HE COMES FROM EDMUND GRAY
'Nothing,' said Athelstan, 'could possibly happen more fortunately. We
have turned whispering conspirators into declared enemies. Now you are
free to investigate in your own way without having to report progress
every day.'
'About this new business about the letters and the things in the safe,'
said Elsie. 'It looks to me like _diablerie_. Checkley couldn't do it.
No conjuror in the world could do it. There must be somebody else in the
office to do these things. They mean defiance. The forger says: "See--I
do what I please with you. I return your letters addressed to Edmund
Gray. I place placards about Edmund Gray in your safe--for which nobody
has a key except yourself. Find me, if you can."'
'Yes; it is very mysterious.'
'A Person on Two Sticks might manage it. Very likely, he is concerned in
the business. Or a boy under the table would be able to do it. Perhaps
there is a boy under the table. There must be. Mr. Dering's table is
like the big bed of Ware. I daresay fifty boys might creep under that
table and wait there for a chance. But perhaps there is only one--a
comic boy.'
'I should like to catch the joker,' said George. 'I would give him
something still more humorous to laugh at.'
'If there is no comic boy--and no Person on Two Sticks,' Elsie
continued, 'we are thrown back upon Checkley. He seems to be the only
man who receives the letters and goes in and out of the office all day.
Well--I don't think it is Checkley. I don't think it can be-- George,
you once saw Mr. Dering in a very strange condition, unconscious,
walking about with open eyes seeing nobody. Don't you think that he may
have done this more than once?'
'What do you mean, Elsie?'
'Don't you think that some of these things--things put in the safe, for
instance, may have been put there by Mr. Dering himself? You saw him
open the safe. Afterwards he knew nothing about it. Could he not do
this more than once--might it be a habit?'
'Well--but if he puts the things in the safe--things that belonged to
Edmund Gray, he must know Edmund Gray. For instance, how did he get my
note to Edmund Gray, left by me on his table in Gray's Inn? That must
have been given to him by Edmund Gray himself.'
'Or by some friend of Edmund Gray. Yes; that is quite certain.'
'Come,' said Athelstan. 'This infernal Edmund Gray is too much with us.
Let us leave off talking about him for a while. Let him rest for this
evening.--Elsie, put on your things. We will go and dine somewhere, and
go to the play afterwards.'
They did so. They had the quiet little restaurant dinner that girls have
learned of late to love so much--the little dinner, where everything
seems so much brighter and better served than one can get at home. After
the dinner they went to a theatre, taking places in the Dress Circle,
where, given good eyes, one sees quite as well as from the stalls at
half the money. After the theatre they went home and there was an
exhibition of tobacco and soda water. Those were very pleasant days in
the Piccadilly lodgings, even allowing for the troubles which brought
them about. Athelstan was the most delightful of brothers, and every
evening brought its feast of laughter and of delightful talk. But all
through the evening, all through the play, Elsie saw nothing but Mr.
Dering and him engaged in daylight somnambulism. She saw him as George
described him, opening the safe, closing it again, and afterwards wholly
forgetful of what he had done.
She thought about this all night. Now, when one has a gleam or glimmer
of an idea, when one wants to disengage a single thought from the
myriads which cross the brain, and to fix it and to make it clear, there
is nothing in the world so good as to talk about it. The effort of
finding words with which to drag it out makes it clearer. Every
story-teller knows that the mere telling of a story turns his
characters, who before were mere shadows, and shapeless shadows, into
creatures of flesh and blood. Therefore, in the morning she began upon
the thought which haunted her.
'Athelstan,' she said, 'do you know anything about somnambulism?'
'I knew a man once in California who shot a grizzly when he was
sleep-walking. At least, he said so. That's the sum of my knowledge on
the subject.'
'I want to know if people often walk about in the daytime unconscious?'
'They do. It is called wool-gathering.'
'Seriously, Athelstan. Consider. George saw Mr. Dering arrive in a state
of unconsciousness. He saw nobody in the room. He opened the safe and
placed some papers there. Then he locked the safe. Then he sat down at
the window. Presently he awoke, and became himself again. If he did that
once, he might do it again.'
'Well? And then?'
'You heard yesterday about the letters, and the placard and the
Socialist tracts. Now Checkley couldn't do that. He couldn't, and he
wouldn't.'
'Well?'
'But Mr. Dering could. If he had that attack once, he might have it
again and again. Why, he constantly complains of forgetting things.'
'But the letters yesterday were addressed to Edmund Gray. How do you
connect Edmund Gray with Edward Dering?'
'I don't know. But, my dear brother, the more I think of this business,
the more persuaded I am that Checkley is not the prime mover, or even a
confederate.'
'The same hand has doubtless been at work throughout. If not Checkley's
aid to make that hand possible and successful, who is there? And look at
the malignity with which he tries to fix it on some one else.'
'That may be because he is afraid of its being fixed upon him. Consider
that point about the control of the letters. The business could only be
done by some one through whose hands passed all the letters.'
'Checkley is the only person possible.'
'Yes; he understands that. It makes him horribly afraid. He therefore
lies with all his might in order to pass on suspicion to another person.
You and George think him guilty--well, I do not. If I were trying to
find out the man, I should try a different plan altogether.'
Her brother had work to do which took him out directly after an early
breakfast. When Elsie was left alone, she began again to think about
Mr. Dering's strange daylight somnambulism; about his continual fits of
forgetfulness; about the odd things found on his table and in his safe,
all connected with Edmund Gray. Checkley could not have placed those
letters on the table: he could not have put those things in the safe.
Elsie looked at the clock. It was only just after nine. She ran to her
room, put on her jacket and hat, and called a cab.
She arrived at half-past nine. Checkley was already in his master's
room, laying out the table for the day's work as usual. The girl was
touched at the sight of this old servant of sixty years' service doing
these offices zealously and jealously. She stood in the outer office
watching him through the open door. When he had finished, he came out
and saw her.
'Oh!' he grumbled. 'It's you, is it? Well--he hasn't come. If you want
to see Mr. Dering, it's full early. If you want to see the new partner,
he isn't come. He don't hurry himself. Perhaps you'll sit down a bit and
look at the paper. Here's the _Times_. He'll be here at a quarter to
ten.'
Checkley sat down at his desk and took up a pen. But he laid it down
again and began to talk. 'We're in trouble, Miss. No fault of yours-- I
don't say it is. We're in trouble. The trouble is going to be worse
before it's better. They're not content with robbing the master, but
they mock at him and jeer him. They jeer him. They put on his table
letters addressed to the man they call Edmund Gray. They open his safe
and put things in it belonging to Edmund Gray. We're not so young as we
was, and it tells upon us. We're not so regular as we should be.
Sometimes we're late--and sometimes we seem, just for a bit, not to know
exactly who we are nor what we are. Oh! it's nothing--nothing, but what
will pass away when the trouble's over. But think of the black
ingratitood, Miss--Oh! black--black. I'm not blamin' you; but I think
you ought to know the trouble we're in--considering who's done it and
all.'
Elsie made no reply. She had nothing to say. Certainly she could not
enter into a discussion with this man as to the part, if any, taken in
the business by the new partner. Then Checkley made a show of beginning
to write with zeal. The morning was hot: the place was quiet: the old
man's hand gradually slackened: the pen stopped: the eyes closed: his
head dropped back upon his chair: he was asleep. It is not uncommon for
an old man to drop off in this way.
Elsie sat perfectly still. At eleven o'clock she heard a step upon the
stairs. It mounted: it stopped: the private door was opened, and Mr.
Dering entered. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking about the
room. Now, as the girl looked at him, she perceived that he was again in
the condition described by George--as a matter of fact, it was in this
condition that Mr. Dering generally arrived in the morning. His coat was
unbuttoned: his face wore the genial and benevolent look which we do not
generally associate with lawyers of fifty years' standing: the eyes were
Mr. Dering's eyes, but they were changed--not in colour or in form, but
in expression. Elsie was reminded of her portrait. That imaginary sketch
was no other than the Mr. Dering who now stood before her.
He closed the door behind him and walked across the room to the window.
Then Elsie, lightly, so as not to awaken the drowsy old clerk, stepped
into Mr. Dering's office and shut the door softly behind her.
The sleep-walker stood at the window, looking out. Elsie crept up and
stood beside him. Then she touched him on the arm. He started and
turned. 'Young lady,' he said, 'what can I do for you?' He showed no
sign of recognition at all in his eyes: he did not know her. 'Can I do
anything for you?' he repeated.
'I am afraid--nothing,' she replied.
He looked at her doubtfully. Then apparently remembering some duty as
yet unfulfilled, he left the window and unlocked the safe. He then drew
out of his pocket a manuscript tied up with red tape. Elsie looked into
the safe and read the title--'_The New Humanity_, by Edmund Gray,' which
was written in large letters on the outer page. Then he shut and locked
the safe and dropped the key in his own pocket. This done, he returned
to the window and sat down, taking no manner of notice of his visitor.
All this exactly as he had done before in presence of George and his old
clerk.
For ten minutes he sat there. Then he shivered, straightened himself,
stood up, and looked about the room, Mr. Dering again.
'Elsie!' he cried. 'I did not know you were here. How long have you been
here?'
'Not very long. A few minutes, perhaps.'
'I must have fallen asleep. It is a hot morning. You must forgive the
weakness of an old man, child. I had a bad night too. I was awake a long
time, thinking of all these troubles and worries. They can't find out,
Elsie, who has robbed me.' He spoke querulously and helplessly. 'They
accuse each other, instead of laying their heads together. Nonsense!
Checkley couldn't do it. George couldn't do it. The thing was done by
somebody else. My brother came here with a cock-and-bull case, all built
up of presumptions and conclusions. If they would only find out!'
'The trouble is mine as much as yours, Mr. Dering. I have had to leave
my mother's house, where I had to listen to agreeable prophecies about
my lover and my brother. I wish, with you, that they would find out!'
He took off his hat and hung it on its peg. He buttoned his frock-coat
and took his place at the table, upright and precise. Yet his eyes were
anxious.
'They tease me too. They mock me. Yesterday, they laid two letters
addressed to this man, Edmund Gray, on my letters. What for? To laugh at
me, to defy me to find them out. Checkley swears he didn't put them
there. I arrived at the moment when he was leaving the room. Are we
haunted? And the day before--and the day before that--there were things
put in the safe----'
'In the safe? Oh! but nobody has the key except yourself. How can
anything be put in the safe?'
'I don't know. I don't know anything. I don't know what may be taken
next. My houses--my mortgages, my lands, my very practice----'
'Nay,--they could not. Is there anything this morning?'
He turned over his letters. 'Apparently not. Stay; I have not looked in
the safe. He got up and threw open the safe. Then he took up a packet.
'Again!' he cried almost with a scream. 'Again! See this!' He tossed on
the table the packet which he had himself, only ten minutes before,
placed in the safe with his own hands. 'See this! Thus they laugh at
me--thus they torment me!' He hurled the packet to the other side of the
room, returned to his chair, and laid his head upon his hands, sighing
deeply.
Elsie took up the parcel. It was rather a bulky manuscript. The title
you have heard. She untied the tape and turned over the pages. The work,
she saw, was the Autobiography of Edmund Gray. _And it was in the
handwriting of Mr. Dering!_
She replaced it in the safe. 'Put everything there,' she said, 'which is
sent to you. Everything. Do you know anything at all about this man
Edmund Gray?'
'Nothing, my dear child, absolutely nothing. I never saw the man. I
never heard of him. Yet he has planted himself upon me. He holds his
Chambers on a letter of recommendation from me. I was his introducer to
the manager of the Bank--I--in my own handwriting--as they thought. He
drew a cheque of 720_l_. upon me eight years ago. And he has transferred
thirty-eight thousand pounds' worth of shares and stock to his own
address.'
'Added to which, he has been the cause of suspicion and vile accusation
against my lover and my brother, which it will cost a great deal of
patience to forgive. Dear Mr. Dering, I am so sorry for you. It is most
wonderful and most mysterious. Suppose,' she laid her hand upon
his--'suppose that I was to find out for you----'
'You, child? What can you do, when the others have failed?'
'I can but try.'
'Try, in Heaven's name. Try, my dear. If you find out, you shall be
burned for a witch.'
'No. If I find out, you shall be present at my wedding. You were to have
given me away. But now--now--Athelstan shall give me away, and you will
be there to see. And it will be a tearful wedding'--the tears came into
her own eyes just to illustrate the remark--'because everyone will be so
ashamed of the wicked things they have said. Sir Samuel will remain on
his knees the whole service, and Checkley will be fain to get under the
seat.--Good-bye, Mr. Dering. I am a Prophetess. I can foretell. You
shall hear in a very few days all about Edmund Gray.'
She ran away without any further explanation. Mr. Dering shook his head
and smiled. He did not believe in contemporary Prophecy. That young
people should place their own affairs--their love-makings and
weddings--before the affairs of their elders, was not surprising. For
himself, as he sometimes remembered--and always when this girl, with
her pretty ways and soft voice, was with him--her visit had cheered him.
He opened his letters and went on with the day's work.
As for Elsie, the smile in her eyes died out as she descended the
stairs. If she had been herself a lawyer, she could not have worn a
graver face as she walked across the courts of the venerable Inn.
She had established the connection between Mr. Dering and Edmund Gray.
It was he, and nobody else, who laid those letters on the table--placed
those things in the safe. This being so, it must be he himself, and
nobody else, who wrote all the letters, signed the cheques, and did all
the mischief. He himself! But how? Elsie had read of hypnotism.
Wonderful things are done daily by mesmerists and magnetisms under their
new name. Mr. Dering was hypnotised by this man Edmund Gray--as he
called himself--for his own base ends. Well--she would find out this
Edmund Gray. She would beard this villain in his own den.
She walked resolutely to Gray's Inn. She found No. 22--she mounted the
stairs. The outer door was closed. She knocked, but there was no answer.
She remembered how George had found his laundress, and visited her at
her lodgings--she thought she would do the same. But on the stairs she
went down she met an old woman so dirty, so ancient, so feeble, that she
seemed to correspond with George's account of her.
'You are Mr. Gray's laundress?' she asked.
'Yes, Miss; I am.' The woman looked astonished to see such a visitor.
'I want to see him. I want to see him on very important business. Most
important to himself. When can I see him?'
'I don't know, Miss. He is uncertain. He was here yesterday evening. He
said he should not be here this evening. But I don't know.'
'Look here.' Elsie drew out her purse. 'Tell me when you think he will
be here, and if I find him I will give you two pounds--two golden
sovereigns. If you tell me right I will give you two sovereigns.'
She showed them. The old woman looked hungrily at the coins. 'Well,
Miss, he's been here every Saturday afternoon for the last six months. I
know it by the litter of papers that he makes. Every Saturday
afternoon.'
'Very good. You shall have your money if I find him.'
In the evening, Elsie said nothing about Mr. Dering and her strange
discovery. The two young men talked about trying this way and that way,
always with the view of implicating Checkley. But she said nothing.