THE DAY AFTER THE GHOST
When Mr. Dering arrived at his office next morning he observed that his
table had not been arranged for him. Imagine the surprise of the
housewife should she come down to breakfast and find the ham and the
toast and the tea placed upon the table without the decent cloth! With
such eyes did Mr. Dering gaze upon the pile of yesterday's letters lying
upon his blotting-pad, the pens in disorder, the papers heaped about
anyhow, the dust of yesterday everywhere. Such a thing had never
happened before in his whole experience of fifty-five years. He touched
his bell sharply.
'Why,' he asked, hanging up his coat without turning round, 'why is not
my table put in order?' He turned and saw his clerk standing at the open
door.--'Good Heavens! Checkley, what is the matter?'
For the ancient servitor stood with drooping head and melancholy face
and bent shoulders. His hands hung down in the attitude of one who waits
to serve. But he did not serve. He stood still and he made no reply.
He understood now. Since the apparition of South Square he had had time
to reflect. He now understood the whole business from the beginning to
the end. One hand there was, and only one, concerned with the case. Now
he understood the meaning of the frequent fits of abstraction, the long
silences, this strange forgetfulness which made his master mix up days
and hours, and caused him to wonder what he had done and where he had
been on this and that evening. And somebody else knew. The girl knew.
She had told her lover. She had told her brother. That was why the new
Partner laughed and defied them. It was on his charge that young Arundel
had been forced to leave the country. It was he who declared that he had
seen him place the stolen notes in the safe. It was he who had charged
young Austin and whispered suspicions into the mind of Sir Samuel. Now
the truth would come out, and they would all turn upon him, and his
master would have to be told. Who would tell him? How could they tell
him? Yet he must be told. And what would be done to the jealous servant?
And how could the old lawyer, with such a knowledge about himself,
continue to work at his office? All was finished. He would be sent about
his business. His master would go home and stay there--with an
attendant. How could he continue to live without his work to do? What
would he do all day? With whom would he talk? Everything finished and
done with. Everything----
He stood, therefore, stricken dumb, humble, waiting for reproof.
'Are you ill, Checkley? asked Mr. Dering. 'You look ill. What is the
matter?
'I am not ill,' he replied in a hollow voice, with a dismal shake of the
head. 'I am not exactly ill. Yes, I am ill. I tried to put your table in
order for you this morning, but I couldn't, I really couldn't. I feel as
if I couldn't never do anything for you--never again. After sixty years'
service, it's hard to feel like that.'
He moved to the table and began mechanically laying the papers straight.
'No one has touched your table but me for sixty years. It's hard to
think that another hand will do this for you--and do it quite as well,
you'll think. That's what we get for faithful service.' He put the
papers all wrong, because his old eyes were dimmed with unaccustomed
moisture. Checkley had long since ceased to weep over the sorrows of
others, even in the most moving situations, when, for instance, he
himself carried off the sticks instead of the rent. But no man is so old
that he cannot weep over his own misfortunes. Checkley's eye was
therefore dimmed with the tear of Compassion, which is the sister of
Charity.
'I do not understand you this morning, Checkley. Have you had any
unpleasantness with Mr. Austin--with any of the people?'
'No--no. Only that I had better go before I am turned out. That's all.
That's all'--he repeated the words in despair. 'Nothing but that.'
'Who is going to turn you out? What do you mean, Checkley? What the
devil do you mean by going on like this? Am I not master here? Who can
turn you out?'
'You can, sir, and you will--and I'd rather, if you'll excuse the
liberty, go out of my own accord. I'm a small man--only a very small
man--but, thank God! I've got enough to give me a crust of bread and
cheese to live upon.'
'I tell you what, Checkley: you had better go home and lie down and rest
a little. You are upset. Now, at our age we can't afford to be upset. Go
home, and be easy. Old friends don't part quite so easily as you think.'
Mr. Dering spoke kindly and gently. One must be patient with so old a
servant.
Checkley sobbed and choked. Like a child he sobbed. Like a child of
four, Checkley choked and sniffed. 'You don't understand,' he said. 'Oh,
no--you can't understand. It's what I saw last night.'
'This is very wonderful. What did you see? A ghost?'
'Worse than a ghost--who cares for a ghost? Ghosts can't turn a man out
of his place and bring him to be a laughingstock. No--no. It was a man
that I saw, not a ghost.'
'If you can find it possible to talk reasonably'--Mr. Dering took his
chair and tore open an envelope--'when you can find it possible to talk
reasonably, I will listen. Meantime, I really think that you had better
go home and lie down for an hour or two. Your nerves are shaken; you
hardly know what you are saying.'
'I was in Gray's Inn yesterday evening. By accident, at eight.' He spoke
in gasps, watching his master curiously. 'By accident--not spying.
No--by accident. On my way to my club--at the _Salutation_. Walking
through South Square. Not thinking of anything. Looking about
me--careless-like.'
'South Square, Gray's Inn. That is the place where the man Edmund Gray
lives: the man we want to find and cannot find.'
'Oh! Lord! Lord!' exclaimed the clerk. 'Is it possible?' He lifted his
hand and raised his eyes to heaven and groaned. Then he resumed his
narrative.
'Coming through the passage, I looked up to the windows of No. 22--Mr.
Edmund Gray's Chambers, you know.'
'I believe so.' Mr. Dering's face betrayed no emotion at all. 'Go on; I
am told so.'
'In the window I saw Mr. Edmund Gray himself--himself.'
'Curious. You have seen him--but why not?'
'The man we've all been so anxious to find. The man who endorsed the
cheque and wrote the letters and got the papers--there he was!'
'Question of identity. How did you know him, since you had never seen
him before?'
This question Checkley shirked.
'He came down-stairs five minutes afterwards, while I was still looking
up at the windows. Came down-stairs, and walked out of the Square--made
as if he was going out by way of Raymond's Buildings--much as if he
might be going to Bedford Row.'
'These details are unimportant. Again--how did you know him?'
'I asked the Policeman who the gentleman was. He said it was Mr. Edmund
Gray. I asked the newspaper boy at the Holborn entrance. He said it was
Mr. Edmund Gray, and that everybody knew him.'
'So everybody knows him. Well, Checkley, I see nothing so very
remarkable about your seeing a man so well known in the Inn. It adds
nothing to our knowledge. That he exists, we know already. What share,
if any, he has had in this case of ours remains still a mystery. Unless,
that is, you have found out something else.'
Checkley gazed upon his master with a kind of stupor. 'No--no,' he
murmured. 'I can't.'
'What did you do, when you found out that it was the man?'
'Nothing.'
'You did nothing. Well--under the circumstances I don't know what you
could have done.'
'And he walked away.'
'Oh! He walked away. Very important indeed.--But, Checkley, this story
does not in the least account for your strange agitation this morning.
Have you anything more to tell me? I see that you have, but you seem to
experience more than usual difficulty in getting it out.'
The clerk hesitated. 'Do you,' he asked at last--'do you--happen--to
know Gray's Inn?'
'I daresay I have been there--years ago. Why?'
'Oh! you haven't been there lately, have you?'
'Not lately--not for forty years, or some such inconsiderable period.
Why?'
'I thought you might yourself have met Mr. Edmund Gray--been to his
Chambers, perhaps.'
Mr. Dering sat upright and laid his hand upon his letters. 'Checkley,'
he said, 'I am always willing to make allowance for people in mental
distress, but I think I have made allowance enough. Come to the point.
Have you lost any money?'
'No--no; not so bad as that--but bad enough. No, I couldn't afford to
lose money. I haven't got enough to spare any. But I got a shock--a kind
of stroke--partly because of the man I met, and partly because of the
person with him.'
'Oh! who was that? Are we arriving at something?'
'I hadn't told you that. The person who was sitting at the open window
with him, who came down-stairs with him, and walked out of the Square
with him, was no other than your own ward, Miss Elsie Arundel herself!'
'Oh! why not?' asked Mr. Dering carelessly. 'She told me yesterday, was
it? that she knows him.'
'If it had been anyone else she was with,' he replied, mixing up his
grammar--'if it had been anyone else who was with her--I wouldn't have
been surprised! But to see the two together. That gave me a turn that I
can't get over.'
'Still--why not? Miss Elsie Arundel has already told me that she is
acquainted with Mr. Edmund Gray.'
'What? She has told you--she has actually told you? Oh! what has she
told you? Oh! Lord! Lord! What is a man to say or to do? She told
you--what is best to do?' He wrung his hands in his distress and his
perplexity.
'I cannot understand, Checkley,' said Mr. Dering with emphasis, 'the
reason for this display of excitement. Why should she not tell me or
anybody else? Do you suppose that my ward is doing anything clandestine?
She has told me that she is acquainted with this man. She asserts
further--that we have made a great mistake about him. What she means, I
cannot understand. She says, in fact, that this gentleman is a perfectly
honourable person. It is possible that he has deceived her. It is also
possible that the name of Edmund Gray has been wrongfully used in the
papers which belong to the case. Certainly it was an Edmund Gray who
endorsed the first cheque; and an Edmund Gray having an address at 22
South Square whose name is connected with the later business. Well, we
shall see presently.--When do you take out the warrant for the arrest
of this man? By the way, Elsie Arundel implores me not to allow that
step. When are you going to do it?'
'This morning, I was going to do it. Everything is ready--but----'
'But what?'
'I can't do it now.'
'The man is clean gone off his head.'
'Leave it till to-morrow--only to-morrow, or Monday. Before then,
something is certain to turn up. Oh! certain sure it is. Something must
turn up.'
'There is certainly something that you are keeping behind, Checkley.
Well--wait till Monday. To-day is Saturday. He can't do very much
mischief between this and Monday.--That's enough about Edmund Gray. Now,
here is another point, to which I want a direct answer from you. My
brother asserts, I believe on your authority, that Athelstan Arundel has
been living in a low and profligate manner in some London suburb, and
that he was in rags and poverty early this year. What is your authority
for this?'
'Why, I heard him confess--or not deny--that he'd been living in
Camberwell in bad company. It was at the _Salutation_ I heard it. He
didn't see me. I'd got my head behind a paper. He never denied it.'
'Humph!--And about the rags?'
'I don't know anything about the rags.'
'Very likely there is as much foundation for the one charge as for the
other. Three or four years ago, he was in America, to my knowledge. He
wrote to me from America. I now learn, on the authority of his sister,
that he only came back a month ago, and that he has been and is still in
the service of an American paper. What have you got to say to that?'
'Nothing. I don't feel as if I could say anything. It's all turned upsy
down. That won't do, I suppose, no more than the rest.'
'But, my friend, if that is true, your theory of conspiracy and
confederacy, which you took so much pains to build up, falls to the
ground as far as Athelstan is concerned.'
'Yes.-- Oh! I haven't nothing to say.' It was a mark of the trouble
which possessed him that his language reverted to that of his young
days, before he had learned the art of correct speech from the copying
of legal documents. He preserved the same attitude with bent head and
hanging hands, a sad and pitiful object.
'Since Athelstan was not in London during the months of March and April,
he could have had no hand in the later forgeries. And it is acknowledged
that the same hand was concerned both in the earlier and the later
business.'
'Yes--yes--the same hand. Oh! yes--the same hand,' he repeated with
pathos unintelligible to his master. 'The same hand--the same hand;
yes--yes--the same hand--that's the devil of it--same hand done it all.'
'Then what becomes of your charge against my young Partner? You were
extremely fierce about it. So was my brother. You had no proofs--nor had
he. If the same hand was in both forgeries, it could not have been the
hand of George Austin. What do you say to that?'
'Nothing. I'm never going'--still standing hands hanging--'to say
anything again as long as I live.'
'But you were very fierce about it, Checkley. You must either find more
proofs or withdraw your accusation.'
'Oh! if that's all, I withdraw-- I withdraw everything.'
'Why did you bring that charge then, Checkley? You've been making
yourself very busy over the character of my Partner. You have permitted
yourself to say things in the office before the clerks about him. If it
turns out that he has had nothing to do with the business, you will be
in a very serious position.'
'I withdraw-- I withdraw everything,' the old clerk replied, but not
meekly. He was prepared to withdraw, but only because he was forced.
'Remember, too, that it was you who brought the charge against young
Arundel.'
'I withdraw-- I withdraw everything.'
'You went so far as to remember--the other day--having seen him replace
the notes in the safe. What do you say to that?'
'I withdraw.'
'But it was a direct statement--the testimony of an eyewitness. Was it
true or not?--I don't know you this morning, Checkley. First, you appear
shaking and trembling: then you tell me things which seem in no way to
warrant so much agitation. Next, you withdraw an accusation which ought
never to have been made except with the strongest proof. And now you
wish to withdraw an alleged fact.'
Checkley shook his head helplessly.
'I acknowledge that the business remains as mysterious as before.
Nothing has been found out. But there remains an evident and savage
animosity on your part towards two young gentlemen in succession. Why?
What have they done to you?'
Checkley made reply in bold words, but still standing with hanging
hands: 'I withdraw the animosity. I withdraw everything. As for young
Arundel, he was a supercilious beast. We were dirt beneath his feet. The
whole earth belonged to him. He used to imitate my ways of speaking, and
he used to make the clerks laugh at me. I hated him then. I hate him
still. It was fun to him that an old man, nigh seventy, with no
education, shouldn't speak like a young gentleman of Oxford and
Cambridge College. He used to stick his hat on the back of his head as
if it was a crown, and he'd slam the door after him as if he was a
Partner. I hated him. I was never so glad as when he ran away in a rage.
He was coming between you and me, too.--Oh! I saw it. Cunning he was.
Laying his lines for to come between you and me.'
'Why--you were jealous, Checkley.'
'I was glad when he ran away. And I always thought he'd done it, too. As
for seeing him put the cheque back in the safe, I perceive now that I
never did see him do it. Yet I seemed to think at the time that I'd
remembered seeing him do a kind of a sort of a something like it. I now
perceive that I was wrong. He never done it. He hadn't the wits to
contrive it. That sort is never half sharp. Too fine gentleman for such
a trick.--Oh! I know what you are going to say next. How about the
second young fellow? I hate him too. I hate him because he's the same
supercilious beast as the other, and because he's been able to get round
you. He's carneyed you--no fool like an old fool--and flattered
you--till you've made him a Partner. I've worked for you heart and soul
for sixty years and more, and this boy comes in and cuts me out in a
twelvemonth.'
'Well! but Checkley--hang it!--I couldn't make you a Partner.'
'You didn't want no Partners. You could do your work, and I could do
mine and yours too, even if you did want to go asleep of an afternoon.'
'This is grave, however. You hated Mr. Austin, and therefore you bring
against him this foul charge. This is very grave, Checkley.'
'No-- I thought he was guilty. I did, indeed. Everything pointed that
way. And I don't understand about young Arundel, because he came into
the _Salutation_ with the Cambridge gentleman who gets drunk there every
night, and he said that he lived at Camberwell for eight years with bad
company as I wouldn't name to you, sir. I thought he was guilty. I did,
indeed.'
'And now?'
'Oh! now it is all over. Everything's upsy down. Nobody's guilty. I know
now that he hasn't had anything to do with it. He's a young man of very
slow intelligence and inferior parts. He couldn't have had anything to
do with it. We ought to have known that.'
'Well--but who has done it, after all?'
'That's it.' Checkley was so troubled that he dropped into a chair in
the presence of his master. 'That's it. Who's done it? Don't you know
who done it? No-- I see you don't so much as suspect. No more don't I.
Else--what to do--what to say--Lord only knows!' He turned and ran--he
scuttled out of the room, banging the door behind him.
'He's mad,' said Mr. Dering. 'Poor man! Age makes some men forgetful,
but it has driven Checkley mad.'