Adventures of a Pair of Handcuffs
When Mr. Priestley performed his masterly retreat from the scene of
his crime it was without any definite plan in his head beyond reaching
the waiting two-seater and reaching it very quickly. Blundering
through shrubberies and over flower-beds, his speechless burden still
in his arms, he made his way by a sort of blind instinct to the hedge
that bordered the road. Through it he plunged manfully, heedless of
the prickly twigs which scratched his face and hands and the dangling
legs of his companion (a fact of which the companion herself was
anything but heedless), and then at last set his burden on her feet.
But even then there was no time to waste in useless explanations or
converse. Grabbing her handcuffed hand with a brief grunt, Mr.
Priestley, that suddenly transformed man of leisure, set off at a
round pace down the road. His companion, having no say in the matter,
and no breath to say it with had she had one, followed. They reached
the car and fell inside in a congested bundle.
The fact that it was Mr. Priestley’s left wrist which was tethered,
made things a little awkward. For them to sit decorously side by side
in the orthodox manner was out of the question, for the car’s
gear-levers were on the right.
“I’ll stand on the running-board,” Mr. Priestley panted, “till we’re
safely out of the way.” He scrambled nimbly over the side and did his
best to anchor himself against it.
Laura started the engine, backed the car out of the lane and set off
up the road. Getting into top gear, she drove steadily ahead at a
rapidly increasing pace, her face as grim and set as she imagined that
of an accessory to murder and professional thief should be. At her
side Mr. Priestley bounced unhappily up and down, clinging desperately
to the side of the car with his free hand and expecting every moment
to be jerked backwards into the road. That in such an event his
companion would be neatly extricated from the car to share his fate
afforded him no consolation. Fortunately he was far too preoccupied
for the moment in saving his own life at every twist or jolt in the
road to be in a fit state to think coherently about what had happened
since he last saw this car.
Laura, on the other hand, was thinking rapidly. Once the confusion had
subsided of that wild rush from the house and her ignominious part in
it, her brain had found itself free again to return to business. It
was now working overtime.
Two thoughts were foremost in Laura’s mind. One was that this affair
had turned into the most glorious rag that the mind of man (or girl)
could conceive, and that nothing must be done to spoil it by so much
as the set of a hair. The other was that Mr. Matthew Priestley had
acquitted himself really most surprisingly, almost incredibly well. He
had not only risen to the occasion and obligingly fired off the
revolver, he had not only turned the tables on that ridiculous
policeman and rescued the two of them from a situation which, if it
had been as real as he thought it, would have been a remarkably
ticklish one, he had not only proved himself in spite of
circumstantial evidence to the contrary to be a man of courage,
determination, decent feelings and resource, but (and perhaps this
appealed to Laura more than all the foregoing catalogue of Mr.
Priestley’s surprising virtues) his first thought from beginning to
end had been for her alone, and that even after she had led him to
think her a professional thief and therefore, according to the social
code, of no personal account whatever. Laura felt herself warming
quite a lot towards this normally mild little man with the heart of a
bulldog.
But that did not go to say that she enjoyed being handcuffed to him.
She did not. Indeed, in the presence of those handcuffs, it was
difficult to see how this glorious rag was going to continue.
Obviously they must be removed, and as soon as possible; or else they
would have to go back and⸺
At this point Laura became aware that words were coming towards her,
jerkily, over the side of the car.
“N-not so f-fast!” came the words spasmodically. “I can’t—hold
on—m-much longer!”
Laura glanced at her speedometer; the needle was hovering between
forty and fifty. She hastened to pull up at the side of the road.
“I’m so sorry,” she said contritely, as Mr. Priestley sobbed for
breath and relief. Travelling outside the shelter of the windscreen at
fifty miles an hour does knock the breath out of one.
“’Sallright,” gasped Mr. Priestley, drooping like a wet blanket over
the side of the car. “But I thought—’f I fell out—you’d have to
come—too—oof!”
“Good gracious!” observed Laura, much impressed. “Do you know, that
simply never occurred to me.”
“No?” panted Mr. Priestley politely. “But it—would have done—oof—’f
I—had. Oh, _oof_!”
A minute or two was devoted to Mr. Priestley’s pursuit of his lost
breath.
“Well, Mr. Mullins,” Laura then remarked brightly, “now perhaps you’ll
tell me what is the next move?”
“To get rid of this infernal handcuff,” said Mr. Priestley without
hesitation.
“Yes, I’d thought of that too. But how?”
“File it off!” returned Mr. Priestley promptly. “Have you got a file
in your tool-box?”
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t. Oh, Mr. Mullins,
this is a terrible business! What _are_ we to do?” The look of
appealing helplessness that Laura turned on her fellow-adventurer was
not what might have been expected from a young woman who had just been
driving a car at nearly fifty miles an hour along an unlighted road.
Fortunately Mr. Priestley was in no state to notice such
discrepancies. “Don’t you worry, my dear young lady,” he said
paternally. “You shall come to no harm. Now, let me see, is there any
other way we can arrange ourselves? I really think we should push on a
little farther before we see about getting hold of a file, and this
running-board is really a most uncomfortable way of travelling. How
can we manage?”
“Supposing you knelt in front of the seat with your back to the
engine?” suggested Laura. “We might be able to manage like that.”
“Humph,” replied Mr. Priestley, to whom the idea did not seem to
appeal. “No, Mrs. Spettigue, I think —by the way, I suppose you’re not
Mrs. Spettigue now?”
“I’m afraid not,” Laura confessed with much contrition.
“You’re not married at all?”
“No,” said Laura, hanging her head. One saw that she was now
overwhelmed with shame at the thought of her base deception.
“Then who are you?”
“I’m—I’m usually known as Chicago Kate,” Laura said in a very small
voice. “I’m supposed to be the cleverest woman thief in the world,”
she added with simple pride, brightening a little.
“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, gazing at her with renewed
interest. She looked very young for so notorious a person.
As he gazed Mr. Priestley felt a guilty thrill run through him.
Abandoned she might be, but indubitably she was charming; and he was
committed to a desperate adventure with her. His fate was linked with
hers, in fact, not only literally but metaphorically too. They were
joined together not only by a handcuff, but by the joint secret of
what Mr. Priestley even now could not bring himself to regard as
murder. Dash it all, he had never _meant_ to kill the man! He would
never have dreamed of firing if he had even distantly suspected the
revolver of being loaded. Manslaughter, perhaps, and most
reprehensible; but certainly not murder.
It came to Mr. Priestley with a shock of surprise to find how
singularly lightly this man’s death sat upon his conscience at that
moment. Probably reaction would come later and he would be properly
horrified, but just at the moment his mind was far busier with other
matters.
“Well,” he resumed briskly, “what I propose is that we push on a
little farther, and then set about borrowing a file. Of course we must
take obvious precautions. We must not stop at a place which is likely
to be on the telephone, and as we shall appear to be—h’m!—holding
hands, I think we should have some story prepared to account for any
awkward questions.”
“Oh, Mr. Mullins,” exclaimed his companion delightedly, “it’s a
positive pleasure to crack a crib with you. You think of everything.”
Mr. Priestley, who was also of the opinion that his strategy was not
too short-sighted, blushed modestly. It was on the tip of his tongue
to reveal the fact that he was not Mr. Mullins at all, but a private
citizen of hitherto unblemished reputation, but foreseeing
embarrassing queries as to the exact identity of the hitherto
blameless citizen, he chose the path of prudence. Mr. Priestley had
always been jealous of his good name, and it looked as if he would
need in the near future all the jealousy he could muster.
“And you don’t look like a burglar a bit,” continued the girl warmly.
“No wonder they call you Gentleman Joe. I must get you to tell me some
time about that time when you stole the Countess of Kentisbeare’s
diamonds, disguised as a dumb waiter, and knocked out two policeman
and the butler. Ah, yes, you see I know all about you. These things
get round the underworld. By the way, do you work on cocaine or
morphia? Personally I always use strychnine; a little strychnine in
half a tumbler of soda makes me feel capable of anything. That’s how I
escaped from Sing-sing, as you’ve probably heard.”
“Erh’rrrrrm!” coughed Mr. Priestley, somewhat uneasy at the technical
turn of the conversation; he did not feel yet quite up to a
professional chat with this nefarious young woman. “Yes, yes, of
course. Now what about moving on? How are we going to dispose
ourselves?”
“Well, if you don’t want to kneel on the floor,” said the nefarious
young woman regretfully, “I’m very much afraid you’ll have to stay
where you are. I’ve been thinking, and I really can’t see any other
way.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, without joy. He brightened as an idea
occurred to him—a wicked idea, quite in keeping with all his other
devilry. He spoke in an exceedingly airy way. “How would it do,” said
Mr. Priestley very airily, “if I sat where you’re sitting, and you
sat—er—on my knee?”
“I’d love to sit on your knee, Mr. Mullins,” said the young woman
frankly. “It would be great fun. But unfortunately I couldn’t drive
the car at the same time, you see; I couldn’t reach either the pedals
or the gears. Besides, it is rather a whole-time occupation, isn’t it?
Which do you think is the more important?”
From the slightly mocking tone in her voice Mr. Priestley understood
that his wickedness had been unmasked. “Yes—er—quite so. Then perhaps
we had better go on as we are. But this time,” he added in heartfelt
tones, “please don’t drive quite so fast.”
They went on, at a pace round but reasonable.
This time rational converse was more possible.
“Where are we going?” asked Laura, who had been taking a mild pleasure
during the last three miles in changing her gears as often as
possible, causing Mr. Priestley each time to dive hurriedly over the
side of the car as if trying to catch crabs in a pool.
In the intervals of diving, Mr. Priestley had been debating this
question with some anxiety. So far as he could see there was only one
course open to them. It was a course which he did not choose with any
degree of eager gladness, but he could find no other.
What was in Mr. Priestley’s mind was the plain fact that for two
people, linked together by an obviously official pair of handcuffs, to
call in at the village blacksmith’s and request the use of a file was
to invite suspicion—more, to stand up and loudly demand suspicion.
However simple a village blacksmith may be expected to be, there are
some things which become obtrusive to the most half-witted mind, and
of these, handcuffs take pride of place. Naturally Mr. Priestley had
cast about for a plausible story to explain away these awkward
ornaments, but it is surprising how thin the most plausible story
explanatory of handcuffs can sound.
No; the thing to do was to stop ostensibly for some other reason, and
to demand a file by way of an afterthought or make-weight. And where
could the complement of a two-seater more reasonably stop than at a
wayside hostelry, demanding food? To ask for a file in order to effect
a minor adjustment to the car’s interior while the meal was being
prepared, was the most natural thing in the world. Almost anybody can
stop at a wayside hostelry and order a file with his dinner without
incurring the slightest suspicion.
Mr. Priestley communicated the sum of his reflections to his
cuff-mate.
To his relief she gave a ready assent.
With some trepidation he went on to elaborate his theme.
“And—er—touching the story we ought to have ready,” he went on with
painful nonchalance, “I think it would be best if we pretended to
be—that is, if it came to the point when it was advisable to—er—to be
anything, so to speak—I think we had better—that is to say, I _feel_,”
said Mr. Priestley with a good deal of earnestness, “that we should
pretend to be—h’m!”
“I give it up; what’s the answer?” remarked the young woman, hurriedly
changing her gear.
Mr. Priestley caught a crab and returned to the surface. “An—an
eloping couple!” he gulped. “A—a honeymoon couple,” he amplified, “who
have eloped.”
Once again Mr. Priestley was charmed and relieved at the way in which
his companion received his suggestions. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed.
“What a brilliant idea! You mean, because we shall have to hold hands
whenever any one’s looking at us?”
“That’s right,” beamed Mr. Priestley, who had meant that very thing,
but had not quite liked to say so. Mr. Priestley was a man of very
delicate susceptibilities.
“And look!” cried the girl, checking the car’s speed so abruptly that
Mr. Priestley was all but thrown off his perch. “Look, isn’t this an
inn just here? Yes, I’m sure it is. We’ll put our fortunes to the test
this very moment.”
She came to a halt a few yards past the house in question, and got out
of the car, Mr. Priestley following her politely in over the side and
out through the door.
They approached the house and tried the front-door. It was locked.
Over their heads an inn-sign creaked, but no life was visible. The
windows were black masses and no sound could be heard. His heart
bumping strangely, Mr. Priestley rang the bell. Nothing happened. He
rang it again. Then he knocked, loudly.
A window above his head opened and a large voice asked him what he
wanted.
Somewhat apologetically Mr. Priestley intimated that he would like a
little nourishment.
Without any signs of apology the large voice told him very plainly
that he could not have any, that couldn’t he see the place was closed,
and what did he think he was doing, knocking respectable people up at
that hour? Before Mr. Priestley could reply, the window was closed
with a bang of finality.
“So now,” said Mr. Priestley with unabated optimism, “we’d better try
somewhere else.”
They tried a little farther down the road. The village in which they
had now discovered themselves to be, possessed, as do all
self-respecting villages, one public-house to every three private
ones. There were six houses in the village, and an inn at each end.
They repeated the procedure at the second one.
They went on repeating it.
“I’m all in favour of early hours for our rural population,” observed
Laura with some feeling, as Mr. Priestley beat his fifth tattoo on the
door, “but this seems to me to be overdoing it.” And her teeth
chattered slightly for the night was getting cold, as early April
nights will. She began to think rather longingly of her snug little
bed, now some thirty odd miles away, and in an unknown direction.
Mr. Priestley, who had been introducing some pleasing variations on
his solo on the front door (an unmusical instrument at the best of
times) by a few tasteful effects in bell-ringing, now added to his
orchestra the human larynx. “Hi!” chanted Mr. Priestley. “Hi! Ho! Oi!”
The reply was speedy, if not all that could be desired. It took the
form of a pitcher of cold water and it was directed with equal
accuracy at both the musician and his attendant.
“Well, I’ll be _damned_!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, and the intensity
of his feelings may be gauged from the fact that this was the first
expletive he had employed during the whole of this memorable evening.
“Tl break the door down after that. I’ll—I’ll——”
“Perhaps that’ll learn you to stop your monkey-tricks, Joe Pearson,”
observed an irate female voice, not without a certain satisfaction.
Once more a window was forcibly closed.
“I’m drenched,” said Laura, quite calmly. “Are you?”
Her casual tone impressed Mr. Priestley. She might have been remarking
that the evenings were beginning to draw out now. He began to see how
this young woman had risen to such an eminent height in her
profession.
“Oh, quite,” he answered, striving to imitate her nonchalance. “H’m,
yes, quite. Er—I wonder what we’d better do now.”
“Well, I think we’ll move away from here first. She may have a bath
handy, mayn’t she?”
Somewhat depressed, they made their way back to the car. The desire to
borrow a file in our rural districts is apparently attended by the
most unforeseen results.
“Well, there’s only one thing for it,” said the indomitable Mr.
Priestley. “We must try somewhere else.”
As they scrambled mournfully aboard Laura began for the first time
seriously to contemplate giving up the whole thing. The tables had
been turned on her. She had gone forth in the lightness of her heart,
and she had been received with cold water. She felt she had a more
than ordinarily big grievance against the wielder of that pitcher. Why
couldn’t the idiot have seen that she was having a glorious rag with
Mr. Priestley and played up accordingly? It was most annoying. And now
she was wet through, chilled to the bone, and very hungry, her teeth
were chattering, her hands were cold, and she didn’t like handcuffs
one little bit. Why not chuck the whole silly joke (as it was now
quite plainly displaying itself to be) and go back to warmth, comfort,
and files? Guy would have squared that blundering policeman by this
time, and the coast would be clear. Her heart began to rise from its
gloom.
Then it sank abruptly. Home was thirty certain miles away, and unknown
miles at that—probably sixty before they had finished losing their
way. At least two hours, if not more. And in two hours’ time, in the
present state of things, Laura had no doubt she would be a solid block
of ice, and still handcuffed to another block of ice. Oh, _drat_!
“Well, where are we going?” she asked quite peevishly as they left the
ill-omened village behind them.
Mr. Priestley was surprised at the peevishness. It did not harmonise
with the height of the profession. Also he mildly resented it. It was
as if she were blaming him for that confounded water.
“Te try our luck somewhere else, I suppose,” he replied almost tartly.
“Unless you can think of a better plan?” he added nastily.
It was on the tip of Laura’s tongue to reply that she certainly could
not have thought of a worse one, but she refrained. She was just a
girl, and she did realise that Mr. Priestley had not emptied that
water over himself and her on purpose. She said nothing.
They drove on in moody silence.
“A file!” cried Mr. Priestley to his immortal soul. “My bachelor flat
for a file!”
“A fire and food!” rose Laura’s silent wail. “This whole silly joke,
and all future rights in hoaxing the Police Force, for fire and food!”
They drove on and on and on.
And then, almost at the last shiver, their luck turned. Looming up out
of the darkness was another unmistakable inn, this time not in a
village but standing alone on the high road. A delectable inn, it
seemed, set back just a little from the highway and with—oh, ineffable
joy!—a brilliantly lighted upper window. Hope once more bubbling up in
their chilled bosoms, the adventurers disembarked.
Mr. Priestley’s very first knock brought hurrying footsteps.
“Who—who’s there?” asked a somewhat quavering feminine voice from
inside.
Mr. Priestley was so delighted to hear tones of anxiety rather than
abuse that he bestowed on the hand which he was already prudently
holding, an involuntary squeeze. The hand squeezed back. Its owner had
sensed beautiful warmth and delectable food on the farther side of
that door and she was ready to squeeze anything. The thought of dry
warmth and food was already making Laura feel her own girl again.
“Friends!” said Mr. Priestley briskly. “I mean, travellers. Can you
give us something to eat, and———” He checked himself. It might be
suspicious to touch upon the subject of files quite so soon, “—and
drink,” he amended.
There was the sound of bars unbolted and creaking locks and the door
swung open. Framed in the doorway against a background of warm glowing
red was a small woman of late middle-age, her features beaming joyous
welcome.
“Well, there!” said the small woman. “And I thought it might be
robbers. What with my husband being away and me alone in the house, as
you might say, Annie not counting one way or the other, I was just
beginning to get that scared. Couldn’t bring myself to go to bed; I
couldn’t! And then when you knocked, ‘They’ve come!’ I said to meself.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it mightn’t be, after all. P’raps I’d better see.’
But I was trembling like a leaf as I came down the stairs, and then——”
“Er—did you say your husband is away?” Mr. Priestley broke in upon
this harangue. Somehow, it made him feel very happy to learn that the
small woman’s probably large husband was away. And Annie, it appeared,
did not count one way or the other.
“Yes, that he is,” replied the small woman volubly. “First time he’s
slep’ away from me for nigh on fifteen years, but business is
business, he said, and—— But what am I doing, keeping you on the
doorstep? Come in, sir, you and your lady. And a blessing it is to see
you, I _will_ say. I like a man in the house at nights, I do. You’ll
be wanting a bedroom, of course. Well, there’s one all ready. Clean
sheets and pillow-cases on this morning, I put, just in case. One
never knows, does one? And some food, you said? Well, there’s only——”
“We shan’t want—er—a bedroom,” Mr. Priestley interrupted again, “We
shall be going on again. We just want some food—anything, it doesn’t
matter what—in a private sitting-room, and—er—a file. Our car has
something wrong with it,” explained Mr. Priestley earnestly, “and
we’ve run out of—I mean, we want a file. Have you got a file?”
“Well, yes, sir, I think so,” said the little landlady rather
doubtfully. “If you and your lady will just come inside, I’ll run and
look in the box my husband keeps his tools in. And a sitting-room?
Well, there is a sitting-room, of course, but seeing what a cold night
it is wouldn’t you rather have something by the kitchen fire? Not if
you wouldn’t like it, of course, and there’s plenty that wouldn’t; but
just step in, sir, and——”
“No,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “We won’t come in yet. We’re very
anxious to get our car repaired first. If you’ll get us the file at
once, we can be getting on with it while you’re laying our supper.
Don’t you think so—er—my dear?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Priestley’s newly adopted dear. “And we’ll have
our supper in the kitchen, I think, darling,” she added with a large
shiver. She had not spoken before, because she was curious to see how
Mr. Priestley would handle things, but she was not going to leave that
fire to chance.
Mr. Priestley blushed pleasantly at this wifely endearment and
coughed.
“Very well,” the landlady acquiesced. “I’ll get you the file at once
then and your supper will be ready in ten minutes. But wouldn’t the
lady like to come in and get warm while you’re doing the motor, sir?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” Laura explained gravely. “My husband always likes
me to hold the car for him while he’s doing anything to it.”
The landlady looked upon this charming couple, holding hands
affectionately on her very doorstep, and her heart warmed towards
them. Obviously they were very much in love, and probably quite
recently married. The glamour of their romance threw itself round her
own thin shoulders.
“Very well,” she said again, this time with a particular smile for
Laura’s benefit—the smile which an elder married woman bestows upon a
newly married one who, though a stranger, is yet one with her in the
freemasonry of the married woman. It means: “So now _you_ can see
through the funny old things too!” And still smiling, the little
landlady scurried off in search of a file.
“At last!” breathed Mr. Priestley on the doorstep.
“We’ll s-soon be warm n-now,” chattered Laura. “Is pneumonia _very_
unp-pleasant, Mr. Mullins?”
Evidently the absent landlord possessed a proper feeling for the
emergencies of life. In one minute his wife returned, an unmistakable
file in her hand.
“There you are, sir,” she beamed. “It’s the only one. Will it do?”
Mr. Priestley took it in a quivering grasp. “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’ll
do. Thank you.”
As they vanished hastily from her sight the landlady contrived to
throw another understanding smile at Laura. This smile said, as
eloquently as a smile may: “We have to humour them, don’t we? You and
I know better than to go playing with files, but if they like it—well,
bless their funny old hearts! Let them enjoy themselves.” It was a
very eloquent smile indeed.
The next moment the two were safely round the corner in the shadows,
the precious file gripped tightly in Mr. Priestley’s chilled hand. He
set to work on a link of the chain which held the two cuffs together.
Their position was not an easy one and the rasping of the file chafed
both their wrists unpleasantly, but it was no time to worry over
little things like that.
Ten minutes later he was still working. But by now he was nice and
warm.
Laura, on the other hand, was still cold, and getting colder every
minute.
“Is it going to take a dreadful time?” she asked at last, her lips
blue and her teeth chattering volubly.
Mr. Priestley desisted from his efforts. He felt the file with his
fingers and then, confirming a horrid theory, held it up against the
light from the window. “I’m afraid it is,” he said dolefully. “At
least, with this file. You see, the steel of the handcuffs is
evidently harder than the file. What is happening is that the cuffs
are filing away the file.”
“Oh!” said Laura, and thought unprintable things.
“And she said it was her only one,” remarked Mr. Priestley morosely.
“_Damn_ that policeman!” he added with sudden vehemence.
They stared at one another.
“Well, anyhow,” said Laura, “I’m not going to step outside any longer.
I’m going in. You can tell the landlady anything you like—that we did
it for a bet, or that we only got married this morning and the
clergyman put them on by mistake instead of the ring. I don’t _care_.
I’m going in to that fire. Come on!”
Mr. Priestley, having no option except brute force, came.
The landlady was still bustling about in the kitchen as they entered
her presence, walking delicately and with hands still affectionately
clasped. Under their coat-sleeves the handcuffs nestled out of sight.
“Well, sir, have you mended your motor?” asked the little landlady
cheerfully, adding in the same breath, “Your supper’s quite ready. If
you want me, just call up the stairs. I know you’d like to be alone,
wouldn’t you?” This was said with an arch smile, to which both her
guests failed signally to respond.
“Thank you,” mumbled Mr. Priestley. “Thank you.”
A solicitous look replaced the arch expression on the kindly little
woman’s face. “Why, good gracious me!” she exclaimed in horror.
“You’re wet through, both of you!”
Mr. Priestley moved uneasily. “Yes,” he muttered. “A—a little bit,
yes. We—er—ran into a storm.”
“Well, you can’t have your supper like that, and that’s a fact,” said
the landlady with unwelcome decision. “You just slip your wet things
off and put them to dry in front of the fire, and I’ll run up and get
you each a nice warm coat or something. You’ll catch your death of
cold if you’re not careful.”
Mr. Priestley’s uneasiness became more pronounced. It also says much
for Laura’s state of mind that she had not to trouble to hide a smile.
Laura was not feeling very like smiling at the moment.
“Oh, I—er—please don’t bother,” said Mr. Priestley hastily.
“We’re—we’re not a bit wet underneath, thank you. We’ll just have our
supper, and then we’ll be getting along; and we can dry ourselves
quite nicely by the fire as we are. We’ll call you if we want you,” he
added with sudden firmness, noticing signs of voluble expostulation
appearing in the landlady’s face.
His firmness was rewarded. She retired. With obvious reluctance, but
she did retire.
“This is a nice state of things,” muttered Laura, in tones that were
only just not accusing. Laura’s sense of humour was succumbing at last
to the severe shocks it had been receiving.
It was on the tip of Mr. Priestley’s tongue to retort with tartness
and truth that she had only herself to blame for it, but he desisted.
Instead he said: “Well, _you_ haven’t killed a man.”
If she could have thought that it would help the situation in any way,
Laura would have retorted: “Well, neither have you, you silly little
man! You’ve been hoaxed, if you want to know.” But she could not see
that it would be the least use to her. Besides, why should she do all
the suffering? Let him think what he did think, and be as worried
about it as he liked. She had, furthermore, not the least wish to hear
Mr. Priestley pointing out that the hoax seemed to have recoiled on
its perpetrator’s head.
“Well, let’s have some food anyhow,” she said ungraciously, “we’re
both in the same box.”
“And the same handcuff,” replied Mr. Priestley humorously, striving to
cheer things up.
Laura did not smile.
They held the bread together, while Mr. Priestley cut it. The meal
began in silence.
It continued mostly in silence too. Any necessary remarks were
exchanged curtly. Only once did either of them give way for a moment,
and that was when Laura’s intention to drink her cocoa coincided with
Mr. Priestley’s desire for more butter. The result was that Laura’s
cocoa plunged hastily into her lap, where it mingled with the water
that had already found its billet there. She drank Mr. Priestley’s
cocoa instead, on that gentleman’s firm insistence, but it did not
really appease her.
When they had finished they steamed gloomily in front of the fire for
a space. Their garments hung clammily upon them.
There is nothing like clamminess to bring out the worst in a man or
woman. Mr. Priestley felt clamminess invading his very soul, and the
more clammy his outer person became the more sore he felt inside. Here
had he, a respectable citizen, been inveigled by this abandoned and
now thoroughly distasteful young woman (_had_ he really at one time
for a fleeting moment thought her charming? Had he _really_?) into an
attempt at barefaced robbery, he had killed a man for her sake, he had
locked a policeman in a cupboard, he had rescued her from an extremely
awkward set of circumstances so that she was indebted to him not only
for her liberty, but possibly for her life as well—he had done all
this, and what was his reward? To have his hot cocoa drunk for him,
and be snapped at for offering it! Life looked a gloomy proposition to
Mr. Priestley.
“I suppose you’ve tried to wriggle your hand out?” he asked, when the
silence had threatened to become too embarrassing.
“Am I a complete fool?” asked the lady shortly.
The question had certainly not been a very brilliant one, but then
neither was the answer tactful. Mr. Priestley’s reply was still less
so. He did not say “Yes!” because that would have been rude; he just
said, quite politely, “That remains to be seen.”
Laura snorted.
The snort seemed to nerve Mr. Priestley. He started slightly, looked
at his companion, and then strode towards the door. Laura followed
him. Mr. Priestley, radiating stern decision like the men wearing
electric belts in the advertisements, flung open the door and called
up the stairs.
“Mrs. Errh’m!” called Mr. Priestley. “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll have
that bedroom of yours after all. Will you take some hot water along
there, please?”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir, certainly, sir,” floated down from above.
Laura flung the door to and stared at this new version of Mr.
Priestley. It was as if she were trying to look through his head to
see the horns which must be sprouting there, and his boots for the
cloven hoofs which must be hidden inside them. Her face grew
interestingly crimson.
“How—how _dare_ you?” she gasped. “Are you a complete cad?”
Mr. Priestley grew crimson also. “What on earth’s the matter?” he
snapped. “You’re not making a fuss about a little thing like that,
surely? _You_, of all people!”
Laura continued to gasp, this time speechlessly.
“If it’s your reputation you’re thinking of,” nastily continued Mr.
Priestley, who really was extremely annoyed, “it’s a pity you didn’t
think of it long ago, before you took to thieving. Reputation, indeed!
Fine reputation you’ve got, haven’t you? The cleverest woman thief in
the world, indeed!” It must be admitted that there were no excuses for
Mr. Priestley, but no man likes being called a cad, and Mr.
Priestley’s horizon at that moment was bound with red; moreover, he
was in an acute state of nerves. He had, you must remember, killed a
man; and a thing like that is liable to upset the most equable of
temperaments.
Laura opened her mouth, but no words came. Perhaps because there were
none to come.
“But I see through you by this time,” Mr. Priestley went on, lashing
himself as he went. “You took me in at first with your pathetic story
about stolen letters, but you don’t take me in again, young woman!
You’re a hypocrite, and that’s the long and the short of it. At one
moment butter won’t melt in your mouth, at the next you’re tricking me
into shooting a perfectly innocent man. It’s my belief that you knew
the whole time that that revolver was loaded. And if you think,”
concluded Mr. Priestley with incredible ferocity, “that I’m going to
let your hypocritical pretences of morality and reputation jeopardise
my safety, you’re making a very large mistake, young woman!”
It has been said that only once in her life had Dora Howard met her
match, and the consequences were drastic. The same important event had
now happened to Laura, and the consequences were designed to be, in
their own way, no less drastic. For the moment, with every
light-hearted word of her own recoiling heavily against her and
completely bereft of all argument or reasonable basis of
expostulation, she could do nothing but stand, very white-faced now
instead of crimson, and gasp in silence.
Into this pause floated again the voice of the landlady. “I’ve taken
the hot water along, sir. Are you coming up now?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Priestley grimly, flung open the door once more and
began to mount the stairs.
Willy-nilly, Laura went with him.