DEVLIN AND I MAKE A COMPACT.
"A sacred and holy pledge," said Devlin, "from me? Is it possible that
you ask _me_ to bind myself to you by a pledge that you deem holy and
sacred?"
"I know of no other way to secure your assistance," I said, feeling
the weight of the sneer.
"If you did, you would adopt it?"
"Assuredly."
"So that, after all, you are to a certain extent in my power."
"As you to a certain extent are in mine."
"A fair retort. Before I point out to you how illogical and
inconsistent you are, let me thank you for having converted what
promised to be a dull evening into a veritable entertainment. It is a
real cause for gratitude in such a house as Lemon's, of whom I have
already spoken disparagingly, but of whom I cannot speak disparagingly
enough. My dear sir, that person is devoid of colour, his moral and
physical qualities are feeble, his intellect may be said to be washed
out. It is the bold, the daring, that recommends itself to me,
although I admit that there are curious studies to be found among the
meanest of mortals. Now, my dear sir, for your inconsistency and your
lack of the logical quality. My worthy landlady has conveyed to you an
impression of me which, to describe it truthfully, may be designated
unearthly. How much farther it goes I will not inquire. Her small
capacity has instilled into what, as a compliment, I will call her
mind, a belief that I am not exactly human--in point of fact, that if
I am not the Evil One himself, I am at least one of his satellites.
Common people are inclined to such extravagances. They believe in
apparitions, vampires, and supernatural signs, or, to speak more
correctly, in signs which they believe to be supernatural. The most
ordinary coincidences--and think, my dear sir, that there are myriads
of circumstances, of more or less importance, occurring every
twenty-four hours in this motley world, and that it is a mathematical
certainty that a certain proportion of these myriads should be coeval
and should bear some relation to each other--the most ordinary
coincidences, I repeat, are outrageously magnified by their
imaginations when, say, sickness or death is concerned. A woman wakes
up in the night, and in the darkness hears a ticking--tick, tick,
tick! She rises in the morning, and hears that her mother-in-law has
died during the night. 'Bless my soul!' she exclaims. 'I knew it, I
knew it! Last night I woke up all of a tremble'--(which, she did not,
but that is a detail)--'and heard the death-tick!' The story, being
told to the neighbours, invests this woman, who is proud of having
received a supernatural warning, with supreme importance. She becomes
for a time a social star. She relates the story again and again, and
each time adds something which her imagination supplies, until, in the
end, it is settled that her mother-in-law died at the precise moment
she woke up; that she saw the ghost of that person at her bedside,
very ghastly and sulphury, in the moonlight--(it is always moonlight
on these occasions)--that the ghost whispered in sepulchral tones, 'I
am dying, good-bye;' that there was a long wail; and that then she
jumped out of bed and screamed, 'My mother-in-law is dead!' This is
the story after it has grown. What are the facts? The woman has eaten
a heavy supper, and she sleeps not so well as usual; she wakes up in
the middle of the night. In the kitchen a mouse creeps on to the
dresser, after some crumbs of bread and cheese which are in a plate.
The ever-watchful cat--I love cats, especially good mousers--jumps
upon the dresser, with the intention of making a meal of the mouse. On
the dresser, then, at this precise moment, are the plate containing
the crumbs of bread and cheese, the mouse, and the cat. There are
other things there, of course, but there is only one other thing
connected with the story, and that is a jug half-full of water. The
cat, jumping after the mouse, overturns this jug, and the water flows
till it reaches the edge of the dresser, whence it drips, drips,
drips, upon the floor. This is the tick, tick, tick which the woman
up-stairs hears--the death-tick of her mother-in-law! Her mother-in-law
is eighty-seven years of age, and has been ill for months; her death
is daily expected. She dies on this night, and the story is complete.
A dying old woman, eighty-seven years of age, her daughter-in-law who
has eaten too much supper, a plate of crumbs, a jug with water in it,
a cat, and a mouse. Of these simple materials is a message from the
unseen world created, which enthrals the entire neighbourhood. Analyse
the miracles handed down from ancient times, some of which are woven
into the religious beliefs of the people, and you will find that they
are composed of parts as common and vulgar."
I made no attempt to interrupt Devlin in his narration of this
commonplace story. He had, when he chose to exercise it, a singularly
fascinating manner, and his voice was melodious, and when he paused I
felt as if I had been listening to an attractive romance. While he
spoke, his fingers were playing with a penholder and a pencil which
were on the table; the penholder was long, the pencil was short, and I
observed that he had placed one upon the other in the form of a cross.
"I am dull, perhaps," I said, "but I do not see how your story proves
me to be illogical and inconsistent."
"I related it," replied Devlin, looking at the cross, "simply to show
how willing people are to believe in the supernatural. My worthy
landlady believes that I am a supernatural being; her husband believes
it; _you_ are inclined to lend a ready ear to it. And yet you tell me
that you will be satisfied with a sacred and holy pledge from me,
knowing, if you are at all correct in your estimate of me, that such a
pledge is of as much weight and value as a soap bubble. How easy for
me to give you this pledge! And all the while I may be a direct
accessory in the tragedy you have resolved to unriddle."
"I thank you for reminding me," I said. "You shall swear to me that
you have had no hand in this most horrible and dastardly murder."
"More inconsistency, more lack of logical perception," he said, and
the magnetism in his eyes compelled me to fix my gaze upon the cross
on the table. "You ask me to swear, and you will be content with my
oath. I render you my obligations for your faith in my veracity. How
shall I swear? How shall I deliver myself of the sacred and holy
pledge? There are so many forms, so many symbols, of pledging one's
mortal heart and immortal soul. The civilised Jew, when he is married
to his beloved under the canopy, grinds a wine glass to dust with the
heel of his boot, and the guests and relatives, especially the
relatives of the bride, lift up their voices in joyful praise, with
the conscious self-delusion that this sacred rite insures the
faithfulness of the bridegroom to the woman he has wedded. Some burn
wax candles--very bad wax often--for the release of souls from
purgatory. The Chinaman, called upon for his oath, blows out a candle,
twists the neck of a terrified cock, or smashes a saucer. The
Christian kisses the New Testament; the Jew kisses the Old. The
Christian swears with his hat off; the Jew with his hat on. I could
multiply anomalies, all opposed to each other. Which kind of
obligation would you prefer from me? A cock or a hen? Produce the
sacred symbol, and I am ready. Shall my head be covered or uncovered?
As you please. Ah, how strange! With this pencil and penholder my
fingers have insensibly formed a cross. Shall I swear upon that, and
will it content you? Take your choice, my dear sir, take your choice.
Call me Jew, Christian, Pagan, Chinaman--which you please. I am
willing to oblige you. Or shall we be sensible. Will you take my
simple word for it?"
"I will," I said; "but I must have a hostage."
"Anything, anything, my dear sir. Give it a name."
"Your desk," I said, "which not unlikely contains private writings and
confessions."
"It does," he replied, tapping on the desk with his knuckles. "You
little dream of the treasures, the strange secrets, herein contained.
You would have this as a hostage?"
"I would."
"It shall be yours, on the understanding that if I claim it from you
within three months after the mystery of the murder of Lizzie Melladew
is cleared up, you will deliver it to me again intact, with its
contents unread."
"I promise faithfully," I said.
"I must trouble you," he said; and he suddenly placed his hand upon my
forehead, and stood over me. "Yes," he said, resuming his seat, "the
promise is faithfully made. You will keep it."
He locked the desk, and pushed it across the table to me, putting the
key in his pocket.
"And now, your word of truth and honour," I said.
"Give me your hand. On my truth and honour I pledge myself to you.
Moreover, if it will ease your mind of an absurd suspicion, I declare,
on my truth and honour, that I have had nothing whatever to do with
this murder."
His words carried conviction with them.
"But you will assist me in my search?" I said.
"To the extent of my power. Understand, however, that I do not
undertake that your search shall be successful. It does not depend
upon me; accident will probably play its part in the matter. There is
a clause, moreover, in our agreement to which I require your adhesion.
It is, that during your search you will do nothing to fasten publicity
upon me, and that, in the event of your succeeding, I shall not be
dragged into the case."
"Unless you are required as a witness," I said.
"I shall not be required. I have no evidence to offer which a court of
law would accept."
"Who is to be the judge of that?"
"You yourself."
"I agree. You must not regard me as a spy upon your movements when I
tell you I shall sleep in this house to-night."
"Not at all. That you are a man of mettle--a man who can form a
resolution and carry it out, never mind at what inconvenience to
yourself--makes your company agreeable to me. I like you; I accept you
as my comrade, for a brief space, in lieu of that miserable groveller
Lemon, who has no more strength of nerve than a jelly-fish. Sleep in
the house, and welcome. Sleep in this room."
"Where?" I asked, looking around for the accommodation.
"A shake-down on the floor. Our mutual good friend Mrs. Lemon shall
bring up a mattress, a pillow, a sheet, and a pair of blankets, and
you shall lie snug and warm. I do not offer you my own bed, for I know
that, having the instincts of a gentleman, you would not accept it,
but I offer you the hospitality of my poor apartment. We will sup
together, we will sleep together, in the morning we will breakfast
together, and we will go out to business together, you taking the
position of poor Lemon, whom, from this moment, I cast off for ever.
What say you?"
I debated with myself. It was important that I should not lose sight
of Devlin; left to my own resources, I should not know how to proceed;
I depended entirely upon him to supply me with a clue. But what could
be his reason for proposing that we should go out to business
together? Of what use could I be in a barber's shop, and how would my
presence there assist me? As, however, he appeared to be dealing
frankly and honestly, my best course perhaps would be to do the same.
Therefore I put the questions which perplexed me in plain language.
"My dear sir," he replied, "in my place of business, and in no other
place, shall we be able to find a starting-point. Do not entail upon
me the necessity of saying 'upon my truth and honour' to everything I
advance. Have confidence in me, and you will be a thousand pounds the
richer, probably two, if the gentleman who made you the offer keeps
his word."
I hesitated no longer. I would act frankly and boldly, and for the
next twenty-four hours at least would be guided by him.
"I accept your hospitality," I said, "and will do as you wish."
"Good," he said, rubbing his hands; "we may regard the campaign as
opened. Woe to the murderer! Justice shall overtake him; he shall
hang!" He uttered these words in a tone of malignant satisfaction, and
as though the prospect of any man being hanged was thoroughly
agreeable to him. "I will prove to you," he continued, "how completely
you can trust me. You came here to-day with the intention of returning
home and sleeping there. Your absence will alarm your wife. You must
write to her."
He placed notepaper and envelopes before me, and took from the
mantelshelf a penny stone bottle of ink, then pointed to the pen which
formed part of the cross upon the table.
I wrote a line to my wife, informing her that events of great
importance had occurred in relation to the murder of Lizzie Melladew,
and that, for the purpose of following up the threads of a possible
discovery, I intended to sleep out to-night; I desired her in my
letter to go and see Mr. Portland and tell him that I was engaged in
the task he had intrusted to me, and believed I should soon be in
possession of a clue. "Have no anxiety for me," I said; "I am quite
safe, and no harm will befall me. The prospect of unravelling this
dreadful mystery fills me with joy." She would know what I meant by
this; the murderer discovered, we should be comparatively rich. I
fastened and addressed my letter.
"It should reach her hands to-night," said Devlin. "How will you send
it?"
I stepped to the window, and, looking out, distinguished the figures
of George Carton and Mr. Kenneth Dowsett, Mr. Dowsett seemed to be
endeavouring, unavailingly, to persuade his ward to come away with
him. I could employ no better messenger than George Carton; he should
take my letter to my wife. Returning to the centre of the room, my
eyes fell upon Devlin's desk. Devlin smiled and nodded; he knew what
was passing in my mind.
"I shall send my letter," I said, "by the hands of George Carton, who
is still in the square, and I shall send your desk with it."
"Do so," said Devlin.
I opened the envelope, and tearing it into very small pieces flung
them out of window. Devlin smiled again.
"So that I should not discover your address," he said.
"That is it," I replied.
"It is likely," he said, "to be not very far from Mr. Melladew,
because you and he are friends."
I added a few words to my letter, desiring my wife to put the desk in
a place of safety; and then, addressing another envelope, I went
down-stairs, bearing both desk and letter.
"I shall be here when you come back," said Devlin. "Even were I
protean, I shall not change my shape. My word is given."
On my way to the street-door I encountered Fanny Lemon.
"Well, sir?" she asked anxiously.
"I will speak to you presently," I said, and, opening the street-door,
crossed the road to where George Carton and his guardian were
standing.