 Story 2 of The Loot of Cities by Arnold Bennett The chain of circumstances leading to the sudden and unexpected return of Mr. and Mrs. Penn found from their continental holiday was in itself curious and even remarkable, but it has nothing to do with the present narrative which begins with the actual arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Penn found before the portal of their suburban residence number seven, Munster Gardens, at a quarter before midnight on the 30th of August. It was a detached house with a spacious triangular garden at the back. It had an air of comfort, of sobriety, of good form, of success, one divine by looking at it that the rent ran to about eighty pounds and that the tenant was not a man who had to save up for quarter days. It was a credit to the street, which upon the whole, with its noble trees and its pretty curve, is distinctly the best street in Fulham. And in fact, number seven, in every way justified the innocent pride of the Penn Founds. I can feel cobwebs all over me, said Mrs. Penn found crossly as they entered the porch, and Mr. Penn found took out his latch-key. She was hungry, hot, and tired, and she exhibited a certain petishness, a petishness which Mr. Penn found, whenever it occurred, found a particular pleasure in soothing. Mr. Penn found himself was seldom ruffled. Most men would have been preoccupied with the discomforts of the arrival, but not George Penn found. Mr. Penn found was not and had never been of those who go daily into the city by a particular train and think the world is coming to an end if the news agent fails to put the newspaper on the doorstep before eight a.m. Mr. Penn found had lived. He had lived adventurously, and he had lived everywhere. He had slept under the stars and over the throbbing screws of ocean steamers. He knew the harbors of the British Empire and the waste places of the unpeopled west, and the mysterious enveron of foreign cities. He had been first made of a tramp steamer, Wood Sawyer in Ontario, Ganger on the Canadian Pacific Railway, Clark at a Rand mine, and land agent in California. It was the last occupation that had happened to yield the eighty thousand dollars which rendered him independent and established him so splendidly at the age of forty in Fulham the place of his birth. Then shrewd, clear, and kindly, his face was the face of a man who has learned the true philosophy of life. He took the world as he found it, and he found it good. To such a man, an unexpected journey, even though it ended at a deserted and unprepared home, whose larder proved as empty as his stomach, was really nothing. By the time Mr. Penn found had locked up the house, turned out the light in the hall, and arrived in the bedroom, Mrs. Penn found was fast asleep. He sat down in the armchair by the window, charmed by the gentle radiance of the night, and unwilling to go to bed. Like most men who have seen the world, he had developed the instincts of a poet, and was something of a dreamer. Half an hour, or it might have been an hour, poets are oblivious of time, had passed when, into Mr. Penn found's visions, there entered a sinister element. He straightened himself stiffly in the chair and listened, smiling. By Jove, he whispered, I do believe it's a burglar. I'll give the beggar time to get fairly in, and then we'll have some fun. It seemed to him that he heard a few clicking noises at the back of the house, and then a sound as if something was being shoved hard. The dining room window, he said. In a few minutes it became perfectly evident to his trained and acute ear that a burglar occupied the dining room, and accordingly he proceeded to carry out other arrangements. Removing his boots, he assumed a pair of soft, woollen house slippers, which lay under the bed. Then he went to a chest of drawers, and took out two revolvers. Handling these lovingly, he glanced once at his sleeping wife, and shod in the silent woollen, passed noiselessly out of the room. By stepping very close to the wall, so as to put as light a strain as possible upon the woodwork, he contrived to descend to the half-landing without causing a sound. But on the half-landing itself there occurred an awful creek, a creek that seemed to reverberate into infinite space. Mr. Penfoun stopped a second, but perceiving the unwisdom of a hole immediately proceeded. In that second of consternation he had remembered that only two chambers of one revolver and one chamber of the other were loaded. It was an unfortunate chance. Should he return and load fully? Oh, preposterous! He remembered with pride the sensation which he had caused one night, ten years before, in a private shooting saloon in Paris, three shots to cripple one burglar for him. It was a positive extravagance of means, and he continued down the stairs cautiously but rapidly feeling his way. The next occurrence brought him up, standing at the dining-room door, which was open. He heard voices in the dining-room. There were then two burglars. Three shots for two burglars? Poo! Ample! This was what he heard. Did you drink out of this glass, Jack? Not I. I took a bowl out of the bottle. So did I. Well, there was a pause. Mr. Penfoun discovered that by putting an eye to the crack at the hinges he could see the burglars, who had lighted one gas jet, and were sitting at the table. They were his first burglars, and they rather shocked his preconceived notions of the type. They hadn't the look of burglars. No bluish chins, no louring eyes, no corduroy, no knotted red handkerchiefs. One, the younger, dressed in blue surge with linen collar and a soiled pink necktie, might have been a city clerk of the lower grade. He had light bushy hair and a yellow mustache. His eyes were large and pale blue, his chin weak. Altogether Mr. Penfoun decided that had he seen the young man elsewhere than in that dining-room he would never have suspected him to be a burglar. The other was of middle-age, neatly dressed in dark gray, but with a ruffian's face and dark hair, cut extremely close. He wore a soft felt hat at a negligent poise and was smoking a cigarette. He was examining the glass out of which Mr. Penfoun had but recently drunk whiskey. Look here, Jack, the man in gray, said to his companion, you haven't drunk out of this glass and I haven't, but someone's drunk out of it, it's wet. The young man, peeled and with an oath, snatched up the glass to look at it. Mr. Penfoun noticed how suddenly his features arrived into a complicated expression of cowardice, cunning, and vice. He no longer doubted that the youth was an authentic burglar. The older man remained calm. This house is as empty as we thought, my boy. There's someone here. Yes, gentlemen, there is, remarked Mr. Penfoun, quietly stepping into the room with the revolver upraised in each hand. The young man dropped the glass and, after rolling along the table, it fell on the floor and broke, making a marvelous noise in the silence. While I'm blowed, exclaimed the burglar in gray and turned to the window. Don't stir, put your hands up and look slippy, I mean business, said Mr. Penfoun steadily. The burglar in gray made two hasty steps to the window. Mr. Penfoun's revolver spoke. It was the one in his left hand containing two shots and, with a muffled howl, the burglar suddenly halted, cursing with pain and anger. Hands up, both of you, repeated Mr. Penfoun imperturbably. A few drops of blood appeared on the left wrist of the older burglar, showing where he had been hit. With evident pain he raised both hands to the level of his shoulders. The left hand clearly was useless. It hung sideways in a peculiar fashion. The youthful criminal was trembling like a spray of maiden hair and had his hands high up over his head. Mr. Penfoun joyfully reflected that no London burglar had ever before found himself in such a ridiculous position as these do, and he took a genuine artistic pleasure in the spectacle. But what to do next? The youth began to speak with a whine like that of a beggar. Dylons, said Mr. Penfoun impressively, and proceeded with his cogitations, a revolver firm and steady in each hand. The shot had evidently not wakened his wife and to disturb her now from a refreshing and long-needed sleep in order to send her for the police would not only be unshivalrous, it would disclose a lack of resource, a certain clumsiness of management in an affair which Mr. Penfoun felt sure he ought to be able to carry neatly to an effective conclusion. Besides, if a revolver shot in the house had not wakened his wife, what could wake her? He could not go upstairs to her and leave the burglars to await his return. Then an idea occurred to Mr. Penfoun. Now, my men, he said cheerfully, I think you understand that I am not joking, and that I can shoot a bit, and that, whatever the laws of this country, I do shoot. He waved the muzzle of one revolver in the direction of the gray man's injured wrist. OK, Governor, the owner of the wrist be there, strutful, I shall paint. Paint, then, I know it hurts. The man's face was white with pain, but Mr. Penfoun had seen too many strange sights in his life to be greatly moved by the sight of a rascal with a bullet in his anatomy. To proceed, you will stand side by side and turn around. The young gentleman will open the window and you will pass out into the garden. March, slower, slower, I say. Halt! The burglars were now outside while Mr. Penfoun was still within the room. He followed them and, in doing so, stumbled over a black bag which lay on the floor. Fortunately, he recovered himself instantly. He noticed, lying on the top of the bag, a small bunch of skeleton keys, some putty, and what looked like a thong of rawhide. He also observed that three small panes of the French window had been forced inwards. Turn to your left, go down the pathway, and halt when you come to the side gate. And don't hurry, mind you. They obeyed, without speaking even to each other. Mr. Penfoun had no fear of their disobedience. He was within two yards of their heels, and he said to himself that his hands were superbly steady. It was at this point that Mr. Penfoun began to feel hungry, really hungry. The whisky had appeased the cravings of his stomach for a short time, but now its demands were imperious. Owing to the exigencies of the day's journey, he had not had a satisfying meal for thirty hours, and Mr. Penfoun, since settling down, had developed a liking for regular meals. However, there was nothing to be done at present. He therefore proceeded with and safely accomplished his plan of driving the burglars before him into the street. Here, he thought, we shall soon be seeing a policeman or some late bird who will fetch a policeman. And he drove his curious team up Munster Park Gardens towards Fulham Road, that interminable highway, once rural, but rural, no longer. The thoroughfares seemed to be absolutely deserted. Mr. Penfoun could scarcely believe that London, even in the dead of night, could be so lonely. The gas lamps shone steady in the still warm air, and above them the star-studded sky with a thin, sickle moon, at which, however, as beautiful as it was, Mr. Penfoun could not look. His gaze was fixed on the burglars. As he inspected their backs, he wondered what their thoughts were. He felt that in their place he should have been somewhat amused by the humor of the predicament. But their backs showed no signs of feeling, and lest it were that of resignation. The older man had dropped his injured arm with Mr. Penfoun's tacit consent, and it now hung loose by his side. The procession moved slowly eastward along Fulham Road, the two burglars first, silent, glum and disgusted, and Mr. Penfoun with his revolvers close behind. Still no policeman, no wayfarer. Mr. Penfoun began to feel a little anxious, and his hunger was insufferable. This little procession of his could not move forever. Something must occur, and Mr. Penfoun said that something must occur quickly. He looked up at the houses with a swift glance, but these dark faces of brick, all with closed eyelids, gave him no sign of encouragement. He thought of firing his revolver in order to attract attention, but remembered in time that if he did so he would have only one shot left for his burglars, an insufficient allowance in case of contingencies. But presently, as the clock of Fulham Parish Church struck three, Mr. Penfoun beheld an oasis of waving palms and cool water in this desert, that is to say he saw in the distance one of those coffee stalls which, just before midnight, mysteriously dot themselves about London, only to disappear again at breakfast time. The burglars also saw it, and stopped almost involuntarily. Get on now, said Mr. Penfoun gruffly, and stopped five paces past the coffee stall there. Yes, sir, wind the young burglar. I remark the old burglar coolly. As Mr. Penfoun approached the coffee stall, he observed that it was no ordinary coffee stall. It belonged to the aristocracy of coffee stalls. It was painted a lovely deep crimson, and on this crimson, amid flowers and scrolls, have been inscribed the names of the delicacies within—tea, coffee, cocoa, rolls, sandwiches, toast, sausages, even bacon and eggs. Mr. Penfoun's stomach called aloud within him at the rumour of these good things. When the trio arrived, the stallkeeper happened to be bending over a tea urn, and he did not notice the halt of the procession until Mr. Penfoun spoke. I say, Mr. Penfoun began, holding the revolvers, about the level of his top waistcoat button, and with his eyes fixed on the burglars, I say, to your coffee, asked the stallkeeper shortly, looking up. Neither, that is at present, replied Mr. Penfoun sweetly, and the fact is, I've got two burglars here. To what? Where? Mr. Penfoun then explained the whole circumstances, and I want you to fetch a couple of policemen. The stallkeeper paused a moment. He was a grim fellow, so Mr. Penfoun gathered from the corner of his eye. Well, that's about the best stories I ever heard, the stallkeeper said, hey, you want me to fetch a policeman? Yes, and I hope you'll hurry up. I'm tired of holding these revolvers. And I'm to leave my stall, am I? Certainly. The stallkeeper placed the first finger of his left hand upright against his nose. Well, I just ain't, then. What do you take me for, a bloomin' owl? Look at it, Mr. No, kid. Now, every night some jokers tries to get me away from my stall, so as they can empty it and run off. But I ain't been in this line 19 years for nothing. Now you go and take your tail, and your pistols, and your bloomin' burglars somewhere else. As you please, said Mr. Penfoun, with dignity, only I'll wait here till a policeman comes or someone. You will then learn that I have told you the truth. How soon will a policeman be along? Might be an hour, maybe be more. There ain't likely to be no other people till 4.30 or thereabouts. That's when my trade begins. Mr. Penfoun was annoyed. His hunger, exasperated by the exquisite odors of the stall, increased every second, and the prospect of waiting an hour, even half an hour, was appalling. Another idea occurred to him. Will you, he said to the stallkeeper, kindly put one of those sausages into my mouth? I dare not loose these revolvers. Not till I seize your money. Hunger made, and Mr. Penfoun found humble, and he continued, will you come round to take the money out of my pocket? No, I won't. I don't leave his ear counter. I know your dodges. Very well. I will wait. Steady on, Governor. You aren't the only chap that's hungry. Mr. Penfoun turned sharply at the voice. It was the elder burglar who spoke, and the elder burglar had faced him, and was approaching the stall, regardless of revolvers. Mr. Penfoun noticed a twinkle in the man's eye, a faint appreciation of the fact that the situation was funny, and Mr. Penfoun gave way to a slight smile. He was being disobeyed flatly, but for the life of him he could not shoot. Besides, there was no occasion to shoot, as the burglar was certainly making no attempt to escape. The fellow was brave enough, after all. Two slabs and a pint of thick, he said to the stallkeeper, and was immediately served with a jug of coffee, and two huge pieces of bread and butter, for which he flung down tuppence. Mr. Penfoun was astounded. He was too astounded to speak by the coolness of this criminal. Look here, the elder burglar continued, quietly handing one of the pieces of bread and butter to his companion in sin, who by this time had also crept up. You can put down them revolvers, and tuck in till the peeler comes along. We know when we're copped, and we aren't going to skip. You tuck in, Governor. Give it a name, said the stallkeeper, with an eye to business. Mr. Penfoun, scarcely knowing what he did or why he did it, put down one revolver and, at the end of the other, fished a shilling from his pocket, and presently was engaged in the consumption of a ham sandwich and coffee. You're a cool one, he said at length, rather admiringly, to the elder burglar. So are you, said the elder burglar, and he and Mr. Penfoun both glanced somewhat scornfully at the other burglar, undersized, gringing, pale. Ever been caught before, as Mr. Penfoun pleasantly? What's that got to do with you? The retort was gruff, final, a snub, and Mr. Penfoun felt it, as such. He had the curious sensation that he was in the presence of a superior spirit, a stronger personality than his own. Here the policeman remarked the stallkeeper casually, and they all listened and heard the noise of regular footfalls away round a distant corner. Mr. Penfoun struggled inwardly with a sudden over-mastering impulse, and then yielded. You can go, he said quietly to the elder burglar, so clear off before the policeman sees you. Straight, the man said, looking him in the eyes, to make sure there was no joking. Straight, my friend, here, shake. So it happened that Mr. Penfoun and the elder burglar shook hands. The next instant Mr. Penfoun was alone with the stallkeeper. The other two, with the celerity born of practice, had banished into the night. Did you ever see such a man, said Mr. Penfoun to the stallkeeper, putting the revolvers in his pocket, and feeling strangely happy, as one who has done a good action. You know, kid me, was the curt reply, it was all a plant. Want anything else? Because I'm not, you best go. Yes, I do, said Mr. Penfoun, for he had thought of his wife. He spent seven pence in various good things, and was just gathering his purchases together when the policeman appeared. Good night, officer, he called out blithely, and set off to run home, as though for his life. As he re-entered the bedroom at number seven, his wife sat up in bed, a beautiful but accusing figure. George, he said, where have you been? My love, he answered, I've been out into the night to get you this sausage, and this cake, and this sandwich. Eat them, they will do you good. End of Story Two. Story Three of the Loot of Cities by Arnold Bennett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story Three, Midnight at the Grand Babylon. One. Well, said the doctor, you say I've been very secretive lately, perhaps I have. However, I don't mind telling you, just you fellows, the whole history of the affair that has preoccupied me. I shat, assert, that it's the most curious case in all my experience. My experience has been pretty varied, and pretty lively, as you know, and the cases are curious in such different ways. Still, a poisoning business is always a bit curious, and this one was extremely so. It isn't often that a person who means to commit murder by poison calls in a physician to assist him and deliberately uses the unconscious medico as his tool. Yet that is exactly what happened. It isn't often that a poisoner can try to hit on a poison which is at once original, almost untraceable, and to be obtained from any chemist without a doctor's prescription. Yet that too is exactly what happened. I can assure you that the entire episode was a lesson to me. It opened my eyes to the possibilities which lie ready to the hand of a really intelligent murderer in this 20th century. People talk about the masterpieces of poisoning in the Middle Ages. Oh, second rate! They didn't know enough in the Middle Ages to achieve anything which a modern poisoner with genius would deem first rate. They simply didn't know enough. Another point in the matter, which forcibly struck me, was the singular usefulness of a big London hotel to a talented criminal. You can do precisely what you please in a big hotel, and nobody takes the least notice. You wander in, you wander out, and who cares? You are only an item in a crowd. And when you have reached the upper corridors, you are as lost to pursuit and observation as a needle in a haystack. You may take two rooms, one after the other, in different names, and in different parts of the hotel. The servants and officials will be none the wiser, because the second floor knows not the third nor the third the fourth. You may oscillate between those two rooms in a manner to puzzle Inspector Anderson himself. And you are just as secure in your apartments as a medieval baron in his castle. Yes, and more. On that night there were over a thousand guests in the Grand Babylon Hotel. There was a ball in the gold rooms and a couple of banquets, and in the midst of all that diverse humanity, unperceived, unsuspected, a poignant and a terrible drama was going on, and things so occurred that I tumbled right into it. Well, I'll tell you. Two. I was called into the Grand Babylon about nine p.m., suite number 63, second floor, at name of Russell. The outer door of the suite was open for me by a well-dressed woman of thirty or so, slim, with a face expressive and intelligent, rather than handsome. I liked her face. I was attracted by his look of honesty and alert good nature. Good evening, doctor. She said she had a charming, low voice, as she led me into a highly luxurious drawing-room. My name is Russell, and I wish you to see a young friend of mine who is not well. She hesitated and turned to an old bald-headed man who stood looking out of the window at the twilight panorama of the Thames. My friend's solicitor, Mr. Dancer, she explained. We bowed, Mr. Dancer, and I. Nothing serious, I hope, I remarked. No, no, said Miss Russell. Nevertheless, she seemed to me to be extremely nervous and anxious as she proceeded me into the bedroom, a chamber quite as magnificent as the drawing-room. On the bed lay a beautiful young girl. Yes, you may laugh, you fellows, but she was genuinely beautiful. She smiled faintly as we entered. Her features had an ashy tint and tiny drops of cold perspiration stood on the forehead. However, she certainly wasn't very ill. I could see that in a moment, and I fixed my conversational tone accordingly. Do you feel as if you could to breathe freely, but that if you did it would kill you? I inquired, after I had examined her. And she nodded, smiling again. Miss Russell also smiled, evidently pleased that I had diagnosed the case so quickly. My patient was suffering from a mild attack of a pseudo angina. Nothing worse. Not angina pectores. You know that's usually associated with old age. Pseudo angina is a different thing. With a weak heart it may be caused by indigestion. The symptoms are cardiac spasms, acute pain in the chest, a strong disinclination to make even the smallest movement, and a state of mental depression, together with that queer fancy about breathing. The girl had these symptoms, and she also had a headache, and a dichotism of the pulse. Two pulsations, instead of one. Not unusual. I found that she had been eating a two-hearty dinner, and that she had suffered from several similar attacks in the immediate past. You had a doctor in before, I asked? Yes, said Miss Russell, but he was unable to come tonight, and as your house is so near, we sent for you. There is no danger whatsoever. No real cause for anxiety, I summed up. I will have some medicine made up instantly. Trinitin demanded to Miss Russell? Yes, I answered a little astonished at this readiness. Your regular physician prescribed it. I should explain to you that Trinitin is nothing but nitroglycerin in a non-explosive form. I think it was Trinitin, Miss Russell replied, with an appearance of doubtfulness. Perhaps you will write the prescription, and I will dispatch a messenger at once. I should be obliged, doctor, if you would remain with us until—if you would remain with us. Decidedly, I said, I will remain with pleasure, but do accept my assurance, I added, gazing at her face so anxious and apprehensive that there is no cause for alarm. She smiled and concurred, but I could see that I had not convinced her, and I began to suspect that she was not, after all, so intelligent as I had imagined. My patient, who was not now in any pain, lay calmly with closed eyes. 3. Do not forget the old bald-headed lawyer in the drawing-room. I suppose you are often summoned to the Grand Babylon Sir, living as you do just around the corner, he remarked to me, somewhat pompously. He had a big nose and a habit of staring at you over his eyeglasses, with his mouth wide open, after having spoken. We were alone together in the drawing-room. I was waiting for the arrival of the medicine, and he was waiting for—I don't know what he was waiting for. Occasionally, not often, I responded, I am called more frequently to the majestic over the way. Just so, just so, he murmured. I could see that he meant to be polite in his high and dry antique legal style, and I could see also that he was very bored in that hotel drawing-room. So I proceeded to explain the case to him, and to question him discreetly about my patient and Miss Russell. You are, of course, aware, sir, that the young lady is Miss Spanton, Miss Adelaide Spanton, he said. What? Not THE Spanton? Precisely, sir, the daughter of Edgar Spanton, and my late client, the great newspaper proprietor. And this Miss Russell? Miss Russell was formerly Miss Adelaide's governess. She is now her friend, and profoundly attached to the young lady. A disinterested attachment, so far as I can judge, though naturally many people will think otherwise, Miss Adelaide is of a very shy and retiring disposition. She has no other friends, and she has no near relatives. Safe for Miss Russell, she is, sir, if I may so phrase it, alone in the world. But Miss Spanton is surely very wealthy. You come to the point, sir, if my young client reaches her twenty-first birthday, she will be the absolute mistress of the whole of her father's fortune. You may have noticed in the public press that I swore his estate at more than three millions. And how far is Miss Spanton from her twenty-first birthday, I demanded? The old lawyer glanced at his watch. Something less than three hours. At midnight she will have legally entered on her twenty-second year. I see, I said. Now I can understand Miss Russell's anxiety, which refuses to be relieved even by my positive assurance. No doubt Miss Russell has worked herself up into a highly nervous condition. And may I inquire what will happen? I mean, what would have happened if Miss Spanton had not reached her majority? The entire estate would have passed to a cousin, a Mr. Samuel Grist of Melbourne. I daresay you know the name. Mr. Grist is understood to be the leading theatrical manager in Australia. Speaking as one professional man to another, sir, I may venture to remark that Mr. Grist's reputation is more than a little doubtful, you may have heard, many transactions and adventures. Ah, still he is my late client's sole surviving relative, except Miss Adelaide. I have never had the pleasure of meeting him. He confines himself exclusively to Australia. This night, then, I laughed, will see the end of any hopes which Mr. Grist may have entertained. Exactly, sir, the lawyer agreed. It will also see the end of Miss Russell's immediate anxieties. Upon my word, since Mr. Spanton's regrettable death, she has been both father and mother to my lonely young client, a practical woman, sir, Miss Russell, and the excessiveness of her apprehensions, if I may so phrase it, must be excused. She has begged me to remain here till midnight, in order that I may witness to Miss Spanton's vitality, and also in order to obtain Miss Spanton's signature to certain necessary documents. I should not be surprised, sir, if she requested you also to remain. She is not a woman to omit precautions. I'm afraid I can't stop till twelve, I said. The conversation ceased, and I fell into meditation. I do not mind admitting that I was deeply impressed by what I will call the romantic quality of the situation. I thought of old Spanton, who had begun with something less than nothing, and died virtually the owner of three daily papers and twenty-five weeklies and monthlies. I thought of Spanton's limited and their colossal offices spreading half-round Salisbury Square. Why, I even had a copy of the extra-special edition of the Evening Gazette in my pocket. Do any of you fellas remember Spanton starting the Evening Gazette? He sold three hundred thousand the first day. And now old Spanton was dead. You know, he died of drink, and there was nothing left of the Spanton blood, except this girl lying there on the bed, and the man in Australia. And all the Spanton editors, and the Spanton sub editors, and the Spanton artists, and the Spanton reporters and compositors, and the Spanton rotary presses, and the Spanton paper mills, and the Spanton cyclists were slaving and toiling to put eighty thousand a year into this girl's purse. And there she was, feeble and depressed and solitary, except for Miss Russell and the man in Australia, perhaps, hoping that she would die. And there was Miss Russell worrying and fussing and apprehending and fearing, and the entire hotel oblivious of the romantic, I could almost say, pathetic situation. And then I thought of Miss Spanton's future burdened with those three millions, and I wondered if those three millions would buy her happiness. Here is the medicine doctor, said Miss Russell, entering the drawing room hurriedly, and handing me the bottle with a chemist's label on it. I went with her into the bedroom. The beautiful Adelaide Spanton was already better, and she admitted as much when I administered the medicine. Two menums of a one percent solution of Trinitrin, otherwise Nitroglycerin, the usual remedy for Pseudo angina. Miss Russell took the bottle from my hand, corked it, and placed it on the dressing table. Shortly afterwards I left the hotel. The lawyer had been right in supposing that Miss Russell would ask me to stay, but I was unable to do so. I promised, however, to return in an hour, all the while, insisting that there was not the slightest danger for the patient. Four. It was ten thirty when I came back. Second floor I said carelessly to the lift-boy, and he whirled me upwards. The grand Babylon lifts travel very fast. Here you are, sir, he murmured respectfully, and I stepped out. Is this the second floor, I asked suddenly? Beg pardon, I thought you said seventh, sir. It's time you were in bed, my lad, it was my retort, and I was just re-entering the lift when I caught sight of Miss Russell in the corridor. I called to her, thinking she would perhaps descend with me, but she did not hear, and so I followed her down the corridor, wondering what was her business on the seventh floor. She opened a door and disappeared into a room. Well, I heard a sinister voice exclaim within the room, and then the door was pushed to. It was not latched. I did say the seventh. I called to the lift-boy, and he vanished with his machine. The voice within the room startled me. It gave me furiously to think, as the French say. With a sort of instinctive, unpremeditated action, I pressed gently against the door till it stood ajar about an inch, and I listened. It's a confounded, mysterious case to me, the voice was saying, that that dose the other day didn't finish her. We're running at a dashed sight too close. Here, take this. It's already, label and everything. Substitute the bottles. I'll run no risk this time. One dose will do the trick inside half an hour, and on that I'll bet my boots. Very well, said Miss Russell quite calmly. It's pure trinitin, is it? You're the coolest customer that I ever struck, the voice exclaimed, in an admiring tone. Yes, it's pure trinitin. Beautiful, convenient stuff. Looks like water. No taste. Very little smell. And so volatile that all the doctors on the medical council couldn't trace it at a postmortem. Besides, the doctor prescribed a solution of trinitin, and you got it from the chemist. And in case there's a rumpus, we can shove the mistake onto the chemist's dispenser, and a fine old row he'll get into. By the way, what's the new doctor like? Oh, so-so, said Miss Russell in her even tones. It's a good thing on the whole, perhaps, that I arranged that carriage accident for the first one. The hard, sinister voice remarked, One never knows, get along now at once, and don't look so anxious, your face belies your voice. Give us a kiss. Tomorrow, said Miss Russell. I hurried away, as it were drunk, overwhelmed, with horror and amazement, and turning a corner, so as to avoid discovery, reached the second floor by the staircase. I did not wish to meet Miss Russell in the lift. My first thought was not one of alarm for Adelaide Spanton. Of course, I knew I could prevent the murder, but a profound sorrow that Miss Russell should have proved to be a woman so unspeakably wicked. I swore never to trust a woman's face again. I had liked her face. Then I dwelled on the chance, the mere chance, my careless pronunciation, a lift boy's error, which had saved the life of the poor millionaire girl. And lastly, I marveled at the combined simplicity and ingenuity of the plot. The scoundrel upstairs, possibly Samuel Grist himself, had taken the cleverest advantage of Miss Spanton's tendency to pseudo angina. What could be more clever than to poison with the physician's own medicine? Very probably, the girl's present attack had been induced by an artful appeal to her appetite. Young women, afflicted as she was, are frequently just a little greedy. And I perceived that the villain was correct in assuming that nitroglycerin would never be traced at a post-mortem, save in the smallest possible quantity, just such a quantity as I had myself prescribed. He was also right in his assumption that the pure drug would infallibly kill in half an hour. I pulled myself together, and having surreptitiously watched Miss Russell into suite number sixty-three, I followed her. When I arrived at the bedroom, she was pouring medicine from a bottle. A maid stood at the foot of the bed. I am just giving the second dose, said Miss Russell, easily to me. What a nerve! I said to myself, and aloud, by all means. She measured the dose and approached the bed without a tremor. Adelaide Spanton opened her mouth. Stop! I cried firmly. We'll delay that dose for half an hour. Kindly give me the glass. I took the glass from Miss Russell's passive fingers, and I would like to have a word with you now, Miss Russell, I added. The maid went swiftly from the room. Five. The old bald-headed lawyer had gone down to the hotel smoking saloon for a little diversion, and we faced each other in the drawing room. Miss Russell and I, the glass was still in my hand. And the new doctor is so-so, eh? I remarked. What do you mean, she faltered? I think you know what I mean, I retorted, and he'd only tell you that by a sheer chance I stumbled upon your atrocious plot, the plot of that scoundrel upstairs. All you had to do was to exchange the bottles and administer pure trinitin instead of my prescribed solution of it, and Miss Spanton would be dead in half an hour. The three millions would go to the Australian cousin, and you would doubtless have your reward. Say a cool hundred thousand, or perhaps marriage, and you were about to give the poison when I stopped you. I was not, she cried, and she fell into a chair and hid her face in her hands, and then looked, as it were, longingly towards the bedroom. Miss Spanton is in no danger, I said sneeringly. She will be quite well tomorrow, so you were not going to give the poison after all I laughed. I beg you to listen, doctor, she said at length standing up. I am in a most invidious position. Nevertheless, I think I can convince you that your suspicions against me are unfounded. I laughed again, but secretly I admired her for acting the part so well. Doubtless, I interjected sarcastically in the pause. The man upstairs is Samuel Grist, supposed to be in Australia. It is four months ago since I, who am Adelaide Spanton's soul friend, discovered that he was scheming her death. The skill of his methods appalled me. There was nothing to put before the police, and yet I had a horrible fear of the worst. I felt that he would stop at nothing, absolutely at nothing. I felt that if we ran away he would follow us. I had a presentiment that he would infallibly succeed, and I was haunted by it day and night. Then an idea occurred to me. I would pretend to be his accomplice, and I saw suddenly that that was the surest way, the sole way of defeating him. I approached him, and he accepted the bait. I carried out all his instructions, except the fatal instructions. It is by his orders, and for his purposes, that we are staying in this hotel. Heavens, to make certain of saving my darling Adelaide, I have even gone through the farce of promising to marry him. And do you seriously expect me to believe this? I asked coldly. Should I have had the solicitor here, she demanded, if I had really meant to? She sobbed momentarily, and then regained control of herself. I don't know, I said, but it occurs to me that the brain that was capable of deliberately arranging a murder to take place in the presence of the doctor, might have some hidden purpose in securing also the presence of the solicitor at the performance. Mr. Griss is unaware that the solicitor is here. He has been informed that Mr. Dancer is my uncle and favorable to the… to the… She stopped, apparently overcome. Oh, indeed, I ejaculated, adding, and after all, you did not mean to administer this poison? I suppose you meant to withdraw the glass at the last instant. It is not poison, she replied. Not poison? No, I did not exchange the bottles I only pretended to. There seems to have been a good deal of pretending I observed. By the way, may I ask why you were giving this stuff, whether it is poison or not, to my patient? I do not recollect that I ordered a second dose. For the same reason that I pretended to change the bottle, for the benefit of the maid whom we saw just now in the bedroom. And why, for the benefit of the maid? Because I found out this morning that she is in the pay of Griss. That discovery accounts for my nervousness tonight about Adelaide. By this time the maid has probably told Mr. Griss what has taken place, and… and I shall rely on your help if anything should happen, doctor. Surely, surely you believe me? I regret to say, madam, I answered, that I find myself unable to believe you at present, but there is a simple way of giving credence to your story. You state that you did not exchange the bottles. This liquid, then, is the medicine prescribed by me, and it is harmless. Oblige me by drinking it. And I held the glass towards her. She took it. Fool! I said to myself, as soon as her fingers had grasped it, she will drop it on the floor, and an invaluable piece of evidence will be destroyed. But she did not drop it on the floor. She drank it in one go, and looked me in the eyes and murmured, Now do you believe me? Yes, I said. And I did. At the same moment her face changed color, and she sank to the ground. What if I drunk, she moaned. The glass rolled on the carpet, unbroken. Miss Russell had, in fact, drunk a full dose of pure Trinitrin. I recognized all the symptoms at once. I rang for assistance. I got a stomach pump. I got ice, and sent for ergot, and for atropine. I injected six minims of the Injectus ergotini hypodermica. I despaired of saving her. But I saved her after four injections. I need not describe to you all the details. Let it suffice that she recovered. Then you did exchange the bottles. I could not help putting this question to her as soon as she was in a fit state to hear it. I swear to you that I had not meant to, she whispered. In my nervousness, I must have confused them. You have saved Adelaide's life. I have saved yours, anyway, I said. But you believe me? Yes, I said. And the curious thing is that I did believe her. I was convinced, and I am convinced, that she did not mean to exchange the bottles. Listen, she exclaimed. We could hear Big Ben striking twelve. Midnight, I said. She clutched my hand with a swift movement. Go and see that my Adelaide lives, she cried, almost hysterically. I opened the door between the two rooms, and went into the sleeping chamber. Miss Spanton is dozing quietly, I said, on my return. Thank God! Miss Russell murmured. And then old bald-headed Mr. Dancer came into the room, landly unconscious of all that had passed during his sojourn in the smoking-room. When I left the precincts of the grand Babylon at one o'clock, the guests were beginning to leave the gold rooms, and the great courtyard was a scene of flashing lights, and champing horses, and pretty laughing women. What a queer place a hotel is, I thought. Neither Mr. Griss nor the mysterious maid was seen again in London. Possibly they consoled each other. The beautiful Adelaide Spanton, under my care, is completely restored to health. Yes, I am going to marry her. No, not the beautiful Adelaide, you duffers. Besides, she is too young for my middle age. But Miss Russell, her Christian name is Ethel. Do you not like it? As for the beautiful Adelaide, there is now a vicount in the case. End of Story 3 Story 4 Of the Loot of Cities by Arnold Bennett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story 4 The Police Station Lord Trent has several times remarked to me that I am a philosopher, and I am one. I have guided my life by four rules, to keep my place, to make others keep theirs, to save half my income, and to beware of women. The strict observance of these rules has made me, in my station, a successful and respected man. Once and only once I was lax in my observance, and that single laxity resulted in a most curious and annoying adventure which I will relate. It was the fourth rule that I transgressed. I did not beware of a woman. The woman was Miss Susan Berry, ladies made to the Marchionis of Cockfosters. The Cockfosters family is a very old one. To my mind its traditions are superior to anything in the period of Great Britain, but then I may be prejudiced. I was brought up in the Cockfosters household, first at Cockfosters Castle in Devon, and afterwards at the well-known townhouse at the southeast corner of Eaton Square. My father was valid to the old Marquis for thirty years. My mother rose from the position of fifth housemaid to be housekeeper at the castle. Without ever having been definitely assigned to the situation, I became, as it were by gradual attachment, valid to Lord Trent, eldest son of the Marquis, and as gay and good natured gentleman as ever drank brandy and soda before breakfast. When Lord Trent married Miss Edna Stuyvesant, the American heiress, and with some of her money bought and furnished in a superb manner, a mansion near the northwest corner of Eaton Square, I quite naturally followed him across the square, and soon found myself, after his lordship and malady, the most considerable personage at number 441. Even the butler had to mind his peas and queues with me. Perhaps it was this preeminence of mine which led to my being selected for a duty which I never cared for, and which ultimately I asked his lordship to allow me to relinquish. Of course, he did so. That duty related to the celebrated Cock Foster's emeralds. Lady Trent had money over a million sterling, as his lordship himself told me. But money could not buy the Cock Foster's emeralds, and having seen these, she desired nothing less fine. With her ladyship to desire was to obtain. I have always admired her for that trait in her character. Being an American, she had faults, but she knew her own mind, which is a great thing. And I must admit that on the whole she carried herself well and committed few blunders. She must have been accustomed to good servants. In the matter of the emeralds I certainly took her side. Strictly speaking, they belonged to the old Marchioness. But the Marchioness never went into society. She was always engaged with temperance, propaganda, militant Protestantism, and that sort of thing, and consequently never wore the emeralds. There was no valid reason, therefore, why Lady Trent should not have the gratification of wearing them. But the Marchioness, I say with respect, was a woman of peculiar and decided views. She had, in fact, fads, and one of her fads was the emeralds. She could not bear to part with them. She said she was afraid something might happen to the precious heirlooms. A prolonged war ensued between the Marchioness and my lady, and ultimately a compromise was effected. My lady won permission to wear the emeralds whenever she chose, but they were always to be brought to her and taken back again by Susan Berry, in whom the Marchioness had more competence than in anyone else in the world. Consequently, whenever my lady required the emeralds, word was sent across the square in the afternoon. Susan Berry brought them over, and Susan Berry removed them at night when my lady returned from her ball or reception. The arrangement was highly inconvenient for Susan Berry. For sometimes it would be very late when my lady came home. But the Marchioness insisted, and since Susan Berry was one of those persons who seemed to take a positive joy in martyrizing themselves, she had none of my pity. The nuisance was that someone from our house had to accompany her across the square. Eaton Square is very large, probably the largest in London, but I may be mistaken on such a trivial point. Its main avenue is shut in by trees, and at 2 a.m. it is distinctly not the place for an unprotected female in charge of valuable property. Now the Marchioness had been good enough to suggest that she would prefer me to escort her maid on this brief nocturnal journey. I accepted the responsibility, but I did not hide my dislike for it. Knowing something of Miss Berry's disposition, I knew that our household would inevitably begin, as sooner or later, to couple our names together, and I was not deceived. Such was the situation when, one night, it was a bit Monday, I remember, and about a quarter past one, Lord and Lady Trent returned from an entertainment at a well-known mansion near St. James Palace. I got his lordship some whiskey in the library, and he then told me that I might go to bed, as he should not retire for an hour or so. I withdrew to the little office off the hall and engaged in conversation with the second footman who was on duty. Presently his lordship came down into the hall and began to pace about. It was a strange habit of his, smoking a cigarette. He caught sight of me. Saunders, he said, I told you you could go to bed. Yes, my lord, why don't you go? Your lordship forgets the emeralds. Ah, yes, of course, he laughed. I motioned to the footman to clear out. You don't seem to care for that job, Saunders, his lordship resumed, quizzing me. Surely Barry is a charming companion. In your place I should regard it as excellent fun, but I have often told you that you have no sense of humor. Not all men laugh at the same jokes, my lord, I observed. As a matter of fact, in earlier and wilder days his lordship had sometimes thrown a book or a boot at me, for smiling too openly at the wrong place. The conversation might have continued further, for his lordship would often talk with me, but at that moment Susan Barry appeared with the bag containing the case in which were the emeralds. Lady Trent's own maid was with her and the two stood talking for an instant at the foot of the stairs while Lady Trent's maid locked the bag and handed the key to Barry. Heaven knows how long that simple business would have occupied, had not the voice of my lady resounded from the first floor somewhat excitedly calling for her maid, who vanished with a hurried good night. His lordship had already departed from the hall. May I relieve you of the bag, Miss Barry, I ask? Thank you, Mr. Saunders, she replied, but the Martianus prefers that I myself should carry it. That little dialogue had passed between us every time the emeralds had to be returned. We started on our short walk, Miss Barry and I, proceeding towards the main avenue which runs through the centre of the square, east and west. It was a beautiful moonlit night. Talking of moonlit nights, I may as well make my confession at once. The fact is that Miss Barry had indeed a certain influence over me. In her presence I was always conscious of feeling a pleasurable elation, an excitement, a perturbation which another man might have guessed to be the beginning of love. I, however, knew that it was not love, it was merely a fancy. It only affected me when I was in her company. When she was absent I could regard her in my mind's eye, as she actually was, namely a somewhat designing young woman, with dark eyes and too much will of her own. Nevertheless she had, as I say, a certain influence over me, and I have already remarked that it was a moonlit night. Need, I say more. In spite of what I had implied to Lord Trent, I did enjoy the walk with Susan Barry. Susan Barry took care that I should. She laid herself out to fascinate me, turning her brunette face up to mine with an air of deference, and flashing upon me the glance of those dark, lustrous eyes. She started by sympathising with me in the matter of the butler. This was, I now recognize, very clever of her, for the butler had always been a sore point with me. I began to think, be good enough to remember the moonlight and the trees, that life with Susan Barry might have its advantages. Then she turned to the topic of her invalid sister, Jane Mary, who was lame and lived in lodgings near Sloan Street, and kept herself with a little aid from Susan by manufacturing artificial flowers. For a month pass Miss Barry had referred regularly to this sister who appeared to be the apple of her eye. I had no objection to the topic, though it did not specially interest me. But on the previous evening Miss Barry had told me with a peculiar emphasis, that her poor dear sister often expressed a longing to see the famous Cockfosters Emeralds, and that she resided quite close to. I did not like that. Tonight Miss Barry made a proposition which alarmed me. Mr. Saunders, she said insinuatingly, you are so good-natured, that I have almost a mind to ask you a favor. Would you object to walking round with me to my sisters, it is only a few minutes away, so that I could just give her a peep at these emeralds? She is dying to see them, and I'm sure the Marchioness wouldn't object. We should not be a quarter of an hour away. My discretion was aroused. I ought to have given a decided negative at once. But somehow I couldn't, while Susan was looking at me. But surely your sister will be in bed, I question. Oh no, with a sigh. She has to work very late. Very late indeed. And besides, if she is, I could take them up to her room. It would do her good to see them, and she has few pleasures. The Marchioness might not like it, I said, driven back to the second line of fortification. You know your mistress is very particular about these emeralds. The Marchioness need to never know, Susan Berry whispered, putting her face close up to mine. No one need no, except just us two. The accent which she put on those three words, just us two, was extremely tender. I hesitated. We were already at the end of the square, and should have turned it down to the left towards Cockfoster's house. Come along, she entreated, placing her hand on my shoulder. Well, you know, I muttered, but I went along with her towards Sloan Street. We passed Eaton Place. Really, Miss Berry, I began again, collecting my courage. Then there was a step behind us, and another hand was placed on my shoulder. I turned round sharply. It was a policeman. His buttons shone in the moonlight. Your name is Charles Saunders, he said to me, and yours, Susan Berry, to my companion. True, I replied, for both of us. I have a warrant for your arrest. Our arrest? Yes, on the charge of attempting to steal some emeralds, the property of the Marquis of Cockfoster's. Impossible, I exclaimed. Yes, he sneered, and that's what they all say. But the emeralds are here in this bag. I know they are, he said. I've just copped you in time. But you've been suspected for days. The thing is ridiculous, I said, striving to keep calm. We are taking the emeralds back to Lady Cockfoster's, and then I stopped. If we were merely taking the emeralds back to Lady Cockfoster's, that is, from one house in Eaton Square to another house in Eaton Square, what were we doing out of the square? I glanced at Susan Berry. She was as white as a sheet. The solution of the puzzle occurred to me at once. Susan's sister was an ingenious fiction. Susan was a jewel thief, working with a gang of jewel thieves, and her request that I would accompany her to this mythical sister was part of a plan for stealing the emeralds. At whose instance has the warrant been issued, I asked? The Marquis of Cockfoster's. My suspicions were only too well confirmed. I did not speak a word to Susan Berry. I could not. I merely looked at her. You'll come quietly to the station, the policeman said. Certainly, I replied, as for us, the matter can soon be cleared up. I am Lord Trent's ballot, number 441, Eaton Square, and he must be sent for. Oh, must he, the constable jeered. Come on, perhaps you'd prefer a cab. A four-wheeler was passing. I myself hailed the sleepy cabman, and we all three got in. The policeman prudently took the bag from Susan's nervous hands. None of us spoke. I was too depressed, Susan was probably too ashamed, and the constable was no doubt too bored. After a brief drive, we drew up. Another policeman opened the door of the cab, and over the open portal of the building in front of us I saw the familiar blue lamp with the legend Metropolitan Police in white letters. The two policemen carefully watched us as we alighted, and escorted us up the steps into the station. Happily, there was no one about. My humiliation was abject enough without that. Charles Saunders, a prisoner in a police station. I could scarcely credit my senses. One becomes used to a police station, in the newspapers. But to be inside one, that is different, widely different. The two policemen took us into a bare room. Innocent of any furniture, save a wooden form, a desk, a chair, some printed notices of rewards offered, and an array of handcuffs and revolvers on the mantelpiece. In the chair, with a big book in front of him on the desk, sat the inspector in charge. He was in his shirt sleeves. A hot night, he said, smiling to the policeman. I silently agreed. It appeared that we were expected. They took our full names, our addresses and occupations, and then the inspector read the warrant to us. Of course, it didn't explain things in the least. I began to speak. Let me warn you, said the inspector, that anything you say now may be used against you at your trial. My trial? Can I write a note to Lord Trent? I asked. Nettled? Yes, if you will pay for a cab to take it. I threw down half a crown and scribbled a line to my master, begging him to come at once. The constable must search you, the inspector said, when this was done, and the first policeman had disappeared with a note. I will save him the trouble, I said proudly, and I impede my pockets of a gold watch and chain, a handkerchief, two sovereigns, a sixpence, and two half pennies, a bunch of keys, my master's linen book, and a new necktie, which I had bought that very evening, of which articles the inspector made an inventory. Which is the key of the bag, asked the inspector. The bag was on the desk in front of him, and he had been trying to open it. I know nothing of that, I said. Now you, Susan Berry, give up the key, the inspector said, sternly, turning to her. For answers, Susan burst into sobs and flung herself against my breast. The situation was excessively embarrassing for me. Heaven knows I had sufficient reason to hate the woman, but, though a thief, she was in distress, and I must own that I felt for her. The constable stepped toward Susan. Surely I said you have a female searcher. A female searcher? Yes, smiled the inspector, suddenly swabbed. Is she here, constable? Not now, sir, she's gone. That must wait then. Take them to the cells. Sorry, sir, all the cells are full. Bank holiday drunks. The inspector thought a moment. Lock him up in the back room, he said. That'll do for the present. Perhaps the male prisoner may be getting an answer to his note soon. After that, they'll have to go to Bine Street or Marlboro. The constable touched his helmet and marched us out. In another moment we were ensconced in a small room, absolutely bare of any furniture, except a short wooden form. The constable was locking the door. When Susan Berry screamed out, You aren't going to lock us up here together in the dark. Why, what do you want? Didn't you hear the cells are full? I was profoundly thankful they were full. I did not fancy a night in a cell. I want a candle, she said fiercely. He brought one, or rather half of one, stuck in a bottle and placed it on the mantelpiece, and then he left us. Again I say the situation was excessively embarrassing. For myself I said nothing. Susan Berry dropped on the form, and hiding her face in her hands gave way to tears without any manner of restraint. I pitied her a little, but that influence, which previously she had exercised over me, was gone. Oh, Mr. Saunders! She sobbed. What shall we do? And as she spoke, she suddenly looked up at me with a glance of feminine appeal. I withstood it. Miss Berry, I said severely. I wonder that you can look at me in the face. I trusted you as a woman, and you have outraged that trust. I never dreamed that you were, that you were an adventurous. It was certainly a clever plot, and but for the smartness of the police I should, in my innocence, have fallen a victim to your designs. For myself I am grateful to the police. I can understand and excuse their mistake in regarding me as your accomplice. That will soon be set right, for Lord Trent will be here. In the meantime, of course, I have been put to considerable humiliation. Nevertheless, even this is better than having followed you to your sisters. In your sisters' lodging I might have been knock senseless or even murdered. Moreover, the emeralds are safe. She put on an innocent expression, playing the injured maiden. Mr. Saunders, you certainly do not imagine. Miss Berry, no protestations, I beg. Let me say now that I have always detected in your character something underhand, something crafty. I swear, she began again, don't trouble. I interrupted her, I silly. For I shall not believe you. This night will certainly be a warning to me. With that I leaned my back against the mantle-piece and abandoned myself to gloomy thought. It was a moment for me of self abasement. I searched my heart and I sorrowfully admitted that my predicament was primarily due to disobeying that golden rule, beware of women. I saw now that it was only my absurd fancy for this wicked creature which had led me to accept the office of guarding those emeralds during their night passage across Eaton Square. I ought to have refused in the first place, for the job was entirely outside my functions. Strictly, the butler should have done it. And this woman in front of me, this Susan Berry, in whom the old Martianus had such unbounded trust, so she belonged to the confraternity of jewel thieves, a genus of which I had often read, but which I had never before met with. What audacity such people must need in order to execute their schemes. But then the game was high. The cockfoster's emeralds were worth, at a moderate estimate, twelve thousand pounds. There are emeralds and emeralds. The value depends on the color. These were the finest Colombian stones of a marvelous tent, and many of them were absolutely without a flaw. There were five stones of seven carats each, and these alone must have been worth at least six thousand pounds. Yes, it would have been a great hall, a colossal hall. Time passed, the candle was burning low, and there was no sign of Lord Trent. I went to the door and knocked first gently, then more loudly, but I could get no answer. Then I walked about the room, keeping an eye on Susan Berry, who had, I freely admit, the decency to avoid my gaze. I was beginning to get extremely tired. I wished to sit down, but there was only one form. Susan Berry was already upon it, and as I said before, it was a very short form. At last I could hold out no longer. Taking my courage in both hands, I sat boldly down at one end of the form. It was a relief to me, Miss Berry sighed. There were not six inches between us. The candle was low in the socket. We both watched it. Without a seconds warning, the flame leapt up and then expired. We were in the dark. Miss Berry screamed, and afterwards I heard her crying. I myself made no sign. Fortunately the dawn broke almost immediately. By this time I was getting seriously annoyed with Lord Trent. I had served him faithfully, and yet at the moment of my genuine need, he had not come to my sucker. I went again to the door and knocked with my knuckles. No answer. Then I kicked it. No answer. Then I seized the handle and violently shook it. To my astonishment, the door opened. The policeman had forgotten to lock it. I crept out into the passage, softly closing the door behind me. It was now quite light. The door leading to the street was open, and I could see neither constables nor inspector. I went into the charge room. It was empty. Then I proceeded into the street. On the pavement, a piece of paper was lying. I picked it up. It was the note which I had written to Lord Trent. A workman happened to be loitering along a road which crossed the street at right angles. I called out and ran to him. Can you tell me, I asked, why all the officers have left the police station? Look here, matey. He says, you got on. You've been making a night of it, not what you have. But seriously, I said. Then I saw a policeman at a distant corner. The workman whistled and the policeman was obliging enough to come to us. Here, the cop wants to know why all the police have left the police station, the workman said. What police station? The constable said sharply. Why, this one down here in this side street, I said, pointing to the building. As I looked at it, I saw that the lamp which I had observed on the previous night no longer hung over the doorway. The constable laughed good-humoredly. I'll get away home, he said. I began to tell him my story. Get away home, he repeated, roughly this time, or I'll run you in. All right, I said huffily, and I made as if to walk down the other road. The constable and the workman grinned to each other and departed. As soon as they were out of sight, I returned to my police station. It was not a police station. It was merely a rather large and plain-fronted, empty house which had been transformed into a police station for one night only by means of a lamp, a desk, two forms, a few handcuffs, and some unparalleled cheek. Jewel thieves they were, but Susan Berry was not among them. After all, Susan Berry probably had an ambulance sister named Jane Mary. The first policeman, the cabman, the second policeman, the inspector. These were the jewel thieves, and Susan Berry and I, and of course the Marchionis, had to been the victims of as audacious and brilliant a robbery as was ever planned. We had been robbed openly, quietly, deliberately, with the aid of a sham police station. Our movements must have been watched for weeks. I gave my mead of admiration to the imagination, the skill and the samfoie, which must have gone to the carrying out of this goo. Going back into the room where Susan Berry and I had spent the night hours, I found that wronged woman sweetly asleep on the form with her back against the wall. I dared not wake her, and so I left her for the present to enjoy some much needed repose. I directed my steps in search of Eaton Square, having closed the great door of my police station. At length I found my whereabouts, and I arrived at number 441 at five o'clock precisely. The morning was lovely. After some trouble I roused a housemaid who let me in. She seemed surprised, but I ignored her. I went straight upstairs and knocked at my master's door. To wake him had always been a difficult matter, and this morning the task seemed more difficult than ever. At last he replied sleepily to my summons, It is I, Saunders, your lordship. I'll go to the devil then. I must see your lordship instantly, very seriously. Now what? I'll come in a minute, and I heard him stirring, and the voice of Lady Trent. How should I break the news to him? What would the Marchionists say when she knew? Twelve thousand pounds worth of jewels is no trifle, not to mention my gold watch, my two sovereigns, my six pence, and two appennies, and also the half-crown, which I had given to have the message dispatched to his lordship. It was the half-crown that specially rankled. Lord Trent appeared at the door of his room, arrayed in his crimson dressing-gown. While Saunders, what in the name of my lord, I stammered and then I told him the whole story. He smiled, he laughed, he roared. I dare say it sounds very funny, my lord, I said, but it wasn't funny at the time, and Lady Cockfosters won't think it very funny? Won't she? She will. No one will enjoy it more. She might have taken it seriously if the emeralds had been in the bag, but they weren't. Not in the bag, my lord? No. Lady Trent's maid ran off with the bag, thinking that your mistress had put the jewels in it. But she had not. Lady Trent came to the top of the stairs to call her back, as soon as she found the bag gone. But you and Barry were out of the house. So the emeralds stayed here for one night. They are on Lady Trent's dressing-table at the present moment. Go and get a stiff whiskey Saunders, you need it. And then may I suggest that you should return for the sleeping Barry. By the way, the least you can do is to marry her Saunders. Never, my lord! I said with decision I have mettle sufficiently with women. End of Story 4 Story 5 Of The Loot of Cities by Arnold Pennant This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Story 5 The Adventure of the Prima Donna Many years ago the fear of dynamite stalked through the land, an immense organization of anarchists whose headquarters were in the United States had arranged for a number of simultaneous displays in London, Glasgow, and Quebec. As is well known now, the Parliament House at Quebec and the Gasworks at Glasgow were to be blown up while the program for London included Scotland Yard, most of Whitehall, the House of Commons, the Tower, and four great railway stations thrown in. This plot was laid bare, stopped, and made public, and except a number of people who happened quite innocently to carry black bags, no one was put to the slightest inconvenience. The dynamite scare was deemed to be at an end, but the dread organization was in fact still active as the 60 policemen who were injured in what is called the Haymarket Massacre Explosion at Chicago on May 4, 1886 have dire occasion to know. Everyone who reached the papers is familiar with the details of the Haymarket Massacre. Few people, however, are aware that a far more dastardly outrage had been planned to intimidate London a few days later. Through the agency of a courageous woman, this affair too was unmasked in its turn, but for commercial and other reasons it was kept from the general public. The scheme was to blow up the opera house at Covent Garden on the first night of the season. Had the facts got abroad, the audience would probably have been somewhat sparse on that occasion, but the facts did not get abroad, and the house was crowded in every part. For the famous prima donna, Louisa Bazie, since retired, was singing magarit in Faust, and enthusiasm about her was such that though the popular tenor had unaccountably thrown up his engagement, the price of stalls rose to thirty-three shillings. The police were sure of themselves, and the evening passed off with nothing more explosive than applause. Nevertheless, that night after the curtain had fallen, and Louise Bazie had gathered up all the reason other tributes of admiration, which had been showered upon her, there happened the singular incident, which it is our purpose to record. Bazie wrapped in rich furs—it was midnight, and our usual wintry may—was just leaving the stage door for her carriage, when a gentleman respectfully accosted her. He was an English detective on special service, and Bazie appeared to know him. It will be desirable for you to run no risk, madame, he said. So far as we know all the principals have left the country in alarm, but there are always others. Bazie smiled. She was then over thirty in the full flower of her fame and beauty. Tall, dark, calm, mysterious, she had the firm yet gentle look of one who keeps a kind heart under the regal manner induced by universal adoration. What have I to fear, she said. Vengeance, the detective answered simply, I have arranged to have you shadowed in case you will do nothing of the kind, she said. The idea is intolerable to me, I am not afraid. The detective argued, but in vain. It shall be as you wish, madame, he said, ultimately. Bazie got into her carriage and was driven away. The pair of chestnuts travelled at a brisk trot through the dark, deserted streets of Soho towards the West End. The carriage had crossed Regent Street and was just entering Barkley Square, when a handsome, coming at a gallop along Struton Street, on the wrong side of the road, collided violently with Bazie's horses at the corner. At the same moment, another carriage, a broam, came up and stopped. A gentleman jumped out and assisted in disengaging Bazie's coachman and footman from the medley of harness and horse flesh. This done, he spoke to Bazie, who, un-injured, was standing on the footpath. One of your chestnuts will have to be shot, he said, raising his hat. May I place my own carriage at your disposal? Bazie thankfully accepted his offer. Where to, he inquired. Upper Brook Street, she answered. But you are sure I do not inconvenience you? Curiously enough, he said, I live in Upper Brook Street myself, and if I may accompany you, you are more than kind, she said, and they both entered the broam and the gentleman having first thoughtfully taken the number of the peck and cabbie and given some valuable advice to Bazie's coachman. The broam disappeared at a terrific pace, but it never went within half a mile of Upper Brook Street. It turned abruptly to the north, crossed Oxford Street, and stopped in front of a large house in a remote street near Paddington Station. At the same instant, the door of the house opened and a man ran down to the carriage. In a moment, Bazie, with a cloth wrapped around her head, was carried struggling into the house and the broam departed. The thing was done as quickly and silently as in a dream. The cloth was removed at length and Bazie found herself in a long, bare room, furnished only with chairs and a table. She realized that the carriage accident was merely part of a plot to capture her without fuss and violence. She was incapable of fear, but she was extremely annoyed and indignant. She looked round for the man who enticed her into his broam. He was not to be seen. His share of the matter was over. Two other men sat at the table. Bazie stared at them in speechless anger. As to them, they seemed to ignore her. Where's the chief? said one unto the other. He will be here in three minutes. We are to proceed with the examination. Time is short. Then the two men turned to Bazie and the elder spoke. You will be anxious to know why you are here, he said. She gazed at him scornfully and he continued, You are here because you have betrayed the anarchist cause. I am not an anarchist, she said coldly. Admitted, but a week ago a member of our society gave you a warning to keep away from the opera house tonight. In so warning you he was false to his oath. Do you refer to Salti the tenor? She asked. I do. You perceive we have adherents in high places. Salti then warned you and you instantly told the police. That was your idea of gratitude. Did Salti love you? I declined to be cross-examined. My, it is immaterial. We know that he loved you. Now it is perilous for an anarchist to love. I do not believe that Salti is one of you, she broke in. He is not, the man said quietly. He is dead. He was in the way. In spite of herself she started and both men smiled cynically. The point is this, the elder man proceeded. We do not know how much Salti told you. It is possible that he may have blurted out other and more important schemes than this of the opera house which has failed. Have you anything to say? Nothing, she answered. We expected that. Now let me point out that you are dangerous to us, that there is only one possible course open to you. You must join us. Join you, she exclaimed, and then laughed. Yes, the man said. I repeat, there is no alternative. None, whatever. You must take the oath. And if I refuse, the man shrugged his shoulders, and after a suggestive pause murmured. Well, think of Salti. I do refuse, she said. A door opened at the other end of the room, and a third man entered. The chief said the younger of the men at the table, he will continue the examination. The newcomer was comparatively youthful, under thirty, and had the look of a well-born Italian. He gave a glance at Vassia, stood still, and then approached the table and sat down. This is Louise Vassia, the first beaker said, and rapidly indicated how far he had gone. There was a long silence. Thanks, brothers, the chief said, by a strange coincidence, I know this lady, this woman, and I feel convinced that it will be better in the interests of our cause, if I examine her alone. He spoke with authority, and yet with a certain queer hesitation. The two men silently, but with obvious reluctance, rose and left the room. When they were alone, the great singer and the chief fronted each other in silence. Well, said Vassia. Madam, the chief began slowly and thoughtfully. Do you remember singing in Milan ten years ago? You were at the beginning of your career then, but already famous. His voice was rich and curiously persuasive. Without wishing to do so, Vassia nodded and affirmative. One night you were driving home from the opera, and there was a riot going on in the streets. The police were everywhere. People whispered of a secret revolutionary society among the students of the university. As for the students, after a pitched battle near the cathedral, they were flying. Suddenly, looking from your carriage, you saw a very youthful student who had been struck on the head, fall down in the gutter, and then get up again and struggle on. You stopped your carriage. Save me, the youth cried. Save me, Signorina. If the police catch me, I shall get ten years imprisonment. You opened the door of your carriage, and the youth jumped in. Quick, under the rug. You said quietly. You did not ask me any questions. You didn't stay to consider whether the youth might be a dangerous person. You merely said, quick, under the rug. The youth crapped under the rug. The carriage moved on slowly, and the police, who shortly appeared, never thought of looking within it for a fugitive young anarchist. The youth was saved. For two days you had him in your lodging, and then he got safely away to the coast, and so by ship to another country. Do you remember that incident, madame? I remember it well, she answered. What happened to the youth? I am he, the chief said. You, she exclaimed, should scarcely have guessed, but for your voice, you are changed. In our profession, one changes quickly. Why do you remind me of that incident, she asked? You saved my life, then. I shall save yours now. Is my life really in danger? Unless you joined us, yes. She laughed incredulously. In London? Impossible. He made a gesture with his hands. Do not let us argue on that point, he said gravely. Go through that door, he pointed to the door, by which he himself had entered. You will find yourself in a small garden. The garden gate leads to a narrow passage, past some stables, and so into the street. Go quickly, and take a cab. Don't return to your own house. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else. And leave London early tomorrow morning. He silently opened the door for her. Thank you, she said. His seriousness had affected her. How shall you explain my departure to your… your… friends? In my own way, he replied calmly, when a man has deliberately betrayed his cause, there is only one explanation. Betrayed his cause? She repeated the phrase, wonderingly. Madam, he said, do you suppose they will call it anything else? Go at once. I will wait half an hour before summoning my comrades. By that time they will have become impatient. Then you will be safe, and I will give them my explanation. And that will be, he put her right hand to his lips, and then stopped. Goodbye, madam, he said, without replying to the question. We are quits. I kiss your hand. Almost reluctantly, Luise Vesio went forth, and as she reached the street she felt for the first time that it was indeed a fatal danger from which she had escaped. She reflected that the chief had imposed no secrecy upon her, made no conditions, and she could not help but admire such a method of repaying a debt. She wondered what his explanation to his comrades would be. Half an hour later, when Vesio was far away, there was the sound of a revolver shot. The other two plotters rushed into the room at which the prima donna had left, and found all the explanation which the chief had about saved. End of Story 5 Story 6 of The Loot of Cities by Arnold Bennett This LibreBox recording is in the public domain. Story 6, The Episode in Room 222 The date was the 5th of November, a date easy to remember, not that I could ever fail to recall it even without the aid of the associations which cluster round Guy Fawkes. It was a Friday, and yet there are people who affect to believe that Friday is not a day singled out from its six companions for mystery, strangeness, and disaster. The number of the room was 222, as easy to remember as the date, not that I could ever fail to recall the number also. Every circumstance in the affair is fixed in my mind immovably and forever. The hotel I shall call by the name of the Grand Junction Terminus Hotel. If this tale were not a simple and undecorated record of fact, I might with impunity choose for its scene any one of the big London hotels in order by which a detail to give a semblance of veracity to my invention. But the story happens to be absolutely true, and I must therefore, for obvious reasons, disguise the identity of the place where it occurred. I would only say that the Grand Junction Railway is one of the largest and one of the best managed systems in England or in the world, and that these qualities of vastness and of good management extend also to its immense terminus hotel in the north of central London. The caravancery, I have observed that professional writers invariably refer to a hotel as a caravancery, is full every night in the week except Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and every commercial traveler knows that, except on these nights, if he wishes to secure a room at the Grand Junction, he must ride or telegraph for it in advance, and there are four hundred bedrooms. It was somewhat late in the evening when I arrived in London, I had meant to sleep, at a large new hotel in the Strand, but I felt tired and I suddenly, on the spur of the moment, decided to stay at the Grand Junction if there was space for me. It is thus that fate works. I walked into the hall followed by a platform porter with my bag. The place seemed, just as usual, the perfection of the common place, the business-like, and the unspiritual. Have your room, I asked the young lady in black, whose yellow hair shone gaily at the office window, under the electric light. She glanced at her ledgers in the impassive and detached manner which hotel young ladies with yellow hair invariably affect and ejaculate in number two to one. Pity, you couldn't make it all twos, I ventured, with timid jocularity. How could I guess the import of what I was saying? She smiled a very slightly, with a distant condescension. It is astonishing the skill with which a feminine hotel-cler can make a masculine guest feel small and self-conscious. Name, she demanded. Edge. Fourth floor, she said, writing out the room ticket and handing it to me. In another moment I was in the lift. Number two to one was the last door but one at the end of the eastern corridor of the fourth floor. It proved to be a double-bedded room, large, exquisitely ugly, but perfectly appointed in all matters of comfort. In short, it was characteristic of the hotel. I knew that every bedroom in that corridor and every bedroom in every corridor presented exactly the same aspect. One instinctively felt the impossibility of anything weird, anything bizarre, anything terrible entering the precincts of an abode so solid, cheerful, orderly, and middle class. And yet, but I shall come to that presently, it will be well for me to relate all that I did that evening. I washed and then it took some valuables out of my bag and put them in my pocket. Then I glass-round the chamber and, amongst other satisfactory details, notice that the electric lights were so fixed that I could read in bed without distressing my eyes. I then went downstairs by the lift and into the smoke-room. I had dined on board the express and so I ordered nothing but a cafe noire and a packet of Virginian cigarettes. After finishing the coffee, I passed into the billiard room and played a hundred up with the marker. To show that my nerves were at least as steady as usual that night, I may mention that although the marker gave me fifty and beat me, I made a break of twenty odd which won his generous approval. The game concluded. I went into the hall and asked the porter if there were any telegrams for me. There were not. I noticed that the porter, it was the night porter, and he had just come on duty, seemed to have a peculiarly honest and attractive face. Wishing him good night, I retired to bed. It was something after eleven. I read a chapter of Mr. Walter Crane's The Basies of Design and, having turned off the light, sank into the righteous slumber of a man who has made a pretty break of twenty odd and drunk nothing but coffee. At three o'clock I awoke, not with a start, but rather gradually. I know it was exactly three o'clock because the striking of a notoriously noisy church clock in the neighborhood was the first thing I heard. But the clock had not wakened to me. I felt sure that something else, something far more sinister than a church clock, had been the origin of disturbance. I listened. Then I heard it again. It. It was the sound of a groan in the next room. Someone indisposed, either in body or mind, I thought lightly, and I tried to go to sleep again. But I could not sleep. The groans continued and grew more poignant, more fearsome. At last I jumped out of bed and turned on the light. I felt easier when I had turned on the light. That man, whoever he is, is dying. The idea, as it were, sprang at my throat. He is dying. Only a dying man, only a man who saw death by his side and trembled before the apparition, could groan like that. I put on some clothes and went into the corridor. The corridor seemed to stretch away into a limitable distance, and far off, miles off, a solitary electric light glimmered. My end of the corridor was a haunt of gloomy shadows, except where the open door allowed the light from my bedroom to illuminate the long monotonous pattern of the carpet. I proceeded to the door next my own, the door of number 222, and put my ear against the panel. The sound of groans was now much more distinct and more terrifying. Yes, I admit that I was frightened. I called. No answer. What's the matter? I inquired. No answer. Are you ill, or are you doing this for your own amusement? It was with a sort of bravado that I threw this last query at the unknown occupant of the room. No answer. Then I tried to open the door, but it was fast. Yes, I said to myself, either he's dying or he's committed a murder and is feeling sorry for it. I must fetch the night-porter. Now, hotel lifts are not in the habit of working at 3 a.m., and so I was compelled to find my way along endless corridors and down flights of stairs, apparently innumerable. Here and there an electric light saw with a G.L.O.I. to pierce the gloom. At length I reached the hall and I well recollect that the tiled floor struck cold into my slippered but sockless feet. There's a man either dying or very ill in number 222, I said to the night-porter. He was reading the evening news and appeared to be very snug in his basket-chair. Is that so, sir? he replied. Yes, I insisted, I think he's dying. Haven't you better do something? Well, I'll come upstairs with you, he answered readily, and without further partly we began the ascent. At the first floor landing the night-porter stopped and faced me. He was a man about forty-five, every hall-porter seems to be that age, and he looked like the father of a family. If you think he's dying, sir, I'll call up the manager, Mr. Dom. Do, I said. The manager slept on the first floor and he soon appeared, a youngish man in a terracotta yeager dressing gown, his eyes full of sleep, yet alert and anxious to do his duty. I had seen him previously in the billiard room. We all three continued our progress to the fourth floor. Arriving in front of number 222 we listened intently, but we could only hear a faint occasional groan. He's nearly dead, I said. The manager called aloud, but there was no answer. Then he vainly tried to open the door. The night-porter departed and returned with a stout pair of steel tongs. With these and the natural ingenuity peculiar to hotel-porters, he forced open the door and we entered number 222. A stout middle-aged man lay on the bed fully dressed in black. On the floor near the bed was a silk hat. As we approached, the great body seemed to flutter, and then it lay profoundly and terribly still. The manager put his hand on the man's head and held the glass of his watch to the man's parted gray lips. He is dead, said the manager. I said, I'm sorry you've been put to any inconvenience, said the manager, and I much obliged to you. The cold but polite tone was a request to me to re-enter my own chamber and leave the corpse to the manager and the night-porter. I obeyed. What about that man? I asked the hall-porter early the next, or rather the same morning. I had not slept a wink since three o'clock, nor had I heard a sound in the corridor. What man, sir? The porter said. You know, I returned rather angrily the man who died in the night, number 222. I assure you, sir, he said, I haven't the least notion what you mean. Yet his face seemed as honest and open as ever. I inquired at the office for the manager, and after some difficulty saw him in his private room. I thought I'd just see about that man, I began. What man, the manager asked, exactly as the porter had asked. Look here, I said, as I was now really annoyed. It's all very well giving instructions to the hall-porter, and I can quite understand you want the thing kept as quiet as possible. Of course I know that hotels have a violent objection to corpses, but as I saw the corpse and was of some assistance to you, excuse me, said the manager, either you or I must be completely mad, and he added, I don't think it is myself. Do you mean to say, I remarked with frosty sarcasm, that you didn't enter room 222 with me this morning at three a.m., and find a dead man there? I mean to say, just that, he answered. Well, I got no further, I paid my bill and left, but before leaving I went and carefully examined the door of number 222, the door plainly showed marks of some iron instrument. Here I said to the porter, as I departed, accept this half-crown from me, I admire you. I had a serious illness extending over three months, I was frequently delirious, and nearly every day I saw the scene in room number 222. In the course of my subsequent travels I once more found myself, late one night, at the Grand Junction Terminus Hotel. Mr. Edge, said the night porter, I've been looking out for you for weeks and weeks, the manager's compliments, and he would like to see you in his room. Again I saw the youngish alert manager. Mr. Edge, he began at once, it is probable that I owe you an apology. At any rate, I think it right to inform you that on the night of the fifth of November, the year before last, exactly twelve months before your last visit here, a stout man died in room number 222 at three a.m. I forgot the circumstance when you last came to see me in this room. It seems queer, I said coolly, that you should have forgotten such a circumstance. The fact is, he replied, I was not the manager at that time. My predecessor died two days after the discovery of the corpse in room 222. And the night porter, is he too a new man? Yes, said the manager, the porter who with the late manager found the corpse in room 222 is now in Hanwell Lunatic Asylum. I paused, perhaps, in awe. Then you think, I said, that I was the victim of a hallucination on my previous visit here? You think I had a glimpse of the world of spirits? On these matters, said the manager, I prefer to think nothing. End of Story 6 Story 7 of The Loot of Cities by Arnold Bennett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story 7 Saturday to Monday So at length I yielded to repeated invitations and made up my mind to visit the Vernons again. And it was in June. I had not been for nearly two years. The last visit was in the month of August. I remembered it too well. That year, that month, that day. Under the most favorable circumstances it needs enterprise and energy for a Londoner to pay a weekend visit to a friend's house in the country. No matter how intimate the friend and the Vernons, though charming and full of good nature, were not really very intimate friends of mine, there is always an element of risk in the affair. I will go further and say an element of preliminary unpleasantness. It means the disarrangement of regular habits. It means packing one's bag and lugging it into a handsome. It means a train journey. It often means a drive at the other end. It means sleeping in a strange bed and finding a suitable hook for one's razor's drop the next morning. It means accommodating oneself to a new social atmosphere and the expenditure of much formal politeness. And suppose some hitch occurs, some trifling contraintant, to ruffle the smoothness of the hours. Where are you then? You are bound to sit tight and smile till Monday. And at parting to enlarge on your sorrow that the visit is over, all the while feeling intensely relieved. And you have got nothing in exchange for your discomfort and inconvenience, save the satisfaction of duty done. A poor return, I venture to add. You know you have wasted a weekend and irrecoverable weekend of eternity. However, I boarded the train at St. Pancras in a fairly cheerful mood, and I tried to look on the bright side of life. The afternoon was certainly beautiful and the train not too crowded, and I derived some pleasure too from the contemplation of a new pair of American boots which I had recently purchased. I remembered that Mrs. Vernon used to accuse me of a slight foppishness in the matter of boots, at the same time wishing audibly in his hearing, that Jack would give a little more attention to the lower portions of his toilet. Jack was a sportsman and her husband, and I thought of their roomy and comfortable house on the side of the long slope to Bedbury, and of their orchard and the hammocks under the trees in the orchard, and of tea and cakes being brought out to those hammocks, and of the sunsets over the delectable mountains, we always call them the delectable mountains, because they are the identical hills which Bunyan had in mind when he wrote the pilgrim's progress, and of Jack's easy draw and Mrs. Vernon's chatter and the barking of the dogs and the stamping of the horses in the sable, and I actually thought, this will be a pleasant change after London. I do hope they won't be awkward and self-conscious, I said to myself, and I also must try not to be. You see, I was thinking of that last visit and what occurred during it. I was engaged to be married then to a girl named Lucy Wren. Just as I had arrived at the Vernon's house and their dog cart, the highly rural postman came up in his cart, and after delivering some letters, produced still another letter and asked if any one of the name of Bostock was staying there. I took the letter, the address was in Lucy's handwriting, I had seen her only on the previous night, and of course she knew of my visit. I read the letter standing there in the garden near the front door, and having read it, I laughed loudly and handed it to Mrs. Vernon, saying, What do you think of that for a letter? In the letter Lucy said that she had decided to jilt me. She didn't use those words, oh no, and that on the following day she was going to be married to another man. Yes, that was a cheerful visit I paid to the Vernon's that August. At first I didn't know what I was doing. They soothed me, calmed me. They did their best. It wasn't their fault, after all. They suggested I should have run back to town and see Lucy. Jack offered to go with me. Jack! I declined. I declined to do anything. I ate hearty meals. I insisted on our usual excursions. I talked a lot. I forced them to pretend that nothing had happened. And on Monday morning I went off with a cold smile. But it was awful. It stood between me and the Vernon's for a long time, a terrible memory. And when next Mrs. Vernon encountered me in London, there were tears in her eyes, and she was speechless. Now you will understand better why I said to myself, with much sincerity, I do hope they won't be awkward and self-conscious, and I also must try not to be. As the train approached Bedbury, I had qualms. I had qualms about the advisability of this visit to the Vernon's. How could it possibly succeed, with that memory stalking like a ghost in the garden near the front door of their delightful and hospitable house? How could then we rumbled over the familiar bridge, and I saw the familiar station-yard, and the familiar dog-cart, and the familiar Dalmatian dog, and the familiar white mare, that was rather young and skittish when Lucy jilted me. That mare must be rising seven now, I thought, and settled down in life. I described to Mrs. Vernon, waiting on the platform, to welcome me with the twins. Alas, I had forgotten the twins, those charming and frail little girls, always dressed alike. Invariably on my previous visits I had brought something for the twins, a toy, a box of sweets, a couple of bead necklaces. Never once had I omitted to lay my tribute on the altar of their adorable infancy. And now I had forgotten, and my forgetfulness saddened me, because I knew that it was saddened them. They would expect, and they would be disappointed. They would taste the bitterness of life. My poor little deers, I thought, as they smiled and shouted, to see my head out of the carriage window. I feel for you deeply. This beginning was a bad one. Like all men who have suffered without having deserved to suffer, I was superstitious, and I felt that the beginning augured ill. I resigned myself even before the train had quite stopped to a constrained and bored weekend with the Vernons. Well, I exclaimed with an affectation of jollity, descending from the carriage. Well, responded Mrs. Vernon with the same affectation. It was lamentable, simply lamentable, the way in which that tragic memory stood between us and prevented either of us from showing a true, natural, simple self to the other. Mrs. Vernon could say little. I could say little. And what we did say was said stiffly, clumsily. Perhaps it was fortunate, on the whole, that the twins were present. They, at any rate, were natural and self-possessed. And how old are you now? I asked them. We are seven. They answered politely in their high, thin voices. Then you were like the little girl's family and words was poem. I remarked. It was astonishing how this really rather good joke fell flat. Of course the twins did not see it, but Mrs. Vernon herself did not see it, and I too thought it at the moment inexpressibly feeble. As for the twins, they could not hide their disappointment. Always before I had handed them a little parcel immediately, either at the station if they came to meet me, or at the house door if they did not. And today I had no little parcel. I could perceive that they were hoping against hope even yet. I could perceive that they were saying to each other with their large expressive eyes. Perhaps he's put it in his portmanteau this time. He kind of forgotten us. I could have wept for them. I was in that state. But I could not for the life of me tell them outright that I had forgotten the customary gift, and that I should send it by post on my return. No, I could not do that. I was too constrained, too ill at ease. So we all climbed up into the dog cart. Mrs. Vernon and I in front and the twins behind with the portmanteau to make way. And the white mare set off with a bound, and the Dalmatian barked joyously, and we all pretended to be as joyous as the dog. Where's Jack? I inquired. Oh, said Mrs. Vernon, as though I had startled her. He had to go to Bedbury Sands to look at a couple of Greyhounds. It would have been too late on Monday. I'm afraid he won't be back for tea. I guessed instantly that, with the average man's cowardice, he had run away in order to escape meeting me as I entered the house. He had left that to his wife. No doubt he hoped that by the time he returned I should have settled down, and the first awkwardness and constraint would be passed. We said scarcely anything else, Mrs. Vernon and I, during the three-mile drive, and it was in silence that we crossed the portal of the house. Instead of having tea in the orchard, we had it in the drawing room, the twins being present, and the tea might have been a funeral feast. Well, I thought I anticipated a certain mutual diffidence, but nothing so bad as this. If they couldn't be brighter than this, why in heaven's name did they force me to come down? Mrs. Vernon was decidedly in a pitiable condition. She felt for me so much that I felt for her. Come along, dears, she said to the twins, after tea was over, and the tea things cleared away, and she took the children out of the room. But before leaving, she handed me a note in silence. I opened it and read, Be as kind to her as you can. She has suffered a great deal. Then ere I had time to think, the door which Mrs. Vernon had softly closed, was softly opened, and a woman entered. It was Lucy, once Lucy Wren. She was as beautiful as ever, and no older, but her face was the face of one who had learnt the meaning of life. Till that moment I had sought everywhere for reasons to condemn her conduct towards me, to intensify its wickedness. Now suddenly I began to seek everywhere for reasons to excuse her. She had been so young, so guileless, so ignorant. I had been too stern for her. I had frightened her. How could she be expected to know that the man who had supplanted me was worthless? She had acted as she did, partly from youthful foolishness, and partly from timidity. She had been in a quandary. She had lost her head. And so it had occurred that one night, that night in August, she had kissed me falsely with a lie on her lips, knowing that her jolting letter was already in the post. What pangs she must have experienced then! Yes, as she entered the room and gazed at me with her blue eyes, my heart overflowed with genuine sorrow for her. Lucy, I murmured, you are in mourning. Yes, she said, didn't you know? As Mrs. Vernon said nothing, he is dead. And she sank down by the side of my chair and hid her face, and I could only see her honey-colored hair. I stroked it. I knew all her history in that supreme moment without a word of explanation. I knew that she had been self-deceived, that she had been through many an agony, that she had always loved me, and she was so young, so young. I kissed her hair. How thankful I am, breathed Mrs. Vernon afterwards. Suppose it had not turned out well. Jack Vernon had calculated with some skill. When he came back, the constraint, the diffidence was at an end. End of Story 7