Luke Maddison walked into his office so calmly that Stiles, who from
his glass-partitioned office saw him pass, did not dream of the
devastating catastrophe which had shattered the life of his young
employer. Stiles glanced up at the clock and grunted his satisfaction.
Evidently the matter of the check had been satisfactorily adjusted.
The house ’phone rang and he took up the instrument.
“Will you come in?”
Luke’s voice was even; not by so much as a tremor did he betray his
emotion.
There was nothing remarkable to betray. He was astounded at his own
amazing calm, and it was some time before he had discovered a reason
for his abnormal serenity. He was living entirely in the present, not
daring to look backward, indifferent to what waited on the morrow.
Stiles, who had known him from a child, saw something in his face that
he had never seen before, and was alarmed.
“Anything wrong, sir?” he asked anxiously.
Luke Maddison pursed his lips as though he were going to whistle.
“I don’t know. I haven’t quite got things into perspective. Sit down,
Stiles.”
Again he pursed his lips, staring past his manager; and then, in
measured, deliberate tones, he told the man just what had happened. It
was not a moment for reticence, nor did he feel the necessity for
covering up or excusing Margaret’s action. He was dealing with
definite and final facts, and he set them forth with a sort of
cold-blooded precision, as he would have set forth the values in a
prospectus.
Stiles heard but at first could not comprehend the magnitude of the
disaster. At last he made a little moaning sound, and this seemed to
appeal to some latent sense of humour in Luke Maddison, for he smiled.
“You’ll have to do the best you can, Stiles. I suppose one has friends
in the City who would help, but I haven’t the faith to go to
them--faith in anything. No, I’m not stunned, I’m destroyed. But I’m
not feeling sorry for myself--I wish I could. That at least would
bring me back to realities.”
“What are you going to do?” Stiles’ voice was little above a whisper.
Luke Maddison shook his head.
“I don’t know exactly,” he frowned. “What does one do in these
circumstances? Go away and shoot lions! Isn’t that the usual course
for broken-hearted men to take? I don’t know.”
Stiles glanced at his watch and got up from the table.
“I’m going to see the bank,” he said, with remarkable energy. “I think
we can lodge those Artificial Silk shares against an overdraft.”
Luke made no comment. He heard the staccato explosion of Stiles’
voice--the old man invariably got that way when he was excited. He was
conscious that Stiles had gone and shut the door behind him.
For ten minutes he sat at the desk, looking straight ahead, trying
hard to reëstablish touch with life. Then he rose, took his hat from
the stand, mechanically drew on his gloves and went down the private
staircase into the street.
As he opened the door of his flat he heard the telephone bell ringing,
and had time to stop the butler as he was going to it to answer.
“Leave it, will you, please,” he said.
The ’phone was in his own little study leading from his bedroom. He
lifted the receiver and put it on the table. Then, locking the door,
he changed his clothes. He took the first garments that came to him;
was unaware, till he was dressed, that trousers and coat were a bad
match. Counting the money in his pockets, he found he had a little
over fifty pounds. He grew thoughtful at this. Was that his or hers?
It was a ridiculous problem, yet he battled it out for a long while;
but all the time realities avoided him. He could only think of
Margaret as A, himself as B. There was C, which stood for money--did
this belong to A or B?
He threw the notes on the table, retaining the silver, and went out
into the hall. He was taking down a light overcoat when the butler
appeared at his elbow to ask the inevitable question.
“No, no, I’m dining out to-night.” And then, with the open door in his
hand, he remembered. “I left some money on the table in my study. Take
half for yourself and half for the cook--I shall not want you after
this week.”
He left the man petrified with amazement and dismay.
Why he gravitated to the Embankment he could never tell; it seemed a
natural objective. He had no thought of suicide, no intention of
finding that gross way to forgetfulness. Walking slowly by the
parapet, he came to a halt before Scotland Yard and eyed that Gothic
building incuriously. That big detective was there, the Sparrow--the
Sparrow, who righted so many wrongs, could hardly disentangle the
problem which deadened the mind of Luke Maddison. The “children of the
poor”! He smiled mirthlessly. He was one of the children of the poor,
the natural charge of that big man. To protect the children of the
poor and punish the wrongdoer. Who had done wrong? Margaret? He tried
hard to apportion all blame to her, to hate her. He shook his head and
walked slowly back toward Blackfriars.
Opposite the Temple station he rested again. There was a narrow street
running up to the Strand--Norfolk Street, wasn’t it? And his lawyer
had his office there. Why not see him and tell him all that had
happened? It was the sane thing to do. But then Luke Maddison realized
that he was not sane. He was the maddest being in the maddest world.
He went on toward Blackfriars and came to a halt before the tram
station. There was a long queue of people waiting to board the cars
which arrived empty and went rolling along the Embankment crowded with
humanity. Husbands and wives, possibly; young men going back to
sweethearts who loved them; girls who had faith in some men or other
and were ready to make every sacrifice for them. To Luke Maddison
every car that drew away was laden with happy people, their day’s work
ended, the recreations and pleasures of the night before them. Old
men, young men; girls looking trim and smart; young men smoking big
pipes, with a newspaper under their arms; bespectacled students--they
hypnotized him, these great, blazing tramcars. He watched men and
women mounting to the top, tried to identify them through the glazed
windows.
He was standing with his back to the parapet, his elbows resting on
the stone.
“Are you waiting for anybody?”
The voice had authority, though it was quite kind. He looked up to
meet the suspicious scrutiny of a City policeman. The City police do
not like to see men lingering indecisively, one hand on the parapet,
the swirling black river below--especially a white-faced man, with a
tense face and an almost horrified stare.
“N-no,” stammered Luke, “I’m--just watching.”
The policeman was looking at him curiously, as though he was trying to
remember his face.
“I’ve seen you before somewhere, haven’t I?”
“I dare say,” said Luke, and turned away abruptly.
He followed the homeward-wending crowd across Blackfriars Bridge. It
was dark and cold, and he struggled into the overcoat which he had
been carrying on his arm. He remembered somewhere in the borough that
he entered a little coffee-house, redolent of burning lard.
At eleven o’clock it began to rain, a fine drizzle that very soon
soaked through the light coat. He was walking aimlessly along York
Road in the direction of Westminster. A man ahead of him was walking
more slowly, a slouching man with his hands in his pockets and his
coat collar turned up. Luke was wearing rubber-soled shoes, and came
up to the walker before he was aware of his presence. He saw the night
wanderer lurch sideways with a snarl, stoop forward as though he were
going to run, and then something in Luke’s face or appearance checked
his flight.
“Hullo!” he said huskily. “Thought you was a busy.”
Luke recognized him.
“You’re Lewing, aren’t you?”
The man peered into his face.
“Blimey, if it ain’t Mr. What’s-your-name?--Maddison! What you doing
down here? You should have come and seen me down Tooley Street: this
ain’t my pitch.”
Twice he looked back furtively over his shoulder.
“You thought I was a detective?”
The thin lips of the man twisted in a leer.
“That’s what I said. No, I thought you was one of Connor’s lot. They
chased me out of Rotherhithe to-night, said I’d been ‘nosing’ on ’em.
That’s why I’m round here. Connor’s crowd always thinks that someone’s
been nosing if one of his gang’s dragged.”
“Nosing? You mean spying?”
“Giving ’em away to the police,” explained Mr. Lewing. “Connor’s
brother got caught the other night and they got a yarn down Tooley
Street that I’d done it.”
Luke began dimly to understand.
“Come down here.”
The clawlike hands of Lewing caught him and dragged him down a narrow,
ill-lit street.
“I’m nervous to-night,” he said, and here he was speaking the truth,
for his voice became a little whimpering gasp. “You’re a gentleman,
Mr. Maddison. You’d help a pore feller to get away. You know what
Connor is--he’d knife you for twopence. Bumping off, he calls it--he’s
an American; at least, he’s been in Sing Song.… Sing Sing, is it?
Anyway, it’s a stir. A couple of quid’d get me out of London.”
“I haven’t got a couple of pounds with me,” said Luke.
He was already weary of the companionship, and, but for being in his
present condition, would never have submitted to being dragged into
this foul little street.
“Perhaps I can call at your office in the morning?” Lewing’s voice
betrayed his anxiety. And then, as he remembered: “I give that ten
pounds to the Gunner----”
“You gave nothing to the Gunner,” said Luke coldly. “Mr. Bird told me
all about you.”
There was an embarrassed silence.
“Anyway, I’d like you to stay with me, sir,” said the man. “I called
you a busy just now, and you look like a busy. If any of them Connors
see me with a busy they’ll----”
They had just turned the corner into an even narrower street, and
Lewing stopped suddenly, Four dark shapes, two on the pavement, two in
the roadway, confronted them. Luke surveyed them curiously. They all
seemed to have caps drawn over their eyes; each man had both hands in
his pockets.
“Here, what’s the idea, Joe?” Lewing’s voice was a whine. “This
gentleman is taking me round----”
The leader of the four laughed harshly.
“You’ve got to have a busy with you, have you?” he said with an oath.
“You ain’t satisfied with nosing on us Connors, but you got to carry
Scotland Yard strapped under your arm. That’s yours, Lewing!”
To Luke it only seemed that the man had edged a little closer to
Lewing as he spoke. Lewing coughed and fell groggily against Luke.
“Get the busy,” said a snarling voice.
Luke swung back but not quite in time. He saw the glitter of steel and
felt as though a hot iron had been drawn across his breast; and then a
curious weakness came on him, and he leaned back against the wall and
gradually slipped into a sitting position. His last conscious
impression was the clattering feet of running men; four dark shapes
vanished into a greater darkness, and he was left alone, with
something that sprawled across the pavement, staring with unseeing
eyes at the flickering light of the street lamps.