 27 The only man in the world who would believe him. The tobacco took the edge from his desire for food, increased his blood pressure, and gave rest to his mind. He sat thinking. The story of moths rose up before his mind, and he felt a wondering how it ended, and what became of the beautiful heroine with whom he had linked Teresa, Countess of Rochester, or Zorov with whom he had linked Manilov, of Corris with whom he had linked himself. The color of that story had tinctured all his seaside experiences. Then Mrs. Henshaw rose up before his mind. What was she thinking of the lodger who had flashed through her life and vanished over the back-garden wall? And the interview between her and Hoover, that would have been well worth seeing. Then the boy and the bicycle, and the screaming invalid rose before him, and that mad rush down the slope to the esplanade. If those children with spades and buckets had not parted as they did, if a dog had gotten his way, if the slope had ended in a curve, he amused himself with picturing these possibilities and their results, and then, all at once, a drowsiness more delightful than any dream closed on him and he fell asleep. It was after dark when he awoke with the remnant of a moon lighting the field before him. From far away and born in the wind from the sea came a faint sound as of a delirious donkey with brass lungs braying at the moon. It was the sound of a band, the north-born brass band playing in the cliff gardens above the moonlit sea. Jones felt to see that his cigarettes and matches were safe in his pocket. Then he started, taking a line across country, trusting in providence as a guide. Sometimes he paused and rested on a gate, listening to the faint and interminate sounds of the night, through which came occasionally the barking of a distant dog like the beating of a trip-hammer. It was a perfect summer's night, one of those rare nights that England alone can produce. There were glow-worms in the hedges and a scent of new moan hay in the air. Though the music of the band had been blotted out by distance, listening intently, he caught the faintest suspicion of a whisper, continuous and evidently the sound of the sea. An hour later, that is to say, towards eleven o'clock, weary with finding his way out of fields, into fields, into grassy lanes and around farmhouse buildings, desperate and faint from hunger, Jones found a road and by the road a bungalow with a light in one of the windows. A dauntingly respectable looking bungalow in the midst of a well-laid-out garden. Jones opened the gate and came up the path. He was going to demand food, offer to pay for it if necessary, and produce gold as an evidence of good faith. He came into the veranda, found the front door which was closed, struck a match, found the bell, pulled and pulled it. There was no response. He waited a little and then rang again with a like result. Then he came to the lighted window. It was a French window, only half closed, and a half-turned lamp showed a comfortably furnished room and a table laid out for supper. Two places were set. A cold fowl, intact, on a dish garnished with parsley, stood side by side with a York ham, the worse for wear, a salad, a roll of causelip-colored butter, a loaf of homemade bread, and a cheese tucked around with a snow-white napkin made up the rest of the eatables, whilst a decanter of clarré shown invitingly by the seat of the carver. There was nothing wanting, or only the invitation. The fowl supplied that. Jones pushed the window open and entered. Half closing it again, he took his seat at the table, placing his hat on the floor beside him. Taking a sovereign from his pocket, he placed it on the white cloth. Then he fell too. You can generally tell a man by his clarré, and judging from this clarré, the unknown who had supplied the feast must have been a most estimable man, a man of understanding and parts, a man not to be diluted by specious wine-list, a generous warm-hearted and full-blooded soul, and here he was. A step sounded on the veranda. The window was pushed open, and a man of forty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark, and satternine, stood before the feaster. He showed no surprise. Removing his hat, he bowed. Jones half rose. "'Hello!' said he confusedly, with his mouth full. Then he subsided into his chair. "'I must apologize for being late,' said the tall man, placing his hat on a chair, rubbing his long hands together, and moving to the vacant seat. "'I was unavoidably detained. But I'm glad you did not wait supper.' He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself out a glass of clarré. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon the cloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it in his pocket. "'That's right,' said the unknown. Then, as if in reply to a question, "'I will have a wing, please!' Jones cut a wing of the fowl, placed it in the extra plate which he had placed on one side of the table, and presented it. The other cut himself some bread, helped himself to salad, salt and pepper, and started eating. Absolutely as though nothing unusual had occurred, or was occurring. For half a minute or so neither spoke. Then Jones said, "'Look here,' said he. "'I want to make some explanations.' "'Explanations!' said the long man. "'What about?' Jones laughed. "'That's sovereign which I put on the table, and which I have put back in my pocket. "'I must apologize. Had I gone away before you returned, that would have been left behind to show that your room had been entered neither by a hobo nor a burglar, nor by some cad who had committed an impertinence. Perhaps you will believe that?' The long man bowed. "'But,' went on Jones, "'by a man who was driven by circumstances to seek hospitality without an invitation. The other had suddenly remembered the ham, and had risen, and was helping himself, his pince-nay which he wore on a ribbon, and evidently only for reading purposes, dangling against his waistcoat buttons. "'By circumstance,' said he, "'that is interesting. Circumstance is the master dramatist. Are you interested in the drama?' "'Interested,' said Jones. "'Why, I am a drama. I reckon I'm the biggest drama ever written, and that's why I'm here to-night.' "'Ah!' said the other. "'This is becoming more interesting still, or promising to become, for I warn you plainly that what may appear of intense interest to the individual is generally of little interest to the general. "'Now a man may, let's say, commit some little act that the thing we call justice disapproves of, and eluding justice finds himself pressed by circumstance into queer and dramatic positions. Those positions, though of momentary and intense interest to the man in question, would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls, or the girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by that thread of, what shall we call it, that is the backbone of the thing we call story. "'Oh, justice isn't bothering after me,' said Jones. Then vague recollections began to stir in his mind. That long, glabrous face, the set of that jaw, that forehead, that hair brushed back. "'Why, you're Mr. Kellerman, aren't you?' said he. The other bowed. "'Good heavens,' said Jones. I ought to have known you. I've seen your picture often enough in the state, and your cinema plays, haven't read your books, for I'm not a reading man. But I've been fair crazy over your cinema plays.'" Kellerman bowed. "'Help yourself to some cheese,' said he. "'It's good. I get it from Fortnum and Mason's. When I stepped into this room and saw you here, for the first moment I was going to kick you out. Then I thought I'd have some fun with you and freeze you out. So you're American? You are welcome. But just tell me this. Why did you come in, and how?' "'I came in because I am being chased,' said Jones. "'It's not the law. I reckon I'm an honest citizen, in purpose anyhow, and as to how I came in I wanted a crust of bread and rang at your hall door.' "'Servants don't sleep here,' said Kellerman. "'Cook snores, bungalow like a fiddle for conveying sounds. Come here for sleep and rest. They sleep at a cottage down the road.' "'So?' said Jones. "'Well, getting no reply, I looked in at the window, saw the supper, and came in.' "'That's just the sort of thing that might occur in a photo-play,' said Kellerman. "'When I saw you, as I stepped in, sitting quietly at supper, the situation struck me at once.' "'You call that a situation?' said Jones. "'It's bald to some of the situations I have been in for the last, God knows how long.' "'You interest me,' said Kellerman, helping himself to cheese. "'You talk with such entire conviction of the value of your goods.' "'How do you mean the value of my goods?' "'Your situations, if you like the term better. Don't you know that good situations are rarer than diamonds and more valuable? Have you ever read Pickwick?' "'Yep.' "'Then you can guess what I mean. Situations don't occur in real life. They have to be dug for in the diamond fields of the mind. And—' "'Situations don't occur in real life,' said Jones. "'Don't they? Now, see here, I've had supper with you, and in return for your hospitality, I'll tell you everything that's happened to me, if you'll hear it. I guess I'll shatter your illusions. I'll give you a sample. I belong to the London Senior Conservative Club, and yet I don't. I have the swellest house in London, yet it doesn't belong to me. I'm worth one million and eight thousand pounds, yet the other day I had to steal a few sovereigns, but the law could not touch me for stealing them. I have an uncle who is a duke, yet I am no relation to him. Sounds crazy, doesn't it? All the same, it's fact. I don't mind telling you the whole thing, if you care to hear it. I won't give you the right names, because there's a woman in the case, but I'll bet I'll lift your hair." Kellerman did not seem elated. "'I don't mind listening to your story,' said he, on one condition. What's that? That you will not be offended if I switch you off, if the thing pauls and hand you your hat? For I must tell you that, though I came down here to get sleep, I do most of my sleeping between two in the morning and noon. I work at night, and I had intended working to-night.' "'Oh, you can switch me off when you like,' said Jones. Supper being finished, Kellerman fastened the window, and carrying the lamp led the way to a comfortably furnished study. Here he produced cigars and put a little kettle on a spirit stove to make tea. Then, sitting opposite to his host, in a comfortable arm chair, Jones began his story. He had told his infernal story so often that one might have fancied it a painful effort, even to begin. It was not. He had now an audience in touch with him. He suppressed names, or rather altered them, substituting Manchester for Rochester and Birdwood for Birdbro. The audience did not care. It wrecked nothing of titles. It wanted story, and it got it. At about one o'clock the recital was interrupted whilst tea was made. At two o'clock, or a little after, the tale finished. "'Well,' said Jones. Kellerman was leaning back in his chair with eyes half closed. He seemed calculating something in his head. "'Do you believe me?' Kellerman opened his eyes. "'Of course I believe you. If you had invented all that you would be clever enough to know what your invention is worth and not hand it out to a stranger. But I doubt whether anyone else will believe you. However, that is your affair. You have given me five reels of the finest stuff, or at least the material for it. And if I ever care to use it, I will fix you up a contract, giving you twenty-five percent royalties. But there's one thing you haven't given me, the denouement. I'm more than interested in that. I'm not thinking of money. I'm a film actor at heart, and I want to help in the play. Say, may I help?' "'How?' "'Come along with you to the end. Give all the assistance in my power, or even without that, just watch the show. I want to see the last act, for I'm blessed if I can imagine it.' "'I'd rather not,' said Jones. You might get to know the real names of the people I'm dealing with. And as there is a woman in the business, I don't feel I ought to give her name away, even to you.' "'No. I reckon I'll pull through alone. But if you'll give me a sofa to sleep on tonight, I'd be grateful. Then I can get away in the morning.' Kellerman did not press the point. "'I'll give you better than a sofa,' he said. "'There's a spare bed, and you'd better not start in the morning. Give them time to cool down. Then towards evening you can make a dash. The servants here are all right. They'll think you're a friend, run down from town to see me. I'll arrange all that.' End of CHAPTER XXVII AT FIVE O'CLOCK NEXT DAY Jones, redressed by Kellerman in a morning coat, rather the worse for wear, a coat that had been left behind at the bungalow by one of Kellerman's friends, and a dark cloth cap, took his departure from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, but quite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a gray flannel tennis coat and wearing a Panama, and that was the main point. Then had also worked up a history and personality for the newly attired one. "'You are Mr. Isaacson,' said he. "'Here's the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago. Put it in your pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card. You are in the watch trade. Pebble Marsh is the nearest town, only five miles down the road. There is a station there, but you'd better avoid that. There's a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials. And if the worst comes to the worst, refer to me and come back here. I would love that interview.' Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly excited and myself.' He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner, Marcus Cohen. As he wrote, he talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the only really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel. "'You see, all black faces are pretty much the same,' said he. "'The predominant expression is black, but I haven't got the fixings nor the colored pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo. So I reckon you'll just have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the God of the Hebrews I haven't made you in old clothes, man. Watches are respectable. Here are your letters. They are short but credible. Have you enough money?' "'Lots,' said Jones, and I don't know in the least how to thank you for what you have done. I'd have been had, sure, wearing that hat and coat. Well, maybe we'll meet again.' They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road in the direction of Pebble Marsh. Kellerman, watching till a bend, hid him from view. Kellerman had, in some mysterious way, added a touch of the footlights to this business. This confounded Kellerman, who thought in terms of reels and situations, had managed to inspire Jones with the feeling that he was moving on the screen, and that any moment the hedge-rows might give up an army of pursuers to the delight of a hidden audience. However, the hedge-rows of the Pebble Marsh Road gave up nothing but the odours of briar and woodbine. Nothing pursued him but the twitter of birds and the songs of larks above the summer drowsy fields. There is nothing much better to live in the memory than a real old English country road on a perfect summer afternoon. No pleasanter companion. Pebble Marsh is a town of some four thousand souls. It possesses a dye factory. It once possessed the only really good trout stream in this part of the country, with the inevitable result. For in England, when a really good trout stream is discovered, a dye factory is always erected upon its banks. Pebble Marsh now only possesses a dye factory. The main street runs north and south, and as Jones passed up it, he might have fancied himself in Sandborne or Northborne, so much alike are these three towns. Halfway up and opposite the post office, an archway disclosed itself with, above it, the magic word, Garage. He entered the place. There were no signs of cars, nothing of a movable description in that yard, with the exception of a stout man in leggings and shirt sleeves, who, seeing the stranger, came forward to receive him. Have you a car? asked Jones. They're all out except a Ford, said the stout man. Did you want to go for a drive? No, I want to run up to London in a hurry. What's the mileage from here? We reckon it's sixty-three miles from here to London, that is to say the old Kent Road. That's near enough, said Jones. What's the price? A shilling a mile will take you, and a six-pence a mile for the car coming back. What's the total? The proprietor figured in his head for a moment. Four, fifteen, and six, said he. I'll take the car, said Jones, and I'll pay you now. Can I have it at once? The proprietor went to a door and opened it. Jim! cried he. Are you there? Gentleman wants the Ford taken to London. Get her out and get yourself ready. He turned to Jones. She'll be ready inside ten minutes, if that'll do. That'll do, said Jones, and here's the money. He produced the chamois leather bag, paid the five sovereigns, and received five and six-pence change, and also a receipt which he put in his pocket. Then Jim appeared, an inconspicuous-looking man, wriggling into a driving-coat that had seen better days. The Ford was taken from its den, the tires examined, and the petrol tank filled. Haven't you an overcoat? asked the proprietor. It'll be chilly after sundown. No, said Jones. I came down without one. The weather was so fine. It won't hurt. Better have a coat, said the proprietor. I'll lend you one. Jim will fetch it back. He went off and returned with a heavy coat on his arm. That's good of you, said Jones. Thanks. I'll put it on now to save trouble. Then a bright idea struck him. What I'm afraid of most is my eyes. The wind tries them. Have you any goggles? I believe there's an old pair in the office, said the proprietor. Come on a minute. He went off and returned with the goggles. Jones thanked him, put them on, and got into the car. Pleasant journey to you, said the proprietor. Then they started. They turned up the street and along the road by which Jones had come. Then they struck into the road where their luck-nows and con-pours hinted of old Indian kernels. They passed the gates of the Hoover Establishment. It was open and an attendant was gazing up and down the street. He looked at the car, but he did not recognize the occupant. Then several more residential roads were left behind, a highly respectable cemetery, a tin chapel, and the car, taking a hill as Ford's know-how, dropped Sanborn on sea to invisibility, and surrounded itself with vast stretches of green and sun-warmed country. June sent it, and hazy with the warmth of summer. They passed hop gardens and hamlets, broad meadows and grazing cattle, bosky woods and parklands. Jones, though he had taken the goggles off, saw little of the beauty around him. He was recognizing facts and asking questions of himself. If Hoover or the police were to call at the garage, what would happen? Knowing the route of the car, could they telegraph to towns on the way and have him arrested? How did the English law stand as regards escaped gentlemen with hallucinations? Could they be arrested like criminals? Surely not, and yet as regards the law, who could be sure of anything? Jim, the speechless driver, could tell him nothing on these points. Towards dusk they reached a fairly big town, and in the very center of the main street Jim stopped the car to light the headlamps. A policeman, passing on his beat, paused to inspect the operation and then moved on, and the car resumed its way, driving into a world of twilight and scented hedges, where the glow-worms were lighting up, and over which the sky was showing a silvery sprinkle of stars. Two more towns they passed unhindered, and then came the fringe of London, a maze of lights and ways and houses, tram lines, and then an endless road, half-road, half-street, lines of shops, lines of old houses and semi-gardens. Jim turned in his seat. "'This here's the Kent Road,' said he. "'We're about the middle of it. Which part did you want?' "'This'll do,' said Jones. "'Pull her up.'" He got out, took the four and six pence from his pocket, and gave Jim two shillings for a tip. "'Going all the way back to-night?' asked he, as he wriggled out of the coat, and handed it over with the goggles. "'No,' said Jim. "'I'll stop at the last pub we passed for the night. There ain't no use over-tax in a car.' "'Well, good night to you,' said Jones.' He watched the car turning and vanishing. Then, with a feeling of freedom he had never before experienced, he pushed on Londonwards. With only two and six pence in his pocket, he would have to wander about all night or sit on the embankment. He had several times seen the outcasts on the embankment seats at night and pityed them. He did not pity them now. They were free men and women. The wind had died away and the night was sultry, much pleasanter out of doors than in, a general term that did not apply to the old Kent Road. The old road leading down to Kent was once, no doubt, a pleasant enough place, but pleasure had long forsaken it, and cleanliness. It was here that David Copperfield sold his jacket, and the old clothier shops are so antiquated that any of them might have been the scene of the purchase. Tonight the old Kent Road was swarming, and the further Jones advanced towards the river the thicker seemed the throng. At a flaring public-house, and for the price of a shilling, he obtained enough food in the way of sausages and mashed potatoes to satisfy his hunger. A half-pint tankard of beer completed the satisfaction of his inner man, and having bought a couple of packets of Navy cut cigarettes and a box of matches, he left the place and pursued his way towards the river. He had exactly ten pence in his pocket, and he fell to thinking, as he walked, of the extraordinary monetary fluctuations he had experienced in this city of London. At the Savoy that fatal day he had less than ten pounds. Next morning, though robbed as a lord, he had only a penny. The penny had been reduced to a half-penny by the purchase of a newspaper. The half-penny swelled to five pounds by Rochester's gift. The five pounds sprang in five minutes to eight thousand, owing to voles. The eight thousand to a million eight thousand owing to mohousen. Sims and Cavendish had stripped him of his last cent. The Smithers affair had given him five pounds. Now he had only ten pence, and tomorrow at nine o'clock he would have eight thousand. It will be noted that he did not consider that eight thousand his till it was safe in his pocket in the form of notes. He had learned by bitter experience to put his trust in nothing but the tangible. He reached the river and the great bridge that spans it here, and on the bridge he paused, leaning his elbow on the parapet and looking downstream. The waning moon had risen, painting the water with silver. Barge lights and the lights of tugs and police boats showed points of orange and dribbles of ruffled gold. Whilst away downstream to the right the airy-fairy tracery of the Houses of Parliament fretted the sky. It was a nocturne after the heart of Whistler, and Jones, as he gazed at it, felt for the first time the magic of this wonderful half-revealed city with its million yellow eyes. He passed on, crossing to the right bank, and found the strand. Here, in a bar, and for the price of a half a pint of beer, he sat for some twenty minutes, watching the customers and killing time. Then, with his worldly wealth reduced to eight pence, he wandered off westward, passing the Savoy, and pausing for a moment to peek down the great archway at the Gailey Lit Hotel. At midnight he had gravitated to the embankment and found a seat not overcrowded. He fell in with a gentleman, derelict like himself, a free-spoken individual, whose conversation wild away an hour. CHAPTER XXIX SAID THE PERSON AFTER A REQUEST FOR A MATCH Worm night, but there's a change in the weather coming on, or I'm greatly mistaken. I've lost nearly everything in the chops and changes of life, but there's one thing I haven't lost, my barometer. That's to say my rheumatism. It tells me when rain is coming, as sure as an aneroid. London is pretty full for the time of year, don't you think? Yes, said Jones. I reckon it is. They talked, the gentleman with the barometer passing from the weather to politics, from politics to high finance, from high finance to himself. He had been a solicitor. Disbarred, as you see, for nothing but what a hundred men are doing at the present moment. There's no justice in the world, except maybe in the law courts. I'm not one of those who think the law is an ass. No, there's a great deal of common sense in the law of England. I'm not talking of the incorporated law society that shut me out from a living, for a slip any man might make. I'm talking of the old laws of England, as administered by His Majesty's judges. Study them, and you will be astonished at their straight common sense and justice. I'm not holding any brief for lawyers. I'm frank, you see. The business of lawyers is to wriggle round and circumvent the truth, to muddy evidence, confuse witnesses, and undo justice. I'm just talking of the laws. Do you know anything of the laws of lunacy? asked Jones. I had a friend who was supposed to be suffering from mind trouble. Two doctors doped him and put him away in an asylum. He was quite harmless. What do you mean by doped him? asked the other. Gave him a drug to quiet him, and then took him off in an automobile. Was there money involved? You may say there was. He was worth a million. Anyone to benefit by his being put away? Well, I expect one might make a case of that. The family would have the handling of the million, wouldn't they? It all depends, but there's one thing certain. There'd be a thundering law case for any clever solicitor to handle, if the plaintiff were not too far gone in his mind to plead. Anyhow, the drugging is out of order. Whole thing sounds fishy. Suppose he escaped, said Jones. Could they take him back by force? That's a difficult question to answer. If he were cutting up shines it would be easy, but if he were clever enough to pretend to be sane it might be difficult. You see, he would have to be arrested. No man can go up and seize another man in the street and say, you're mad, come along with me, simply because even if he holds a certificate of lunacy against the other man, the other man might say you've made a mistake. I'm not the person you want. Then it would be a question of swearing before a magistrate. The good old laws of England are very strict about the freedom of the body and the rights of the individual man to be heard in his own defense. If your lunatic were not too insane and were to take refuge in a friend's house, and the friend were to back him, that would make things more difficult still. If he were to take refuge in his own house? Oh, that would make the things still more difficult, very much more so. If, of course, he were not conducting himself in a manner detrimental to the public peace, firing guns out of windows and so forth, the laws of England are very strict about entering a man's house. Of course, were the pursuers to go before a magistrate and swear that the pursued were a dangerous lunatic, then a right of search and entry might be obtained, but on the pursuers would lie the onus of proof. Now popper lunatics are very easily dealt with. The relieving officer, on the strength of a certificate of lunacy, can go to the poor man's cottage or tenement and take him away. For, you see, the man possessing no property it is supposed that no man is interested in his internment. But once introduced the property element, and there is the very devil to pay, especially in cases where the lunatic is only eccentric, and does not come into court with straws in his hair, so to speak. I get you, said Jones. He offered cigarettes, and presently the communicative one departed, having borrowed four pence on the strength of his professional advice. The rest of that night was a very good imitation of a nightmare. Jones tried several different seats in succession, and managed to do a good deal of walking. Don found him on London Bridge, watching the birth of another perfect day, but without enthusiasm. He was cheerful, but tired. The thought that at nine o'clock, or thereabouts, he would be able to place his hands on eight thousand pounds gave him the material for his cheerfulness. He had often read of the joy of open air life and the freedom of the hobo. But open air life in London, on looking back upon it, did not appeal to him. He had been twice moved on by policemen, and his next-door neighbors, after the departure of the barometer man, were of a type that inspired neither liking nor trust. He heard Big Ben booming six o'clock. He had three hours still before him, and he determined to take it out in walking. He would go citywards, and then come back with an appetite for breakfast. Having made this resolve, he started, passing through the deserted streets till he reached the bank, and then onwards till he reached the mile-end road. As he walked, he made plans. When he had drawn his money, he would breakfast at a restaurant. He fixed upon Romanos, eggs and bacon and sausages. Coffee and hot rolls would be the menu. Then he fell to wondering whether Romanos would be open for breakfast, or whether it was of the type of restaurant that only serves luncheons and dinners. If it were, then he would breakfast at the chairing-cross hotel. These considerations led him a good distance on his way. Then the mile-end road beguiled him, lying straight and foreign looking and empty in the sunlight. The barometer man's weather apparatus must have been at fault, for in all the sky there was not a cloud, nor the symptom of the coming of a cloud. A way down near the docks, a clock over a public house pointed to half-past seven, and he judged at time to return. He came back. The mile-end road was still deserted. The city round the bank was destitute of light. Fleet Street, empty. Pompey lay not more utterly dead than this weird city of vast business palaces, and the strand showed nothing of life, or almost nothing. Every shop was shuttered, though now it was close upon nine o'clock. Something had happened to London. Some blight had fallen on the inhabitants. Death seemed everywhere, not seen but hinted at. Stray recollections of weird stories by H. G. Wells passed through the mind of Jones. He recalled the city of London when the Martians had done with it. That city of death and horror and sunlight and silence. Then of a sudden, as he neared the law-courts, the appalling truth suddenly suggested itself to him. He walked up to a policeman on point of duty at a corner, a policeman who seemed under the mesmerism of the general gloom and blight, a policeman who might have been the blue concrete core of negation. Say, officer, said Jones, what day is today? Sunday, said the policeman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF BY H. DEVIR STACKPOOL. CHAPTER XXX. A JUST MAN, ANGERED. When things are piled one on top of another beyond a certain height, they generally come down with a crash. That one word, Sunday, was the last straw for Jones. Sweeping away breakfast, bank, and everything, going on top of the events of the last twenty-four hours, it brought his mental complacency to ruin, ruin from which shot blazing jets of wrath. Red rage filled him. He had been made game of. Every man and everything was against him. Well, he would bite. He would strike. He would attack. Careless of everything. Heedless of everything. A mesmerized-looking taxi cab, crawling along in the opposite side of the way, fortunately, caught his eye. I'll make hay! cried Jones as he rushed across the street. He stopped the cab. Ten-A, Carlton House Terrace, he cried to the driver. He got in and shut the door with a bang. He got out at Carlton House Terrace, ran up the steps of Ten-A, and rang the bell. The door was opened by the man who had helped to eject Spicer. He did not seem in the least surprised to see Jones. "'Pay that taxi,' said Jones. "'Yes, my lord,' replied the flunky. Jones turned to the breakfast-room. The faint smell of coffee met him at the door as he opened it. There were no servants in the room. Only a woman quietly breakfasting with the life of St. Thomas a campus by her plate. It was Venetia Birdbrook. She half rose from her chair when she saw Jones. He shut the door. The sight of Venetia acted upon him almost as badly as the word Sunday had done. "'What are you doing here?' said he. "'I know. You and that lot had me tucked away in a lunatic asylum. Now you have taken possession of the house.' Venetia was quite calm. "'Since the house is not yours,' said she, "'I fail to see how my presence here affects you. We know the truth. Dr. Sims has arrived at the conclusion that your confession was at least based on truth. That you are what you proclaimed yourself to be, a man named Jones. We thought you were mad. We see now that you are an impostor. Kindly leave this house, or I will call for a policeman.'" Jones' mind lost all its fire. Hatred can cool as well as inflame, and he hated Venetia and all her belongings, including her dowager mother and her uncle the Duke, with a hatred well based on reason and fact. All his fear of mind disturbance, should he go on playing the part of Rochester, had vanished. The fires of tribulation had purged them away. "'I don't know what you're talking about,' said he. "'Do you mean that joke I played on you all?' "'I am the Earl of Rochester. This is my house, and I request you to leave it. Don't speak. I know what you are going to say. You and your family will do this, and you will do that. You will do nothing. Even if I were an impostor, you would dare to do nothing. Your family washing is far, far too much soiled to expose it in public. If I were an impostor, who can say I have not played an honourable game? I have recovered valuable property. Did I touch it and take it away? Did I expose to the public an affair that would have caused a scandal? You will do nothing, and you know it. You did not even dare to tell the servants here what has happened, for the servant who let me in was not a bit surprised. Now, if you have finished your breakfast, will you kindly leave my house?' Venetia rose and took up her book. "'Your house?' said she. "'Yes, my house. From this day forth, my house. But that is not all. Tomorrow I will get lawyers to work, and I'll get apologies as big as houses from the whole lot of you. Else I'll prosecute.' He was getting angry. "'Proscute you for doping me!' Our collections of the barometer-man's advice came to him. Doping me in order to lay your hands on that million of money.' He went to the bell and rang it. "'We want no scene before the servants,' said Venetia hurriedly. "'Then kindly go,' said Jones. "'Or you will have a perfect panorama before the servants.' A servant entered. "'Send church here,' said Jones. He was trembling like a furious dog. He had got the whole situation in hand. He had told his tale and acted like an honourable man. The fools had disbelieved him and doped him. They had scented the truth, but they dared do nothing. Mulhausen and the recovered mine, the Plin Lyman letters. Rochester's past. All these were his bastions, to say nothing of Rochester's suicide. The fear of publicity held them in a vice. Even were they to go to America and prove that a man called Jones, exactly like the Earl of Rochester, had lived in Philadelphia, go to the Savoy and prove that a man exactly like the Earl of Rochester had lived there, produced the clothes he had come home in that night. All of that would lead them where? To an action at law. They could not arrest him as an impostor till they had proved him an impostor. To prove that, they would have to turn the family history inside out before a gaping public. Mr. Church came in. "'Church,' said Jones. I played a practical joke on my people. I met a man called Jones at the Savoy. Well, we needn't go into details. He was very like me, and I told my people for a joke that I was Jones. The fools thought I was mad. They called in two doctors, and drugged me, and hauled me off to a place. I got out, and here I am back. What do you think of that?' "'Well, my lord,' said Church. If I may say it to you, those practical jokes are dangerous things to play. Lord Langwathby—was he here?' He came here last night, my lord, to have a personal explanation about a telegram he said you sent him as a practical joke some time ago, taking him up to Cumberland. I'll never play another,' said Jones. "'Tell them to bring me some breakfast, and look here, Church. I've told my sister to leave the house at once. I want no more of her here. See that her luggage is taken down at once.' "'Yes, my lord.' "'And see here, Church. Let no one in. Lord Langwathby, or anyone else. I want a little peace. By the way, have a tax he sent for, and tell me when my sister's luggage is down.' In the middle of breakfast, Church came in to say that Miss Birdbrook was departing, and Jones came into the hall to verify the fact. Venetia had brought a crocodile skin-traveling bag and a trunk. These were being conveyed to a taxi. Not one word did she say to relieve her outraged feelings. The fear of a scene before the servants kept her quiet. END OF CHAPTER XXXI OF THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF BY H. DEVIR STACKPOOL CHAPTER XXXI. He finds himself. That evening, at nine o'clock, Jones sat in the smoking-room, writing. He had trusted Church with an important mission on the upshot of which his whole future depended. If you will review his story, as he himself was reviewing it now, you will see that, despite a strong will and a mind quick to act, the freedom of his will had always been hampered by circumstance. Circumstance from the first had determined that he should be a Lord. I'd leave it to philosophers to determine what circumstance is. I can only say that, from a fair knowledge of life, circumstance seems to me more than a fortuitous happening of things. Who does not know the man of integrity and ability, the man destined for the Presidency or the College Chair, who remains in an office all his life? Luck is somehow against him. Or the man who, starting in life with everything against him, arrives, not by creeping, but by leaps and bounds. I do not wish to cast a shade on individual effort. I only say this. If you ever find circumstance, whose other name is fortune, feeling for you in order to make you a Lord, don't kick, for when fortune takes an interest in a man, she is cunning as a woman. She is a woman, in fact. At half-past nine a knock came to the door. It was opened by Church, who ushered in Teresa, Countess of Rochester. Jones rose from his chair. Church shut the door and they found themselves alone and face to face. The girl did not sit down. She stood holding the back of a chair and looking at the man before her. She looked scared, dazed, like a person suddenly awakened from sleep in a strange place. Jones knew at once. You have guessed the truth, said he, that I am not your husband. I knew it, she replied, when you told us in the drawing-room. The others thought you mad. I knew you were speaking the truth. That was why you ran from the room. Yes. What more have you to say? I have a very great deal more to say. Will you not sit down? She sat down on the edge of a chair, folded her hand, and continued looking at him with that scared, hunted expression. I want to say just this, said Jones. Right through this business from the very start I have tried to play a straight game. I can guess from your face that you fear me as if I were something horrible. I don't blame you. I ask you to listen to me. Your husband took advantage of two facts, the fact that I am his twin image, as he called it, and the fact that I was temporarily without money and stranded in London. I am not a drunkard, but that night I came under the influence of strong drink. He took advantage of that to send me home as himself. I am going to say a nasty thing. That was not the action of a gentleman. The girl winced. Never went on Jones. Would I say things against a man who is dead? Yet I am forced to tell you the truth, so that you may see this man as he was. Wait! He went to the Bureau and took out some papers. He handed her one. She read the contents. Stick to it, if you can. You'll see why I couldn't. Rochester, that is your husband's handwriting? Yes. Now think for a moment of his act as regards yourself. He sent me, a stranger, home, never thinking a thought about you. Her breath choked back. As for me, went on Jones, from the very first moment I saw you, I have thought of you and your welfare. I told my story for your sake, so that things might be cleared up, and they put me in an asylum for my pains. I escaped, I am here, and for your sake I am saying all this. Does it give me pleasure to show you your husband's character? I would sooner cut off my right hand, but that would not help you. You have got to know, else I cannot possibly get out of this. Read these. He handed her the Plin Lyman letters. She read them carefully. While she was doing so, he sat down and waited. These were written two years ago, said she, in a sad voice, as she folded them together, a year after we were married. It was the tone of her voice that did it. As she handed the letters back to him, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. He put them back in the Bureau without a word. He felt that he had struck the innocent again, and most cruelly. Then he came back to the chair in which he had been sitting, and stood, holding its back. You see how we are both placed, said he. To prove your husband's death, all my business would have to be raked up. I don't mind, because I have acted straight, but you would mind. The fact of his suicide, the fact of his sending me home, everything, that would hit you again and again. Yet look at your position. I do not know what we are to do. If I go away and go back to the State, I leave you before the world as the wife of a man still living who has deserted you. If I stay and go on being the Earl of Rochester, you are tied to a phantom. He paced the floor, head down, wrestling with an insoluble problem, while she sat looking at him. Which is the easiest for you to do? asked she. Oh, me! said he. I'm not thinking of myself. Back to the States, of course, but that's out of the question. There are lots of easy things to do, but when my case comes in contact with yours, there's nothing easy to do. Do you think it was easy for me to go off that night and leave you waiting for me, feeling that you thought me a skunk? No, that was not easy. She had been sitting very calm and still up till now. Then suddenly she looked down. She burst into tears. Oh! she cried. Why were you not him? If he had only been you. He cared nothing for me, yet I loved him. You, you! I care for nothing at all, but you, said he. She shuddered all over and turned her head away. That's the mischief of it as far as I am concerned, he went on. I can't escape without injuring you and so myself. Yet I don't wonder at your hating me. She turned her face to him. It was flushed and wet. I do not hate you, said she. You are the only man I ever met, unselfish. No, he said. I'm selfish. It's just because I love you that I think of you more than myself. And I love you because you are good and sweet. I could not do you wrong just because of that. If you were another woman, I would not bother about you. I'd be cruel enough, I reckon, and go off and leave you tied up, and to get back to the States. But you are you, and that's my bother. I did not know till now how I was tied to you. Yesterday, at that asylum place, and all last night, I did not think of you. My one thought was to get away. I came here today, driven by want of money. I was so angry with the whole business, I determined to go on being Rochester. Then you came into my mind, and I sent church to ask you to come and see me. Much good it has done. I don't know, she said. He looked at her quickly. Her glance fell. Next moment he was beside her, kneeling and holding her hand. For a moment they said not one word. Then he spoke as though answering questions. We can get married. Oh, I don't mind going on being the Earl of Rochester. There were times when I thought I'd go crack. But now you know the truth. I reckon I can go on pretending. People can have the marriage ceremony performed twice. Of course it would have to be private. I can't think this is true. I don't believe you can ever care for me. I don't know, maybe you will. Do you care for me, for myself, in the least? I reckon I'm half mad. But say, when did you begin to like me for myself? Was it only just because you thought I was unselfish? Was it— If I like you at all, she said, with a little catch in her voice. Perhaps it was that night. What night? The night you struck— The Russian, but you thought I was him then. Perhaps, said she dreamily. But I thought it was unlike him. Do you understand? I don't know. I understand nothing but that I have got you to care for always, to worship, to lay myself down for you to trample on. Good night, said she at last. She was standing, preparing to go. The family know the truth, at least they are sure of the truth, but as you say, they can do nothing. Imagine their feelings when I tell them what we have agreed on. With me on your side, they are absolutely helpless. There is, fortunately enough, no law preventing two married people being remarried privately. The good old lawyers of England, considering, no doubt, that a man having gone through the ceremony once would think it enough. All this that I have been telling you happened some years ago, years marked by some very practical and brilliant speeches in the House of Lords and the death of the Honourable Venetia Birdbrook from liver complaint. It is a queer story, but not queerer than the face of the Dowager Countess of Rochester when she reads in private all the nice complementary things that the papers have to say about her son. End of chapter 31, recording by Roger Maline.