THE MISSING MAN.
It was near ten o'clock that night before Alfred Layard and his sister
gave up trying to get their new home into order. Even then much
remained to be done, but Mrs. Grainger, the charwoman who had been
assisting Hetty all day, had to go home to prepare supper for her
husband, and when she was gone the brother and sister sat down to
their own.
Alfred Layard was employed in the gasworks. His duties did not oblige
him to be at business early; but they kept him there until late in the
evening. He had a very small salary, just no more than enough to live
on in strict economy. He had rented a little cottage during his brief
married life, and the modest furniture in the room where the brother
and sister now sat at supper had been bought for his bride's home out
of his savings. Just as his lease of the cottage expired he heard of
this house, and that the owner or agent would be glad to let it at a
rent almost nominal on the condition of two rooms being reserved and
kept in order for him.
The place just suited Layard. It was within a short distance of the
gashouse, and he calculated that the arrangement would save him twenty
pounds a year.
"Well, Hetty," said he, with one of his surprisingly pleasant smiles,
as the supper went on, "how do you like the life of a lodging-house
keeper?"
"So far I like it very much indeed, although I have had no chance of
pillage yet."
"Never mind the pillage for a while. I must see if there is any
handbook published on the subject of the 'Lodger Pigeon.' I am not
quite sure there is a book of the kind. I have a notion the art is
traditional, handed down by word of mouth, and that you have to be
sworn of the guild or something of that kind. Before we had our
knockdown in the world, in father's time, when I lived in lodgings in
Bloomsbury, I knew a little of the craft--as a victim, mind you; but
now I have forgotten all about it, except that neither corks nor
stoppers had appreciable effect in retarding the evaporation of wine
or spirits, and that fowl or game or meat always went too bad twelve
hours after it was cooked to be of further use to me. Tea also would
not keep in the insalubrious air of Bloomsbury."
"Well," said the girl, with a smile, "I suppose I must only live in
hope. I cannot expect to be inspired. It would, perhaps, be
unreasonable to expect that the sight of our first lodger for
half-an-hour would make me perfect in the art of turning him to good
account. It is a distressing thing to feel one is losing one's
opportunity; but then, what is one to do?" she asked pathetically,
spreading out her hands to her brother in comic appeal.
"It is hard," said he with anxiety; then brightening he added, "Let us
pray for better times, better luck, more light. By the way, Hetty, now
that we have fully arranged our method of fleecing the stranger, what
do you think of him? How do you find him? Do you like him?"
"I find him very good-looking and agreeable."
"I hope there is no danger of your falling in love with him. Remember,
he is a married man," said the brother, shaking a minatory finger at
the girl opposite him; "and bear in mind bigamy is a seven years'
affair."
"It's very good of you to remind me, Alfred," she said gravely. "But
as I have not been married, I don't see how I could commit bigamy."
"You are not qualified _yet_ to commit it yourself, but you might
become an accessory."
"By the way, Alfred, now that I think of it," said she, dropping her
playful manner and looking abstracted and thoughtful, with a white
finger on her pink cheek, "I did notice a remarkable circumstance
about our new lodger. Did you?"
"No," said the brother, throwing himself back in his chair and
looking at the ceiling, "except that he has a habit of winking both
his eyes when he is in thought, which always indicates a man fond of
double-dealing. Don't you see, Hetty?--one eye winked, single-dealing;
two eyes, double-dealing. What can be more natural? There is one thing
about trade I can never make out. Book keeping by double-entry is an
interesting, respectable, and laudable affair, and yet double-dealing
is a little short of infamous."
"I don't understand what you are saying, Alfred," said the girl in a
voice of reproach and despair. "I don't think you know yourself, and I
am sure it's nonsense."
"Yes, dear."
"No; I'm not joking," she cried impatiently. "I _did_ observe
something very remarkable about Mr. Crawford, under the circumstances.
Did you not notice he never spoke of his wife, or even referred to
her, although he got all this property through her or from her?"
Layard looked down from the dingy ceiling. "Of course, you are right,
child. I did not notice it at the time; but now I recollect he neither
spoke of his wife nor made any reference to her. It was strange. And
now that I think of it, he did not upon our previous meeting. It is
strange. I suppose he is ashamed to own he owes everything to his
wife."
"Well," said the girl hotly, "if he had the courage to take her money
he might have the courage to own it, particularly as he is aware we
know all about him."
"All about him?" said the brother in surprise. "Indeed, we don't know
all about him; we know very little about him--that is, unless this
wonderful wife of Grainger told you."
"No; she told me nothing about him. But we know that the money
belonged to Mrs. Crawford and not to him, and that he changed his name
to marry the widow, as otherwise her property would go somewhere
else."
"To Guy's Hospital. But it would not go to the hospital if she
remained unmarried. The fact of the matter is, I believe, that this
Crawford--I mean the original one--was a self-made man, and very proud
of his own achievements, and wished to keep his name associated with
his money as long as possible. You see, when he married he was an
elderly, if not an old man, and his wife was a young and very handsome
woman. Now she is middle-aged and an invalid."
"Then," cried Hetty with sprightly wrath, "I think it the more
shameful for him to make no allusion to her. But you have not told me
all the story. Tell it to me now, there's a good, kind, dear Alfred.
But first I'll clear away, and run up for a moment to see how Freddie
is in his new quarters. He was so tired after the day that he fell
asleep before his head touched the pillow."
She found the boy sleeping deeply in his cot beside her own bed. She
tucked him in, although the clothes had not been disarranged, and then
bent down over him, laying her forearm all along his little body, and,
drawing him to her side, kissed him first on the curls and then on the
cheek, and then smoothed with her hand the curl she had kissed, as
though her tender lips had disturbed it. After this she ran down
quickly, and, entering the sitting-room, said, as she took her chair,
"He hasn't stirred since I put him to bed, poor chap. I hope he won't
find this place very lonely. He will not even see another child here.
And now, Alfred," she added, taking up some work, "tell me all you
know about our lodger, for I have heard little or nothing yet."
"Well, what I know is soon told. His old name was Goddard, William
Goddard. He came to live at Richmond some time ago, and lodged next
door to Mrs. Crawford's house. She was then an invalid, suffering
from some affection which almost deprived her of the use of her limbs.
She went out only in a carriage or Bath-chair. He met her frequently,
and became acquainted with her, often walking beside her in her
Bath-chair. Her bedroom was on the first floor of her house; his was
on the first floor of the next house. One night the lower part of her
house caught fire. He crept on a stone ledge running along both houses
at the level of the first floor window. He had a rope, and by it
lowered her down into the garden and saved her life, every one said.
The shock, strange to say, had a beneficial effect upon her health.
She recovered enough strength to be able to walk about, and--she
married him."
The girl paused in her work, dropping her hands and her sewing, and
falling into a little reverie, with her head on one side.
"So that he is a kind of hero," she said softly.
"Yes; a kind of hero. I don't think his risk was very great, for he
could have jumped at any time, and got off with a broken leg or so."
"A broken leg or so!" cried she indignantly. "Upon my word, Alfred,
you do take other people's risks coolly. I don't wonder at her
marrying him, and I am very sorry I said anything against him awhile
ago. The age of chivalry is not gone. Now, if she was young and
good-looking--but forty, and an invalid----"
"And very rich," interrupted the brother, stretching himself out
on the infirm couch and blowing a great cloud of smoke from his
briar-root pipe.
"Your cynicism is intolerable, Alfred. It is most unmanly and
ungenerous, and I for one have made up my mind to like, to admire
Mr.----"
A knock at the door prevented her finishing the sentence.
"Come in," cried Layard, springing up and moving towards the door.
"I am afraid it is a most unreasonable hour to disturb you."
"Not at all," said Layard, setting a chair for the lodger. "My sister
and I were merely chatting. We are not early people, you must know. I
haven't to be at the works until late, so we generally have our little
talks nearer to midnight than most people. Pray sit down."
Crawford sat down somewhat awkwardly, winking both his eyes rapidly as
he did so. He gave one of his short, sharp laughs.
"You will think me very foolish, no doubt," he said, looking from one
to the other and winking rapidly, "but, do you know, what you said
about that man going into the canal has had a most unaccountable and
unpleasant effect upon me. I feel quite unnerved. As you are aware, I
am not acquainted with the neighbourhood. Would it be asking too much
of you, Mr. Layard, to go out with me for a few minutes and ascertain
for certain that no accident has befallen this man--that is, if Miss
Layard would not be afraid of being left alone for a little while? If
my mind is not set at rest I know I shall not sleep a wink to-night."
"Afraid? Afraid of what, Mr. Crawford? Good gracious, I am not afraid
of anything in the world," cried the girl, rising. "Of course Alfred
will go with you."
Layard expressed his willingness, and in a short time the two men were
out of the house in the dark lane, where burned only one lamp at the
end furthest from the main road.
"I do not know how we are to find out about this man," said Layard, as
they turned from the blind street into Welford Road; "could you
describe him?"
Layard thought Crawford must be a very excitable and somewhat
eccentric man to allow himself to be troubled by a purely playful
speech as to the pedestrian on the tow-path; but he felt he had been
almost unjust to Crawford when talking to his sister, and he was
anxious for this reason, and because of a desire to conciliate his
lodger, to gratify him by joining in this expedition, which he looked
on as absurd.
"Yes; I can describe him. He wore a black tail-coat, a round black
hat, a black tie, and dark tweed trousers. He was nearer your height
and build than mine. The chief things in his face are a long straight
nose, dark and very straight brows, and dark eyes. He has no colour
in his cheeks."
Layard drew up in amazement.
"Do you mean to say," he asked with emphasis, "that you could see all
this at such a distance?"
"I," the other answered with a second's hesitation--"I used a glass."
"O!" said Layard; and they resumed their walk, and nothing further was
said until they came to the bridge, on which they stood looking up the
tow-path, along which the pedestrian ought to have come.
Layard broke the silence.
"Unless we are to make a commotion, I don't see what we can do beyond
asking the toll-man. The gate is shut now. It must be eleven o'clock,
and this place owns an early-to-bed population."
He was now beginning to regret his too easy participation in his
lodger's absurd quest.
"Do not let us make any commotion, but just ask the toll-man quietly
if such a man went through his gate," said Crawford hastily. "I know
my uneasiness is foolish, but I cannot help it."
They turned from the parapet over which they had been looking, and
Layard led the way a little down the road, and, then turning sharp to
the right, entered the approach to the toll-house.
As they emerged from the darkness of the approach, the toll-taker was
crossing the wharf or quay towards the gate. He passed directly under
a lamp, and opened the gate which closed the path at the bridge.
Crawford caught Layard by the arm, and held him back, whispering:
"Wait!"
From the gloom of the arch a young man stepped out into the light of
the lamp. He wore a black tailed-coat, a black tie, a black round hat,
and dark tweed trousers. His nose was straight, and his brows
remarkably dark and straight. Upon the whole, a young man of rather
gloomy appearance.
"It's all right," whispered Crawford quickly into Layard's ear;
"that's the man. Come away."
He drew his companion forcibly along the approach back to the road.
"It's well I didn't make a fool of myself," he whispered. "Come on
quickly. I am ashamed even to meet this man after my childish fears."
They were clear of the approach, and retracing their steps over the
bridge, before the pedestrian emerged from the darkness of the
approach. When he gained Welford Road he went on straight--that is, in
a direction opposite to that taken by the two.
"I am greatly relieved," said Crawford, rubbing his perspiring
forehead with his handkerchief.
"I am not," thought Layard. "I am afraid there is something wrong with
Crawford's upper storey."