I PASS A MORNING IN DEVLIN'S PLACE OF BUSINESS.
Devlin was up and dressed when I awoke in the morning. I had not to go
through the trouble of putting on my clothes, as I had not taken them
off on the previous night. It would not have surprised me to find that
I had unconsciously sought repose in the usual way, or that I had
risen in my sleep to undress; nothing, indeed, would very much have
surprised me, so strange had been my dreaming fancies. Naturally they
all turned upon Devlin and the case upon which I was engaged. I could
easily write a chapter upon them, but I will content myself with
briefly describing one of the strangest of them all.
I was sitting in a chair, opposite a mirror, in which I saw everything
that was passing in the room. Devlin was standing over me, dressing my
hair. Suddenly I saw a sharp surgical instrument in his hand.
"That is not a razor," I said, "and I don't want to be shaved."
"My dear sir," remarked Devlin, with excessive politeness, "what you
want or what you don't want matters little."
With that he made a straight cut across the top of my head, and laid
bare my brains. I saw them and every little cell in them quite
distinctly.
"To think," he observed, as he peered into the cavities, "that in this
small compass should abide the passions, the emotions, the meannesses,
the noble aspirations, the sordid desires, the selfish instincts and
the power to resist them, the sense of duty, the conscious deceits,
the lust for power, the grovelling worship, the filthy qualities of
animalism, the secret promptings, and all the motley mental and moral
attributes which make a man! To think that from this small compass
have sprung all that constitutes man's history--religion, ethics, the
rise and fall of nations, music, poetry, law, and science! How grand,
how noble does this man, who represents humankind, think himself! What
works he has executed, what marvels discovered! But if the truth were
known, he is a mere dabbler, who, out of his conceit, magnifies the
smallest of molehills into the largest of mountains. He can build a
bridge, but he cannot make a flower that shall bloom to-day and die
to-morrow. He can destroy, but he cannot create. In the open page of
Nature he makes the most trivial of discoveries, and he straightway
writes himself up in letters of gold and builds monuments in his
honour. The stars mock him; the mountains of snow look loftily down
upon the pigmy; the gossamer fly which his eyes can scarcely see
triumphs over his highest efforts. But he has invented for himself a
supreme shelter for defeat and decay. Dear me, dear me--I cannot find
it!"
"What are you looking for?" I asked. "Be kind enough to leave my
brains alone." For he was industriously probing them with some
sensitive instrument.
"I am looking for your grand invention, your soul. I am wondrously
wise, but I have never yet been able to discover its precise
locality."
After some further search he shut up my head, so to speak, and my
fancies took another direction.
All these vagaries seemed to be tumbling over each other in my brain
as I rose from my bed on the floor.
"Had a good night?" asked Devlin.
"If being asleep," I replied, "means having a good night, I have had
it. But my head is in a whirl, nevertheless."
"Keep it cool if you can," said Devlin, "for what you have to go
through. You will find water and soap inside."
He pointed to the little closet adjoining his room, and there I found
all that was necessary for my toilet. I had just finished when Fanny
knocked at the door.
"It's all right, Fanny," I cried. "You can get breakfast ready."
"And don't forget," added Devlin, "the extra rasher for me. How is
dear Lemon?"
That she did not reply and was heard beating a hasty retreat caused a
broad grin to spread over Devlin's face.
"I have provided," he said, "for that worthy creature something of an
entertaining, not to say enthralling, nature, which she can dilate
upon to the last hour of her life. And yet she is not grateful."
We went down to breakfast, and there I was afforded an opportunity of
verifying the subtle likeness in Devlin's face to the portrait of
Lemon on the wall, the evil-looking bird in its glass case, and the
stone figure, half monster, half man, on the mantelshelf.
"There is a likeness," said Devlin pleasantly, "between my works and
me, and if you will attribute me with anything human, you can
attribute it to a common human failing. It springs from the vanity and
the weakness of man that he can evolve only that which is within
himself. Nowhere is that vanity and weakness more conspicuous than in
Genesis, in the very first chapter, my dear sir, where man himself has
had the audacity to write that 'God created man in His own image.' My
dear Mrs. Lemon, you have excelled yourself this morning. This rasher
is perfect, and your cooking of these eggs to the infinitesimal part
of a second is a marvel of art."
Fanny did not open her lips to him, and the meal passed on in silence
so far as she was concerned. I made a good breakfast, and Devlin
expressed approval of my appetite.
"It will strengthen you," he said, "for what is before you."
Fanny looked up in alarm, and Devlin laughed. I may mention that the
first thing I did when I came down-stairs was to run to the nearest
newspaper shop and purchase copies of the morning papers.
"Is there anything new concerning the murder?" asked Devlin.
Fanny waited breathlessly for my reply.
"Nothing," I said.
"Have any arrests been made?"
"None."
"Of course," observed Devlin sarcastically, "the police are on the
track of the murderer."
"There is something to that effect in the papers."
"Fudge!" said Devlin.
Breakfast over, Devlin said he would go up to his room for a few
minutes, and bade me be ready when he came down. Alone with Fanny, she
asked me whether I would like to see Lemon, adding that it would do
him "a power of good."
"Is he any better?" I asked.
"I really think he is," she replied. "What I told him last night about
your taking up the case was a comfort to him--though he ain't easy in
his mind about you. He is afraid that Devlin will get hold of you as
he did of him."
"He will not, Fanny. We shall get along famously together."
She shook her head. I failed to convince her, as I failed to convince
Mr. Lemon, that I should prove a match for their lodger. Lemon
presented a ludicrous picture, sitting up in bed with an old-fashioned
nightcap on.
"Don't go with him, sir," he whispered, "to the Twisted Cow."
"I shall go with him," I said, "wherever he proposes to take me."
I could not help smiling at Lemon's expression of melancholy as I made
this statement. He dared not give utterance to his fears of what my
ultimate destination would be if I continued to keep company with
Devlin. When that strange personage came down I was ready for him, and
we went out together, Fanny looking after us from the street-door,
shaking, I well knew, in her inward soul.
Devlin made himself exceedingly pleasant, and the comments he passed
on the people we met excited my admiration and increased my wonder. He
seemed to be able to read their characters in their faces, and
although I would have liked to combat his views I did not venture to
oppose my judgment to his. What struck me particularly was that he saw
the evil in men, not the good. Not once did he give man or woman
credit for the possession of good qualities. All was mean, sordid,
grasping, and selfish. He told me that we should have to walk four
miles to his place of business.
"I enjoy walking," he said, "and the only riding I care for is on the
top of an omnibus through squalid streets. You get peeps into garrets
and one-room habitations. Gifted with the power of observation, you
can see rare pictures there."
On our road I stopped at a post-office, and sent a telegram of three
words to my wife: "All is well."
Our course lay in the direction of Westminster. We crossed the bridge,
and turned down a narrow street. Chapel Street. Half-way down the
street Devlin paused, and said,
"Behold our establishment."
It was a poor and common house, and had it not been for a barber's
pole sticking out from the doorway, and a fly-blown cardboard in the
parlour window, on which was written, "Barber and Hairdresser. All
styles. Lowest charges," I should not have supposed that a trade was
carried on therein. As we entered the passage a woman came forward and
handed Devlin a key. He thanked her, unlocked the parlour door, and we
went in.
The fittings in this room, which I saw at a glance was the shop in
which the shaving and hair-dressing were done, were entirely out of
keeping with the poor tenement in which it was situated. The walls
were lined with fine mirrors; there were three luxurious barber's
chairs; the washstands were of marble; and the appliances for
shampooing perfect.
"You would hardly expect it," observed Devlin.
"I would not," I replied.
"It is my idea," he said. "It rivals the West End establishments, and
for skill I would challenge the world, if I were desirous of courting
publicity. Then, the charges. One-sixth those of Truefit. I shave for
a penny, cut for another penny, shampoo for another. But only those
can be attended to who hold my tickets. I was compelled to adopt this
plan, otherwise I should have been overwhelmed with customers. It
enables me to choose them. When I see a likely man, one who is ripe,
and in whom I discern possibilities which commend themselves to me, I
say, 'Oblige me, sir, by accepting this ticket of admission;' and
having given him a taste of my skill, he comes again. I have quite a
connection." He accompanied these last words with a strange smile.
"What part do you propose to assign to me in the business?" I asked.
"A part to which you will not object, that of looker-on. Not from this
room, but that"--pointing to the back room. "The panels of the door,
you will observe, are of ground glass. Sitting within there, you can
see all that passes in this room without being yourself seen. If you
will keep quiet, no one will suspect that you are in hiding."
"For the life of me," I said, "I cannot guess what good my sitting in
there will do."
"I do not suppose you can; but learn from me that I do nothing without
a motive. I do not care to be questioned too closely. The promise I
have made to you will be kept if you do not thwart it. You may see
something that will surprise you. I say 'may,' because I have not the
power to entirely rule men's movements. But I think it almost certain
he will pay me a visit this morning."
"He?" I cried. "Who?"
"The man whose thoughts I read on Friday with respect to the girl who
was murdered on that night."
I started. If Devlin spoke the truth, and if the man came to his shop
this morning, I should be in possession of a practical clue which
would lead me to the goal I wished to reach.
"He comes regularly," continued Devlin, "on Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays. This is his day."
"Do you know his name?" I inquired, in great excitement.
"I did not," replied Devlin, "the last time I saw him. How should I
know it now?"
"Nor where he lives?"
"Nor where he lives."
"I must obey you, I suppose," I said.
"It will be advisable, and you must obey me implicitly. Deviate by a
hair's breadth from what I require of you, and I withdraw my promise,
which now exists in full integrity. Decide."
"I have decided. I will remain in that room."
"There is another point upon which I must insist positively. From that
room you do not stir until I bid you; in that room you do not speak
unless you receive a cue from me. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"On your honour?"
"On my honour."
"Good. Now you can retire. You will find books in there to amuse you
if you get wearied with your watch."
He opened the door for me, and closed it upon me. He had spoken
correctly. Through the ground glass I could see everything in the
shop, and I took his word for it that I could not myself be seen.
Scarcely had a minute passed before a customer entered. Devlin, who,
while he was arguing with me, had taken off his coat, and put on a
linen jacket of spotless white, behaved most decorously. His manner
was deferential without being subservient, respectful without being
familiar. The man was shaved by Devlin, and then his head was brushed
by machinery, which I had forgotten to mention was fixed in the shop.
There was a caressing motion about Devlin's shapely hands which could
not but be agreeable to those who sought his tonsorial aid, and his
conversation, judging from the expression on his customer's face, must
have been amusing and entertaining. The customer took his departure,
and another, appearing as he went out, was duly attended to. This went
on until eleven o'clock by my watch, and nothing had occurred of
especial interest to me. Devlin was kept pretty busy; but, although
his time was fully employed, the business at such prices could not
have been remunerative, especially when it was considered that the
fitting up of the shop must have cost a pretty sum of money, and that
the profits of the concern had to be divided between two persons, Mr.
Lemon and himself. It was not till past eleven that my attention was
more than ordinarily attracted by Devlin's behaviour, the difference
in which perhaps no one except myself would have particularly noticed.
A man of the middle class entered and took his seat. He wore a beard
and moustache; and although I could not hear what he said, he spoke in
so low a tone, I judged correctly that he instructed Devlin to shave
his face bare. Devlin proceeded to obey him, and clipped and cut, and
finally applied his razor until not a vestige of hair was left on the
man's face. That being done, Devlin cut this customer's hair close,
and then used his brushes; and as his hands moved about the man's head
there was, if I may so describe it, a feline, insinuating expression
in them which aroused my curiosity. I thought of the singular dream I
have described, and it appeared to me that all the while Devlin was
employed over his customer the brains of the man sitting so quietly in
the chair were figuratively exposed to his view, and that he was
reading the thoughts which stirred therein. When the man was gone
there was a peculiar smile upon Devlin's face, and I observed that he
laughed quietly to himself. There happened to be no one in the shop to
claim Devlin's attention, and I, who was impatiently waiting for some
sign from Devlin pertinent to the secret purpose to which both he and
I were pledged, expected it to be given now; for the circumstance of
the man having been shaved bare--which so altered his appearance that
I should not otherwise have known that the person who entered the shop
was the same person who left it--was to me so suspicious that in my
anxiety and agitation I connected it with the murder of poor Lizzie
Melladew, arguing that the man had effected this disguise in himself
for the purpose of escaping detection. But Devlin made no sign, and
did not even look towards the glass-door. Other customers coming in,
Devlin was busy again. Twelve o'clock--half-past twelve--one
o'clock-and still no indication of anything in connection with my
task. With a feeling of intense disappointment, and beginning to doubt
whether I had not allowed myself to be duped, I replaced my watch in
my pocket, and had scarcely done so before my heart was beating
violently at the appearance of a gentleman whom I little expected to
see in Devlin's shop. This gentleman was no other than Mr. Kenneth
Dowsett, George Carton's guardian.