FLOWN
The man whom Tom Bristow had employed for the construction of the
wardrobe which had proved of such essential service to Lionel Dering,
was a cabinet-maker named Paul Wigley, who kept a small shop in the
neighbourhood of Seven Dials, London. It was the very obscurity of this
man, and the pettiness of his business, which had tempted Tom to employ
him. It was not probable that a man in his position would ask any
impertinent questions as to the purpose for which such a strange piece
of workmanship was intended, so long as he was paid ready-money for his
job. And so far Tom was right. Wigley made the wardrobe according to
instructions, and treated the whole affair as though he were in the
habit of making articles of furniture with false backs to them every
day in the week. But Tom’s first mistake lay in thinking that such a
man would be less likely than a more reputable and well-to-do tradesman
to connect in his own mind, as two links in a possible chain, the
escape of a prisoner from Duxley gaol with the fact of having sent to
that very town a wardrobe so constructed that a man might be hidden
away in it with ease. Tom’s second mistake lay in letting him know the
destination of the wardrobe. “I ought to have had it sent to the
railway-station addressed simply to my order,” he said to himself, “and
afterwards, when it was entirely out of Wrigley’s hands, have
re-addressed it myself to Alder Cottage.”
Tom was quite aware that on this point he had committed an error of
judgment; but he never apprehended that the slightest danger could
spring therefrom.
Mr. Wigley, after working very hard for six days, generally devoted a
portion of the seventh to posting himself up in the news of the week.
After a hearty dinner, it was his delight on a Sunday afternoon to sit
at ease and enjoy his newspaper and his pipe. He had taken great
interest in the escape of Lionel Dering, as detailed in his favourite
journal; and week after week he carefully culled whatever scraps of
news he could find, that bore the remotest reference to that strange
occurrence. One day he came across the following lines, which he read
to his wife.
“We understand that up to the present time the police have obtained no
clue to the whereabouts of Mr. Dering, the prisoner whose clever escape
from Duxley gaol was duly chronicled in our columns a few weeks ago. It
was thought at one time that the right track had been hit upon, but,
when promptly followed up, it ended in nothing—or rather, in the
capture and detention of an innocent person for several hours. So long
a time has now elapsed since the escape, that the chances of the
prisoner being recaptured would seem to be very problematical indeed.”
“I hope, with all my heart, that he’ll get safe away,” said Mrs.
Wigley. “What a strange thing it was, Paul, that that queer wardrobe
which you made for a gentleman a month or two since should be for
somebody in Duxley—the very town where this Mr. Dering broke out of
prison. What a capital hiding-place that would make for him, Paul,
dear! All the police in England would never think of looking for him
there.”
“You talk like a fool, Maria,” growled Mr. Wigley between the puffs at
his pipe.
But however foolishly Mrs. Wigley might talk, the idea originated by
her was one which took such persistent hold on her husband’s mind that,
three days later, he found himself at Duxley, and telling the tale of
the wardrobe in the office of the superintendent of police. Very
fortunately indeed it happened that on this particular afternoon Mr.
Drayton was away on business at a neighbouring town, and that Sergeant
Tilley was acting as deputy in his stead. Tilley listened to the man’s
story with dismay. He had pocketed the six hundred pounds; and now he
felt almost as much interested in Mr. Dering’s getting safely away as
Tom Bristow himself. What was to be done? His first thought was to
pooh-pooh Wigley and his story, and to persuade the little
cabinet-maker to return to town by the first up train. But Wigley was
not a man to let himself be snuffed out in that way, and he quietly
intimated that he would await the return of Mr. Drayton himself. Then
Tilley’s manner changed, and, while professing to agree with him in
everything, he persuaded Wigley to take his leave for a couple of
hours, by which time, he told him, Mr. Drayton would have returned and
would be at liberty to see him.
No sooner was Wigley gone than, leaving the office in charge of a
subordinate, Tilley hastened by back streets and unfrequented ways to
Alder Cottage. He asked for Edith and told her his story in a few
hurried words. His counsel was that, at every risk, Mr. Dering must be
got away from the cottage before seven o’clock that evening, as there
was no doubt that shortly after that hour Mr. Drayton might be expected
to pay a second domiciliary visit. He, Tilley, would take care that the
policeman on duty on that particular beat should be withdrawn for a
couple of hours on one pretext or another, so that there might be no
fear of any interruption from him. Then, after a last word of warning,
he went.
As it fell out, Tom Bristow was at the cottage at the very time of
Tilley’s visit. A council of war was immediately held. That Lionel must
leave the cottage, and at once, was the one imperative necessity. Had
it been mid-winter, instead of summer, he could easily have stolen away
through the darkness, but at seven o’clock on an August evening
everything is almost as clearly visible as at mid-day.
However, go Lionel must; and the only question was—whither should he
go? Where should he hide himself for a few hours?—or till the plan of
action already decided upon by the two friends could be safely carried
into effect?
In this extremity, Tom’s thoughts seemed to revert naturally to Jane
Culpepper; in which direction, indeed, they had travelled very often of
late. Why not appeal to her? Why not ask her to shelter Lionel for a
night or two at Pincote? He knew, without asking, that Miss Culpepper
would be ready and glad to befriend Lionel at every risk.
A few minutes past seven o’clock, Tom Bristow walked leisurely out
through the front door of Alder Cottage. A minute or two later Lionel
Dering, dressed like a carpenter, with a paper cap on his head and a
basket of tools slung over his left shoulder, walked leisurely out
through the back door, and keeping Tom well in view, followed him at a
distance of thirty or forty yards. Avoiding as much as possible the
main thoroughfares of the little town, Tom dived through one back
street after another, till after several twistings and turnings, he
reached a lonely lane leading into some fields, through which ran a
footpath in the direction of Pincote. Step for step, Lionel followed,
smoking a short black pipe, and having the gait and manner of a man who
is pretty well worn out with a long day’s work. Through the fields they
went thus in single file, without decreasing the distance between each
other or speaking a word, till at length the path brought them to the
outskirts of a tiny wood at one corner of the Pincote estate. There was
not a soul to be seen, and the two men, overleaping the hedge, were
soon buried among the tangled undergrowth of the plantation. Here they
held a hurried consultation. It would not do for Lionel to venture any
nearer to Pincote till after dark, and Tom had yet to contrive some
means of seeing Miss Culpepper alone, and of explaining to her the
position of Lionel and himself. The Squire, when at home, generally
dined between six and seven, and the best time for seeing Jane would be
while her father was taking his post-prandial nap before he joined her
in the drawing-room. So, leaving the wood, Tom went slowly toward
Pincote, wishing that the shades of evening would deepen twice as fast
as they were doing just then; while Lionel, left alone, clambered up
into the green recesses of a sturdy chestnut, and there, safely hidden
from any chance passers by, awaited, with what patience was possible to
him, the signal which would announce to him the return of his friend.
Once again Mr. Drayton’s imperative summons echoed through Alder
Cottage, but this time he was expected, and had not to wait so long for
admission. As before, Martha Vince admitted him, and, as before, Edith
came out of the little parlour at the first sound of his voice.
“Is the lady within whom I saw when I was here before?” asked the
superintendent of Martha.
“Yes, I am here, as you see, Mr. Drayton,” answered Edith. “To what
circumstance do I owe the honour of a second visit from you?”
“Sorry to have to confess it, ma’am, but there was one part of the
house which we seem to have quite overlooked when we were here last.
You won’t, perhaps, object to our having a look at it now?”
“My objections, I am afraid, would be of little value. I have no option
but to submit.”
“I must do my duty, you know, ma’am. Very disagreeable it is to do at
times, I assure you.”
“Doubtless, very. Martha, show these gentlemen whatever part of the
house they may wish to see.” With these words Edith went back into the
parlour, but this time she did not shut the door.
Mr. Drayton was followed into the house by Wigley, the cabinet-maker;
and the rear was brought up by a constable in plain clothes.
“Upstairs, if you please,” said the superintendent to Martha. “I am
quite satisfied with the downstairs part of the house.”
So upstairs they all tramped, and without pausing, Drayton led the way
into Edith’s dressing-room. Wigley’s first mention of the wardrobe had
brought to his recollection the fact of there being such a piece of
furniture as the one described in one of the upstairs rooms.
Now that the moment for making the grand discovery was at hand, it
would have been difficult to say whether the excitement of Drayton or
of Wigley was the more intense. The latter was lured on by the prospect
of the glittering reward that would become his, if, through his
instrumentality, the escaped prisoner should be recaptured. Drayton was
led on by a purely professional ardour. To succeed where the great
Whiffins from Scotland Yard had failed, even though that success were
won by a fluke, and by no brilliant stroke of his own genius, was in
itself something to be proud of—something that would bring his name
prominently before the notice of his superiors.
“This is the article that I’ve been speaking to you about,” said
Wigley, striking the polished surface of the wardrobe with his open
palm.
“Open it, Mr. Wigley, if you please,” said the superintendent. “This is
a very curious piece of furniture, indeed, and I should like to examine
it thoroughly.”
So Wigley proceeded to open it slowly and lovingly, as a man having a
deep admiration for the work of his own hands. First the outer doors
were flung wide open, revealing a few empty garments drooping drearily
from the pegs. But when Mr. Wigley, with a solemn finger, touched the
secret spring, and the false back swung slowly open on its secret
hinges, the three men pressed forward with beating pulses and staring
eyes, feeling sure that in another moment the great prize would be in
their grasp.
Drayton’s fingers closed instinctively on the handcuffs in his pocket,
while Martha Vince looked on from the background with a cynical smile.
The false back swung slowly open, and revealed the hiding-place behind.
But it was empty.
“Flown!” said Wigley, with a deep sigh, all his golden visions
vanishing like the shadow of a dream.
“Sold I most infernally sold!” exclaimed. Drayton, his face a picture
of blank discomfiture. “It’s no good waiting here any longer,” he
added, as he turned on his heel. “He’s got clear away, never fear.”
Downstairs the three men tramped, without another word, and, marching
out, banged the front door behind them with a force that made every
window in the little cottage rattle in its frame.
“Gone at last, thank Heaven!” exclaimed Edith, as the echo of the
retreating footsteps died away. “If only I had tidings that my darling
is safe, then I almost think that I should be quite happy.” Unbidden
tears were in her eyes as she stood for a moment with clasped hands and
upturned face, while from her heart a silent prayer of thankfulness
winged its way on high.
Tom Bristow lingered about the grounds and shrubberies at Pincote till
the dusky evening was deepening into night, and the lamps in the
drawing-room were alight. Then, with cautious footsteps, he stole
nearer the house, and at last found himself ensconced behind a clump of
holly, and close to one of the three French windows which opened from
the drawing-room on to the lawn. The venetians were down, but between
the interstices he could obtain a clear view of the room and its
inmates. The inmates were only two in number—Miss Culpepper and another
young lady whom Tom had never seen before. The Squire, if at home, had
not left the dining-room. How pretty Jane looked as she sat there in
the lamplight, in her soft flowing dress of white and mauve, plying her
needle swiftly—for Jane’s fingers were rarely unemployed—while her
companion read to her aloud! Her every look, her every gesture, went
direct to Tom’s heart. He was caught in the toils at last—this cold,
self-willed, unimaginative man of the world—and he began to find that,
even for such as he, such bonds are not easily broken.
“This is either love or something very much like it,” he muttered to
himself. “I find that I am just as great an ass as my fellow-men. What
is it in this that fascinates me so strangely? She is not particularly
clever, or handsome, or witty, or accomplished. I have been in the
society of women who could outshine her in every way: and yet, for me,
she is the one woman whom the world holds—the one woman whom I ever
felt that I could love. It is easy to talk about dying for a woman, and
not very difficult to do so, I dare say. The grand test of love, as it
seems to me, is to live with a woman and to love her at the end of
twenty years as well as you loved her on your wedding-day. Now, of all
the women I have ever met, yonder fairy is the only one with whom I
should care to try the experiment. _Her_ I fancy I could love as well
at the end of a hundred years as of twenty: and yet of what the charm
consists that draws me to her—whence it comes, and how she exercises
it—I know no more than the man in the moon.”
But Tom’s love-reveries did not absorb him to the extent of making him
oblivious of the particular object which had brought him to Pincote. It
was requisite that he should see Jane alone, and nothing could be done
so long as Jane’s companion was in the room with her. Besides which,
the squire might come in at any moment, and then his last chance would
be gone. Should the worst come to the worst, he was prepared to go up
to the front door, knock like any ordinary visitor, and ask to see Miss
Culpepper openly and boldly. But it was only as a last resource that he
would adopt a measure which, should it come to the squire’s ears, could
only lead to inquiry; and inquiry on the squire’s part was what Tom was
particularly wishful to avoid. Not that the old man would not have been
as stanch as steel in such a case, and would have done anything and
everything to assist Lionel. But, unfortunately, he had a garrulous
tongue, which could not always be trusted to keep a secret—which often
betrayed secrets without knowing that it had done so; and in a matter
so grave as the one in which he was now engaged, Tom was careful to
avoid the slightest unnecessary risk. It would be far better for every
one that the squire should rest in happy ignorance, till the future
should bring its own proper time for revealing everything.
Whenever any particular question pressed itself strongly on Tom’s mind
for solution, he had a habit of looking at it, not from one or two
points of view only, but from several; and if nineteen ways out of a
difficulty proved, from one cause or another, to be unavailable, he
generally found the twentieth to be the very mode of egress for which
he had been seeking. So it was in the present case. After considerable
cudgelling of his brains, he hit on a simple expedient which seemed to
him to be worth trying, but which might or might not prove successful
in the result.
On the occasion of Tom’s first visit to Pincote, among other pieces
played by Jane in the drawing-room after dinner, was a plaintive little
waltz, entitled “Venez à Moi,” which took his fancy more than anything
he had heard for a long time. Later on in the evening he had asked Jane
to play it again, and for days afterwards the air clung to his memory,
and seemed in some strange way to mix itself up in his musings whenever
he thought of Jane. As if Jane had some faint divination that such was
the case, the next time Tom was at Pincote she played the waltz
again—this time without being asked; and so also on the third and last
time he spent an evening with her. It was on this third occasion, as
the final bars of the waltz were dying away in slow-breathed sweetness,
that the eyes of Tom and Jane met across the piano—met for a moment
only; but that one moment sufficed to reveal a secret which, as yet,
they had hardly ventured to whisper to themselves. From that day forth,
never so long as they lived, could that simple French melody be
forgotten by either of them.
Tom thought of Blondin, and determined to try the effect of “Venez à
Moi” in attracting Jane’s attention. Only, as he happened to live in
this unromantic nineteenth century, and to be possessed neither of a
harp nor of skill to play one, there was nothing left for him but to
whistle it.
Retiring from the window a dozen yards or more, but still keeping well
within the shelter of the shrubbery, Tom accordingly began to “flute
the darkness with his low sweet note.” In other words, he began to
whistle “Venez à Moi.” At the end of five minutes, which to him seemed
more like an hour, the venetians were lifted, and some one could be
seen peering into the darkness. A few quick strides carried Tom to the
window.
Although startled when the first notes of the familiar air fell on her
ear, Jane was not long in divining who it was that was there. Inventing
an errand for her companion which took that young lady out of the room
for a few minutes, she hurried to the window and looked out. A tap from
Tom, and the window was opened. Although surprised to see him, and at
being so summoned, she frankly offered her hand.
“When you shall have heard my errand, Miss Culpepper, you will, I am
sure, pardon the liberty I have taken,” said Tom.
Her thoughts reverted in an instant to her father, but he was snoring
peacefully in the dining-room. “I hope, Mr. Bristow, that you are the
bearer of no ill news,” she said with simple earnestness.
“My news is either good or bad, as people may choose to take it,”
answered Tom. “Miss Culpepper—my friend, Lionel Dering, is hiding
within a mile of this house.”
“Oh, Mr. Bristow!” His words took her breath away. She turned giddy,
and had to clutch at the window to keep herself from falling.
“The place where he has been hiding since his escape from prison is
safe no longer,” resumed Tom. “Another hiding-place must be found for
him, and at once. In this great strait, I have ventured here to ask
your assistance.”
“And have made me your debtor for ever by so doing,” said Jane, with
fervour. “My help is yours in any way and in every way that you can
make it useful.”
“What I am here to ask you to do is, to give my friend food and shelter
for three days and nights, by which time a plan, now in preparation,
for getting him away to some more distant place, will be ready to be
put into operation.”
“I will have my own rooms got ready for Mr. Dering without a moment’s
delay,” said Jane.
“Pardon me,” said Tom, “but the very kindness of your offer would
defeat the object we have most in view. Dering’s safety depends on the
absolute secrecy which must enshroud this night’s transactions. What
you have just suggested could not be carried out without exciting the
suspicions of one or more of your servants. From suspicion to inquiry
is only one step, and from inquiry to discovery is often only another.”
“You are right, Mr. Bristow. But you are not without a plan of your
own, I am sure.”
“What I would venture to suggest is this,” said. Tom: “that Dering be
locked up in one or another of the disused and empty rooms of which I
know there are several at Pincote. No domestic must have access to the
room while he is there, nor even glean the faintest suspicion that the
room is occupied at all. The secret of the hiding-place must be your
secret and mine absolutely. If I am asking too much, or more than you
can see your way to carry out without imperilling the safety of my
friend, you will tell me so frankly, I am sure, and will aid me in
devising some other and more feasible mode of escape.”
“You are not asking too much, Mr. Bristow. In such a case you cannot
ask too much. Your plan is better than mine. This old house is big
enough to hide half-a-dozen people away in. There is a suite of four
rooms in the left wing, which rooms have never been used since mamma’s
death, and which are never entered by the servants except for cleaning
purposes, and then only by my instructions. Those rooms I place
unreservedly at Mr. Dering’s disposal. There he will be perfectly safe
for as long a time as he may choose to stay. I will wait on him myself.
No one else shall go near him.”
“I felt sure that my appeal to you would not be in vain.”
“It will make me happier than I can tell you, if I may be allowed to
assist, in however humble a degree, in helping Mr. Dering to escape. We
all liked him so much, and we were all so thoroughly convinced of his
innocence, that when the news was brought next morning of how he had
got out of gaol overnight, I could not help crying, I felt so glad; and
I never saw papa so pleased and excited before. Since then, it has
always been my task at luncheon to run carefully through the morning
papers and see whether there was any news of Mr. Dering. From our
hearts we wished him God speed wherever he might be; and as day passed
after day, and there came no news of his recapture, we cheered each
other with the hope that he had got safely away to some far-distant
land. And yet all this time, from what you say, he must have been
hiding close at hand.”
“Yes, very close at hand—within half a mile of the prison from which he
escaped.”
“And it was you who helped him to escape!” said Jane. “I know now that
it could have been no one but you.” She laid her fingers lightly on his
arm as she said these words, and looked up full into his eyes. They
both stood in the soft glow of the lamplight close to the open window.
In Jane’s eyes and face at this moment there was an expression—an
indefinable something, tender and yet pathetic—that thrilled Tom as he
had never been thrilled before, and told him, in language which could
not be mistaken, that he was loved.
“Lionel Dering and I are friends. He saved my life. What could I do
less than try to save his?”
“I wish that I had been born a man,” said Jane, inconsequently, with a
little sigh.
“In order that you might have gone about the world assisting prisoners
to escape?”
“No—in order that I might try to win for myself such a friend as you
are to Mr. Dering, or as Mr. Dering is to you.”
“But your mission is a sweeter one than that of friendship: you were
sent into the world to love.”
“That is what men always say of women. But to me, friendship always
seems so much purer and nobler than love. Love—as I have read and
heard—is so selfish and exacting, and——”
“Jane, dear, where are you?”
Jane gave a start, and Tom sank back into the shade. “Coming, dear, in
one moment,” cried Jane. Then she whispered hurriedly to Tom: “Be here
at half-past eleven to-night with Mr. Dering.” She gave him her fingers
for a moment and was gone.
For four days and four nights Lionel Dering lay in hiding at Pincote.
Jane waited upon him herself, and so carefully was the secret kept that
no one under that roof—inmate, guest, or servant—had the slightest
suspicion of anything out of the ordinary course.
Meanwhile, Tom Bristow had paid a flying visit down into the wilds of
Cumberland, among which, as incumbent of a tiny parish buried among the
hills, was settled an old chum of Lionel—George Granton by name. To
him, at Lionel’s request, Tom told everything, and then asked him
whether he would take Dering as a guest under his roof for two or three
months to come. In the warmest manner possible Granton agreed to do
this, and Tom and he became fast friends on the spot.
Two days later Lionel bade farewell to Pincote and its youthful
mistress, and set out on his journey to the north. Tom and he started
together one evening near midnight, and walked across country to a
little roadside station some fifteen miles away, on a line different
from that which ran though Duxley. Here they were in time to catch the
early parliamentary train, and here the two friends bade each other
goodbye for a little while. Lionel travelled under the name of the Rev.
Horace Brown, and that was the name on the one small portmanteau which
formed his solitary article of luggage. He had injured his health by
over-study, and he was going down into Cumberland to recruit. He was
closely shaven, his complexion was dark, and his hair jet black. Being
somewhat weak-sighted, he wore a pair of large blue spectacles. His
hat, far from new, and rather broad in the brim, was set well back on
his head, giving him a simple countrified expression. He wore a white
cravat, and a collar that was rather limp, and a long clerical coat
that reached below his knees; while his black kid gloves were baggy and
too long in the fingers. In one hand he carried an alpaca umbrella
badly rolled up, and in the other—the weather being moist and muddy—a
pair of huge goloshes, of which he seemed to take especial care. Such,
in outward semblance, was the Rev. Horace Brown.
At Crewe Station he had to alight, wait a quarter of an hour, and then
change into another train. As he was slowly pacing the platform, whom
should he see coming towards him but Kester St. George, who, on his
side, was waiting for the express to London. The two men passed each
other once, and then again, for Lionel was daring in the matter; but
not the slightest look of recognition flashed into Kester’s eyes as
they rested for a moment on the face of the Rev. Horace Brown. A few
minutes later their different trains came up, and each went his
separate way.
Kester St. George’s way was London-wards. He drove straight to his
chambers; and, after dressing, strolled out westward, and presently
found himself at his club. There were a number of men there whom he had
not seen for some time, who came up to him in ones and twos and shook
hands with him, and said, “How are you, old fellow? Glad to see you
back;” or, “Ah, here you are, dear boy. Quite missed you for ever so
long,” and then passed on. Kester’s monosyllabic answers were anything
but propitiatory, and by-and-by he was left to eat his dinner in sulky
solitude. Truth to say, he was fagged and worn, and was, in addition,
seriously uneasy with regard to the state of his health. For the last
two months he had been telling himself day after day that he would
consult his physician, but he had not yet found courage to do so. It
was an ordeal from which he shrank as a young girl might shrink at the
sight of blood. So long as he had not consulted his doctor, and did not
know the worst, he flattered himself that there could not be anything
very serious the matter with him. “Once get into those vampires’
hands,” he said, “and they will often keep a fellow lingering on for
years.” So he went on from day to day, and put off doing what he felt
in his secret heart he ought to have done previously. “I believe it’s
neither more nor less than indigestion,” he would mutter to himself. “I
believe that half the ills that flesh is heir to, spring from nothing
but indigestion.”
He was sitting moodily over his claret, and the club-room was almost
deserted, when who should come stepping daintily in but Bolus, the
well-known fashionable doctor.
The evening was rather chilly, and Dr. Bolus walked up to the fire and
began to air his palms, before sitting down to the evening paper.
Glancing round, after a minute or two, he saw Kester sitting alone no
great distance away. “Evening, St. George. Revenons toujours, eh?” he
said with a nod and a smile.
St. George rose languidly and crossed towards the fireplace. “Why not
tell Bolus?” he said to himself. “Capital opportunity for getting his
opinion unprofessionally as between one friend and another. If anybody
can put me on my pins again, Bolus can.”
Between Kester St. George and the fashionable doctor there were not
many points in common. Their orbits of motion were diametrically
opposed to each other, and, as a rule, were far apart. One bond of
sympathy there was, however, between them: they were both splendid
whist-players. At the club table they had sat in opposition, or as
partners, many a time and oft, and each respected the other’s prowess,
while thinking his own style of play incomparably superior.
“Not seen you here for some time,” said the doctor, as Kester held out
his hand.
“No, I only got back the other day from Baden and Homburg. Went for
three months, but came back at the end of six weeks. One gets weary of
the perpetual glitter and frivolity of those places: at least, I do.
Besides which, I was a little hipped—a little bit out of sorts, I
suppose—and so I seemed naturally to gravitate towards home again.”
“Out of sorts, eh?” said Bolus, fixing him with his keen professional
look. “What’s amiss with you? Been punting too much, or backed the St.
Leger favourite too heavily?” and he took St. George’s wrist between
his thumb and finger.
“Neither one nor the other,” said Kester, with a little hollow laugh.
“I seem to be getting out of repair generally. Some little cog or wheel
inside won’t act properly, I suppose, and so the whole machine is
getting out of gear.”
“So long as we keep the mainspring right there’s not much to be afraid
of,” said Bolus with his expansive professional smile, which was as
stereotyped and fictitious as professional smiles, whether of
ballet-girls or doctors, always are.
“Your pulse is certainly not what it ought to be,” went on Bolus, in
his airy, graceful way, as though he were imparting a piece of
information of the pleasantest kind; “but then how seldom one’s pulse
is what it ought to be. Do you ever experience any little irregularity
in the action of the heart?”
“Yes, frequently. Sometimes it seems to stop beating for a second or
two.”
“Yes yes—just so,” said Bolus, soothingly.
“And you find yourself getting out of breath more quickly than you used
to do, especially when you walk a little faster than ordinary, or have
to climb a number of stairs?”
“Yes, a little thing nowadays puts me out of puff.”
“Precisely so. We are none of us so young as we were twenty years ago.
And you sometimes feel as if you wanted an extra pillow under your head
at night?”
“How the deuce do you know that?” said Kester, with a puzzled look.
Bolus laughed his little dry laugh, and began to air his palms again.
“And you have a troublesome little cough, and now and then your head
aches without your being able to assign a cause why it should do so;
and frequently in the night you start up in your sleep from some
feeling of agitation or alarm—causeless, of course, but very real just
for the moment?”
“By Jove, doctor, you read me like a book!”
“Did you think of going down to Doncaster this year?” asked Bolus, as
he wheeled suddenly round on Kester.
“I certainly did think of doing so. I’ve not missed a St. Leger for
many years.”
“Then I wouldn’t go if I were you.”
St. George stared at him with a soft of sullen surprise. “And why would
you not go if you were me?” he asked, sharply.
“Simply because what you want is not excitement, but rest. And in your
case, St. George, I would live as quiet a life as possible for some
time to come. Down in the country, you know—farming and that sort of
thing.”
“I know nothing of farming, and I hate the country, except during the
shooting season.”
“Ah, by-the-by, that’s another thing you must give up—tramping after
the partridges—for this one season at least. As I said before, what you
want is quietude. Half a guinea on the odd trick is the only form of
excitement on which you may venture for some time to come. And harkye—a
word in your ear: not quite so many club cigars, my dear friend.”
Two other men, known both to Bolus and St. George, came up at this
moment, and the tête-à-tête was at an end.
It was late that night when St. George, got home. He let himself in
with his latch-key. Groping his way into the sitting-room, he struck a
match, and turned on the gas. He was in the act of blowing out the
watch when suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice
whispered in his ear: “_Come_.” Simply that one word, and nothing more.
Kester shivered from head to foot, and glanced involuntarily round. He
knew that he should see no one—that there was no one to be seen: but
all the same he could not help looking. Twice before he had felt the
same ghostly hand laid on his shoulder: twice before he had heard the
same ghostly whisper in his ear. Was it a summons from the other world,
or what was it? There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece, and, as
he staggered forward a step or two, his eyes, glancing into it, saw
there the reflection of a white and haggard face strangely unlike his
own—the brow moist with sweat, the eyes filled with a furtive horror.
Mr. St. George sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.