fog and damp from without mingled with the
smoke of shag. The sanded floor was kicked into a muddy morass not
unlike the surface of the pavement. An old lady down the street had
died from pneumonia the previous evening, and the event supplied a
fruitful topic of conversation. The things that one could get!
Everywhere were germs eager to destroy one. At any minute the symptoms
might break out. And so--one foregathered in a cheerful spot amidst
friends, and drank forgetfulness.
Prominent in this little group was Baldwin Meadows, a sallow-faced
villain with battered features and prominent cheek-bones, his face cut
and scarred by a hundred fights. Ex-seaman, ex-boxer, ex-fish-porter
--indeed, to every one's knowledge, ex-everything. No one
knew how he lived. By his side lurched an enormous coloured man who
went by the name of Harry Jones. Grinning above a tankard sat a
pimply-faced young man who was known as The Agent. Silver rings adorned
his fingers. He had no other name, and most emphatically no address,
but he "arranged things" for people, and appeared to thrive upon it in
a scrambling, fugitive manner. The other two people were Mr. and Mrs.
Dawes. Mr. Dawes was an entirely negative person, but Mrs. Dawes shone
by virtue of a high, whining, insistent voice, keyed to within half a
note of hysteria.
Then, at one point, the conversation suddenly took a peculiar turn. It
came about through Mrs. Dawes mentioning that her aunt, who died from
eating tinned lobster, used to work in a corset shop in Wych Street.
When she said that, The Agent, whose right eye appeared to survey the
ceiling, whilst his left eye looked over the other side of his tankard,
remarked:
"Where was Wych Street, ma?"
"Lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Dawes. "Don't you know, dearie? You must be a
young 'un, you must. Why, when I was a gal every one knew Wych Street.
It was just down there where they built the Kingsway, like."
Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat, and said:
"Wych Street used to be a turnin' runnin' from Long Acre into
Wellington Street."
"Oh, no, old boy," chipped in Mr. Dawes, who always treated the ex-man
with great deference. "If you'll excuse me, Wych Street was a narrow
lane at the back of the old Globe Theatre, that used to pass by the
church."
"I know what I'm talkin' about," growled Meadows. Mrs. Dawes's high
nasal whine broke in:
"Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter know yer wye abaht. Where was Wych
Street?"
Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. He looked up.
"Wych Street? Yus, of course I knoo Wych Street. Used to go there with
some of the boys--when I was Covent Garden way. It was at right angles
to the Strand, just east of Wellington Street."
"No, it warn't. It were alongside the Strand, before yer come to
Wellington Street."
The coloured man took no part in the discussion, one street and one
city being alike to him, provided he could obtain the material comforts
dear to his heart; but the others carried it on with a certain amount
of acerbity.
Before any agreement had been arrived at three other men entered the
bar. The quick eye of Meadows recognized them at once as three of what
was known at that time as "The Gallows Ring." Every member of "The
Gallows Ring" had done time, but they still carried on a lucrative
industry devoted to blackmail, intimidation, shoplifting, and some of
the clumsier recreations. Their leader, Ben Orming, had served seven
years for bashing a Chinaman down at Rotherhithe.
"The Gallows Ring" was not popular in Wapping, for the reason that many
of their depredations had been inflicted upon their own class. When
Meadows and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little wild
prancing they took the trouble to go up into the West-end. They
considered "The Gallows Ring" an ungentlemanly set; nevertheless, they
always treated them with a certain external deference--an unpleasant
crowd to quarrel with.
Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against
the bar and whispered in sullen accents. Something had evidently
miscarried with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the
general drone of the bar. Suddenly she said:
"Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just 'aving a discussion
like. Where was Wych Street?"
Ben scowled at her, and she continued:
"Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I _know_ where it
was, 'cors my aunt what died from blood p'ison, after eatin' tinned
lobster, used to work at a corset shop----"
"Yus," barked Ben, emphatically. "I know where Wych Street was--it was
just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station."
It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no
part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene.
"Nope. You's all wrong, cap'n. Wych Street were alongside de church,
way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west."
Ben turned on him fiercely.
"What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I've told yer
where Wych Street was."
"Yus, and I know where it was," interposed Meadows.
"Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into
Wellington Street."
"I didn't ask yer what _you_ thought," growled Ben.
"Well, I suppose I've a right to an opinion?"
"You always think you know everything, you do."
"You can just keep yer mouth shut."
"It 'ud take more'n you to shut it."
Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar:
"Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling--please."
The affair might have been subsided at that point, but for Mrs. Dawes.
Her emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so
stirred that she had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much gin.
She suddenly screamed out:
"Don't you take no lip from 'im, Mr. Medders. The dirty, thieving
devil, 'e always thinks 'e's goin' to come it over every one."
She stood up threateningly, and one of Ben's supporters gave her a
gentle push backwards. In three minutes the bar was in a complete state
of pandemonium. The three members of "The Gallows Ring" fought two men
and a woman, for Mr. Dawes merely stood in a corner and screamed out:
"Don't! Don't!"
Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man who had pushed her through the wrist with a
hatpin. Meadows and Ben Orming closed on each other and fought savagely
with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the encounter sent Meadows
reeling against the wall, with blood streaming down his temple. Then
the coloured man hurled a pewter tankard straight at Ben and it hit him
on the knuckles. The pain maddened him to a frenzy. His other supporter
had immediately got to grips with Harry Jones, and picked up one of the
high stools and, seizing an opportunity, brought it down crash on to
the coloured man's skull.
The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr. Booth was bawling out in
the street. A whistle sounded. People were running in all directions.
"Beat it! Beat it for God's sake!" called the man who had been stabbed
through the wrist. His face was very white, and he was obviously about
to faint.
Ben and the other man, whose name was Toller, dashed to the door. On
the pavement there was a confused scramble. Blows were struck
indiscriminately. Two policemen appeared. One was laid _hors de combat_
by a kick on the knee-cap from Toller. The two men fled into the
darkness, followed by a hue-and-cry. Born and bred in the locality,
they took every advantage of their knowledge. They tacked through
alleys and raced down dark mews, and clambered over walls. Fortunately
for them, the people they passed, who might have tripped them up or
aided in the pursuit, merely fled indoors. The people in Wapping are
not always on the side of the pursuer. But the police held on. At last
Ben and Toller slipped through the door of an empty house in Aztec
Street barely ten yards ahead of their nearest pursuer. Blows rained on
the door, but they slipped the bolts, and then fell panting to the
floor. When Ben could speak, he said:
"If they cop us, it means swinging."
"Was the nigger done in?"
"I think so. But even if 'e wasn't, there was that other affair the
night before last. The game's up."
The ground-floor rooms were shuttered and bolted, but they knew that
the police would probably force the front door. At the back there was
no escape, only a narrow stable yard, where lanterns were already
flashing. The roof only extended thirty yards either way and the police
would probably take possession of it. They made a round of the house,
which was sketchily furnished. There was a loaf, a small piece of
mutton, and a bottle of pickles, and--the most precious
possession--three bottles of whisky. Each man drank half a glass of
neat whisky; then Ben said: "We'll be able to keep 'em quiet for a bit,
anyway," and he went and fetched an old twelve-bore gun and a case of
cartridges. Toller was opposed to this last desperate resort, but Ben
continued to murmur, "It means swinging, anyway."
And thus began the notorious siege of Aztec Street. It lasted three
days and four nights. You may remember that, on forcing a panel of the
front door, Sub-Inspector Wraithe, of the V Division, was shot through
the chest. The police then tried other methods. A hose was brought into
play without effect. Two policemen were killed and four wounded. The
military was requisitioned. The street was picketed. Snipers occupied
windows of the houses opposite. A distinguished member of the Cabinet
drove down in a motor-car, and directed operations in a top-hat. It was
the introduction of poison-gas which was the ultimate cause of the
downfall of the citadel. The body of Ben Orming was never found, but
that of Toller was discovered near the front door with a bullet through
his heart. The medical officer to the Court pronounced that the man had
been dead three days, but whether killed by a chance bullet from a
sniper or whether killed deliberately by his fellow-criminal was never
revealed. For when the end came Orming had apparently planned a final
act of venom. It was known that in the basement a considerable quantity
of petrol had been stored. The contents had probably been carefully
distributed over the most inflammable materials in the top rooms. The
fire broke out, as one witness described it, "almost like an
explosion." Orming must have perished in this. The roof blazed up, and
the sparks carried across the yard and started a stack of light timber
in the annexe of Messrs. Morrel's piano-factory. The factory and two
blocks of tenement buildings were burnt to the ground. The estimated
cost of the destruction was one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. The
casualties amounted to seven killed and fifteen wounded.
At the inquiry held under Chief Justice Pengammon various odd
interesting facts were revealed. Mr. Lowes-Parlby, the brilliant young
K.C., distinguished himself by his searching cross-examination of many
witnesses. At one point a certain Mrs. Dawes was put in the box.
"Now," said Mr. Lowes-Parlby, "I understand that on the evening in
question, Mrs. Dawes, you, and the victims, and these other people who
have been mentioned, were all seated in the public bar of the Wagtail,
enjoying its no doubt excellent hospitality and indulging in a friendly
discussion. Is that so?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, will you tell his lordship what you were discussing?"
"Diseases, sir."
"Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?"
"Pardon?"
"Was there a serious dispute about diseases?"
"No, sir."
"Well, what was the subject of the dispute?"
"We was arguin' as to where Wych Street was, sir."
"What's that?" said his lordship.
"The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where Wych
Street was."
"Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?"
"Yes, sir."
"You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of
what is now the Gaiety Theatre?"
Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming manner.
"Yes, my lord, I believe the witness refers to the same street you
mention, though, if I may be allowed to qualify your lordship's
description of the locality, may I suggest that it was a little further
east--at the side of the old Globe Theatre, which was adjacent to St.
Martin's in the Strand? That is the street you were all arguing about,
isn't it, Mrs. Dawes?"
"Well, sir, my aunt who died from eating tinned lobster used to work at
a corset-shop. I ought to know."
His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the counsel rather
peevishly.
"Mr. Lowes-Parlby, when I was your age I used to pass through Wych
Street every day of my life. I did so for nearly twelve years. I think
it hardly necessary for you to contradict me."
The counsel bowed. It was not his place to dispute with a chief
justice, although that chief justice be a hopeless old fool; but
another eminent K.C., an elderly man with a tawny beard, rose in the
body of the court, and said:
"If I may be allowed to interpose, your lordship, I also spent a great
deal of my youth passing through Wych Street. I have gone into the
matter, comparing past and present ordnance survey maps. If I am not
mistaken, the street the witness was referring to began near the
hoarding at the entrance to Kingsway and ended at the back of what is
now the Aldwych Theatre."
"Oh, no, Mr. Backer!" exclaimed Lowes-Parlby.
His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out:
"The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case."
It certainly was, but the brief passage-of-arms left an unpleasant tang
of bitterness behind. It was observed that Mr. Lowes-Parlby never again
quite got the prehensile grip upon his cross-examination that he had
shown in his treatment of the earlier witnesses. The coloured man,
Harry Jones, had died in hospital, but Mr. Booth, the proprietor of the
Wagtail, Baldwin Meadows, Mr. Dawes, and the man who was stabbed in the
wrist, all gave evidence of a rather nugatory character. Lowes-Parlby
could do nothing with it. The findings of this Special Inquiry do not
concern us. It is sufficient to say that the witnesses already
mentioned all returned to Wapping. The man who had received the thrust
of a hatpin through his wrist did not think it advisable to take any
action against Mrs. Dawes. He was pleasantly relieved to find that he
was only required as a witness of an abortive discussion.
* * * * *
In a few weeks' time the great Aztec Street siege remained only a
romantic memory to the majority of Londoners. To Lowes-Parlby the
little dispute with Chief Justice Pengammon rankled unreasonably. It is
annoying to be publicly snubbed for making a statement which you know
to be absolutely true, and which you have even taken pains to verify.
And Lowes-Parlby was a young man accustomed to score. He made a point
of looking everything up, of being prepared for an adversary
thoroughly. He liked to give the appearance of knowing everything. The
brilliant career just ahead of him at times dazzled him. He was one of
the darlings of the gods. Everything came to Lowes-Parlby. His father
had distinguished himself at the bar before him, and had amassed a
modest fortune. He was an only son. At Oxford he had carried off every
possible degree. He was already being spoken of for very high political
honours. But the most sparkling jewel in the crown of his successes was
Lady Adela Charters, the daughter of Lord Vermeer, the Minister for
Foreign Affairs. She was his _fiancée_, and it was considered the most
brilliant match of the season. She was young and almost pretty, and
Lord Vermeer was immensely wealthy and one of the most influential men
in Great Britain. Such a combination was irresistible. There seemed to
be nothing missing in the life of Francis Lowes-Parlby, K.C.
One of the most regular and absorbed spectators at the Aztec Street
inquiry was old Stephen Garrit. Stephen Garrit held a unique but quite
inconspicuous position in the legal world at that time. He was a friend
of judges, a specialist at various abstruse legal rulings, a man of
remarkable memory, and yet--an amateur. He had never taken sick, never
eaten the requisite dinners, never passed an examination in his life;
but the law of evidence was meat and drink to him. He passed his life
in the Temple, where he had chambers. Some of the most eminent counsel
in the world would take his opinion, or come to him for advice. He was
very old, very silent, and very absorbed. He attended every meeting of
the Aztec Street inquiry, but from beginning to end he never
volunteered an opinion.
After the inquiry was over he went and visited an old friend at the
London Survey Office. He spent two mornings examining maps. After that
he spent two mornings pottering about the Strand, Kingsway, and
Aldwych; then he worked out some careful calculations on a ruled chart.
He entered the particulars in a little book which he kept for purposes
of that kind, and then retired to his chambers to study other matters.
But before doing so, he entered a little apophthegm in another book. It
was apparently a book in which he intended to compile a summary of his
legal experiences. The sentence ran:
"The basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient
data."
Old Stephen need not have appeared in this story at all, except for the
fact that he was present at the dinner at Lord Vermeer's, where a
rather deplorable incident occurred. And you must acknowledge that in
the circumstances it is useful to have such a valuable and efficient
witness.
Lord Vermeer was a competent, forceful man, a little quick-tempered and
autocratic. He came from Lancashire, and before entering politics had
made an enormous fortune out of borax, artificial manure, and starch.
It was a small dinner-party, with a motive behind it. His principal
guest was Mr. Sandeman, the London agent of the Ameer of Bakkan. Lord
Vermeer was very anxious to impress Mr. Sandeman and to be very
friendly with him: the reasons will appear later. Mr. Sandeman was a
self-confessed cosmopolitan. He spoke seven languages and professed to
be equally at home in any capital in Europe. London had been his
headquarters for over twenty years. Lord Vermeer also invited Mr.
Arthur Toombs, a colleague in the Cabinet, his prospective son-in-law,
Lowes-Parlby, K.C., James Trolley, a very tame Socialist M.P., and Sir
Henry and Lady Breyd, the two latter being invited, not because Sir
Henry was of any use, but because Lady Breyd was a pretty and brilliant
woman who might amuse his principal guest. The sixth guest was Stephen
Garrit.
The dinner was a great success. When the succession of courses
eventually came to a stop, and the ladies had retired, Lord Vermeer
conducted his male guests into another room for a ten minutes' smoke
before rejoining them. It was then that the unfortunate incident
occurred. There was no love lost between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman.
It is difficult to ascribe the real reason of their mutual animosity,
but on the several occasions when they had met there had invariably
passed a certain sardonic by-play. They were both clever, both
comparatively young, each a little suspect and jealous of the other;
moreover, it was said in some quarters that Mr. Sandeman had had
intentions himself with regard to Lord Vermeer's daughter, that he had
been on the point of a proposal when Lowes-Parlby had butted in and
forestalled him. Mr. Sandeman had dined well, and he was in the mood to
dazzle with a display of his varied knowledge and experiences. The
conversation drifted from a discussion of the rival claims of great
cities to the slow, inevitable removal of old landmarks. There had been
a slightly acrimonious disagreement between Lowes-Parlby and Mr.
Sandeman as to the claims of Budapest and Lisbon, and Mr. Sandeman had
scored because he extracted from his rival a confession that, though he
had spent two months in Budapest, he had only spent two days in Lisbon.
Mr. Sandeman had lived for four years in either city. Lowes-Parlby
changed the subject abruptly.
"Talking of landmarks," he said, "we had a queer point arise in that
Aztec Street inquiry. The original dispute arose owing to a discussion
between a crowd of people in a pub as to where Wych Street was."
"I remember," said Lord Vermeer. "A perfectly absurd discussion. Why, I
should have thought that any man over forty would remember exactly
where it was."
"Where would you say it was, sir?" asked Lowes-Parlby.
"Why to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended at
the second turning after the Law Courts, going west."
Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat
and said, in his supercilious, oily voice:
"Excuse me, my lord. I know my Paris, and Vienna, and Lisbon, every
brick and stone, but I look upon London as my home. I know my London
even better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of Wych Street. When
I was a student I used to visit there to buy books. It ran parallel to
New Oxford Street on the south side, just between it and Lincoln's Inn
Fields."
There was something about this assertion that infuriated Lowes-Parlby.
In the first place, it was so hopelessly wrong and so insufferably
asserted. In the second place, he was already smarting under the
indignity of being shown up about Lisbon. And then there suddenly
flashed through his mind the wretched incident when he had been
publicly snubbed by Justice Pengammon about the very same point; and he
knew that he was right each time. Damn Wych Street! He turned on Mr.
Sandeman.
"Oh, nonsense! You may know something about these--eastern cities; you
certainly know nothing about London if you make a statement like that.
Wych Street was a little further east of what is now the Gaiety
Theatre. It used to run by the side of the old Globe Theatre, parallel
to the Strand."
The dark moustache of Mr. Sandeman shot upwards, revealing a narrow
line of yellow teeth. He uttered a sound that was a mingling of
contempt and derision; then he drawled out:
"Really? How wonderful--to have such comprehensive knowledge!"
He laughed, and his small eyes fixed his rival. Lowes-Parlby flushed a
deep red. He gulped down half a glass of port and muttered just above a
whisper: "Damned impudence!" Then, in the rudest manner he could
display, he turned his back deliberately on Sandeman and walked out of
the room.
* * * * *
In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little contretemps. The
whole thing was so absurd--so utterly undignified. As though _he_
didn't know! It was the little accumulation of pin-pricks all arising
out of that one argument. The result had suddenly goaded him to--well,
being rude, to say the least of it. It wasn't that Sandeman mattered.
To the devil with Sandeman! But what would his future father-in-law
think? He had never before given way to any show of ill-temper before
him. He forced himself into a mood of rather fatuous jocularity. Adela
was at her best in those moods. They would have lots of fun together in
the days to come. Her almost pretty, not too clever face was dimpled
with kittenish glee. Life was a tremendous rag to her. They were
expecting Toccata, the famous opera-singer. She had been engaged at a
very high fee to come on from Covent Garden. Mr. Sandeman was very fond
of music. Adela was laughing, and discussing which was the most
honourable position for the great Sandeman to occupy. There came to
Lowes-Parlby a sudden abrupt misgiving. What sort of wife would this be
to him when they were not just fooling? He immediately dismissed the
curious, furtive little stab of doubt. The splendid proportions of the
room calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark red roses quickened his
perceptions. His career.... The door opened. But it was not La Toccata.
It was one of the household flunkies. Lowes-Parlby turned again to his
inamorata.
"Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in
the library?"
Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his heart beat quickly. An
uncontrollable presage of evil racked his nerve-centres. Something had
gone wrong; and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. In a
crisis--well, he could always apologize. He smiled confidently at
Adela, and said:
"Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse me, dear." He followed
the impressive servant out of the room. His foot had barely touched the
carpet of the library when he realized that his worst apprehensions
were to be plumbed to the depths. For a moment he thought Lord Vermeer
was alone, then he observed old Stephen Garrit, lying in an easy-chair
in the corner like a piece of crumpled parchment. Lord Vermeer did not
beat about the bush. When the door was closed, he bawled out, savagely:
"What the devil have you done?"
"Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand. Is it Sandeman--?"
"Sandeman has gone."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Sorry! By God, I should think you might be sorry! You insulted him. My
prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house!"
"I'm awfully sorry. I didn't realize--"
"Realize! Sit down, and don't assume for one moment that you continue
to be my prospective son-in-law. Your insult was a most intolerable
piece of effrontery, not only to him, but to me."
"But I--"
"Listen to me. Do you know that the government were on the verge of
concluding a most far-reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that
the position was just touch-and-go? The concessions we were prepared to
make would have cost the State thirty million pounds, and it would have
been cheap. Do you hear that? It would have been cheap! Bakkan is one
of the most vulnerable outposts of the Empire. It is a terrible
danger-zone. If certain powers can usurp our authority--and, mark you,
the whole blamed place is already riddled with this new pernicious
doctrine--you know what I mean--before we know where we are the whole
East will be in a blaze. India! My God! This contract we were
negotiating would have countered this outward thrust. And you, you
blockhead, you come here and insult the man upon whose word the whole
thing depends."
"I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this."
"You can't see it! But, you fool, you seemed to go out of your way. You
insulted him about the merest quibble--in my house!"
"He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I corrected
him."
"Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he said Wych Street was in the
moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act in the
way you did. And you--you think of going into politics!"
The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed.
Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled:
"I'm very sorry."
"I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical."
"What's that, sir?"
"You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman's, find him, and apologize.
Tell him you find that he was right about Wych Street after all. If you
can't find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow morning. I give
you till midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered a
handsome apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house again,
you do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I possess
will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession you have
dishonoured. Now you can go."
Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at Knightsbridge.
Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer had given him
till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done should be done
after a night's reflection. The fundamental purposes of his being were
to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great crossing. Some deep
instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is it that a point comes when
success demands that a man shall sell his soul? It was all so absurdly
trivial--a mere argument about the position of a street that had ceased
to exist. As Lord Vermeer said, what did it matter about Wych Street?
Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but
would a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling argument
about a street?
In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing-gown, and, lighting a
pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for
companionship at such a moment--the right companionship. How lovely it
would be to have--a woman, just the right woman, to talk this all over
with; some one who understood and sympathized. A sudden vision came to
him of Adela's face grinning about the prospective visit of La Toccata,
and again the low voice of misgiving whispered in his ears. Would Adela
be--just the right woman? In very truth, did he really love Adela? Or
was it all--a rag? Was life a rag--a game played by lawyers,
politicians, and people?
The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit thinking, his mind
principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was
past midnight when he suddenly muttered a low "Damn!" and walked to the
bureau. He took up a pen and wrote:
"_Dear Mr. Sandeman_,--I must apologize for acting so rudely to you
last night. It was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since
find, on going into the matter, that you were quite right about the
position of Wych Street. I can't think how I made the mistake. Please
forgive me.
"Yours cordially,
"FRANCIS LOWES-PARLBY."
Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have imagined
at that point that the matter was finished. But there are certain
little greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of stilling, and
they kept Lowes-Parlby awake more than half the night. He kept on
repeating to himself, "It's all positively absurd!" But the little
greedy demons pranced around the bed, and they began to group things
into two definite issues. On the one side, the great appearances; on
the other, something at the back of it all, something deep,
fundamental, something that could only be expressed by one word--truth.
If he had _really_ loved Adela--if he weren't so absolutely certain
that Sandeman was wrong and he was right--why should he have to say
that Wych Street was where it wasn't? "Isn't there, after all," said
one of the little demons, "something which makes for greater happiness
than success? Confess this, and we'll let you sleep."
Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the little demons
possess. However full our lives may be, we ever long for moments of
tranquillity. And conscience holds before our eyes some mirror of an
ultimate tranquillity. Lowes-Parlby was certainly not himself. The gay,
debonair, and brilliant egoist was tortured, and tortured almost beyond
control; and it had all apparently risen through the ridiculous
discussion about a street. At a quarter past three in the morning he
arose from his bed with a groan, and, going into the other room, he
tore the letter to Mr. Sandeman to pieces.
Three weeks later old Stephen Garrit was lunching with the Lord Chief
Justice. They were old friends, and they never found it incumbent to be
very conversational. The lunch was an excellent, but frugal, meal. They
both ate slowly and thoughtfully, and their drink was water. It was not
till they reached the dessert stage that his lordship indulged in any
very informative comment, and then he recounted to Stephen the details
of a recent case in which he considered that the presiding judge had,
by an unprecedented paralogy, misinterpreted the law of evidence.
Stephen listened with absorbed attention. He took two cob-nuts from the
silver dish, and turned them over meditatively, without cracking them.
When his lordship had completely stated his opinion and peeled a pear,
Stephen mumbled:
"I have been impressed, very impressed indeed. Even in my own field
of--limited observation--the opinion of an outsider, you may say--so
often it happens--the trouble caused by an affirmation without
sufficiently established data. I have seen lives lost, ruin brought
about, endless suffering. Only last week, a young man--a brilliant
career--almost shattered. People make statements without--"
He put the nuts back on the dish, and then, in an apparently irrelevant
manner, he said abruptly:
"Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?"
The Lord Chief justice grunted.
"Wych Street! Of course I do."
"Where would you say it was, my lord?"
"Why, here, of course."
His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the
tablecloth.
"It used to run from there to here."
Stephen adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the plan. He took a
long time to do this, and when he had finished his hand instinctively
went towards a breast pocket where he kept a note-book with little
squared pages. Then he stopped and sighed. After all, why argue with
the law? The law was like that--an excellent thing, not infallible, of
course (even the plan of the Lord Chief justice was a quarter of a mile
out), but still an excellent, a wonderful thing. He examined the bony
knuckles of his hands and yawned slightly.
"Do you remember it?" said the Lord Chief justice.
Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way
off:
"Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street."