ATHELSTAN'S DISCOVERY
On the evening of that same day the same discovery was made by another
of the persons chiefly concerned.
You have seen that Athelstan on his return made haste to find out the
commissionaire who had presented the forged cheque. Happily, the man
remembered not only the circumstance itself but also his employer on
that occasion. A generosity far above what is commonly found among those
who employ the services of that corps endeared and preserved the memory
of the day. He had received, in fact, half a sovereign for an
eighteenpenny job; and the commissionaire is not like the cabby, to whom
such windfalls are common. Not at all. With the former we observe the
letter of the law.
After eight years this man's memory was rewarded. This thrice blessed
job produced yet more golden fruit. Heard one ever of a more prolific
job?
After breakfast, Athelstan was informed that a commissionaire desired to
speak with him. It was his one-armed friend.
'Beg your pardon, sir,' he said, saluting after the military
manner--'you said I was to come and tell you, first thing, if I found
your man for you.'
'Certainly. I told you also that I would give you a five-pound reward
for finding my man, as you call him. Well--I will be as good as my word
if you have found him.'
'I saw him yesterday. The very same old gentleman that sent me to the
Bank that day. He's older, and he doesn't look so jolly, and he walks
slower; but I knew him at once.'
'Oh! are you quite sure? Because a resemblance, you know----'
'Well, sir, I can swear to him. I remember him as well as I remember
anybody. He sat in the chair, and he laughed, and he said: "You've been
quick over the job, my man. There's something extra, because you might
have dropped the money down a grating, or run away with it, or
something," he says. "Here's half a sovereign for you, my man," says he;
"and I daresay you can do with it." "I can so, sir," I says, "and with
as many more like them as I can pick up." Then he laughed, and I
laughed, and we both laughed.--And that's the same man that I saw
yesterday evening.'
'Oh! this is very curious. Are you quite sure?'
'I'd swear to him anywhere. A man can't say fairer.'
'No--as you say--a man can hardly say fairer, can he? Now, then, when
did you see him?'
'It was between six and seven. I'd been doing a message for a gentleman
in the Strand--a gentleman in the dining-room line to a gentleman in
Holborn in the sausage and tripe line--and I was going back with a
letter, and going through Lincoln's Inn for a short cut. Just as I was
getting near the gate to the Fields, I saw coming out of the door at No.
12 the very man you want to find. I wasn't thinking about him, not a
bit-- I was thinking of nothing at all, when he come out of the door and
walked down the steps. Then I knew him. Lord! I knew him at once.
"You're the man," I says to myself, "as give me the half-sov. instead of
eighteenpence." Well, I stood at the corner and waited to see if he
would remember me. Not a bit of it. He stared at me hard, but he never
recollected me a bit--I could see that. Why should he? Nobody remembers
the servant any more than they remember the private in the ranks. The
very same old gentleman; but he's grown older, and he didn't look jolly
any more. P'raps he's lost his money.'
'Came out of No. 12, did he? Why, Dering & Son's office is there. What
does this mean?'
'I thought I'd like to find out something more about him; and I thought
that a five-pound note was better worth looking after than
eighteenpence--so I let the letter from the tripe and sausage man lay a
bit, and I followed my old gentleman at a good distance.'
'Oh! you followed him. Very good. Did you find out where he lived? I can
tell you that. He went to No. 22 South Square, Gray's Inn.'
'No; he didn't, sir.--But you are not very far wrong. He went through
Great Turnstile; then he crossed Holborn and turned into Featherstone
Buildings, which is all lodging-houses. But he doesn't live there. He
walked through the Buildings, and so into Bedford Row, and he stopped at
a house there----'
'What! In Bedford Row?'
'Yes; in Bedford Row--and he pulls out a latch-key and lets himself in.
That's where he lives. No. 49 Bedford Row, on the west side, very near
the bottom. He lives in Bedford Row.--Well, sir, I like to do things
proper, and so, to make the job complete, I went to the _Salutation_,
Holborn, where they keep a Directory, and I looked out his name. The
gentleman that lives at No. 49 Bedford Row is named Edward Dering--and
among the names of No. 12 New Square, Lincoln's Inn, is the name of
Dering & Son.--So, sir, I don't think it is too much to say that your
man is Mr. Dering, who belongs both to Bedford Row and Lincoln's Inn.
He's the man who sent me to the Bank eight years ago.'
Athelstan stared at him. 'He the man?' he cried. 'You are talking
impossibilities. He can't be the man.'
'Nobody else, sir. If that was Mr. Dering that I saw yesterday walking
home from New Square to Bedford Row--he's the man who sent me for the
money.'
To this statement the man stuck firm. Nor could he be moved by any
assertion that his position was impossible. 'For, my friend,' said
Athelstan, 'the man who sent you with the cheque was the man who robbed
Mr. Dering.'
'Can't help that, sir. If the gentleman I saw yesterday walking from
Lincoln's Inn to Bedford Row was Mr. Dering--then he robbed hisself.'
'That's foolishness. Oh! there must be some explanation. Look here! Mr.
Edward Dering leaves his office every evening between six and seven. I
will be in New Square on the west side this evening at six. You be
there, as well. Try not to seem as if you were watching for anybody.
Stand about at your ease.'
'I'll make it sentry-go, sir,' said the old soldier. 'I'll walk up and
down in front of the door same as some of our chaps got to do in front
of shops. You trust me, sir, and I won't take no notice of you.'
This little plot, in fact, was faithfully carried out. At six o'clock
Athelstan began to walk up and down outside the gate which opens upon
Lincoln's Inn Fields--the commissionaire at the same time was doing
sentry-go in front of No. 12 in New Square. When the clock struck six
there was a rush and a tramp of hurrying feet; these were the clerks set
free for the day. There are not many solicitors' offices in New Square,
and these once gone, the place becomes perfectly quiet. At half-past
six there was the footfall as of one man on the stairs, and he descended
slowly. He came out of the door presently, an old bent figure with white
hair and shrivelled face. Paying no heed to the sentry, he walked away
with feeble step in the direction of Chancery Lane. Checkley this was,
on his way to look after his tenants and his property.
Athelstan looked after him, through the gate. Then he called his old
soldier. 'See that man?' he asked. 'That's the man who sent you to the
Bank.'
'No--he isn't.' The man was stout on that point. 'Not a bit like him.
That old man's a servant, not a gentleman. See the way he holds his
hands. Never a gentleman yet carried his hands that way. You can always
tell 'em by their hands. The other day I met an old pal--seemed to
forget me, he did. Wanted to make out that he'd never been in the army
at all. So I lay by for a bit. Then I gets up--and he gets up too.
"'Tention," says I, and he stood to 'tention like a good old Tommy
Atkins. You watch their hands whatever they say. Always tell 'em by
their hands. That old man he's a servant. He isn't a gentleman. He can't
sit among the swells and order about the waiters. He hasn't learned that
way. He'd get up himself, if you asked him, and put the napkin under his
arm and bring you a glass of sherry wine. He's not my man. You wait a
bit.'
At a quarter to seven another footstep was heard echoing up and down the
empty building. Then an old man, erect, thin, tightly buttoned, wearing
neat gloves and carrying an umbrella, came out of the door. His face was
hard, even austere. His walk was firm. The Sentry, as this person walked
out of the gate, followed at a distance. When he was beside Athelstan,
he whispered: 'That's the man. I'd swear to him anywhere. That's the man
that sent me to the Bank.'
Athelstan heard in unbounded astonishment. That the man? Why--it was Mr.
Dering himself!
'Let us follow him,' he whispered. 'Not together. On opposite sides of
the road. Good Heavens! This is most wonderful. Do not lose sight of
him.'
To follow him was perfectly easy, because Mr. Dering turned neither to
the right nor to the left, but marched straight on through Great
Turnstile, across Holborn, through Featherstone Buildings, and into
Bedford Row. At No. 49, his own house. Where else should he stop?
Athelstan took out his purse and gave the man the five pounds. 'I don't
know what it means,' he said. 'I can't understand a word. But I suppose
you have told me the truth. I don't know why you should make up a
lie----'
'It's Gauspel Truth,' said the man.
'And therefore again--I don't understand it. Well--I've got your name
and your number. If I want you again I will send for you.'
The man saluted and walked away. Half a sovereign for an eighteenpenny
job, and eight years afterwards five pounds on account of the same job.
Robbery, was it? Robbery--and the old man pretending to rob himself. Now
what did that mean? Laying it on to some poor harmless innocent cove,
the soldier guessed: laying it on to some one as he had a spite
against--the old villain--very likely this young governor--most likely--
Donation on account of that same job, very likely--the old villain!
As for Athelstan, he returned to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where, the
evening being fine and the sun warm and the place quiet except for the
children at play, he walked up and down the east or sunny side for half
an hour turning the thing over in his mind.
For, you see, if Mr. Dering went through the form of robbing himself and
finding out the robbery and coldly suffering the blame to fall upon
himself--then Mr. Dering must be one of the most phenomenally wicked of
living men. Or, if Mr. Dering robbed himself, and did not know it--then
Mr. Dering must be mad.
Again, if such a thing could be done on a small scale, it might be done
on a larger scale with the same result--namely, suspicion to fall upon a
blameless person; obloquy to gather round his name--for in some cases
simply to be charged is almost as fatal as to be convicted: and perfect
impunity for himself. 'This is not my own writing, but a forgery,' said
the man who had been robbed. Then, who is the forger? You--you. None but
you. The bare suspicion becomes a certainty in the minds of those who
were once that man's friends.--And his life is cankered at the outset.
He thought of his own life; the bitterness of alienation and exile.
Never any time for eight years when he could explain the reasons of his
exile. Debt, the cultivation of wild oats, failure to pass
examinations--anything would do for such a reason except suspicion of
forgery. Athelstan was a cheerful young man. He seldom allowed himself
to be cast down by the blows of fate. Nevertheless, during his whole
time of exile, the drop of bitterness that poisoned his cup was that he
could not tell the whole story because the world would believe no more
than half--that half, namely, which contained the accusation. When one
walks about thinking, there comes a time when it seems no good to think
any longer. The mind can only get a certain amount out of a case at one
sitting. That amount absorbed, the best thing is to go on to something
else. Athelstan went on to dinner. He left his sister to the care of her
young man, and dined by himself. He took a steak at a Holborn restaurant
with an evening paper, which he considered professionally. After dinner
he returned to his subject. Perhaps he should get a step farther.
No--perhaps on account of the sweet influence of dinner he got no
farther at all. Here was an astonishing fact. How to account for it? You
have seen--by one of two ways--malignity unspeakable: or
madness--madness of a very curious kind--the madness of a man whose calm
cold judgment had made him appear to his friends as one with an
intellect far above any ordinary weaknesses of humanity. Mr. Dering mad?
Then the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Speaker of the House of
Commons, the President of the Royal Society, the President of the
Institute of Civil Engineers, the Cambridge Professors of
Mathematics--all these men might be mad as well. And nobody to know it
or to suspect it. Mr. Dering mad! and yet, if not, what was he?
There was one way. He had tried it already once. He left the restaurant
and turned eastwards. He was going to try South Square, Gray's Inn,
again. Perhaps Mr. Edmund Gray would be in his rooms.
He was not. The door was shut. But the opposite door stood open, that of
Freddy Carstone. Athelstan knocked, and was admitted with eloquence
almost tumultuous.
'Just in time,' said the coach. 'I've got a new brand of whisky,
straight from Glasgow. You shall sample it. Have you had dinner yet? So
have I. Sit down. Let us talk and smoke tobacco and drink whisky and
soda.'
'I will do the talking and the tobacco at any rate.'
'I love Virtue,' said Freddy. 'She is a lovely goddess--for "if Virtue
feeble were, Heaven itself would stoop to her." She has only one fault.
There is reproach in her voice, reproach in her eye, and reproach in her
attitude. She is an uncomfortable goddess. Fortunately, she dwells not
in this venerable foundation. Do not imitate Virtue, old boy. Let me----
That's right. We shall then start fair upon the primrose path--the broad
and flowery way--though I may get farther down than you. Athelstan the
Wanderer--Melmoth the Wanderer--Childe Harold the Pilgrim--drink and be
human.' He set the example. 'Good whisky--very good whisky. Athelstan,
there's a poor devil up-stairs, starving for the most part--let's have
him down. It's a charity.' He ran up-stairs, and immediately returned
with the decayed Advocate, who looked less hungry than usual, and a
shade less shabby--you have seen how he borrowed of Mr. Edmund Gray
through Elsie.
'Now,' said the host, 'I call this comfortable; a warm August evening;
the window open; a suspicion of fresh air from the gardens; soda and
whisky; and two men for talk. Most evenings one has to sit alone. Then
there's a temptation to--to close the evening too quickly.'
'Freddy, I want to hear more about your neighbour. You told me
something, if you remember, a week or two ago.'
'Very odd thing. Old Checkley at the _Salutation_ is always pestering
about Mr. Edmund Gray. What has he to do with Mr. Edmund Gray? Wanted me
to answer his questions.'
'And me,' said Mr. Langhorne. 'I did answer them.'
'Well--Mr. Edmund Gray is---- What is he? An old gentleman of cheerful
aspect, who is apparently a Socialist. We must all be allowed our little
weaknesses. All I ask for is----' He reached his hand for the whisky.
'This old gentleman carries his hobbies so far as to believe in them
seriously. I've talked to him about them.'
'I have heard him lecture at Camden Town,' said the Barrister. 'I go
there sometimes on Sunday evening. They have a tea-feast with him and
cake and toast. It is a pleasant gathering. It reminds one of the Early
Church.'
'Well, Athelstan, what else can I tell you? Hark!' There was a step
heard ascending the stairs. 'I believe that is the old man himself. If
it is, you shall see him. I will bring him in.'
He went out to meet the unknown footstep on the landing. He greeted the
owner of that footstep: he stopped him: he persuaded him to step into
the opposite room. 'You must be lonely, Mr. Gray, sitting by yourself.
Come in and have an hour's talk. Come in. This way. The room is rather
dark. Here is Mr. Langhorne, your overhead neighbour, whom you know; and
here is Mr. Athelstan Arundel, whom you don't know. Those who do know
him like him, except for his Virtue, which is ostentatious in one so
young.'
It was now nearly nine o'clock. The lamp was not lit, and the room lay
in twilight. It is the favourite shade for ghosts. A ghost stood before
Athelstan, and shook hands with him--the ghost of Mr. Dering.
'I am happy'--the ghost held out his hand--'to make your acquaintance,
Mr. Arundel. An old man, like myself, makes acquaintances, but not
friends. His time for new friendships is gone. Still, the world may be
full of pleasant acquaintances.'
He sat down, taking a chair in the window: the shade of the curtain fell
upon his face so that nothing could be seen but a white circle.
'Let us have candles, Freddy,' said Athelstan.
'By all means.' Freddy lit a lamp on the table and two candles on the
mantel-shelf. By their light the lineaments and figure of the ghost came
out more distinctly. Athelstan gazed on it with bewilderment; his head
went round; he closed his eyes: he tried to pull himself together.
He sat up: he drank half a glass of whisky and soda, he stared steadily
at the figure he had not seen for eight years, since---- Good Heavens!
and this man had done it himself! And he was as mad as a hatter.
Mr. Edmund Gray looked serenely cheerful. He lay back in the long chair,
his feet extended and crossed: his elbows on the arms of the chair, his
finger-tips touching; his face was wreathed with smiles; he looked as if
he had always found the world the best of all possible worlds.
Athelstan heard nothing of what was said. His old friend Freddy Carstone
was talking in his light and airy way, as if nothing at all mattered. He
was not expected to say anything. Freddy liked to do all the talking for
himself--therefore he sat watching a man under an illusion so
extraordinary that it made him another man. Nothing was changed in
him--neither features nor voice nor dress--yet he was another man.
'Why,' asked Athelstan, 'why did he write that cheque for seven hundred
and twenty pounds?'
Presently Freddy stopped talking, and Mr. Edmund Gray took up the
conversation. What he said--the doctrines which he advanced, we know
already. 'And these things,' said Athelstan to himself, 'from those
lips! Is it possible?'
At ten o'clock Mr. Edmund Gray rose. He had to write a letter; he prayed
to be excused. He offered his hand again to Athelstan. 'Good-night,
sir,' he said. 'To the pleasure of seeing you again.'
'Have we never met before, Mr. Gray?' Athelstan asked.
'I think not. I should remember you, Mr. Arundel, I am sure,' Mr. Gray
replied politely. 'Besides, I never forget a face. And yours is new to
me.--Good-night, sir.'