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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Camera Fiend by E.W. Hornung
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: The Camera Fiend
-
-Author: E.W. Hornung
-
-Release Date: September 26, 2009 [eBook #30096]
-[Most recently updated: January 30, 2021]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAMERA FIEND ***
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-The Camera Fiend
-
-by E.W. Hornung
-
-London
-T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd.
-Adelphi Terrace
-1911
-
-
-Contents
-
- I. A CONSCIENTIOUS ASS
- II. A BOY ABOUT TOWN
- III. HIS PEOPLE
- IV. A GRIM SAMARITAN
- V. THE GLASS EYE
- VI. AN AWAKENING
- VII. BLOOD-GUILTY
- VIII. POINTS OF VIEW
- IX. MR. EUGENE THRUSH
- X. SECOND THOUGHTS
- XI. ON PAROLE
- XII. HUNTING WITH THE HOUNDS
- XIII. BOY AND GIRL
- XIV. BEFORE THE STORM
- XV. A LIKELY STORY
- XVI. MALINGERING
- XVII. ON THE TRACK OF THE TRUTH
- XVIII. A THIRD CASE
- XIX. THE FOURTH CASE
- XX. WHAT THE THAMES GAVE UP
- XXI. AFTER THE FAIR
- XXII. THE SECRET OF THE CAMERA
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I.
-A CONSCIENTIOUS ASS
-
-
-Pocket Upton had come down late and panting, in spite of his daily
-exemption from first school, and the postcard on his plate had taken
-away his remaining modicum of breath. He could have wept over it in
-open hall, and would probably have done so in the subsequent seclusion
-of his own study, had not an obvious way out of his difficulty been
-bothering him by that time almost as much as the difficulty itself. For
-it was not a very honest way, and the unfortunate Pocket had been
-called “a conscientious ass” by some of the nicest fellows in his
-house. Perhaps he deserved the epithet for going even as straight as he
-did to his house-master, who was discovered correcting proses with a
-blue pencil and a briar pipe.
-
-“Please, sir, Mr. Coverley can’t have me, sir. He’s got a case of
-chicken-pox, sir.”
-
- The boy produced the actual intimation in a few strokes of an honoured
- but laconic pen. The man poised his pencil and puffed his pipe.
-
-“Then you must come back to-night, and I’m just as glad. It’s all
-nonsense your staying the night whenever you go up to see that doctor
-of yours.”
-
-“He makes a great point of it, sir. He likes to try some fresh stuff on
-me, and then see what sort of night I have.”
-
-“You could go up again to-morrow.”
-
-“Of course I could, sir,” replied Pocket Upton, with a delicate
-emphasis on his penultimate. At the moment he was perhaps neither so
-acutely conscientious nor such an ass as his critics considered him.
-
-“What else do you propose?” inquired Mr. Spearman.
-
-“Well, sir, I have plenty of other friends in town, sir. Either the
-Knaggses or Miss Harbottle would put me up in a minute, sir.”
-
-“Who are the Knaggses?”
-
-“The boys were with me at Mr. Coverley’s, sir; they go to Westminster
-now. One of them stayed with us last holidays. They live in St. John’s
-Wood Park.”
-
-“And the lady you mentioned?”
-
-“Miss Harbottle, sir, an old friend of my  mother’s; it was through her
-I went to Mr. Coverley’s, and I’ve often stayed there. She’s in the
-Wellington Road, sir, quite close to Lord’s.”
-
-Mr. Spearman smiled at the gratuitous explanation of an eagerness that
-other lads might have taken more trouble to conceal. But there was no
-guile in any Upton; in that one respect the third and last of them
-resembled the great twin brethren of whom he had been prematurely voted
-a “pocket edition” on his arrival in the school. He had few of their
-other merits, though he took a morbid interest in the games they played
-by light of nature, as well as in things both beyond and beneath his
-brothers and the average boy. You cannot sit up half your nights with
-asthma and be an average boy. This was obvious even to Mr. Spearman,
-who was an average man. He had never disguised his own disappointment
-in the youngest Upton, but had often made him the butt of outspoken and
-disastrous comparisons. Yet in his softer moments he had some sympathy
-with the failure of an otherwise worthy family; this fine June morning
-he seemed even to understand the joy of a jaunt to London for a boy who
-was getting very little out of his school life. He made a note of the
-two names and addresses.
-
-“You’re quite sure they’ll put you up, are you?” “Absolutely certain,
-sir.”
-
-“But you’ll come straight back if they can’t?”
-
-“Rather, sir!”
-
-“Then run away, and don’t miss your train.”
-
-Pocket interpreted the first part of the injunction so literally as to
-arrive very breathless in his study. That diminutive cell was garnished
-with more ambitious pictures than the generality of its order; but the
-best of them was framed in the ivy round the lattice window, and its
-foreground was the nasturtiums in the flower-box. Pocket glanced down
-into the quad, where the fellows were preparing construes for second
-school in sunlit groups on garden seats. At that moment the bell began.
-And by the time Pocket had changed his black tie for a green one with
-red spots, in which he had come back after the Easter holidays, the
-bell had stopped and the quad was empty; before it filled again he
-would be up in town and on his way to Welbeck Street in a hansom.
-
-The very journey was a joy. It was such sport to be flying through a
-world of buttercups and daisies in a train again, so refreshing to feel
-as good as anybody else in the third smoker; for even the grown men in
-the corner seats did not dream of calling the youth an “old ass,” much
-less a young one, to his face. His friends and contemporaries at school
-were in the habit of employing the ameliorating adjective, but there
-were still a few fellows  in Pocket’s house who made an insulting point
-of the other. All, however, seemed agreed as to the noun; and it was
-pleasant to cast off friend and foe for a change, to sit comfortably
-unknown and unsuspected of one’s foibles in the train. It made Pocket
-feel a bit of a man; but then he really was almost seventeen, and in
-the Middle Fifth, and allowed to smoke asthma cigarettes in bed. He
-took one out of a cardboard box in his bag, and thought it might do him
-good to smoke it now. But an adult tobacco-smoker looked so curiously
-at the little thin cross between cigar and cigarette, that it was
-transferred to a pocket unlit, and the coward hid himself behind his
-paper, in which there were several items of immediate interest to him.
-Would the match hold out at Lord’s? If not, which was the best of the
-Wednesday matinees? Pocket had received a pound from home for his
-expenses, so that these questions took an adventitious precedence over
-even such attractive topics as an execution and a murder that bade fair
-to lead to one. But the horrors had their turn, and having supped on
-the newspaper supply, he continued the feast in _Henry Dunbar_, the
-novel he had brought with him in his bag. There was something like a
-murder! It was so exciting as to detach Pocket Upton from the flying
-buttercups and daisies, from the reek of the smoking carriage, the real
-crimes in the paper, and all thoughts of London until he found himself
-there too soon.
-
-The asthma specialist was one of those enterprising practitioners whose
-professional standing is never quite on a par with their material
-success. The injurious discrepancy may have spoilt his temper, or it
-may be that his temper was at the root of the prejudice against him. He
-was never very amiable with Pocket Upton, a casual patient in every
-sense; but this morning Dr. Bompas had some call to complain.
-
-“You mean to tell me,” he expostulated, “that you’ve gone back to the
-cigarettes in spite of what I said last time? If you weren’t a stupid
-schoolboy I should throw up your case!”
-
-Pocket did not wish to have his case thrown up; it would mean no more
-days and nights in town. So he accepted his rebuke without visible
-resentment.
-
-“It’s the only way I can stop an attack,” he mumbled.
-
-“Nonsense!” snapped the specialist. “You can make yourself coffee in
-the night, as you’ve done before.”
-
-“I can’t at school. They draw the line at that.”
-
-“Then a public school is no place for you. I’ve said so from the first.
-Your people should have listened to me, and sent you on a long sea
-voyage under the man I recommended, in the ship I told them about. She
-sails the day after to-morrow, and you should have sailed in her.”
-
-The patient made no remark; but he felt as sore as his physician on the
-subject of that long sea voyage. It would have meant a premature end to
-his undistinguished schooldays, and goodbye to all thought of following
-in his brothers’ steps on the field of schoolboy glory. But he might
-have had adventures beyond the pale of that circumscribed arena, he
-might have been shipwrecked on a desert island, and lived to tell a
-tale beyond the dreams of envious athletes, if his people had but taken
-kindly to the scheme. But they had been so very far from taking to it
-at all, with the single exception of his only sister, that the boy had
-not the heart to discuss it now.
-
-“If only there were some medicine one could take to stop an attack!” he
-sighed. “But there doesn’t seem to be any.”
-
-“There are plenty of preventives,” returned the doctor. “That’s what we
-want. Smoking and inhaling all sorts of rubbish is merely a palliative
-that does more harm than good in the long run.”
-
-“But it does you good when the preventives fail. If I could get a good
-night without smoking I should be thankful.”
-
-“If I promise you a good night will you give me your cigarettes to keep
-until to-morrow?”
-
-“If you like.”
-
-The doctor wrote a prescription while the boy produced the cardboard
-box from his bag.
-
-“Thank you,” said Bompas, as they made an exchange. “I don’t want you
-even to be tempted to smoke to-night, because I know what the
-temptation must be when you can’t get your breath. You will get this
-prescription made up in two bottles; take the first before you go to
-bed to-night, and the second if you wake with an attack before five in
-the morning. You say you are staying the night with friends; better
-give me the name and let me see if they’re on the telephone before you
-go. I want you to go to bed early, tell them not to call you in the
-morning, and come back to me the moment you’ve had your breakfast.”
-
-They parted amicably after all, and Pocket went off only wondering
-whether he ought to have said positively that he was staying with
-friends when he might be going back to school. But Dr. Bompas had been
-so short with him at first as to discourage unnecessary explanations;
-besides, there could be no question of his going back that night. And
-the difficulty of the morning, which he had quite forgotten in the
-train, was not allowed to mar a moment of his day in town.
-
- The time-table of that boy’s day must speak for itself. It was already
- one o’clock, and he was naturally hungry, especially after the way his
- breakfast had been spoilt by Coverley’s card. At 1.15 he was munching
- a sausage roll and sipping chocolate at a pastry-cook’s in Oxford
- Street. The sausage roll, like the cup of chocolate, was soon followed
- by another; and a big Bath bun completed a debauch of which Dr. Bompas
- would undoubtedly have disapproved.
-
-At 1.45, from the top of an Atlas omnibus in Baker Street, he espied a
-placard with “Collapse of Middlesex” in appalling capitals. And at the
-station he got down to learn the worst before going on to Lord’s for
-nothing.
-
-The worst was so hopelessly bad that Pocket wished himself nearer the
-theatres, and then it was that the terra-cotta pile of Madame Tussaud’s
-thrust itself seductively upon his vision. He had not been there for
-years. He had often wanted to go again, and go alone. He remembered
-being taken by his sister when a little boy at Coverley’s, but she had
-refused to go into the Chamber of Horrors, and he had been relieved at
-the time but sorry ever afterwards, because so many of the boys of
-those days had seen everything and seemed none the worse for the
-adventure. It was one of the things he had always wanted not so much to
- do as to have done. The very name of the Chamber of Horrors had frozen
-his infant blood when he first heard it on the lips of a criminological
-governess. On the brink of seventeen there was something of the budding
-criminologist about Pocket Upton himself; had not a real murder and
-_Henry Dunbar_ formed his staple reading in the train? And yet the boy
-had other sensibilities which made him hesitate outside the building,
-and enter eventually with quite a nutter under the waistcoat.
-
-A band in fantastic livery was playing away in the marble hall; but
-Pocket had no ear for their music, though he was fond enough of a band.
-And though history was one of his few strong points at school, the
-glittering galaxy of kings and queens appealed to him no more than the
-great writers at their little desks and the great cricketers in their
-unconvincing flannels. They were waxworks one and all. But when the
-extra sixpence had been paid at the inner turnstile, and he had passed
-down a dungeon stair into the dim vaults below, his imagination was at
-work upon the dreadful faces in the docks before he had brought his
-catalogue to bear on one of them.
-
-Here were wretches whose vile deeds had long been familiar to the
-schoolboy through a work on his father’s shelves called _Annals of Our
-Time_. He recalled bad nights when certain of those annals  had kept
-him awake long after his attack; and here were the actual monsters, not
-scowling and ferocious as he had always pictured them, but far more
-horribly demure and plump. Here were immortal malefactors like the
-Mannings; here were Rush and Greenacre cheek by jowl, looking as though
-they had stepped out of Dickens in their obsolete raiment, looking
-anything but what they had been. Some wore the very clothes their quick
-bodies had filled; here and there were authentic tools of death, rusty
-pistols, phials of poison with the seals still bright, and a smug face
-smirking over all in self-conscious infamy. There was not enough of the
-waxwork about these creatures; in the poor light, and their own
-clothes, and the veritable dock in which many of them had heard their
-doom, they looked hideously human and alive. One, a little old man, sat
-not in the dock but on the drop itself, the noose dangling in front of
-him; and the schoolboy felt sorry for him, for his silver bristles, for
-the broad arrows on his poor legs, until he found out who it was. Then
-he shuddered. It was Charles Peace. He had first heard of Charles Peace
-from the nice governess aforesaid; and here under his nose were the old
-ruffian’s revolver, and the strap that strapped it to his wrist, with
-the very spectacles he had wiped and worn. The hobbledehoy was almost
-as timorously  entranced as he had been in infancy by untimely tale of
-crime. He stood gloating over the gruesome relics, over ropes which had
-hanged men whose trials he had read for himself in later days, and yet
-wondering with it all whether he would ever get these things out of his
-mind again. They filled it to overflowing. He might have had the horrid
-place to himself. Yet he had entered it with much amusement at the
-heels of a whole family in deep mourning, a bereaved family drowning
-their sorrow in a sea of gore, their pilot through the catalogue a
-conscientious orphan with a monotonous voice and a genius for
-mis-pronunciation. Pocket had soon ceased to see or hear him or any
-other being not made of wax. And it was only when he was trying to
-place a nice-looking murderer in a straw hat, who suddenly moved into a
-real sightseer like himself, that the unwholesome spell was broken.
-
-Pocket was not sorry to be back in the adulterated sunshine and the
-comparatively fresh air of the Marylebone Road. He was ashamed to find
-that it was after four o’clock. Guy and Vivian Knaggs would be home
-from Westminster in another hour. Still it was no use getting there
-before them, and he might as well walk as not; it was pleasant to rub
-shoulders with flesh and blood once more, and to look in faces not made
-of wax in the devil’s image. His way, which he knew of old, would 
-naturally have led him past Miss Harbottle’s door; but, as she was only
-to be his second string for the night, he preferred not to be seen by
-that old lady yet. Such was the tiny spring of an important action; it
-led the wanderer into Circus Road and a quite unforeseen temptation.
-
-In the Circus Road there happens to be a highly respectable
-pawnbroker’s shop; in the pawnbroker’s window the chances are that you
-might still find a motley collection of umbrellas, mandolines, family
-Bibles, ornaments and clocks, strings of watches, trays of purses,
-opera-glasses, biscuit-boxes, photograph frames and cheap jewellery,
-all of which could not tempt you less than they did Pocket Upton the
-other June. There were only two things in the window that interested
-him at all, and they were not both temptations. One was an old rosewood
-camera, and Pocket was interested in cameras old and new; but the thing
-that tempted him was a little revolver at five-and-six, with what
-looked like a box of cartridges beside it, apparently thrown in for the
-price. A revolver to take back to school! A revolver to fire in picked
-places on the slow walks with a slow companion which were all the
-exercise this unfortunate fellow could take! A revolver and cartridges
-complete, so that one could try it now, in no time, with Guy and Vivian
-at the end of their garden in  St. John’s Wood Park! And all very
-likely for five bob if one bargained a bit!
-
-Pocket took out his purse and saw what a hole the expenditure of any
-such sum would make. But what was that if it filled a gap in his life?
-Of coure it would have been breaking a school rule, but he was prepared
-to take the consequences if found out; it need not involve his notion
-of dishonour. Still, it must be recorded that the young or old as was
-conscientious enough to hesitate before making his fatal plunge into
-the pawnbroker’s shop.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II.
-A BOY ABOUT TOWN
-
-
-The young Westminsters had not come in when Pocket finally cast up in
-St. John’s Wood Park. But their mother was at home, and she gave the
-boy a cup of tepid tea out of a silver tea-pot in the drawing-room.
-Mrs. Knaggs was a large lady who spoke her mind with much freedom, at
-all events to the young. She remarked how much Upton (so she addressed
-him) had altered; but her tone left Pocket in doubt as to whether any
-improvement was implied. She for one did not approve of his luncheon in
-Oxford Street, much less of the way  he had spent a summer’s afternoon;
-indeed, she rather wondered at his being allowed alone in London at
-all. Pocket, who could sometimes shine in conversation with his elders,
-at once reminded Mrs. Knaggs that her own Westminster boys were allowed
-alone in London every day of their lives. But Mrs. Knaggs said that was
-a very different thing, and that she thought Pocket’s public school
-must be very different from Westminster. Pocket bridled, but behaved
-himself; he knew where he wanted to stay the night, and got as far
-towards inviting himself as to enlarge upon Mr. Coverley’s misfortune
-and his own disappointment. Mrs. Knaggs in her turn did ask him where
-he meant to and even the conscientious Pocket caught himself declaring
-he had no idea. Then the boys were heard returning, and Mrs. Knaggs
-said of course he would stop to schoolroom supper, and Pocket thanked
-her as properly as though it were the invitation he made sure must
-follow. After all, Vivian Knaggs had stayed at Pocket’s three weeks one
-Christmas, and Guy a fortnight at Easter; the boys themselves would
-think of that; it was not a matter to broach to them, or one to worry
-about, prematurely.
-
-Vivian and Guy were respectively rather older and rather younger than
-Pocket, and they came in looking very spruce, the one in his Eton
-jacket, the  other in tails, but both in shiny toppers that excited an
-unworthy prejudice in the wearer of the green tie with red spots. They
-seemed very glad to see him, however, and the stiffness was wearing off
-even before Pocket produced his revolver in the basement room where the
-two Westminsters prepared their lessons and had their evening meal.
-
-The revolver melted the last particle of ice, though Vivian Knaggs
-pronounced it an old pin-firer, and Guy said he would not fire it for a
-thousand pounds. This only made Pocket the more eager to show what he
-and his revolver were made of, then and there in the garden, and the
-more confident that it never would be heard in the house.
-
-“It would,” answered Vivian, “and seen as well. No, if you want to have
-a shot let’s stick up a target outside this window, and fire from just
-inside.”
-
-The window was a French one leading into the back garden; but,
-unhappily, Mrs. Knaggs’s bedroom was only two floors higher, and it
-also looked out on the back; and Mrs. Knaggs herself was in her room
-and near her window when the report startled her, and not less because
-she little dreamt what it was until she looked out in time to see a
-cloud of smoke escaping from the schoolroom window, and Pocket
-examining the target, weapon in hand.
-
-There was a great scene about it. Mrs. Knaggs  shrieked a prohibition
-from aloft, and having pacified an incoherent cook upon the stairs,
-descended to extract a solemn promise which might well have ended the
-matter. Pocket was very contrite, indeed, drew his weapon’s teeth with
-a promptitude that might have been his death, and offered it and them
-to be placed under lock and key until he left. But Mrs. Knaggs
-contented herself with promoting a solemn promise into a Sacred Word of
-Honour—which rather hurt poor Pocket—and with sending him a very
-straight message by Vivian after supper.
-
-“The mater’s awfully sorry,” said Vivian, returning from a mission
-which Pocket had been obliged to instigate after all. “There’s not a
-spare bed in the house.”
-
-Guy incontinently declared there was. A fraternal frown alone prevented
-him from going into particulars.
-
-“A sofa would do me all right,” suggested Pocket, who had long ago lost
-his last train, and would have preferred a bare plank where there were
-boys to fussy old Miss Harbottle’s best bed. But Vivian Knaggs shook
-his head.
-
-“The mater says she couldn’t sleep with firearms in the house.”
-
-“I’ll bury them in the garden if she likes.”
-
-“Then you smoke in the night, and at Coverley’s you once walked in your
-sleep,” pursued Vivian,  who certainly seemed to have been urging the
-interloper’s cause. “And the mater’s afraid you might walk out of a
-window or set the house on fire.”
-
-“I shouldn’t do either to-night,” protested Pocket, with a grin. “I’ve
-not got anything to smoke, and I have got something to keep me quiet.”
-
-And with further information on both points the son of the house went
-upstairs again, only to return in quicker time with a more embarrassed
-gravity.
-
-“She’s awfully sorry,” he said unconvincingly, “but she can’t undertake
-the responsibility of putting you up with your asthma.”
-
-Oddly enough, for he was only too sensitive on some points, Pocket was
-not really hurt by his treatment at the hands of these people; he felt
-he had made rather a mistake, but not that he had been most inhumanly
-cast adrift at sixteen among the shoals and quicksands of London. Nor
-was this quite the case as yet; there was still old Miss Harbottle in
-Wellington Road. But to her he was not going until decency compelled
-him; he was going to have another game of bagatelle with Guy Knaggs
-first. It will be seen that with all his sensibilities the youngest
-Upton was a most casual and sanguine youth. He took a great deal for
-granted, prepared only for the best, and although inclined to worry
-over the irrevocable, took no thought for the morrow until he was
-obliged. He was sorry he had been so  positive with Spearman on the
-subject of his friend’s hospitality. He was sorry he had asked and been
-refused, rather sorry he had not caught that last train back from St.
-Pancras. Yet he left poor Miss Harbottle the best part of another hour
-to go to bed in; and that was neither the first nor the last of his
-erratic proceedings.
-
-“What about your luggage?” asked the elder Knaggs, as he put on his hat
-to walk round with Pocket.
-
-“Good Lord!” cried that worthy, standing still in the hall.
-
-“Haven’t you got any?”
-
-“I left it at Madame Tussaud’s!”
-
-“Left your luggage there?”
-
-“It was only a handbag. How long are they open?”
-
-Young Knaggs looked in _Whitaker_ and said they closed at ten. There
-was still time to recover the bag with a taxicab, but in that case it
-was not much use his going too. So they said goodbye at the Swiss
-Cottage, and the adventures of Pocket Upton began in earnest.
-
-Old Miss Harbottle, his mother’s great friend, would have none of him
-either! He stopped on the way to Baker Street to make sure. The garden
-gate was one that only opened by a catch and a cable manipulated
-indoors. The downstairs lights  were out. The gate opened at last, a
-light shone through the front door, and the door opened a few inches on
-the chain. Pocket confronted a crevice of quilted dressing-gown and
-grey curls; but his mother’s friend’s mastiff was making night so
-hideous within, and trying so hard to get at his mother’s son, that it
-was some time before he could exchange an intelligible word with the
-brute’s mistress. It was not a satisfactory interchange then, for Miss
-Harbottle at first flatly refused to believe that this was Tony Upton,
-whom she had not seen since his preparatory schooldays, and she seemed
-inclined to doubt it to the end. Upton or no Upton, she could not take
-him in. She had no sheets aired, no fire to air them at, and the cook
-had just left. Miss Harbottle’s cook had always just left, except when
-she was just leaving. The rejected visitor got an instant’s fun out of
-the reflection as he returned to his palpitating taxicab.
-
-His position was now quite serious. He had not many shillings in his
-purse. The only thing to do was to put up at Shaw’s Hotel, Trafalgar
-Square; that was where his people always stayed, where every servant
-was supposed to know them all. He pushed on at once through the cool
-June night, and paid away three of his last shillings for the drive.
-Alas! not a bed to be had at Shaw’s; it was the worst time of the year,
-they told him, and he  supposed they meant the best. He also supposed
-there had been changes in the staff, for nobody seemed to know his name
-as well as he had been led to expect at home.
-
-They were quite nice about it. They pointed out the big hotels
-opposite, and recommended more than one of the little ones in Craven
-Street. But the big hotels were all full to overflowing; and at the
-only little one he tried the boy lost his temper like a man on being
-requested to deposit six shillings before proceeding to his room.
-Pocket had not got it to deposit, and the galling reflection caused him
-to construe the demand as a deliberate reflection upon his outward
-respectability—as if he could not have borrowed the money from Dr.
-Bompas in the morning!
-
-“I’ll see you blowed,” was his muttered reply, and he caught up his bag
-in a passion.
-
-“All right, little man! I shouldn’t be rude about it,” said the dapper
-cashier. “If I couldn’t pay my shot I should sleep in the Park, on a
-nice fine night like this.”
-
-“I shall!” shouted Pocket through his teeth, as though that would
-prevent the brute of a cashier from sleeping soundly in his bed. And it
-was his own idle and childish threat that set him presently wondering
-what else he was to do. He had the spirit of adventure, as we have
-seen.
-
-He had the timorous, or let us say, the imaginative temperament, which
-lends to adventure its very salt. He wished to have done dangerous or
-heroic things, if not to have to do them. He had so little to boast
-about; his brothers, and so many other fellows of his own age, had so
-much. It would make a great yarn some day, how he had come up from
-school to see a doctor—and slept in the Park!
-
-Meanwhile he had only a vague idea of his way there; he knew hardly
-anything of London except St. John’s Wood and his present landmark of
-the Nelson column and the Landseer lions. He knew them from having
-stayed some time (under another doctor) as a child at Shaw’s Hotel.
-But, I say! What would Bompas say to his sleeping out, and what sort of
-night could he expect in the open air?
-
-He had an overcoat. It had been in his way all day; it would come in
-more than handy for the night. And it suddenly struck Pocket, with all
-the force of a forgotten novelty, that he had a revolver and cartridges
-as well.
-
-That decided him. Not that he seriously thought himself the kind of
-person to use a revolver with resolution or effect; but it made him
-feel doughty and even truculent to find the means of heroic defence all
-ready to his hand. He began to plume himself on his providential
-purchase. He would sell his young life dearly if he fell among London
-thieves;  in his death he would not be unhonoured at school or at home.
-Obituary phrases of a laudatory type sprang like tears to a mind still
-healthy enough to dash them away again, as though they had been real
-tears; but it was with all the nervous exaltation of the unsuspected
-desperado that he inquired his way of a colossal constable at the
-corner of Pall Mall and the Haymarket.
-
-The man wanted to know if he meant Hyde Park Corner. “Yes,” said
-Pocket, hastily, because his heart was in his mouth and the policeman
-looked as though he had seen it there. And he overshot the mark in the
-motor omnibus through being ashamed to ask again, only alighting at
-Albert Gate; but here there was quite a little stream of decent people
-to follow without further tremors into the indubitable Park.
-
-He followed them across the drive and across Rotten Row, gaining
-confidence as he went. In a minute it was all delightful; his eyes were
-turned outward by all there was to see; and now his chief fear was lest
-some one or other of the several passers should stand in his path and
-ask what he was doing there. He was still afraid of speaking or being
-spoken to, but no longer unreasonably so. Detection as an escaped
-schoolboy was his one great dread; he felt he was doing something for
-which he might be expelled.
-
-But nobody took any notice of him; this gradually encouraged him to
-take more notice of other people, when he found, not altogether to his
-surprise, that the majority of those passing through the Park at that
-late hour were hardly of his own class. So much the more infinitesimal
-were the chances of his being recognised or even suspected for what he
-was. There were young men in straw hats, there were red-coated
-soldiers, and there were girls. They all filled the schoolboy with
-their fascinating possibilities. They were Life. The boy’s heart beat
-at what he heard and saw. The couples were hilarious and unrefined. One
-wench, almost under his nose, gave her soldier a slap with such a
-remark as Pocket had never heard from a woman’s lips before. He turned
-away, tingling, and leant upon the parapet of a bridge he had been in
-the act of crossing, and thought of school and home and Mr. Coverley.
-
-It was not really a bridge at all. It was only the eastern extremity of
-the Serpentine; but as the boy leant over the stone balustrade, and
-gazed upon the artificial flood, broadening out indefinitely in the
-darkness, it might have been the noblest river in the world. Its banks
-were muffled in a feather boa of trees, bedizened by a chain of many
-lights; the lights of a real bridge made a diadem in the distance; and
-between these sped  the lamps of invisible vehicles, like fretful
-fireflies. And the still water gave back every glimmer with its own
-brilliance, unchallenged and undimmed by moon or star, for not a trace
-of either was in the sky; and yet it was the most wonderful sky the boy
-had ever seen—a black sky tinged with sullen rose, or a red sky seen
-through smoked glasses, he hardly knew which he would have called it.
-But he did know that warm and angry glow for the reflection of London’s
-light and life; he could not forget he was in London for a moment. Her
-mighty machinery with its million wheels throbbed perpetually in his
-ears; and yet between the beats would come the quack of a wild duck
-near at hand, the splash of a leaping fish, the plaintive whistle of
-water-fowl: altogether such a chorus of incongruities as was not lost
-upon our very impressionable young vagabond. The booming strokes of
-eleven recalled him to a sense of time and his immediate needs. His
-great adventure was still before him; he pushed on, bag in hand, to
-select its scene. Another road he crossed, alive with the lamps of
-cyclists, and came presently upon a wide space intersected with broad
-footpaths from which he shrank; it was altogether too public here; he
-was approaching an exposed corner in an angle of lighted streets, with
-the Marble Arch at its apex, as a signboard made quite clear. He had
-come right across the Park; back over the grass, keeping rather more to
-the right, in the direction of those trees, was the best thing now.
-
-It was here that he found the grass distinctly damp; this really was
-enough to deter an asthmatic, already beginning to feel asthmatical.
-Pocket Upton, however, belonged to the large class of people, weak and
-strong alike, who are more than loth to abandon a course of action once
-taken. It would have required a very severe attack to baulk him of his
-night out and its subsequent description to electrified ears. But when
-bad steering had brought him up at the bandstand, the deserted chairs
-seemed an ordained compromise between prudence and audacity, and he had
-climbed into the fenced enclosure when another enormous policeman rose
-up horribly in its midst.
-
-“What are you doing here?” inquired this policeman, striding upon
-Pocket with inexorable tread.
-
-“No harm, I hope,” replied our hero humbly, but with unusual readiness.
-
-“Nor no good either, I’ll be bound!” said the policeman, standing over
-him.
-
-“I was only going to sit down,” protested Pocket, having satisfied his
-conscience that in the first place that was all he really had been
-going to do.
-
-“There are plenty of places to sit down,” rejoined the policeman.
-“You’re not allowed in here.  And unless you look sharp about it you
-won’t have time to sit down at all.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“The Park closes at twelve.”
-
-“Closes?”
-
-“At twelve o’clock, and it’s half-past eleven now.” The boy’s heart
-sank into his wet boots. Here was an end of all his dashing plans. He
-was certain he had heard or read of people sleeping in the Park; he had
-looked upon it as a vast dormitory of the houseless; that was the only
-reason he was there. The offensive clerk in the hotel had evidently
-entertained the same belief. This idiot of a policeman must be wrong.
-But he seemed quite clear about it.
-
-“Did you think we were open all night?” he inquired with a grin.
-
-“I did,” said Pocket; and he was inspired to add, “I even thought a lot
-of loafers used to sleep here all night!”
-
-The policeman chuckled aloud.
-
-“They may if they get up the trees; that’s about their only chance,”
-said he.
-
-“You search the whole place so thoroughly?”
-
-“We keeps our eyes open,” said the policeman significantly, and Pocket
-asked no more questions; he scaled the forbidden fence and made off
-with the alacrity of one who meant to go out before he was  put out.
-Such was his then sincere and sound intention. But where next to turn,
-to what seat on the Embankment, or what arch in the slums, in his
-ignorance of London he had no idea.
-
-Meanwhile, to increase the irony of his dilemma, now that he was bent
-on quitting the Park he found himself striking deeper and deeper into
-its heart. He skirted a building, left it behind and out of sight, and
-drifted before the wind of destiny between an upright iron fence on one
-hand and a restricted open space upon the other. He could no longer see
-a single light; but the ground rose abruptly across the fence, and was
-thick with shrubs. Men might have been lying behind those shrubs, and
-Pocket could not possibly have seen them from the path. Did the
-policeman mean to tell him that he or his comrades were going to climb
-every fence and look behind every bush in Hyde Park?
-
-Pocket came to anchor with a new flutter at his heart. This upright
-fence was not meant for scaling; it was like a lot of area palings, as
-obvious and intentional an obstacle. And the whole place closed at
-twelve, did it? The flutter became a serious agitation as Pocket saw
-himself breaking the laws of the land as well as those of school, saw
-himself not only expelled but put in prison! Well, so much the better
-for his story so long as those  penalties were not incurred; even if
-they were, so much the greater hero he!
-
-No wonder his best friends called him disparaging names; he was living
-up to the hardest of them now, and he with asthma on him as it was! But
-the will was on him too, the obstinate and reckless will, and the way
-lay handy in the shape of a row of Park chairs which Pocket had just
-passed against the iron palings. He went back to them, mounted on the
-first chair, wedged his bag between two of the spikes, set foot on the
-back of the chair, and somehow found himself on the other side without
-rent or scratch. Then he listened; but not a step could he hear. So
-then the cunning dog put his handkerchief through the palings and wiped
-the grit from the chair on which he had stood. And they called him a
-conscientious ass at school!
-
-But then none of these desperate deeds were against his conscience, and
-they had all been thrust on Pocket Upton by circumstances over which he
-had lost control when the last train went without him from St. Pancras.
-They did not prevent him from kneeling down behind the biggest bush
-that I he could find, before curling up underneath it; neither did his
-prayers prevent him from thinking—even on his knees—of his revolver,
-nor yet—by the force of untimely association—of the other revolvers in
-the Chamber of Horrors. He saw those waxen  wretches huddled together
-in ghastly groups, but the thought of them haunted him less than it
-might have done in a feather bed; he had his own perils and adventures
-to consider now. One thing, however, did come of the remembrance; he
-detached the leather strap he wore as a watch-guard. And used it to
-strap a pin-fire revolver, loaded in every chamber, to his wrist
-instead.
-
-That was the last but one of the silly boy’s proceedings under the
-bush; the last of all was to drain the number-one draught prescribed by
-Bompas in the morning, and to fling away the phial. The stuff was sweet
-and sticky in the mouth, and Pocket felt a singular and most grateful
-warmth at his extremities as he curled up in his overcoat. It was
-precisely then that he heard a measured tread approaching, and held his
-breath until it had passed without a pause. Yet the danger was still
-audible when the boy dropped off, thinking no more about it, but of Mr.
-Coverley and Charles Peace and his own people down in Leicestershire.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III.
-HIS PEOPLE
-
-
-It so happened that his people in Leicestershire were thinking of him.
-They had been talking about him at the very time of the boy’s
-inconceivable meanderings in Hyde Park. And two of them were at it
-still.
-
-On a terrace outside lighted windows a powerful young fellow, in a
-butterfly collar and a corded smoking jacket, was walking up and down
-with a tall girl not unlike him in the face; but their faces were only
-to be seen in glimpses as they passed the drawing-room windows, and at
-not less regular intervals when a red light in the sky, the source of
-which was concealed by the garden foliage, became positively brilliant.
-The air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle and musk-roses and mown
-grass; midges fretted in and out of the open windows. But for the lurid
-lighting of the sky, with its Cyclopean suggestion of some mammoth
-forge, you were in the heart of England undefiled.
-
-“It’s no use our talking about Tony,” the tall girl said. “I think
-you’re frightfully down on him; we shall never agree.”
-
-“Not as long as you make a fool of the fellow,” said the blunt young
-man.
-
-“Tony’s no fool,” remarked Lettice Upton, irrelevantly enough.
-
-“You know what I mean,” snapped her brother Horace. “He’s being
-absolutely spoilt, and you’re at the bottom of it.”
-
-“I didn’t give him asthma!”
-
-“Don’t be childish, Letty.”
-
-“But that’s what’s spoiling his life.”
-
-“I wasn’t talking about his life. I don’t believe it, either.”
-
-“You think he enjoys his bad nights?”
-
-“I think he scores by them. He’d tell you himself that he never even
-thinks of getting up to first school now.”
-
-“Would you if you’d been sitting up half the night with asthma?”
-
-“Perhaps not; but I don’t believe that happens so often as you think.”
-
-“It happens often enough to justify him in making one good night pay
-for two or three bad ones.”
-
-“I don’t call that playing the game. I call it shamming.”
-
-“Well, if it is, he makes up for it. They were doing Ancient Greek
-Geography in his form at early school last term. Tony tackled it in his
-spare time, and got most marks in the exam.”
-
-“Beastly young swot!” quoth his elder  brother. “I’m glad he didn’t
-buck to me about that.”
-
-“I don’t think there’s much danger of his bucking to you,” said
-Lettice, smiling in the red light. She did not add as her obvious
-reason that Horace, like many another athletic young man, was quite
-incapable of sympathising with the non-athletic type. But he guessed
-that she meant something of the sort, and having sensibilities of his
-own, and a good heart somewhere in his mesh of muscles, he felt hurt.
-“I looked after him all right,” said Horace, “the one term we were
-there together. So did Fred for the next year. But it’s rather rough on
-Fred and myself, who were both something in the school at his age, to
-hear and see for ourselves that Tony’s nobody even in the house!”
-
-Lettice slipped a sly hand under the great biceps of her eldest
-brother.
-
-“But don’t you see, old boy, that it makes it the worse for Tony that
-you and Fred were what you were at school? They measure him by the
-standard you two set up; it’s natural enough, but it isn’t fair.”
-
-“He needn’t be a flyer at games,” said Horace, duly softened by a
-little flattery. “But he might be a tryer!”
-
-“Wait till we get a little more breath into his body.”
-
-“A bag of oxygen wouldn’t make him a cricketer.”
-
-“Yet he’s so keen on cricket!”
-
-“I wish he wasn’t so keen; he thinks and talks more about it than Fred
-or I did when we were in the eleven, yet he never looked like making a
-player.”
-
-“I should say he thinks and talks more about most things; it’s his
-nature, just as it’s Fred’s and yours to be men of action.”
-
-“Well, I’m glad he’s not allowed to cumber the crease this season,”
-said Horace, bowling his cigarette-end into the darkness with a
-distinct swerve in the air. “To have him called our ‘pocket edition,’
-on the cricket-field of all places, is a bit too thick.”
-
-Lettice withdrew her sympathetic hand.
-
-“He’s as good a sportsman as either of you, at heart,” she said warmly.
-“And I hope he may make you see it before this doctor’s done with him!”
-
-“This doctor!” jeered Horace, quick to echo her change of tone as well.
-“You mean the fool who wanted to send that kid round the world on his
-own?”
-
-“He’s no fool, Horace, and you know nothing whatever about him.”
-
-“No; but I know something about our Tony! If he took the least care of
-himself at home, there  might be something to be said for letting him
-go; but he’s the most casual young hound I ever struck.”
-
-“I know he’s casual.”
-
-Lettice made the admission with reluctance; next moment she was sorry
-her sense of fairness had so misled her.
-
-“Besides,” said Horace, “he wouldn’t be cured if he could. Think what
-he’d miss!”
-
-“Oh, if you’re coming back to that, there’s no more to be said.”
-
-And the girl halted at the lighted windows.
-
-“But I do come back to it. Isn’t he up in town at this moment under
-this very doctor of yours?”
-
-“He’s not my doctor.”
-
-“But you first heard about him; you’re the innovator of the family,
-Letty, so it’s no use trying to score off me. Isn’t Tony up in London
-to-night?”
-
-“I believe he is.”
-
-“Then I’ll tell you what he’s doing at this moment,” cried Horace, with
-egregious confidence, as he held his watch to the windows. “It’s after
-eleven; he’s in the act of struggling out of some theatre, where the
-atmosphere’s so good for asthma!” Lettice left the gibe unanswered. It
-was founded on recent fact which she had been the first to deplore when
-Tony made no secret of it in the holidays; indeed, she was by no means
-blind to his many and obvious failings; but they interested  her more
-than the equally obvious virtues of her other brothers, whose
-unmeasured objurgations drove her to the opposite extreme in special
-pleading. She tried to believe that there was more in her younger
-brother than in any of them, and would often speak up for him as though
-she had succeeded. It may have been merely a woman’s weakness for the
-weak, but Lettice had taught herself to believe in Tony. And perhaps of
-all his people she was the only one who could have followed his
-vagaries of that night without thinking the worse of him.
-
-But she had no more to say to Horace about the matter, and would have
-gone indoors without another word if Mr. Upton had not come out hastily
-at that moment. He had been looking for her everywhere, he declared
-with some asperity. Her mother could not sleep, and wished to see her;
-otherwise it was time they were all in bed, and what there was to talk
-about till all hours was more than he could fathom. So he saw the pair
-before him through the lighted rooms, a heavy man with a flaming neck
-and a smouldering eye. Horace would be heavy, too, when his bowling
-days were over. The girl was on finer lines; but she looked like a
-woman at her worst; tired, exasperated, and clearly older than her
-brother, but of other clay.
-
-That young man smoked a last cigarette in his  father’s library, and
-unhesitatingly admitted the subject of dissension and dissent upon the
-terrace.
-
-“I said he wasn’t doing much good there,” he added, “and I don’t think
-he is. Letty stood up for him, as she always does.”
-
-“Do you mean that he’s doing any harm?” asked Mr. Upton plainly.
-
-“Not for a moment. I never said there was any harm in Tony. I—I
-sometimes wish there was more!”
-
-“More manhood, I suppose you’d call it?”
-
-Mr. Upton spoke with a disconcerting grimness.
-
-“More go about him,” said Horace. He could not say as much to his
-father as he had to Letty. That was evident. But he was not the boy to
-bolt from his guns.
-
-“Yet you know how much he has to take all that out of him?” continued
-Mr. Upton, with severity.
-
-“I know,” said Horace hastily, “and of course that’s really why he’s
-doing no good; but I must say that doctor of his doesn’t seem to be
-doing him any either.”
-
-Mr. Upton got excitedly to his feet, and Horace made up his mind to the
-downright snub that he deserved. But by a lucky accident Horace had
-turned the wrath that had been gathering against himself into quite
-another quarter.
-
-“I agree with you there!” cried his father vehemently. “I don’t believe
-in the man myself; but he was recommended by the surgeon who has done
-so much for your poor mother, so what could one do but give him a
-trial? The lad wasn’t having a fair chance at school. This looked like
-one. But I dislike his going up to town so often, and I dislike the
-letters the man writes me about him. He’d have me take him away from
-school altogether, and pack him off to Australia in a sailing ship. But
-what’s to be done with a boy like that when we get him back again? He’d
-be too old to go to another school, and too young for the University:
-no use at the works, and only another worry to us all.”
-
-Mr. Upton spoke from the full heart of an already worried man, not with
-intentional unkindness, but yet with that unimaginative want of
-sympathy which is often the instinctive attitude of the sound towards
-the unsound. He hated sickness, and seemed at present surrounded by it.
-His wife had taken ill the year before, had undergone a grave operation
-in the winter, and was still a great anxiety to him. But that was
-another and a far more serious matter; he had patience and sympathy
-enough with his wife. The case of the boy was very different. Himself a
-man of much bodily and mental vigour, Mr. Upton expected his own
-qualities of his own children;  he had always resented their apparent
-absence in his youngest born. The others were good specimens; why
-should Tony be a weakling? Was he such a weakling as was made out? Mr.
-Upton was often sceptical on the point; but then he had always heard
-more about the asthma than he had seen for himself. If the boy was not
-down to breakfast in the holidays, he was supposed to have had a bad
-night; yet later in the day he would be as bright as anybody, at times
-indeed the brightest of the party. That, however, was usually when
-Lettice drew him out in the absence of the two athletes; he was another
-creature then, excitable, hilarious, and more capable of taking the
-busy man out of himself than any of his other children. But Lettice
-overdid matters; she made far too much of the boy and his complaint,
-and was inclined to encourage him in random remedies. Cigarettes at his
-age, even if said to be cigarettes for asthma, suggested a juvenile
-pose to the man who had never studied that disorder. The specialist in
-London seemed another mistake on the part of that managing Lettice, who
-had quite assumed the family lead of late. And altogether Mr. Upton,
-though he saw the matter from a different point of view, was not far
-from agreeing with his eldest son about his youngest.
-
-And what chance was there for a boy whose own father thought he posed,
-whose brothers considered  him a bit of a malingerer, and his
-schoolfellows “a conscientious ass,” while his sister spoilt him for
-_un enfant incompris?_ You may say it would have taken a miracle to
-make an ordinary decent fellow of him. Well, it was a night of strange
-happenings to the boy and his people; perhaps it was the one authentic
-type of miracle that capped all in the morning.
-
-The father had gone to bed at midnight, after an extra allowance of
-whisky-and-water to take the extra worry off his mind; it did so for a
-few hours only to stretch him tragically awake in the early morning.
-The birds were singing down in Leicestershire as in Hyde Park. The
-morning sun was slanting over town and country, and the father’s
-thoughts were with his tiresome son in town. Suddenly a shrill cry came
-from the adjoining room.
-
-In a trice the wakeful man was at his sick wife’s side, supporting her
-in bed as she sat up wildly staring, trembling in his arms.
-
-“Tony!” she gasped. “My Tony!”
-
-“I was just thinking of him!” he cried. “What about him, dear?”
-
-“I saw him,” she quavered. “I saw him plainer than I see you now. And
-I’m almost positive I heard—a shot!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV.
-A GRIM SAMARITAN
-
-
-Though he afterwards remembered a shout as well, it actually was the
-sound of a shot that brought the boy to his senses in Hyde Park. He
-opened his eyes on a dazzle of broad daylight and sparkling grass. The
-air was strangely keen for the amount of sunshine, the sunshine
-curiously rarefied, and the grass swept grey where it did not sparkle.
-
-Pocket’s first sensation was an empty stomach, and his next a heavy
-head into which the puzzle of his position entered by laborious steps.
-He was not in bed. He was not at school. He was not even under the
-shrub he now remembered in a mental flash which lit up all his
-adventures overnight. He was wandering ankle deep in the dew, towards a
-belt of poplars like birch-rods on the skyline, and a row of spiked
-palings right in front of his nose. He had walked in his sleep for the
-first time for years, and some one had fired a shot to wake him.
-
-Slow as these automatic discoveries had seemed, they had been in
-reality so swift that the report was still ringing in his ears when he
-who must have made it sprang hideously into being across the palings. A
-hand darted through them and caught Pocket’s  wrist as in a vice. And
-he looked up over the spikes into a gnarled face tinged with fear and
-fury, and working spasmodically at the suppression of some
-incomprehensible emotion.
-
-“Do you know what you did?” the man demanded in the end. The question
-seemed an odd one, but a very slight foreign accent, not to be
-reproduced phonetically, corresponded with the peculiarity of tense,
-reminding Pocket of the music-masters at his school. It was less easy
-to account for the tone employed, which was low in pitch and tremulous
-with passion. And the man stood tall and dominant, with a silver
-stubble on an iron jaw, and a weird cloak and hat that helped to invest
-him with the goblin dignity of a Spanish inquisitor; no wonder his eyes
-were like cold steel in quivering flesh.
-
-“I must have been walking in my sleep,” began Pocket, shakily; further
-explanations were cut very short.
-
-“Sleep!” echoed the other, in bitter unbelief.
-
-Pocket felt his prime quality impugned.
-
-“Well? I can’t help it! I’ve done it before to-day; you needn’t believe
-me if you don’t like! Do you mind letting go of my hand?”
-
-“With that in it!”
-
-The scornful tone made the boy look down, and there was the pistol he
-had strapped to his wrist,  not only firm in his unconscious clasp, but
-his finger actually on the trigger.
-
-“You don’t mean to say I let it off?” cried Pocket, horrified.
-
-“Feel the barrel.”
-
-The tall man had done so first. Pocket touched it with his left hand.
-The barrel was still warm.
-
-“It was in my sleep,” protested Pocket, in a wheezy murmur.
-
-“I’m glad to hear it.”
-
-“I tell you it was!”
-
-The tall man opened his lips impulsively, but shut them on a second
-impulse. The daggers in his eyes probed deeper into those of the boy,
-picking his brains, transfixing the secrets of his soul. No master’s
-eye had ever delved so deep into his life; he felt as though the very
-worst of him at school was known in an instant to this dreadful
-stranger in the wilds of London. He writhed under the ordeal of that
-protracted scrutiny. He tugged to free his imprisoned wrist. His captor
-was meanwhile fumbling with a penknife in his unoccupied hand. A blade
-was slowly opened; the leather watch-guard was sliced through in a
-second; the revolver dropped harmlessly into the dew. The man swooped
-down and whipped it through the railings with a snarl of satisfaction.
-
-“And now,” said he, releasing Pocket, but  standing by with his weapon,
-“I suppose you know that, apart from everything else, you had no right
-to spend the night in here at all?”
-
-The boy, already suffering from his humiliating exertions, gasped out,
-“I’m not the only one!” He had just espied a recumbent figure through
-the palings; it was that of a dilapidated creature lying prone, a
-battered hat beside him, on the open grass beyond the path. The tall
-man merely redoubled his scrutiny of the face in front of, him, without
-so much as a glance behind.
-
-“That,” said he, “is the sort that staggers in as soon as the gates are
-open, and spends the day sleeping itself sober. But you are not that
-sort at all, and you have spent the night here contrary to the rules.
-Who are you, and what’s the matter with you?”
-
-“Asthma,” wheezed Pocket, clinging to the palings in dire distress.
-
-“So I thought. Yet you spend your night on the wet grass!”
-
-“I had nowhere else to go.”
-
-“Have you come up from the country?”
-
-“To see a doctor about it!” cried Pocket bitterly, and told the whole
-truth about himself in a series of stertorous exclamations. It scarcely
-lessened the austerity of the eyes that still ran him through and
-through; but the hard mouth did relax  a little; the lined face looked
-less deeply slashed and furrowed, and it was a less inhuman voice that
-uttered the next words.
-
-“Well, we must get you out of this, my young fellow! Come to these
-chairs.”
-
-Pocket crept along the palings towards the chairs by which he had
-climbed them. His breathing was pitiful now. The stranger accompanied
-him on the other side.
-
-“If I lift one over, and lend you a hand, do you think you can manage
-it?”
-
-“I did last night.”
-
-“Here, then. Wait a bit! Can you tell me where you slept?”
-
-Pocket looked round and pointed.
-
-“Behind that bush.”
-
-“Have you left nothing there?”
-
-“Yes; my bag and hat!”
-
-In his state it took him some time to go and fetch them; he was nearly
-suffocating when he came creeping back, his shoulders up to his ears.
-
-“Stop! I see something else. Is that medicine-bottle yours?
-There—catching the sun.”
-
-“It was.”
-
-“Bring it.”
-
-“It’s empty.”
-
-“Bring it!”
-
-Pocket obeyed. The strange man was standing  on a chair behind the
-palings, waiting to help him over, with a wary eye upon the path. But
-no third creature was in sight except the insensate sprawler in the
-dew. Pocket surmounted the obstacle, he knew not how; he was almost
-beside himself in the throes of his attack. Later, he feared he must
-have been lifted down like a child; but this was when he was getting
-his breath upon a seat. They had come some little distance very slowly,
-and Pocket had received such support from so muscular an arm as to lend
-colour to his humiliating suspicion.
-
-His grim companion spoke first.
-
-“Well, I’m sorry for you. But I feel for your doctor too. I am one
-myself.”
-
-Pocket ignored the somewhat pointed statement.
-
-“I’ll never forgive the brute!” he panted.
-
-“Come, come! He didn’t send you to sleep in the Park.”
-
-“But he took away the only thing that does me any good.”
-
-“What’s that?”
-
-“Cigarettes d’Auvergne.”
-
-“I never heard of them.”
-
-“They’re the only thing to stop it, and he took away every one I had.”
-
-But even as he spoke Pocket remembered the cigarette he had produced
-from his bag, but lacked  the moral courage to light, in the train. He
-had slipped it into one of his pockets, not back into the box. He felt
-for it feverishly. He gave a husky cheer as his fingers closed upon the
-palpable thing, and he drew forth a flattened cylinder the size of a
-cigarette and the colour of a cigar. The boy had to bite off both ends;
-the man was ready with the match. Pocket drank the crude smoke down
-like water, coughed horribly, drank deeper, coughed the tears into his
-eyes, and was comparatively cured.
-
-“And your doctor forbids a sovereign remedy!” said his companion. “I
-cannot understand him, and I’m a doctor myself.” His voice and look
-were deliberate even for him. “My name is Baumgartner,” he added, and
-made a pause. “I don’t suppose you know it?”
-
-“I’m not sure I don’t,” replied Pocket, swelling with breath and
-gratitude; but in truth the name seemed vaguely familiar to him.
-
-“A schoolboy in the country,” observed Dr. Baumgartner, “is scarcely
-likely to have heard of me; but if you inquire here in London you will
-find that I am not unknown. I propose to carry you off to my house for
-breakfast, and a little rest. That is,” added the doctor, with his
-first smile, “if you will trust yourself to me first and make your
-inquiries later.”
-
-Pocket scouted the notion of inquiries in an  impulsive outburst; but
-even as he proceeded to mumble out his thanks he could not help feeling
-it would have been less embarrassing to know more exactly whom he was
-thanking and must needs accompany now. Dr. Baumgartner? Where was it he
-had come across that name? And when and where had anybody ever seen
-such a doctor as this unshaven old fellow in the cloak and hat of a
-conspirator by limelight?
-
-But the schoolboy had still to learn the lesson of naked personality as
-the one human force; and he learnt it now unknown to himself. The gaunt
-grey man stood up in his absurd and rusty raiment, and Pocket thought,
-“How the chaps would rag him at school!” because the dreadful old hat
-and cloak suggested a caricature of a master’s cap and gown. But there
-was no master at Pocket’s school whom he would not sooner have
-disobeyed than this shabby stranger with the iron-bound jaw and the
-wintry smile; there was no eye on the staff that had ever made him
-quail as he had quailed that morning before these penetrating eyes of
-steel. Baumgartner said they must hurry, and Pocket had his asthma back
-in the first few yards. Baumgartner said they could buy more cigarettes
-on the way, and Pocket kept up, panting, at his side.
-
-In the cab Baumgartner said, “Try sitting with your head between your
-knees.” Pocket tried it  like a lamb. They had encountered a young man
-or so hurrying into the Park with towels round the neck but no collar,
-an early cavalcade who never looked at them, and that was about all
-until the hansom had been hailed outside. During the drive, which
-seemed to Pocket interminable, his extraordinary attitude prevented him
-from seeing anything but his own boots, and those only dimly owing to
-the apron being shut and indeed pressing uncomfortably against his
-head. Yet when Dr. Baumgartner inquired whether that did not make him
-easier, he said it did. It was not all imagination either; the posture
-did relieve him; but it was none the less disagreeable to be driven
-through London by an utter stranger, and not to see the names of the
-streets or a single landmark. Pocket had not even heard the cabman’s
-instructions where to drive; they had been given after he got in. His
-ear was more alert now. He noted the change from wood-paving to rough
-metal. Then more wood, and an indubitable omnibus blundering by; then
-more metal, in better repair; quieter streets, the tinkle of cans, the
-milkman’s queer cry; and finally, “Next to the right and the fifth
-house on your left,” in the voice with the almost imperceptibly foreign
-accent.
-
-The fifth house on the left was exactly like the fourth and the sixth
-from the little Pocket saw  of any of them. He was hurried up a tiled
-path, none too clean between swarthy and lack-lustre laurels; the steps
-had not been “done”; the door wore the nondescript complexion of
-prehistoric paint debased by the caprices of the London climate. One
-touch of colour the lad saw before this unpromising portal opened and
-shut upon him: he had already passed through a rank of pollard trees,
-sprouting emeralds in the morning sun, that seemed common to this side
-of the road, and effectually hid the other.
-
-Within the doctor held up a finger and they both trod gently. The
-passage was dark and short. The stairs began abruptly on the right.
-Baumgartner led the way past a closed door on the left, into an
-unexpectedly bright and large room beyond it. “Sit down,” said he, and
-shut the door softly behind him.
-
-Pocket took observations from the edge of his chair. The room was full
-of walnut trivialities that looked aggressively obsolete in the
-sunshine that filled it and flooded a green little garden at the back
-of the house. Dr. Baumgartner had pulled up a blind and opened a
-window, and he stood looking out in thought while Pocket hurriedly
-completed his optical round. A set of walnut chairs were dreadfully
-upholstered in faded tapestry; but a deep, worn one looked comfortable
-enough,  and a still more redeeming feature was the semi-grand piano.
-There were books, too, and in the far corner by the bow-window a glass
-door leading into a conservatory as minute as Pocket’s study at school,
-and filled with geraniums. On the walls hung a series of battle
-engravings, one representing a bloody advance over ridged fields in
-murderously close formation, others the storming of heights and
-villages.
-
-Baumgartner met his visitor’s eyes with the faint cold smile that
-scarcely softened the hoary harshness of his visage.
-
-“I was present at some of those engagements,” said he. “They were not
-worse than disarming a man who has just fired a revolver in his sleep!”
-
-He flung his cloak upon one of the walnut chairs, and Pocket heard the
-pistol inside it rattle against the back; but his attention was
-distracted before he had time to resent the forgotten fact of its
-forcible confiscation. Under his cloak the doctor had been carrying all
-this time, slung by a strap which the boy had noticed across his chest,
-a stereoscopic camera without a case. Pocket exclaimed upon it with the
-instructed interest of a keen photographer.
-
-“Do you take photographs?” asked Baumgartner, a reciprocal note in his
-unemotional voice.
-
-“Rather!” cried the schoolboy, with considerable enthusiasm. “It’s the
-only thing I have to do instead of playing games. But I haven’t got an
-instantaneous camera like that. I only wish I had!”
-
-And he looked with longing eyes at the substantial oblong of wood and
-black morocco, and duplicate lenses like a pair of spectacles, which
-the doctor had set between them on one of the fussy little walnut
-tables.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V.
-THE GLASS EYE
-
-
-Dr. Baumgartner produced a seasoned meerschaum, carved in the likeness
-of a most ferocious face, and put a pinch of dark tobacco through the
-turban into the bowl. “You see,” said he, “I must have my smoke like
-you! I can’t do without it either, though what is your misfortune is my
-own fault. So you are also a photographer!” he added, as the fumes of a
-mixture containing latakia spiced the morning air.
-
-“I am only a beginner,” responded Pocket, “but a very keen one.”
-
-“You don’t merely press the button and let  them do the rest?”
-suggested the doctor, smiling less coldly under the influence of his
-pipe.
-
-“Rather not! I develop, print, tone, and all the rest of it; that’s
-half the fun.”
-
-“Plates or films?” inquired Baumgartner, with an approving nod.
-
-“Only plates, I’m afraid; you see, the apparatus is an old one of my
-father’s.”
-
-And honest Pocket was beginning to blush for it, when the other made a
-gesture more eloquent and far more foreign than his speech.
-
-“It’s none the worse for that,” said he. “So far we have much in
-common, for I always use plates myself. But what we put upon our
-plates, there’s the difference, eh?”
-
-“I should imagine so,” said Pocket, smiling.
-
-Dr. Baumgartner was smiling too, and still less coldly than before, but
-yet darkly to himself, and at the boy rather than with him.
-
-“You take portraits of your friends, perhaps?”
-
-“Yes; often.”
-
-“In the body, I presume?”
-
-Pocket looked nonplussed.
-
-“You only take them in the flesh?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“Exactly! I take the spirit,” said the doctor; “that’s the difference.”
-
-Pocket watched the now wonderfully genial  countenance of Baumgartner
-follow the brutal features of the meerschaum Turk through a melting
-cloud of smoke. The boy had been taken aback. But his bewilderment was
-of briefer duration than might have been the case with a less ardent
-photographer; for he took a technical interest in his hobby, and read
-the photographic year-books, nearly as ravenously as _Wisden’s
-Almanacke_.
-
-“I see,” he said, lukewarmly. “You go in for psychic photography.”
-
-“Psychic,” said Baumgartner; for the public schoolboy, one regrets to
-report, had pronounced the word to rhyme with sly-chick. The doctor
-added, with more disdain: “And you don’t believe in it?”
-
-“I didn’t say so.”
-
-“But you looked and sounded it!”
-
-“I don’t set myself up as a believer or unbeliever,” said the boy,
-always at his ease on a subject that attracted him. “But I do say I
-don’t believe in the sort of thing I read somewhere last holidays. It
-was in a review of a book on that sort of photography. The chap seemed
-to have said you could get a negative of a spirit without exposing the
-plate at all; hide away your plate, never mind your lens, only conjure
-up your spirit and see what happens. I’ll swear nothing ever happened
-like that! There may be ghosts, you may see them,  and so may the
-camera, but not without focusing and exposing like you’ve got to do
-with ordinary flesh and blood!”
-
-The youth had gone further and flown higher than he meant, under the
-stimulus of an encouragement impossible to have foreseen. And the
-doctor had come to his feet, waving eloquently with his pipe; his grey
-face beamed warmly; his eyes were lances tipped with fire.
-
-“Well said, my young fellow!” cried he. “I agree with every syllable
-you have spoken.”
-
-“It’s a question of photography, not of spiritualism,” concluded
-Pocket, rounding off his argument in high excitement.
-
-“I agree, I agree! All that is rubbish, pure moonshine; and you see it
-even at your age! But there’s much more in it than that; you must see
-the rest as well, since you see so far so clearly.” The boy blushed
-with pleasure, determined to see as far as anybody. “You admit there
-may be such things as ghosts, as you call them?” he was asked as by an
-equal.
-
-“Certainly, sir.”
-
-“Visible shapes, in the likeness of man? As visible and yet as tangible
-as that sunbeam?”
-
-“Rather!”
-
-“You allow that the camera can see them if we can?”
-
-Pocket allowed it like the man he was being made to feel; the
-concession gave him a generous glow. Promotion had come to him by giant
-leaps. He felt five years older in fewer minutes.
-
-“Then,” cried the doctor, with further flattery in his air of triumph,
-“then you admit everything! You may not see these images, but I may. I
-may not see them, but my lens may! Think how much that glass eye throws
-already upon the retina of a sensitised film that our living lenses
-fail to throw upon ours; think of all that escapes the eye but the
-camera catches. Take two crystal vases, fill one with one acid and the
-other with another; one comes out like water as we see it; the other,
-though not less limpid in our sight, like ink. The eye sees through it,
-but not the lens. The eye sees emptiness as though the acid itself were
-pure crystal; the lens flings an inky image on the plate. The trouble
-is that, while you can procure that acid at the nearest chemist’s, no
-money and no power on earth can summon or procure at will the spirit
-which once was man.”
-
-His voice was vibrant and earnest as it had been when Pocket heard it
-first an hour earlier in the Park. It was even as passionate, but this
-was the passion of enthusiastic endeavour. If the man had a heart at
-all, it was in this wild question without a doubt. Even the schoolboy 
-perceived this dimly. There was something else which had become clearer
-to him with each of these later remarks. Striking as they seemed to
-him, they were not wholly unfamiliar. The ring of novelty was wanting
-to his ear.
-
-Suddenly he exclaimed, “I knew I knew your name!”
-
-“You do know it, do you?”
-
-Baumgartner spoke ungraciously, as though the announcement was
-discounted by the interruption it entailed.
-
-“It was in connection with the very book I mentioned. I knew I had come
-across it somewhere.”
-
-“You read the correspondence that followed the review?”
-
-“Some of it.”
-
-“My letter among others?”
-
-“Yes! I remember every word of it now.”
-
-“Then you recall my view as to the alleged necessity of a medium’s
-co-operation in these spirit-photographs?”
-
-“You said it wasn’t necessary, if I remember,” replied Pocket somewhat
-tentatively, despite his boast.
-
-“It was the pith and point of my contention! I mentioned the two
-moments at which I hold that a man’s soul may be caught apart, may be
-cut off from his body by no other medium than a good sound lens in a
-light-tight camera. You cannot have forgotten them if you read my
-letter.”
-
-“One,” said the boy, “was the moment of death.”
-
-“The moment of dissolution,” the doctor corrected him. “But there is a
-far commoner moment than that, one that occurs constantly to us all,
-whereas dissolution comes but once.”
-
-Pocket believed he remembered the other instance too, but was not sure
-about it, the fact being that the whole momentous letter had struck him
-as too fantastic for serious consideration. That, however, he could not
-and dared not say; and he was not the less frightened of making a
-mistake with those inspired eyes burning fanatically into his.
-
-“The other moment,” the doctor said at last, with a pitying smile, “is
-when the soul returns to its prison after one of those flights which
-men call dreams. You know that theory of the dream?” Baumgartner asked
-abruptly. The answer was a nod as hasty, but the doctor seemed
-unconvinced, for he went on didactically: “You visit far countries in
-your dreams; your soul is the traveller. You speak to the absent or the
-dead; it is your soul again; and we dismiss the miracle as a dream! I
-fix the moment as that of the soul’s return because its departure on
-these errands is imperceptible, but with its return we awake. The
-theory is that in the moment of waking the whole experience happens
-like the flash of an electric spark.”
-
-The boy murmured very earnestly that he saw; but he was more troubled
-than enlightened, and what he did see was that he had picked up a very
-eccentric acquaintance indeed. He was not a little scared by the man’s
-hard face and molten eyes; but there was a fascination also that could
-not be lost upon an impressionable temperament, besides that force of
-will or character which had dominated the young mind from the first. He
-began to wish the interview at an end—to be able to talk about it as
-the extraordinary sequel of an extraordinary adventure—yet he would not
-have cut it short at this point if he could.
-
-“I grant you,” continued the doctor, “that the final flight of soul
-from body is infinitely the more precious from my point of view. But
-how is one to be in a position to intercept that? When beloved spirits
-pass it would be cold-blooded desecration; and public opinion has still
-to be educated up to psychical vivisection! I have myself tried in vain
-to initiate such education. I have applied for perfectly private
-admission to hospital deathbeds, even to the execution-shed in prisons.
-My applications have been peremptorily refused.”
-
-Pocket’s thoughts went off at a gruesome tangent.
-
-“You could see a man hanged!” he shuddered, and himself saw the little
-old effigy on the model drop in Marylebone Road.
-
-“Why not?” asked the other in wide wonder. “But as I am not allowed,”
-he continued in lighter key, “I have to do the best I can. If I cannot
-be in at the death, I may still by luck be in at a dream or two! And
-now you may guess why I wander with my camera where men come in to
-sleep in broad daylight. I prowl among them; a word awakens them; and
-then I take my chance.”
-
-“They’re not all like that man this morning, then,” remarked Pocket,
-looking back on the inanimate clod reclining in the dew.
-
-The doctor deliberated with half-shut eyes that seemed to burn the
-brighter for their partial eclipse.
-
-“This morning,” he rejoined, “was like no other. I owe you some
-confidence in the matter. I had the chance of a lifetime this
-morning—thanks to you!”
-
-“Thanks to me?” repeated Pocket. A flash enlightened him. “Do you mean
-to say I—you took me—walking——?”
-
-“You shall see my meaning,” replied Baumgartner, rising. “Wait one
-minute.”
-
-He was not gone longer. Pocket heard him on the other side of double
-doors in an alcove; but he had gone out into the passage to get there.
-Running  water and the chink of porcelain were specially audible in his
-absence, but the boy was thinking of another sound. The doctor before
-leaving had discarded a black alpaca jacket, light as a pocket
-handkerchief, which had fallen so softly as to recall by contrast the
-noise made by the revolver in the pocket of the cloak. The lad was
-promptly seized with a strong desire to recover his property; he was
-within an ace of doing so, the cloak containing it being actually in
-his hands and only dropped as Baumgartner returned to announce that all
-was ready.
-
-Sharp to the left, at the end of the passage, was a door which would
-simply have been a second way into the drawing-room had the double
-doors within been is use; these being shut, the space behind made a
-separate chamber which again reminded the schoolboy of his study, that
-smallest of small rooms. This one was as narrow, only twice the length.
-One end was monopolised by the door that admitted them, the other by a
-window from floor to ceiling. And this window was in two great sheets
-of ruby glass, so that Pocket looked down red-hot iron steps into a
-crimson garden, and therefrom to his companion dyed from head to foot
-like Mephistopheles.
-
-“This is something like a dark-room!” exclaimed the lad as the door was
-shut and locked behind him. The folding doors were permanently barred
-by shelves and lockers; opposite was a long porcelain trough, pink as
-the doctor’s shirt-sleeves in the strong red light; racks of negatives
-and stoppered bottles glimmered over brass taps stained to an angry
-copper.
-
-Everything was perfection from a photographer’s standpoint; the boy
-felt instantaneously spoilt for his darkened study and his jugs of
-water. All he had ever sighed for in the prosecution of his hobby was
-here in this little paradise of order and equipment. The actual work,
-he felt, would be a secondary consideration in such a workshop; the
-mere manipulation of such stoppered bottles as his host was handling
-now, the choice of graduated phials, the wealth of trays and dishes,
-would have been joy enough for him. He watched the favoured operator
-with a watering mouth. A crimson blind had been lowered to reduce the
-light; the doctor had turned up his shirt-cuffs; his wrists were
-muscular and furry, as it now seemed with a fiery fur, yet they
-trembled with excitement as he produced his plate. And Pocket
-remembered how extravagant an image was expected on that plain pink
-surface.
-
-He did not know whether to expect it or not himself. It was difficult
-to believe in that sort of thing, difficult to disbelieve in this sort
-of man, who entertained no shadow of doubt himself, whose  excitement
-and suspense were as infectious as everything else about him. Pocket
-had come into the dark-room wheezing almost as much as ever; he was not
-to be heard breathing as the plate was rocked to and fro as in
-raspberry-juice, and gradually the sky showed sharp and black. But the
-sky it was that puzzled Pocket first. It was broken by perpendicular
-objects like white torpedoes. He was photographer enough to know what
-these were almost at once; they were those poplars in the park. But how
-could Baumgartner have photographed Pocket with those poplars behind
-him when they had been behind Baumgartner all the time?
-
-Pocket said to himself, “Where am I, by the way?” and bent lower to
-see. His ear touched the doctor’s; it heard the doctor breathing as
-though he were the asthmatic; and now a human shape was visible, but
-not walking in its sleep, lying in it like the man in the wet grass.
-“When did you get me?” asked Pocket aloud. But the tense crimson face
-paid no attention; in the ruby light it was glistening as though with
-beads of blood.
-
-“There! there! there!” croaked a voice, husky and yet staccato. Pocket
-could scarcely believe it was the voice of his host—the one gentle
-thing about him. “You saw the figure? Surely you saw something else,
-hovering over it? I did, I swear I did! But now we shall have to wait.”
-
-The plate had blackened all over, as though the uncanny thing had
-choked out its life. It was meticulously held under a tap, between
-fingers that most distinctly trembled now. Then he plunged it in the
-hyposulphite, and pulled up the blind. The sun shone again through the
-tall window, blood-red as before; grass and sky were as richly
-incarnadined. Baumgartner babbled while he waited for the fixing-bath
-to clear the plate. The chance of his life, he still pronounced it.
-“And I owe it to you, my young fellow!” This he said again and again,
-aloud but chiefly to himself. He picked up the plate at last and held
-it to the flaming window. He cried out in German to himself, a cry the
-schoolboy never forgot.
-
-“Open the window!” he ordered. “It opens like a door.”
-
-Pocket did as he was told. The pure white sunlight struck him
-momentarily blind. Baumgartner had the plate under the tap again.
-Pocket thought him careless with it, thought the tap on too full; it
-was held up an instant to the naked sun, and then dashed to a hundred
-fragments in the porcelain trough.
-
-Pocket knew better than to ask a question. He followed his leader back
-into the drawing-room, and watched him pick up his coat. It might have
-been a minute before their eyes met again; the  doctor’s were calm and
-cold and critical as in the earlier morning. It was another failure, he
-said, and nothing more. Breakfast would be ready soon; they would go
-upstairs; and if his young fellow felt equal to a warm bath, he thought
-as a physician it might do him good.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI.
-AN AWAKENING
-
-
-It was a normal elderly gentleman, with certain simple habits, but no
-little distinction of address, who welcomed the schoolboy at his
-breakfast-table. The goblin inquisitor of Hyde Park had vanished with
-his hat and cloak. The excited empiric of the dark-room was a creature
-of that ruby light alone. Dr. Baumgartner was shaved and clad like
-other men, the iron-grey hair carefully brushed back from a lofty
-forehead, all traces of strong acids removed from his well-kept hands.
-There was a third person, and only a third, at table in the immature
-shape of a young lady whom the doctor introduced as his niece Miss
-Platts, and addressed as Phillida.
-
-Pocket thought he had never heard of nobler atonement for unmitigable
-surname. He could not help thinking that this Phillida did not look the
-one  to flout a fellow, after the fashion of the only other Phillida he
-had ever heard of, and then that it was beastly cheek to start thinking
-of her like that and by her Christian name. But he was of the age and
-temperament when thoughts will come of contact with young animals of
-the opposite sex. He looked at her sidelong from time to time, but all
-four eyes dropped directly they met; she seemed as shy and
-uninteresting as himself; her conversation was confined to table
-attentions to her uncle and his guest.
-
-Pocket made more valiant attempts. A parlour billiard-table, standing
-against the wall, supplied an irresistible topic. “We have a full-size
-table at home,” he said, and could have mutilated his tongue that
-instant. “I like a small one best,” he assured the doctor, who shook
-his head and smiled.
-
-“Honestly, sir, and snob-cricket better than the real thing! I’m no
-good at real games.”
-
-The statement was too true, but not the preference.
-
-“That must be awkward for you, at an English public school,” was the
-doctor’s comment.
-
-Pocket heaved an ingenuous sigh. It was hateful. He blamed the asthma
-as far as modesty would permit. He was modest enough in his
-breakfast-table talk, yet nervously egotistical, and apt to involve
-himself in lengthy explanations. He had  two types of listener—the dry
-and the demure—to all he said.
-
-“And they let you come up to London alone!” remarked Dr. Baumgartner
-when he got a chance.
-
-“But it wasn’t their fault that I——”
-
-Pocket stopped at a glance from his host, and plunged into profuse
-particulars exonerating his house-master, but was cut short again.
-Evidently the niece was not to know where he had spent the night.
-
-“I suppose there are a number of young men at your—establishment?” said
-the doctor, exchanging a glance with Miss Platts.
-
-“There are over four hundred boys,” replied Pocket, a little puzzled.
-
-“And how many keepers do they require?”
-
-A grin apologised for the word.
-
-“There must be over thirty masters,” returned Pocket more pointedly
-than before. He was not going to stand chaff about his public school
-from a mad German doctor.
-
-“And they arm you for the battle of life with Latin and Greek, eh?”
-
-“Not necessarily; there’s a Modern Side. You can learn German if you
-like!” said Pocket, not without contempt.
-
-“Do you?”
-
-“I don’t like,” said the boy gratuitously.
-
-“Then we must stick to your excellent King’s English.”
-
-Pocket turned a trifle sulky. He felt he had not scored in this little
-passage. Then he reflected upon the essential and extraordinary
-kindness which had brought him to a decent breakfast-table that
-morning. That made him ashamed; nor could he have afforded to be too
-independent just yet, even had he been so disposed in his heart. His
-asthma was a beast that always growled in the background; he never knew
-when it would spring upon him with a roar. Breakfast pacified the
-brute; hot coffee always did; but the effects soon wore off, and the
-boy was oppressed again, yet deadly weary, long before it was time for
-him to go to Welbeck Street.
-
-“Is there really nothing you can take?” asked Dr. Baumgartner, standing
-over him in the drawing-room, where Pocket sat hunched up in the big
-easy-chair.
-
-“Nothing now, I’m afraid, unless I could get some of those cigarettes.
-And Dr. Bompas would kick up an awful row!”
-
-“But it’s inhuman. I’ll go and get them myself. He should prescribe for
-such an emergency.”
-
-“He has,” said Pocket. “I’ve got some stuff in my bag; but it’s no use
-taking it now. It’s  meant to take in bed when you can have your sleep
-out.”
-
-And he was going into more elaborate details than Dr. Bompas had done,
-when the other doctor cut him short once more.
-
-“But why not now? You can sleep to your heart’s content in that chair;
-nobody will come in.”
-
-Pocket shook his head.
-
-“I’m due in Welbeck Street at twelve.”
-
-“Well, I’ll wake you at quarter to, and have a taxi ready at the door.
-That will give you a good two hours.”
-
-Pocket hesitated, remembering the blessed instantaneous effect of the
-first bottle under the bush.
-
-“Would you promise to wake me, sir? You’re not going out?”
-
-“I shall be in again.”
-
-“Then it is a promise?”
-
-Pocket would have liked it in black and white.
-
-“Certainly, my young fellow! Is the stuff in your bag?”
-
-It was, and the boy took it with much the same results as overnight. It
-tasted sweeter and acted quicker; that was the only difference. The
-skin seemed to tighten on his face. His fingers tingled at the ends It
-was not at all an unpleasant sensation, especially as the labour in his
-breast came to an end as if by magic. The faintly foreign  accents of
-Dr. Baumgartner sounded unduly distant in his last words from the open
-door. It was scarcely shut before the morning’s troubles ceased
-deliciously in the cosy chair.
-
-Yet they seemed to begin again directly, and this was a horrid crop! Of
-course he was back in Hyde Park; but the sky must have rained red paint
-in his absence, or else the earth was red-hot and the sky reflected it.
-No! the grass was too wet for that. It might have been wet with blood.
-Everything was as red as beet-root, as wet and red and one’s body
-weltering in it like the slain! Reddest of all was the old
-photographer, who turned into Mr. Spearman in cap and gown, who turned
-into various members of the Upton family, one making more inconsequent
-remarks than the other, touching wildly on photography and the flitting
-soul, and between them working the mad race up to such a pace and pitch
-that Pocket woke with a dreadful start to find Dr. Baumgartner standing
-over him once more in the perfectly pallid flesh.
-
-“I’ve had a beast of a dream!” said Pocket, waking thoroughly. “I’m in
-a cold perspiration, and I thought it was cold blood! What time is it?”
-
-“A quarter to six,” said the doctor, who had invited the question by
-taking out his watch.
-
-“A quarter to twelve, you mean!”
-
-“No—six.”
-
-And the boy was shown the dial, but would not believe it until he had
-gaped at his own watch, which had stopped at half-past three. Then he
-bounded to his feet in a puerile passion, and there lay the little
-garden, a lake of sunlight as he remembered it, swallowed up entirely
-in the shadow of the house.
-
-“You promised to wake me!” gasped Pocket, almost speechless. “You’ve
-broken your word, sir!”
-
-“Only in your own interest,” replied the other calmly.
-
-“I believe you were waiting for me to wake—to catch my soul, or some
-rot!” cried the boy, with bitter rudeness; but he looked in vain for
-the stereoscopic or any other sort of camera, and Dr. Baumgartner only
-shrugged his shoulders as he opened an evening paper.
-
-“I apologise for saying that,” the boy resumed, with a dignity that
-sounded near to tears. “I know you meant it for the best—to make up for
-my bad night—you’ve been very kind to me, I know! But I was due in
-Welbeck Street at twelve o’clock, and now I shall have to bolt to catch
-the six-thirty from St. Pancras.”
-
-“You won’t catch the six-thirty from St. Pancras,” replied Baumgartner,
-scarcely looking up from his paper.
-
-“I will unless I’m in some outlandish part of London!” cried Pocket,
-reflecting for the first time that he had no idea in what part of
-London he was. “I must catch it. It’s the last train back to school.
-I’ll get into an awful row if I don’t!”
-
-“You’ll get into a worse one if you do,” rejoined the doctor, looking
-over his paper, and not unfeelingly, at the boy.
-
-“What about?”
-
-Pocket held his breath instinctively as their eyes met. Baumgartner
-answered with increased compassion and restraint, a grey look on his
-grey face:
-
-“Something that happened this morning. I fear you will be wanted here
-in town about it.”
-
-“Do tell me what, sir!”
-
-“Can you face things, my young fellow?”
-
-“Is it about my people—my mother?” the boy cried wildly, at her funeral
-in a flash.
-
-“No—yourself.”
-
-“Then I can!”
-
-The doctor overcame his final hesitation.
-
-“Do you remember a man we left behind us on the grass?”
-
-“Perfectly; the grass looked as wet as it felt just now in my dream.”
-
-“Exactly. Didn’t it strike you as strange that he should be lying there
-in the wet grass?”
-
-“I thought he was drunk.”
-
-“He was dead!”
-
-Pocket was shocked; he was more than shocked, for he had never
-witnessed death before; but next moment the shock was uncontrollably
-mitigated by a sudden view of the tragic incident as yet another
-adventure of that adventurous night. No doubt one to retail in
-reverential tones, but a most thrilling adventure none the less. He
-only failed to see why it should affect him as much as the doctor
-suggested. True, he might be called as witness at the inquest; his very
-natural density was pierced with the awkward possibility of that. But
-then he had not even known the man was dead.
-
-Had the doctor?
-
-Yes.
-
-Pocket wondered why he had not been told at the time, but asked another
-question first.
-
-“What did he die of?”
-
-“A bullet!”
-
-“Suicide?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Not murder?”
-
-“This paper says so.”
-
-“Does it say who did it?”
-
-“It cannot.”
-
-“Can you?”
-
-“Yes!”
-
-“Tell me.”
-
-The doctor threw out both hands in a despairing gesture.
-
-“Have I to tell you outright, my young fellow, that you did it
-yourself?”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII.
-BLOOD-GUILTY
-
-
-His overwhelming horror was not alleviated by a moment’s doubt. He
-marvelled rather that he had never guessed what he had done. The
-walking in his sleep, the shot that woke him, the first words of Dr.
-Baumgartner, his first swift action, and the warm pistol in his own
-unconscious hand: these burning memories spoke more eloquently than any
-words. They would have told their own tale at once, if only he had
-known the man was dead. Why had he been deceived? It was cruel, it was
-infamous, to have kept the truth from him for a single instant. Thus
-wildly did the stricken youth turn and rend his benefactor for the very
-benefaction of a day’s rest in ignorance of his deed. The doctor
-defended himself firmly, frankly, with much patience and some cynicism.
-Pocket was reminded of the state he himself had been in at the time. He
-also might have been a dying  man, he was assured, and could well
-believe on looking back. Baumgartner had actually opened his lips to
-tell him the truth, but had checked himself in sheer humanity. Again
-the boy could confirm the outward detail out of his own recollection.
-To have told him later in the morning, the doctor went on to say, with
-an emphasis not immediately understood, could have undone nothing. He
-acknowledged a grave responsibility, but rightly or wrongly he had put
-the living before the dead.
-
-How had he known the man was dead? Baumgartner smiled at the question.
-He was not only a doctor, but an old soldier who had fought in one at
-least of the bloodiest battles in European history. He had seen too
-many men fall shot through the heart to be mistaken for a moment; but
-in point of fact he had confirmed his conviction by brief examination
-while Pocket was fetching his things from behind the bush. Pocket
-pressed for earlier details with a morbid appetite which was not
-gratified without reluctance, and out of a laconic interchange the deed
-was gradually reconstructed with appealing verisimilitude. It was
-Baumgartner who had first caught sight of the somnambulist, treading
-warily like the blind, yet waving the revolver as he went, as though
-any moment he might let it off. The moment came with a wretched reeling
-man who joined Baumgartner on the path, and would not be warned. The
-poor man had raised a drunken shout and been shot pointblank through
-the heart. The doctor described him as leaping backward from the
-levelled barrel, then into the air and down in the dew upon his face.
-
-The boy buried his face and wept; but even in his anguish he now
-recalled the shout before the shot. The enforced description had been
-so vivid in the end that he beheld the scene as plainly as though he
-had been wide awake. Then he dwelt upon the dead man, looking nothing
-else as he now remembered him, and that sent him off at a final
-tangent.
-
-He cried, looking up with a shudder for all his tears, “What about that
-negative you smashed? It was the poor dead man all the time!”
-
-“It was,” replied Baumgartner; “but it was never meant to be. I had you
-in focus when you fired. What I did was done instinctively, but with
-time to think I should have done just the same. You had given me the
-chance of a lifetime, though nothing has come of it so far. And that
-was another reason for saving you, ill as you were, from the immediate
-consequences of an innocent act.”
-
-Pocket was passionately honest, as his worst friends knew; he had an
-instinctive admiration  for downright honesty in another. His young
-soul was torn with grief and pity for the dead; he was already haunted
-by the inevitable and complex consequences of his fatal misadventure,
-and yet he could dimly appreciate the candid declaration of one who had
-attempted to turn that tragedy to instantaneous and inconceivable
-account. It was the mistaken kindness to himself that he still found
-most difficult to forgive.
-
-“It’s got to come out,” he groaned; “this will make it all the worse.”
-
-“You mean the delay?”
-
-“Yes! Who’s to tell them I didn’t do it on purpose, and run away, and
-then think better of it?”
-
-Baumgartner smiled.
-
-“Surely I am,” said he; but his smile went out with the words. “If only
-they believe me!” he added as though it was a new idea to him.
-
-It was a terrifying one to Pocket.
-
-“Why shouldn’t they?” was his broken exclamation.
-
-“I don’t know. I never thought of it before. But what can I swear to,
-after all? I can swear you shot a man, but I can’t swear you shot him
-in your sleep!”
-
-“You said you saw I did!”
-
-“So I did, my young fellow,” replied the doctor,  with a kinder smile;
-“at least I can swear that you were walking with your eyes shut, and I
-thought you were walking in your sleep. It’s not quite the same thing.
-It is near it. But we are talking about my evidence on oath in a court
-of justice.”
-
-“Shall I be tried?” asked the schoolboy in a hoarse whisper.
-
-“Perhaps only by the magistrate,” replied the other, soothingly; “let
-us hope it will stop at that.”
-
-“But it must, it must!” cried Pocket wildly. “I’m absolutely innocent!
-You said so yourself a minute ago; you’ve only to swear it as a doctor?
-They can’t do anything to me—they can’t possibly!”
-
-The doctor stood looking into the sunless garden with a troubled face.
-
-“Dr. Baumgartner!”
-
-“Yes, my young fellow?”
-
-“They can’t do anything to me, can they?”
-
-Baumgartner returned to the fireside with his foreign shrug.
-
-“It depends what you call anything,” said he. “They cannot hang you;
-after what I should certainly have to say I doubt if they could even
-detain you in custody. But you would only be released on bail; the case
-would be sent for trial; it would get into every paper in England; your
-family could not stop it, your schoolfellows would  devour it, you
-would find it difficult to live down both at home and at school. In
-years to come it will mean at best a certain smile at your expense!
-That is what they can do to you,” concluded the doctor, apologetically.
-“You asked me to tell you. It is better to be candid. I hoped you would
-bear it like a man.”
-
-Pocket was not even bearing it like a manly boy; he had flung himself
-back into the big chair, and broken down for the first time utterly.
-One name became articulate through his sobs. “My mother!” he moaned.
-“It’ll kill her! I know it will! Oh, that I should live to kill my
-mother too!”
-
-“Mothers have more lives than that; they have more than most people,”
-remarked Baumgartner sardonically.
-
-“You don’t understand! She has had a frightful illness, bad news of any
-kind has to be kept from her, and can you imagine worse news than this?
-She mustn’t hear it!” cried the boy, leaping to feet with streaming
-eyes. “For God’s sake, sir, help me to hush it up!”
-
-“It’s in the papers already,” replied Baumgartner, with a forbearing
-shrug.
-
-“But my part in it!”
-
-“You said it had got to come out.”
-
-“I didn’t realise all it meant—to her!”
-
-“I thought you meant to make a clean breast of it?”
-
-“So I did; but now I don’t!” cried Pocket, vehemently. “Now I would
-give my own life, cheerfully, rather than let her know what I’ve
-done—than drag them all through that!”
-
-“Do you mean what you say?”
-
-Baumgartner appeared to be forming some conditional intention.
-
-“Every syllable!” said Pocket.
-
-“Because, you know,” explained the doctor, “it is a case of now or
-never so far as going to Scotland Yard is concerned.”
-
-“Then it’s never!”
-
-“I must put it plainly to you. It’s not too late to do whatever you
-decide, but you must decide now. I would still go with you to Scotland
-Yard, and the chances are that they would still accept the true story
-of to-day. I have told you what I believe to be the worst that can
-happen to you; it may be that rather more may happen to me for
-harbouring you all day as I have done. I hope not, but I took the law
-into my own hands, and I I am prepared to abide by the law if you so
-decide this minute.”
-
-“I have decided.”
-
-“Mind you, it would mean putting yourself unreservedly in my hands, at
-any rate for the  present,” said Baumgartner, impressively. “Better
-come to Scotland Yard this minute than go back to school and blab about
-the whole thing there!”
-
-“I shouldn’t do that.”
-
-“I’m not so sure,” replied the acute doctor. “I believe I know you
-better than you know yourself; one learns more of a person in an hour
-like this than in a whole humdrum lifetime. I believe you would find it
-very difficult not to tell somebody.”
-
-Pocket admitted it with a natural outburst of his leading quality. In
-truth no previous act or word of Baumgartner’s had inspired such
-confidence as this unerring piece of insight. It seemed to the boy a
-perfect miracle of discernment. He was not old enough to know that what
-he would have done, in his weakness, most grown-up men and women of his
-temperament would have done in theirs.
-
-“Remember,” resumed the doctor, “you would have the whole of to-day to
-account for; it’s not as though you wouldn’t have some very awkward
-questions to answer the moment you got back to school.”
-
-And again the lad marvelled at this intuition into public-school
-conditions on the part of one who could have no first-hand knowledge of
-those  insular institutions. But this fresh display of understanding
-only confirmed him in his resolve.
-
-“I trust you, sir,” said he; “haven’t you done enough for me to make
-me? I put myself, as you say, absolutely in your hands; and I’m
-grateful to you for all you’ve done and whatever you mean to do!”
-
-“Even though it comes to hiding with us here in London?”
-
-“No matter what it comes to,” cried Pocket, strangely exalted now, “so
-long as my people never know!”
-
-“They may think you dead.” He thought of saying that he wished he was;
-but it would not have been true; even then it would have been a lie,
-and Pocket was not the boy to tell one if he knew it.
-
-“That would be better than knowing what I have done,” was what he said;
-and in his exaltation he believed no less.
-
-“You quite see that you are taking a step which must be final?”
-
-“It is final—absolutely—so far as I am concerned.”
-
-And it was meant to be, in all good faith; the very fulness and
-fairness of the doctor’s warnings served but to strengthen that
-resolve. But Baumgartner, as if to let well or ill alone, dropped the 
-matter with a clinching shrug; and presently he left his visitor, less
-wisely, to brood on it alone.
-
-Pocket was a dab at brooding! That is the worst of your conscientious
-ass; he takes his decision like a man; he means to stick to it like a
-sportsman; but he cannot help wondering whether he has decided for the
-best, and what would have happened if he had decided otherwise, and
-what his world will say about him as it is.
-
-This one went much further in the unique stress of his extraordinary
-position. He pictured his people dressing for dinner at home; he
-pictured his form sitting down to private-work in his form-master’s
-hall; there was no end to his mental pictures, for they included one of
-himself on the scaffold in the broad-arrows of the little old waxwork
-at Madame Tassaud’s! He could not help himself; his mind was crumbling
-with his dreadful deed and its awful possibilities. Now his heart bled
-honestly for the poor dead man, now for his own mother and sister, and
-now not less freely for himself. He had been so innocent in the whole
-matter; he had only been an innocent and rather sporting fool. And now
-one of these lives was ended by his hand, and all the rest would be
-darkened for ever after!
-
-It was too great a burden for a boy to bear; but Pocket bore it far
-into the long June twilight,  scarcely stirring in the big soft chair,
-yet never leaning back in it again. He sat hunched up as though once
-more battling for breath, but curiously enough his bodily distress had
-flown before that of the mind. Pocket would thankfully have changed
-them back again, for his brain was as clear as his bronchial tubes, its
-capacity for suffering undimmed by a single physical preoccupation.
-Between seven and eight the young lady of the house came in with
-candles and a kind of high-tea on a tray; she also brought a box of
-d’Auvergne Cigarettes and the latest evening paper, which her uncle
-thought that Mr. Upton would like to see. That was how the girl
-addressed the boy, and the style always made him feel, and wish to
-seem, something of a man. But his present effort in that direction was
-sadly perfunctory: he almost ejected little Miss Platts in his
-eagerness to shut the door on her and see the news.
-
-It was neither unimportant nor at first sight reassuring. The dead man
-had been identified by the police, who knew him of old, and were
-reported as hopeful of obtaining a clue through his identity. The clue
-was the point that stuck like a burr in the boyish brain; his idea of a
-clue was one leading straight to himself; it took Dr. Baumgartner to
-explain the true value of the identity clause, and bid the boy eat his
-meal.
-
-“Trust the police!” said he. “They’re on a false scent already; they
-may try at that end till it turns their hair grey!”
-
-Pocket disliked this tone; he had begun to think almost as
-reverentially of his victim as of a dead member of his own family. It
-appeared thus early, however, that in life the defunct had been by no
-means worthy of respect. Rowton Houses had been his only home, except
-when his undistinguished offences got him into gaol; the surreptitious
-practices of the professional mendicant, his sole means of livelihood.
-So much was to be read between the few brief lines in the stop-press
-column of the latest evening paper. Again it required Baumgartner to
-extract comfort from such items.
-
-“At all events,” said he, “you cannot reproach yourself with the
-destruction of a valuable life! The man was evidently the worthless
-creature that he looked. You talk about your undesirable aliens, but
-here in England you breed undesirables enough to manure the world! It’s
-a public service to reduce their number.”
-
-This pitch of nauseous cynicism had not been reached at a bound; the
-doctor had been working up to it all the evening, and this was the
-climax of his cold-blooded consolation as the schoolboy mechanically
-undressed himself for bed. His host had accompanied him up two pairs of
-stairs, carrying  candles, and his meerschaum pipe in aromatic blast.
-Pocket felt a new chill through his veins, but he was not revolted as
-he would have been at first. This extraordinary man had shown him still
-more extraordinary kindness; the die was cast for them to stand or fall
-together; and there was something about the gaunt old visionary, a
-confidential candour, a dry intellectual plausibility, which could not
-but stimulate respect for his ungodliest views. Whether they really
-were his views, or only a tortuous attempt at comfort, the sympathy
-underlying their expression was undoubted and indubitable. But the
-doctor spoke as though he meant every word, and the boy only longed to
-agree with him: his conscientious failure to do so declared itself in a
-series of incoherent expostulations to which Baumgartner himself gave
-articulate shape in order to demolish them in the next breath.
-
-“You say his life was as much to him as yours to you? Is that it, my
-young fellow?”
-
-Pocket acknowledged the interpretation, and watched the Turk’s head
-wreathed in cool blue clouds.
-
-“You might as well compare withered weed with budding flower!” cried
-the poetic doctor. “You have an honourable life before you; he had a
-disreputable one behind him. You were bred and  nurtured in the lap of
-luxury; he finds it for the first time in his——”
-
-But here even Baumgartner broke off abruptly. The boy was writhing in
-his bed; the man sat down on the end of it.
-
-“You do such poor devils a service,” said he, “in sending them to a
-world that cannot use them worse than this one. They are better under
-the ground than lying on it drenched and drunk!”
-
-“It was a human life,” groaned the boy, shutting his eyes in pain.
-
-“Human life!” cried Baumgartner, leaping to his feet, his huge shadow
-guying him on the ceiling. “What is this human life, and who are you
-and I, that we set such store by it? The great men of this world never
-did; it’s only the little people and the young who pule and whine about
-human life. The ancient Roman sacrificed his weaklings as on an altar;
-there are some of us in these days who would prescribe a Tarpeian Rock
-for modern decadence. So much in pious parenthesis! Napoleon thought
-nothing of your human life. Von Moltke, Bismarck, and our staff in
-Germany thought as little of it as Napoleon; the Empire of my
-countrymen was founded on a proper appreciation of the infinitesimal
-value of human life, and your British Empire will be lost through
-exaggerating its importance. Blood and Iron were our  watchwords;
-they’re on the tip of every Fleet Street pen to-day, but I speak of
-what I know. I’ve heard the Iron shriek without ceasing, like the wind,
-and I’ve felt the Blood like spray from a hot spring! I fought at
-Gravelotte; as a public schoolboy you probably never heard the name
-before this minute. I fought in the Prussian Guard. I saw you looking
-at the pictures downstairs. I was in that charge across those hellish
-ridges. Over two thousand of us fell dead in half an hour, but we
-gained the victory. More Germans were killed that day—that sweltering
-August afternoon—than English in your whole South African War that took
-you years! The flower of Germany fell at Gravelotte; that was human
-life with a vengeance! But an Empire rose out of my comrades’ ashes.
-And that’s all it’s for, this human life of yours: for the
-master-builders to lay out in their wisdom on the upward road.”
-
-The schoolboy was carried away. In the sudden eloquence of this strange
-outburst, with its poetic frenzy, its ruthless idealism, its wild
-bloodthirsty nobility, the youthful listener lost sight of its
-irrelevancy, or rather it was the irrevelant features that flared up
-first in his brain. It was a childish question, but here was a very
-child, and he could not help asking the fierce old soldier whether he
-had escaped without a wound.
-
-“Without a scratch,” was the reply. “I come home. I leave the army. I
-ally my human life with one that is all but divine. My Queen is struck
-down dead at my side within a year. And you expect me to pity the
-veriest pawn in the game!”
-
-The boy was never to forget these bitter speeches altogether; there was
-not a single sentence of them that he failed to recall at one time or
-another word for word. He would see a wild arm waving, wisps of smoke
-from a waving pipe, a core of nicotine in a curve of amber, and the
-Turk’s face glistening in its heat like that of the hard old man
-himself. He would hear the cynical and scornful voice softening in a
-breath to the simple, tender, and domestic humanity of his race. The
-voice and the face were with him throughout that night of his own
-manifold misery; but the time had not come for so young a boy to
-realise that Dr. Baumgartner had begun to say one thing, and been
-carried away like his listener.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII.
-POINTS OF VIEW
-
-
-On the following morning, the ominous Friday of this disastrous week,
-there was a letter for Mr. Upton on the breakfast-table down in
-Leicestershire. This circumstance was not so usual as it sounds,
-because Mr. Upton conducted all his correspondence from his office at
-the works. If you simply put the name of the village, as he did on his
-stationery, to the works it went; it was necessary to direct your
-letter to the hall if you wished it to be delivered there; and few
-there were who had anything to say to Mr. Upton, on paper, unless it
-was on business too. His youngest son, however, had furnished the more
-impressive address to Dr. Bompas, whose hurried hand it was that dealt
-the first blow.
-
-It so happened that a letter from Dr. Bompas had been expected; this
-made the letter he wrote especially upsetting, and for the following
-reason. Mrs. Upton had been so shaken by her vivid dream on the
-Thursday morning, that her husband had telegraphed to Bompas, somewhat
-against his own judgment, to know how he found their son. The reply had
-been: “Better expecting him again to-day will write”—which prepared the
-family for still more reassuring accounts in the morning. Lettice  felt
-relieved as the original discoverer of Dr. Bompas. Horace found his
-views confirmed as to the systematic exaggeration of a touch of asthma,
-and Fred was only prevented by absence from entirely agreeing with
-Horace. Mr. Upton thought no more about the matter. But poor Mrs. Upton
-lay upstairs looking forward to a letter which it was quite impossible
-to show her now that it had come.
-
-Mr. Upton read it more than once without a word; and it was not his way
-to keep a family matter to himself at his own table; but on this
-occasion he triumphed over temperament with an extraordinary instinct
-for what was in the air.
-
-“The most infernal letter I ever had in my life!” was his only comment
-as he thrust it in his pocket out of sight. Lettice, however, might
-have seen that her father was far more distressed than angry had not
-Horace promptly angered him by saying he was not surprised. The young
-fellow’s face and the old one’s neck were redder before the last was
-heard of that remark. A garbled paraphrase of the letter was eventually
-vouchsafed; the boy had made very little improvement, and was not
-likely to make more while he remained at a school where he was allowed
-to use any remedy he liked; in fact, until he was taken away from
-school, and placed under his own immediate control in town, Dr. Bompas
-declined to persevere with the case.
-
-“Blighter!” said Horace impartially, as though now there were two of
-them. Such was, in fact, the sum of his observations to Lettice when
-their father had taken himself and his letter upstairs. Young Tony was
-not “playing the game”; but then he never did play it to the expert
-satisfaction of Fred and Horace.
-
-Upstairs the husband gave a more elaborate version of his letter, and
-told a lie. He said he had destroyed the letter in his indignation. He
-had destroyed it, but solely to escape any question of his showing it
-to his wife. He said a happier thing by chance; he said that for two
-pins he would motor over to the school and see for himself how the boy
-really was; then perhaps he would be in a position to consider the
-entreaty which Mrs. Upton added to the specialist’s demand, that his
-patient should be placed under his eye in town. Mr. Upton went so far,
-however, without much immediate intention of taking so strong a
-measure.
-
-He wished to discuss the matter with Horace; he might be quite
-justified in his fears. He was sorry he had let them lead to words with
-his eldest son. There were aspects of the case, as it presented itself
-to his mind, which he could hardly thresh out with Lettice, and her
-mother must not know of his anxiety on any account. Horace, however,
-had gone off earlier than usual in his dudgeon.
-
-Mr. Upton was not long in following him to the works.
-
-It was a charming garden that he passed through on his way; it charmed
-its owner all the more from his having made it himself out of a few
-rolling meadows. The rhododendrons were at the climax of their June
-glory. The new red gravel (his own colouring to a shade) appealed to an
-eye which had never looked longer than necessary in the glass.
-Lawn-tennis courts were marked out snowily on a shaven lawn; the only
-eyesore the good man encountered was poor Pocket’s snob-wickets painted
-on a buttress in the back premises; his own belching blast-furnaces,
-corroding and defiling acres and acres within a few hundred yards of
-his garden wall, were but another form of beauty to the sturdy Briton
-who had made them too.
-
-Horace was called into the private office and speedily propitiated. “I
-was more anxious than I could tell you at the time,” his father said;
-“the fact is, I concealed half the fellow’s letter on account of
-Lettice. But it’s a man’s matter, and you ought to know.”
-
-Of course the letter had stated that the erratic patient had failed to
-keep his appointment on the morning of writing; but if it had drawn the
-line of information there, it is highly improbable that Mr. Upton would
-have exercised so wise a discretion  at table and in his wife’s room.
-It now appeared that as a busy professional man the outspoken Bompas
-had gone far out of his way to play Mahomet to his patient’s mountain.
-Tony had told him where he hoped to stay in London, which Bompas
-particularly wished to know on account of some special prescription the
-boy was to try that night. On his failure to appear at the appointed
-time, the doctor had telephoned to the address in question, only to
-learn that the boy had not stayed there at all. He had been given
-another address with the same result, except that from the second house
-he gathered that the young gentleman had gone on to some hotel. Horace
-was left to imagine a professional opinion of such proceedings, and
-asked for his own on the facts as a man of the world.
-
-“Exactly like young Tony!” quoth Horace, never afraid to say what he
-thought.
-
-“What! Like a lad of sixteen to go and put up at some hotel?”
-
-“Like Tony,” repeated Horace significantly. “Trust him to do what
-nobody else ever did.”
-
-“But how could Spearman give him the chance?”
-
-“Heaven knows! Fred and I never got it.”
-
-“I thought he was to stay at Coverley’s?”
-
-“So I heard.”
-
-“I don’t like it! It’s all wrong at his age,” said Mr. Upton. He had
-his notions of life and its  temptations, and he was blunt enough with
-his elder sons, yet it was not without some hesitation that he added:
-“You don’t think there’s any question of bad company, do you?”
-
-And though Horace had “no use for” his so-called pocket edition, he
-answered without any hesitation at all: “Not for a moment, from what I
-know of Tony.”
-
-Mr. Upton was sorry he had said so much. He excused himself by
-mentioning his wife’s dream, now family property, which had been on his
-mind all this time. Horace, however, had no hesitation in informing him
-that nobody nowadays believed in dreams.
-
-“Well, I never have, certainly,” said Mr. Upton. “But what can it be?”
-
-“He probably went up to Lord’s, and forgot all about his doctor.”
-
-“I hope not! You’re too down on him, Horace.”
-
-“If there was nobody to put him up it was the game to go back to
-school.”
-
-“But he’s said to have gone to some hotel.”
-
-“I don’t suppose he did,” said Horace. “I expect he got back somehow.”
-
-The question was still under discussion when a telegram from Mr.
-Spearman settled it. Where was Tony? He had not returned when due the
-day before, and his friends in London wired that they knew nothing
-about him.
-
-“What friends?” cried Mr. Upton, in a fury. “Why the devil couldn’t
-Spearman give their names or Bompas the addresses he talked about?”
-
-Horace could only think of Mr. Coverley or “that Knaggs crowd.” Neither
-he nor Fred had been at Coverley’s school, and young Tony’s friends
-were by no means theirs.
-
-Mr. Upton thought Lettice would know, and was going to speak to her on
-the telephone when Horace reminded him of his own remark about its
-being “a man’s matter”; it was beginning to look, even to Horace, like
-a serious one as well, and in his opinion it was much better that
-neither his mother nor his sister should know anything at all about it
-before it was absolutely necessary. Horace now quoted his mother’s
-dream as the devil did Scripture, but adduced sounder arguments
-besides; he was speaking quite nicely of them both, for instance, when
-he declared that Lettice was wrapped up in Tony, and would be beside
-herself if she thought any evil had overtaken him. It would be simply
-impossible for her to hide her anxiety from the mother on whom she also
-waited hand and foot. Mr. Upton disagreed a little there; he had good
-reason to believe in Lettice’s power of suppressing her own feelings;
-but for her own sake, and particularly in view of that discredited
-dream, he now decided to keep his daughter in the dark as long as his
-wife.
-
-It was his first decision; his next was to motor over to the school, as
-he had fortunately told his wife he might, and have a word with Mr.
-Spearman, who deserved hanging for the whole thing! The mischief was
-done, however, and it was now a matter in which home and school
-authorities must act together. A clerk was instructed to telephone to
-the garage for the car to come straight to the works. And the
-ironmaster stood waiting at his office window in a fever of anxiety.
-
-The grimy scene on which he looked had a constant charm for him, and
-yet to-day it almost added to the bitterness of his heart. His was the
-brain that had conceived those broad effects of smoke and flame, and
-blackened faces lit by the light of molten metal; his the strong hand
-and the stout heart which had brought his conception into being. Those
-were his trucks bringing in his ore from his mines; that was his
-consequential little locomotive fussing in front of them. His men,
-dwellers in his cottages on the brow of that hill, which was also his,
-happened to be tapping one of his furnaces at the moment; that was his
-pig-iron running out into the moulds as magically as an electric
-advertisement writes itself upon the London sky at night. The sense of
-possession is the foible of many who have won all they have; the
-ironmaster almost looked upon the hot air dancing over the  white-hot
-bars as his too. The whole sulphurous prospect, once a green pasture,
-had long been his to all intents and purposes, and no second soul would
-ever take his pride in it; to his children it would never be more than
-the means of livelihood; and how had it repaid even him for a life’s
-devotion? With a house of sorrow in the next valley! With a stricken
-wife, and sons whose right hands kept their cunning for the
-cricket-field, and one of whom the very thought had become a sudden
-madness!
-
-Yet he could think of nothing else, except his wife, even in the great
-green car that whisked him westward in a dancing cloud of dust; for he
-did not drive himself, and the rush through the iced fragrance of the
-summer’s day was a mental stimulant that did its work only too well.
-Now it recalled the ailing infancy of the missing boy—bronchitis it had
-been in the early stages—and how his mother had taken him to Hastings
-three successive winters, and wrapped him up far too much. Old family
-jokes cropped up in a new light, dimming the eyes without an instant’s
-warning. On one of those flittings south the solicitous mother had
-placed the uncomplaining child on a footwarmer, and forgotten him until
-a cascade of perspiration apprised her of the effect: poor Mr. Upton
-had never thought of the incident without laughter, until to-day.
-Without  doubt she had coddled him, and all for this, and she herself
-too ill to hear a word about it!
-
-His mind harked back to his wife. In her sad case there was no
-uncertainty. He thought of thirty years ago when he had seen her first.
-There had been drama and colour in their meeting; the most celebrated
-of the neighbouring packs had run a fox to earth on his works, indeed
-in his very slag-heap! The author of cancerous furnaces in the green
-heart of a grass country had never been a popular personage with the
-hunting folk; but he was master of the situation that memorable day. It
-was his terrier that went into the slag-heap like a ferret, and came
-out bloody with a moribund fox; his pocket-knife that shore through the
-brush, his hand that presented it across the wall to the only young
-lady in at the death. The men in pink looking over, the hunt servants
-with their work cut out on the other side, the tongue of molten slag
-sticking out of the furnace mouth—the momentary contact of the
-industrial and the sporting world—it was that strange and yet
-significant scene which had first endeared its dingy setting to the
-ironmaster’s heart. But he had made the contact permanent by falling in
-love with the young lady of the brush and marrying her under all the
-guns of her countified kith and kin. And now she was a stricken
-invalid, and their youngest-born was God knew where!
-
-Of course there were no tidings of him at the school, where the now
-distracted father spent a more explosive hour than he cared to think
-about as he flew on to town in the car. He was afraid he had been very
-rude to Mr. Spearman; but then Spearman had been rash enough to
-repudiate his obvious responsibility in the matter. It was not his
-fault that the boy went up to town so often to see his doctor and stay
-the night. He had his own opinion of that arrangement, but it had
-become his business to see it carried out. Mr. Upton got in a sharp
-thrust here, to which the house-master retorted that if a boy of
-seventeen could not be trusted to keep his word, he should like to know
-who could! Tony had promised him faithfully to return that same night,
-failing friends whom he had mentioned as certain to put him up; their
-names Mr. Upton was able to demand at last as though they were so much
-blood; and he could not have cursed them more freely if Spearman had
-been a layman like himself. But that was all the information
-forthcoming from this quarter; for, happening to ask what the head
-master thought of the affair, Mr. Upton was calmly informed that it had
-still to reach his ears; at which he stared, and then merely remarked
-that he was not surprised, but in such a tone that Spearman sprang up
-and led him straight into the presence.
-
-Now the Benevolent Despot of this particular seat of learning was an
-astute pedagogue who could handle men as well as boys. He explained to
-Mr. Upton that the safe-keeping of the unit was the house-master’s
-concern, but agreed it was time that he himself was made acquainted
-with the present case. He took it as seriously, too, as Mr. Upton could
-have wished, but quite as frankly from his own point of view as his two
-visitors did from each of theirs. He had no doubt the boy would turn
-up, but when he did it would be necessary for him to give a
-satisfactory account of his proceedings before he could be received
-back into the school.
-
-“Bother the school!” cried Mr. Upton, diluting the anathema with
-difficulty. “Let me find my lad alive and well; then you can do what
-you like.”
-
-“But how do you propose to find him?” inquired the head master, with
-only a dry smile (which disappointed Spearman) by way of rejoinder.
-
-“First I shall have a word with these infernal people who, on their own
-showing, refused the boy a bed. I’ll give them a bit of my mind, I
-promise you! Then there’s the hotel they seem to have driven him to; it
-may be the one we always stay at, or one they’ve recommended. If I
-can’t hear anything of him there, I suppose there’ll be nothing for it
-but to call in the police.”
-
-“My dear sir,” exclaimed the head master,  “you may as well call in the
-public at once! It will be in the papers before you know where you are;
-and that, I need hardly point out to you, is as undesirable from our
-point of view as I should have thought it would be from yours.”
-
-“It’s more so from mine!” cried Mr. Upton, in fresh alarm and
-indignation. “You think about your school. I think about my wife and
-boy; it might kill her to hear about this before he’s found. But if I
-don’t go to the police, who am I to go to?” The head master leant back
-in his chair, and joined his finger-tips judicially.
-
-“There was a man we had down here to investigate an extraordinary case
-of dishonesty, in which I was actually threatened with legal
-proceedings on behalf of a certain boy. But this man Thrush came down
-and solved the mystery within twenty-four hours, and saved the school a
-public scandal.”
-
-“He may save you another,” said Mr. Upton, “if he can find my boy. What
-did you say the name was?”
-
-“Thrush—Eugene Thrush—quite a remarkable man, and, I think, a
-gentleman,” said the head master impressively. Further particulars,
-including an address in Glasshouse Street, were readily supplied from
-an advertisement in that day’s _Times_, in which Mr. Thrush was
-described as an “inquiry agent,” capable alike of “delicate
-investigations” and “confidential negotiations.”
-
-That was the very man for Mr. Upton, as he himself agreed. And he
-departed both on speaking terms with Mr. Spearman, who said a final
-word for his own behaviour in the matter, and grimly at one with the
-head master on the importance of keeping it out of the papers.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX.
-MR. EUGENE THRUSH
-
-
-The remarkable Mr. Thrush was a duly qualified solicitor, who had never
-been the man for that orderly and circumscribed profession. The tide of
-events which had turned his talents into their present channel, was
-known to but few of his many boon companions, and much nonsense was
-talked about him and his first career. It was not the case (as anybody
-might have ascertained) that he had been struck off the rolls in
-connection with the first great scandal in which he was professionally
-concerned. Nor was there much more truth in the report that he drank,
-in the ordinary interpretation of the term.
-
-It is true, however, that Mr. Thrush had a tall tumbler on his
-dressing-table, to help him shave for the evening of that fateful
-Friday. He was  dressing for an early dinner before a first night. His
-dressing-room, in which he also slept in Spartan simplicity, was the
-original powder-closet of the panelled library out of which it led.
-There was a third room in which his man Mullins prepared breakfast and
-spent the day. But the whole was a glorified garret, at the top of such
-stairs as might have sent a nervous client back for an escort.
-
-Mullins, with the expression of an undertaker’s mute (a calling he had
-followed in his day), was laying out his master’s clothes as mournfully
-as though his master were in them, instead of chatting genially as he
-shaved.
-
-“I’m sorry to have missed your evidence, Mullins, but if we go into
-this case it’s no use letting the police smell the competitive rat too
-soon. Inquests are not in my line, and they’d have wondered what the
-devil I was doing there, especially as you refrained from saying you
-were in my service.”
-
-“I had no call, sir.”
-
-“Quite right, Mullins! An ideal witness, I can see you were. So you’d
-only to describe the finding of the body?”
-
-“That was all, sir.”
-
-“And your description was really largely founded on fact?”
-
-Mullins stood like a funereal grenadier at his gentleman’s shaving
-elbow. “I told the truth,  sir, and nothing but the truth,” said he,
-with sombre dignity.
-
-“But not the whole truth, eh, Mullins! What about the little souvenirs
-you showed me yesterday?”
-
-“There was no call to name them either, sir. The cheroot-end I must
-have picked up a hundred yards away, and even the medicine-cork wasn’t
-on the actual scene of the murder.”
-
-“That’s all right, Mullins. I don’t see what they could possibly have
-to do with it, myself; and really, but for the fluke of your being the
-one to find the body, and picking the first-fruits for what they’re
-worth, it’s the last kind of case that I should dream of touching with
-a ten-foot pole. By the way, I suppose they won’t require you at the
-adjourned inquest?”
-
-“They may not require me, sir, but I should like to attend, if quite
-convenient,” replied Mullins deferentially. “The police were very
-stingy with their evidence to-day; they’ve still to produce the fatal
-bullet, and I should like a sight of that, sir.”
-
-Mr. Thrush did not continue the conversation, possibly because he took
-as little real interest as he professed in the case which was being
-thrust upon him, but more obviously owing to the necessary care in
-shaving the corners of a delightfuly long and mobile mouth. Indeed, the
-whole face emerging from the lather, as a cast from its clay, would
-have  delighted any eye but its own. It was fat and flabby as the rest
-of Eugene Thrush; there was quite a collection of chins to shave; and
-yet anybody but himself must have recognised the invincible freshness
-of complexion, the happy penetration of every glance, as an earnest of
-inexhaustible possibilities beneath the burden of the flesh. Great
-round spectacles, through which he stared like a wise fish in an
-aquarium, were caught precariously on a button of a nose which in
-itself might have prevented the superficial observer from taking him
-any more seriously than he took himself.
-
-Mr. Upton, who arrived before Thrush was visible, was an essentially
-superficial and antipathetic observer of unfamiliar types; and being
-badly impressed by the forbidding staircase, he had determined on the
-landing to sound his man before trusting him. In the rank undergrowth
-of his prejudices there was no more luxuriant weed than an innate
-abhorrence of London and all Londoners, which neither the cause of his
-visit nor the murky mien of Mullins was calculated to abate. The
-library of books in solid bindings, many of them legal tomes, was the
-first reassuring feature; another was the large desk, made
-business-like with pigeon-holes and a telephone; but Mr. Upton was only
-beginning to recover confidence when Eugene Thrush shook it sadly at
-his first entry.
-
-It might have been by his face, or his fat, or his evening clothes seen
-from the motorist’s dusty tweeds, almost as much as by the misplaced
-joviality with which Thrush exclaimed: “I’m sorry to have kept you
-waiting, sir, and the worst of it is that I can’t let you keep me!”
-
-This touched a raw nerve in the ironmaster, as the kind of reception
-one had to come up to London to incur. “Then I’ll clear out!” said he,
-and would have been as good as his word but for its instantaneous
-effect.
-
-Thrush had pulled out a gold watch after a stare of kindly
-consternation.
-
-“I really am rather rushed,” said he; “but I can give you four minutes,
-if that’s any good to you.”
-
-Now, at first sight, before a word was spoken, Mr. Upton would have
-said four hours or four days of that boiled salmon in spectacles would
-have been no good to him; but the precise term of minutes, together
-with a seemlier but not less decisive manner, had already quickened the
-business man’s respect for another whose time was valuable. This is by
-no means to say that Thrush had won him over in a breath. But the
-following interchange took place rapidly.
-
-“I understand you’re a detective, Mr. Thrush?”
-
-“Hardly that, Mr.——I’ve left your card in the other room.”
-
-“Upton is my name, sir.”
-
-“I don’t aspire to the official designation, Mr. Upton, an inquiry
-agent is all I presume to call myself.”
-
-“But you do inquire into mysteries?”
-
-“I’ve dabbled in them.”
-
-“As an amateur?”
-
-“A paid amateur, I fear.”
-
-“I come on a serious matter, Mr. Thrush—a very serious matter to me!”
-
-“Pardon me if I seem anything else for a moment; as it happens, you
-catch me dabbling, or rather meddling, in a serious case which is none
-of my business, but strictly a matter for the police, only it happens
-to have come my way by a fluke. I am not a policeman, but a private
-inquisitor. If you want anything or anybody ferreted out, that’s my job
-and I should put it first.”
-
-“Mr. Thrush, that’s exactly what I do want, if only you can do it for
-me! I had reason to fear, from what I heard this morning, that my
-youngest child, a boy of sixteen, had disappeared up here in London, or
-been decoyed away. And now there can be no doubt about it!”
-
-So, in about one of the allotted minutes, Thrush was trusted on grounds
-which Mr. Upton could not easily have explained; but the time was up
-before he had concluded a briefly circumstantial report of the facts
-within his knowledge.
-
-“When can I see you again?” he asked abruptly of Thrush.
-
-“When? What do you mean, Mr. Upton?”
-
-“The four minutes must be more than up.”
-
-“Go on, my dear sir, and don’t throw good time after bad. I’m only
-dining with a man at his club. He can wait.”
-
-“Thank you, Mr. Thrush.”
-
-“More good time! How do you know the boy hasn’t turned up at school or
-at home while you’ve been fizzing in a cloud of dust?”
-
-“I was to have a wire at the hotel I always stop at; there’s nothing
-there; but the first thing they told me was that my boy had been for a
-bed which they couldn’t give him the night before last. I did let them
-have it! But it seems the manager was out, and his understrappers had
-recommended other hotels; they’ve just been telephoning to them all in
-turn, but at every one the poor boy seems to have fared the same. Then
-I’ve been in communication with these infernal people in St. John’s
-Wood, and with the doctor, but none of them have heard anything. I
-thought I’d like to do what I could before coming to you, Mr. Thrush,
-but that’s all I’ve done or know how to do. Something must have
-happened!”
-
-“It begins to sound like it,” said Thrush gravely.
-
-“But there are happenings and happenings; it may be only a minor
-accident. One moment!”
-
-And he returned to the powder-closet of its modish day, where Mullins
-was still pursuing his ostensibly menial avocation. What the master
-said was inaudible in the library, but the man hurried out in front of
-him, and was heard clattering down the evil stairs next minute.
-
-“In less than an hour,” explained Thrush, “he will be back with a list
-of the admissions at the principal hospitals for the last forty-eight
-hours. I don’t say there’s much in it; your boy had probably some
-letter or other means of easier indentification about him; but it’s
-worth trying.”
-
-“It is, indeed!” murmured Mr. Upton, much impressed.
-
-“And while he is trying it,” exclaimed Eugene Thrush, lighting up as
-with a really great idea, “you’ll greatly oblige me by having a
-whisky-and-soda in the first place.”
-
-“No, thank you! I haven’t had a bite all day. It would fly to my head.”
-
-“But that’s its job; that’s where it’s meant to fly,” explained the
-convivial Mr. Thrush, preparing the potion with practised hand. Baited
-with a biscuit it was eventually swallowed, and a flagging giant
-refreshed by his surrender. It made  him like his new acquaintance too
-well to bear the thought of detaining him any more.
-
-“Go to your dinner, man, and let me waylay you later!”
-
-“Thank you, I prefer to keep you now I’ve got you, Mr. Upton! My man
-begins his round by going to tell my pal I can’t dine with him at all.
-Not a word, I beg! I’ll have a bite with you instead when Mullins gets
-back, and in a taxi that won’t be long.”
-
-“But do you think you can do anything?”
-
-The question floated in pathetic evidence on a flood of inarticulate
-thanks.
-
-“If you give me time, I hope so,” was the measured answer. “But the
-needle in the hay is nothing to the lost unit in London, and it will
-take time. I’m not a magazine detective, Mr. Upton; if you want a
-sixpenny solution for soft problems, don’t come to me!”
-
-At an earlier stage the ironmaster would have raised his voice and
-repeated that this was a serious matter; even now he looked rather
-reproachfully at Eugene Thrush, who came back to business on the spot.
-
-“I haven’t asked you for a description of the boy, Mr. Upton, because
-it’s not much good if we’ve got to keep the matter to ourselves. But is
-there anything distinctive about him besides the asthma?”
-
-“Nothing; he was never an athlete, like my other boys.”
-
-“Come! I call that a distinction in itself,” said Mr. Thrush, smiling
-down his own unathletic waistcoat. “But as a matter of fact, nothing
-could be better than the very complaint which no doubt unfits him for
-games.”
-
-“Nothing better, do you say?”
-
-“Emphatically, from my point of view. It’s harder to hide a man’s
-asthma than to hide the man himself.”
-
-“I never thought of that.”
-
-It was impossible to tell whether Thrush had thought of it before that
-moment. The round glasses were levelled at Mr. Upton with an
-inscrutable stare of the marine eyes behind them.
-
-“I suppose it has never affected his heart?” he inquired nonchalantly;
-but the nonchalance was a thought too deliberate for paternal
-perceptions quickened as were those of Mr. Upton.
-
-“Is that why you sent round the hospitals, Mr. Thrush?”
-
-“It was one reason, but honestly not the chief.”
-
-“I certainly never thought of his heart!”
-
-“Nor do I think you need now, in the case of so young a boy,” said
-Thrush earnestly. “On the other hand, I shouldn’t be surprised if his
-asthma were to prove his best friend.”
-
-“It owes him something!”
-
-“Do you know what he does for it?”
-
-“Yes, I do,” said Mr. Upton, remembering the annoying letter he seemed
-to have received some weeks before. “He smokes, against his doctor’s
-orders.”
-
-“Do you mean tobacco?”
-
-“No—some stuff for asthma.”
-
-“In cigarettes?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Do you know the name?”
-
-“I have it here.”
-
-The offensive letter was not only produced, but offered for inspection
-after a precautionary glance. Thrush was on his feet to receive it in
-outstretched hand. Already he looked extraordinarily keen for his bulk,
-but the reading of the letter left him alive and alert to the last
-superfluous ounce.
-
-“But this is magnificent!” he cried, with eyes as round as their
-glasses.
-
-“I confess I don’t see why.”
-
-“Cigarettes d’Auvergne!”
-
-“Some French rubbish.”
-
-“The boy has evidently been dependent on them?”
-
-“It looks like it.”
-
-“And this man Bompas made him give them all up?”
-
-“So he has the impudence to say.”
-
-“Is it possible you don’t see the importance of all this?”
-
-Mr. Upton confessed incompetence unashamed.
-
-“I never heard of these cigarettes before; they’re an imported article;
-you can’t get them everywhere, I’ll swear! Your boy has got to rely on
-them; he’s out of reach of the doctor who’s forbidden them; he’ll try
-to get them somewhere! If he’s been trying in London, I’ll find out
-where before I’m twenty-four hours older!”
-
-“But how can you?” asked Mr. Upton, less impressed with the possibility
-than by this rapid if obvious piece of reasoning.
-
-“A. V. M.!” replied Eugene Thrush, with cryptic smile.
-
-“Who on earth is he?”
-
-“Nobody; it’s the principle on which I work.”
-
-“A. V. M.?”
-
-“Otherwise the old nursery game of Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral.”
-
-Again Mr. Upton had to prevent himself by main force from declaring it
-all no laughing matter; but his silence was almost bellicose.
-
-“You divide things into two,” explained Thrush, “and go on so dividing
-them until you come down to the indivisible unit which is the answer to
-the riddle. Animal or Vegetable? Vegetable or  Mineral? Northern or
-Southern Hemisphere? Ah! I thought your childhood was not so very much
-longer ago than mine.”
-
-Mr. Upton had shrugged an impatient recognition of the game.
-
-“In this case it’s Chemists Who Do Sell D’Auvergne Cigarettes and
-Chemists Who Don’t. Then—Chemists Who Do and Did Yesterday, and
-Chemists Who Do but Didn’t! But we can probably improve on the old game
-by playing both rounds at once.”
-
-“I confess I don’t quite follow,” said Mr. Upton, “though there seems
-some method in the madness.”
-
-“It’s all the method I’ve got,” rejoined Thrush frankly. “But you shall
-see it working, for unless I’m much mistaken this is Mullins back
-sooner than I expected.”
-
-Mullins it was, and with the negative information expected and desired,
-though the professional melancholy of his countenance might have been
-the precursor of the worst possible news. The hospitals on his rapid
-round had included Charing Cross, St. Thomas’s, St. George’s, and the
-Royal Free; but he had telephoned besides to St. Mary’s and St.
-Bartholomew’s. At none of these institutions had a young gentleman of
-the name of Upton, or of unknown name, been admitted in the last
-forty-eight hours. Mullins, however, looked as sympathetically
-depressed as though no news had lost its proverbial value; and he had
-one of those blue-black faces that lend themselves to the look, his
-chin being in perpetual mourning for the day before.
-
-“Don’t go, Mullins! I’ve another job for you,” said Eugene Thrush.
-“Take the telephone directory and the London directory, and sit you
-down at my desk. Look up ‘chemists’ under ‘trades’; there are pages of
-them. Work through the list with the telephone directory, and ring up
-every chemist who’s on the telephone, beginning with the ones nearest
-in, to ask if he keeps d’Auvergne Cigarettes for asthma. Make a note of
-the first few who do; go round to them all in turn, and be back here at
-nine with a box from each. Complain to each of the difficulty of
-getting ’em elsewhere—say you wonder there’s so little demand—and with
-any luck you should find out whether and to whom they’ve sold any since
-Wednesday evening.”
-
-“But surely that’s the whole point?” suggested the ironmaster.
-
-“It’s the next point,” said Thrush. “The first is to divide the
-chemists of London into the Animals who keep the cigarettes and the
-Vegetables who don’t. I should really like to play the next round
-myself, but Mullins must do something while we’re out.”
-
-“While we’re out, Mr. Thrush?”
-
-“My dear Mr. Upton, you’re going to step across into the Café Royal
-with me, and have a square meal before you crack up!”
-
-“And what about your theatre?” asked Mr. Upton, to whom resistance was
-a physical impossibility, when they had left the sombre Mullins
-entrenched behind telephone and directories.
-
-“The theatre! I was only going out of curiosity to see the sort of
-tripe that any manager has the nerve to serve up on a Friday in June;
-but I’m not going to chuck the drama that’s come to me!”
-
-The ironmaster dined with his head in a whirl. It was a remarkably good
-dinner that Thrush ordered, if as inappropriate to the occasion as to
-his own weight. His guest, however, knew no more what he was eating or
-drinking than he knew the names of the people in diamonds and white
-waistcoats who stared at the distraught figure in the country clothes.
-It even escaped his observation that the obese Thrush was an unblushing
-gourmet with a cynical lust for Burgundy. The conscious repast of Mr.
-Upton consisted entirely of the conversation of Eugene Thrush, and of
-that conversation only such portions as exploited his professional
-theories, and those theories only as bearing on the case in hand. He
-was merely bored when Thrush tried to distract  him with some account
-of the murder in which he himself was only interested because his
-myrmidon happened to have discovered the body. What was the murder of
-some ragamuffin in Hyde Park to a man from the country who had lost his
-son?
-
-“I don’t see how your theory can work there,” he sighed, out of pure
-politeness, when Thrush paused to punish the wine.
-
-“It should work all right,” returned Thrush. “You take an absolutely
-worthless life; what do you do it for? It must be one of two motives:
-either you have a grudge against the fellow or his existence is a
-menace to you. Revenge or fear; he wants your money, or he’s taken your
-wife! But what revenge can there be upon a poor devil without the price
-of a bed on his indescribable person? He hasn’t anything to bless
-himself with, and he makes it a bit too hot for somebody who has, eh?
-So you whittle it down. And then perhaps by sheer luck you run your
-blade into the root of the matter.”
-
-Thrush gave up trying to take the other out of himself, since his
-boldest statements were allowed to pass unchallenged, unless they dealt
-with the one subject on the poor man’s mind. The cessation of his
-voice, however, caused a twinge of conscience in the bad listener; he
-made a mental grab at the last phrase, and was astonished to find it
-germane to his own thoughts.
-
-“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned luck, Mr. Thrush!”
-
-“When was the first?”
-
-“You spoke of Friday as an unlucky day, as God knows this one is to me!
-Are you of a superstitious turn of mind?”
-
-“Not seriously.”
-
-“You don’t believe in dreams, for example?”
-
-“That’s another question,” said Thrush, his spectacles twinkling to
-colossal rubies as he sipped his Santenay. “Why do you ask?”
-
-“If you’re a disbeliever it’s no use my telling you.”
-
-“Perhaps I’m neither one thing nor the other.”
-
-“Have you ever known a mystery solved through a dream?”
-
-“I’ve heard of one,” said Thrush, with a significant stress upon the
-verb; “that’s the famous old murder in the Red Barn a hundred years
-ago. The victim’s mother dreamed three nights running that her missing
-daughter was buried in the Red Barn, and there she was all the time.
-There _may_ have been other cases.”
-
-“Cases in which a parent has dreamt of an absent child, at the very
-time at which something terrible has happened to that child?”
-
-“Any amount of those.”
-
-The father’s voice had trembled with the question. Thrush put down his
-glass as he gave his answer,  and his spectacled eyes fixed themselves
-in a more attentive stare.
-
-“Do you think they’re all coincidences?” demanded Mr. Upton hoarsely.
-
-“Some of them may be, but certainly not all,” was the reply. “That
-would be the greatest coincidence of the lot!”
-
-“I hardly like to tell you why I ask,” said Mr. Upton, much agitated;
-for he could be as emotional as most irascible men.
-
-“You’ve been dreaming about the boy?”
-
-“Not I; but my poor wife has; that was one reason why I daren’t tell
-her he had disappeared.”
-
-“Why? What was the dream?”
-
-“That she saw him—and heard a shot.”
-
-“A shot!”
-
-Thrush looked as though he had heard one himself, but only until he had
-time to think.
-
-“She says she did hear one,” added Mr. Upton, “and that she wasn’t
-dreaming at all.”
-
-“But when was this?”
-
-“Between six and seven yesterday morning.” This time Thrush did not
-move a muscle of his face; it only lit up like a Chinese lantern, and
-again he was quick to quench the inner flame; but now the coincidence
-was complete. Coincidences, however, had nothing to say to the A. V. M.
-system, neither was Eugene Thrush the man to jump to  wild conclusions
-on the strength of one. He asked whether the boy was very fond of
-shooting in the holidays, as though that might have accounted for the
-dream, but his father was not aware that he had ever smelt powder in
-his life. He little dreamt what Thrush was driving at! The tone of
-subsequent inquiries concerning Mrs. Upton’s health (already mentioned
-as the great reason for keeping the affair as long as possible a
-secret) sounded purely compassionate to an ear unconsciously aching for
-compassion.
-
-“Then that accounts for it,” said Thrush, when he had heard the whole
-sad story. There was the faintest ring of disappointment in his tone.
-“What do you mean?”
-
-“That anybody as ill as that, more particularly a lady, is naturally
-fanciful, I’m afraid.”
-
-“Then you think it a mere delusion, after all?”
-
-“My dear Mr. Upton, it would be presumption to express an opinion
-either way. I only say, don’t think too much about that dream. And
-since you won’t keep me company in my cups, we may as well rejoin the
-faithful Mullins.”
-
-They ran into Mullins, as it happened, in Glasshouse Street, and Mr.
-Upton for one would not have recognised him as the same being. His
-sepulchral face was alight with news—it was the transformation of the
-undertaker’s mute into the wedding guest. And yet he had only one box
-of the d’Auvergne Cigarettes to show for his evening’s work, and that
-chemist had declared it was the first he had sold for weeks.
-
-Thrush ordered his man upstairs, and took his late guest’s hand as soon
-as ever he dared.
-
-“You need a good night’s rest, my dear sir, and it’s no use climbing to
-my masthead for nothing. Mullins and I will do best if you don’t mind
-leaving us to ourselves for the night; but first thing tomorrow morning
-I shall be at your service again, and I hope there will be some
-progress to report.”
-
-Mullins was waiting for him with all the lights on, his solemn face
-still more strikingly illuminated.
-
-“Look at this, sir, look at this! These are the d’Auvergne Cigarettes!”
-
-“So I perceive.”
-
-“This stump is the stump of a d’Auvergne Cigarette.”
-
-“I hope you enjoyed it, Mullins.”
-
-“I didn’t smoke it, sir!”
-
-“Who did?”
-
-“That’s for you to say, sir; but it’s one of the little things I
-collected near the scene of the murder, but took for a common cheroot,
-yesterday morning in Hyde Park.”
-
-“Near the actual place?”
-
-Thrush had pounced upon the stump, and was holding it under the
-strongest of the electric lamps.
-
-“Under a seat, sir, not above a hundred yards away!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER X.
-SECOND THOUGHTS
-
-
-Pocket had been dreaming again. What else could he expect? Waking, he
-felt that he had got off cheaply; that he might have been through the
-nightmare of battle, as described by one who had, and depicted in the
-engravings downstairs, instead of on a mercifully hazy visit to the
-Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. The trouble was that he had
-seen the one and not the other, and what he had seen continued to haunt
-him as he lay awake, but quite horribly when he fell back into a doze.
-There was nothing nebulous about the vile place then; it was as light
-and bright as the room in which he lay. The sinister figures in the
-panelled pens were swathed in white, as he had somewhere read that they
-always were at nights. Their evil faces were shrouded out of sight. But
-that only made their defiant, portly figures the more humanly inhuman
-and terrifying; it was as though they had all risen, in their
-winding-sheets, from their  murderer’s graves. Better by far their
-beastly faces, that you knew were wax! So he reasoned with himself, and
-screwed up his courage, and laid hands on one of the shorter figures
-that he could reach. It rocked stiffly in its place, a most palpable
-and reassuring waxwork. He unwound the cerements from the hollow and
-unyielding head; and the face was new to him; it had not been there the
-other afternoon. It was a young face like his own, as ill-mounted on
-high shoulders, with thickish lips ajar, and only a pair of intelligent
-eyes to redeem an apparent heaviness: one and all his own identical
-characteristics. And no wonder, for the last recruit to the waxen army
-of murderers was a faithful model of himself.
-
-There was no awaking from this dream: the dreamer was not positive that
-he had been asleep. The veiled sunlight in his room was just what it
-had seemed in that deserted dungeon of swaddled malefactors. The boy
-shuddered till the bed shook under him. But after that he still lay on,
-facing himself as he had seen himself, and his deed as others must see
-it soon or late. Not the actual accident in the Park; but this hiding
-in the heart of London, this skulking among strangers, this leaving his
-own people to mourn him as the dead!
-
-The thought of them drew scalding tears. Never had they seemed so dear
-to him before. It was not  only Lettice and their parents. Fred and
-Horace, how good they had been to him at school, and how proud he had
-been of them! What would they think of him if he went on skulking like
-this? What would they have done in his place? Anything but lie low like
-that, thought Pocket, and resolved forthwith to play the game as
-preached and practised by his brothers. It was strange that he should
-have been so dense about so plain a duty overnight; this morning he saw
-it as sharp as an image in perfect focus on the ground-glass screen…To
-think that a mad photographer should have talked him into an attitude
-as mad as his own! This morning he saw the common sense of the
-situation as well as its right and wrong. Nothing would happen to him
-if he gave himself up, but anything might if he waited till he was
-caught. As for the consequences to his poor mother, surely in the end
-suspense and uncertainty would eat deeper into the slender cord of her
-life than the shock of the truth would cut.
-
-Having made up his mind, however, as to the only thing to do, the boy
-behaved characteristically in not hastening to do it. The ordeal in
-front of him, beginning in certain conflict with Baumgartner, and
-ending in a blaze of wretched notoriety, was a severe one to face;
-meanwhile he lay in such peace and safety as it was only human to
-prolong  a little. That night, for all his moral innocence, he might
-lie in prison; let him make the most of a good bed while he had one,
-especially as he was still mysteriously free from asthma. The last
-consideration took his mind off the ethical dilemma for quite a little
-time. He remembered the doctor at home telling him that he himself had
-suffered from chronic asthma, but had lost it after a carriage accident
-in which he was nearly killed.
-
-“My accident may have done the same for me,” thought Pocket—and was
-bitterly ashamed next moment to catch himself thinking complacently of
-any aspect of his deed. Its other aspects were a sufficient punishment.
-
-To get up, and raise the green linen blind, flooding with sunshine the
-plain upstairs room to which Baumgartner had conducted his guest, was
-to conjure uncomfortable visions of the eccentric doctor, with his
-ferocious meerschaum, his bloodthirsty battle-talk, and all his
-arguments in favour of the course which Pocket had now determined to
-abandon. The boy fully realised that he had been given his chance, and
-had refused it. And of all the interviews before him, that with Dr.
-Baumgartner was the one that he most dreaded, and would have given most
-to escape.
-
-Could he escape it? That was an idea; others came of it. If he did
-escape, and did give himself  up for what he had done, there was no
-reason why he should involve Baumgartner in that voluntary confession.
-Suppose he hailed the first cab he saw, and drove over to St. John’s
-Wood to borrow money (they could scarcely refuse him that), and then
-took the first train home to tell his father everything in the first
-instance, that father would never hear of his incriminating a stranger
-who had befriended him according to his lights. He himself need never
-say where he had spent the twenty-four hours after the tragedy, even if
-he were ever to know. And so far he had no notion, thanks to the
-ridiculous posture prescribed by Baumgartner in the cab; he could only
-suppose the motive had been to keep him out of sight, the benefit to
-his breathing a mere pretext; and yet it was a curious result that
-after a day and a night he should still be in total ignorance of his
-whereabouts.
-
-He opened his window and looked out; but it was a back window, and the
-sunny little strip of garden below was one of many in a row. Old
-discoloured walls divided them from each other and from the gardens of
-a parallel block of bigger houses, whose slates and chimneys towered
-above the intervening trees. The street in front of those houses was
-completely hidden, but the hum of its traffic travelled pleasantly to
-the ear, and  there were other reassuring sights and sounds. In one of
-the contiguous gardens a very small boy was wheeling a doll’s
-perambulator; on the other side, where the fine, warm gravel reminded
-Pocket of the carroty kind at home, a man was mowing an equally trim
-lawn. Pocket listened to the murmur of the machine, and watched the
-green spray playing over the revolving knives, and savoured the
-curiously countrified smell of cut grass; the combined effect was a
-still stronger reminiscence of his father’s garden, where his own old
-pony pulled the machine in leather shoes.
-
-Because such associations filled his eyes again, there seemed no end to
-them. Somebody was playing the piano near some open window, and playing
-almost as well as Lettice did, and playing one of her things! Pocket
-could not bear to listen or look out any longer, and he dressed as
-quietly as he could. He had almost resolved to slip out without a word,
-whatever else he did, if the opportunity offered. It simply never
-occurred to him, until he made the discovery, that anybody would dare
-to lock him in his room!
-
-Yet they had done it; that infernal old German doctor had had the cheek
-to do it; and the effect on the boy, who so expressed the situation to
-himself, was rather remarkable. A wholly ineffectual tug or two told
-him he was on the wrong side of the door for applying mere bodily
-strength, that either he must raise an ignominious shout for freedom or
-else achieve it for himself by way of the window. Unathletic as he
-always had been, he was sportsman enough not to hesitate an instant
-between the two alternatives; and on again looking out of the window,
-saw his way down at a glance.
-
-Immediately underneath was another window, opening on a leaded balcony
-over the bow-window in the drawing-room. To shift his bedstead with the
-least possible noise, to tie a sheet to it, and to slide down the sheet
-till he had but a few feet to drop into the balcony, was the work of a
-very few minutes to one as excitedly determined as Pocket had become on
-finding himself a prisoner. Thought they would lock him in, did they?
-They would just find out their mistake! It was exactly the same mood in
-which he had scaled the upright palings in defiance of the policeman
-who said he might not sleep in the Park.
-
-The balcony window was open, the room within empty. It was obviously
-Baumgartner’s bedroom. There was a camp bedstead worthy of an old
-campaigner, a large roll-top desk, and a waste-paper basket which
-argued either a voluminous correspondence or imperfect domestic
-service; it would have furnished scent for no short paper-chase.
-Otherwise the room was tidy enough, and  so eloquent of Baumgartner
-himself, in its uncompromising severity, that Pocket breathed more
-freely on the landing. And in the hall he felt absolutely safe, for he
-had gained it without the creaking of a stair, and there on the pegs
-hung his hat, but neither the cloak nor the weird wide-awake affected
-by his host.
-
-Baumgartner out. That was a bit of luck; and it was just like Pocket to
-lose a moment in taking advantage of it; but the truth was that he had
-made an interesting discovery. It was in that house the piano was being
-played. He heard it through the drawing-room door; he had heard it on
-the balcony up above; it had never stopped once, so silent had he been.
-It was that Phillida, with the large dark eyes, and she was playing
-something that Lettice sometimes played, and very nearly, though
-naturally not quite, as well. Pocket would have said that it was
-Mendelssohn, or Chopin, “or something,” for his love of music was
-greater than his knowledge. But it was not exactly the music that
-detained him; he was thinking more of the musician, who had shown him
-kindness, after all. It would be only decent to thank her before he
-went, and the doctor himself through his niece. If she knew he had been
-locked in, and he had to tell her how he had made his escape and yet
-not a sound—well, she would not think the less of him at  all events,
-and so they would part for ever. Or perhaps not for ever! The juvenile
-instinct for romance was not to be stifled at such a stimulating
-moment. The girl would be sorry for him when she knew all; she might
-know enough to be sorry for him as it was; in any case it was the game
-to say goodbye.
-
-The girl sprang from the music-stool in extraordinary excitement. Her
-large eyes were larger than ever, as it were with fear, and yet they
-blazed at the intruder. Pocket could not understand it, unless she
-already knew the truth.
-
-“I’m so sorry for starting you,” he apologised. “I just came in to say
-goodbye.”
-
-And he held out a hand which she never seemed to see.
-
-“To say goodbye!” she gasped.
-
-“Yes, I’ve got to go. I’m afraid the doctor’s out?”
-
-“Yes, he is. Won’t you wait?”
-
-“I’m afraid I can’t.”
-
-She was shrinking from him, shrinking round towards the door. He stood
-aside, to let her bolt if that was her desire. And then she in turn
-took her stand, back to the door.
-
-“He’ll be very sorry to miss you,” she said more firmly, and with a
-smile.
-
-“And I’m very sorry to miss him,” said Pocket, unconscientiously enough
-for anybody. “He’s been most awfully good to me, and I wish you’d tell
-him how grateful I am.”
-
-“I’m afraid he won’t believe me,” the girl said dryly, “if he finds you
-gone.”
-
-“I must go—really I must. I shall get into an awful row as it is. Do
-you mind giving him one other message?”
-
-“As many as you like.”
-
-“Well, you might tell him from me that I’ll give myself away, but I’ll
-never give him! He’ll know what I mean.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-She was keeping him very cleverly, putting in her word always at the
-last moment, and again refusing to see his hand; but again it was the
-boy who helped to waste his own golden opportunity, this time through
-an indefensible bit of boyish braggadocio.
-
-“No; you may tell the doctor that if he wanted to detain me he went the
-worst way about it by locking me into my room!”
-
-She looked mystified at first, and then astounded.
-
-“How did you get out?”
-
-“How do you suppose?”
-
-“I never heard anything!”
-
-“I took care you shouldn’t.”
-
-And he described the successful adventure with  pardonable unction in
-the end. After that he insisted on saying goodbye. And the young girl
-stood up to him like a little heroine.
-
-“I’m very sorry, but I can’t let you go, Mr. Upton.”
-
-“Can’t let me?”
-
-“I really am sorry—but you must wait to see my uncle.”
-
-He stood aghast before the determined girl. She was obviously older
-than himself, yet she was only a slip of a girl, and if he forced his
-way past—but he was not the fellow to do it—and that maddened him,
-because he felt she knew it.
-
-“Oh, very well!” he cried, sarcastically. “If you won’t let me out that
-way, I’ll go this!”
-
-And he turned towards the tiny conservatory, which led down into the
-garden; but she was on him, and there was no hesitation about her; she
-held him firmly by the hand.
-
-“If you do I’ll blow a police-whistle!” she said. “We have one—it won’t
-take an instant. You shan’t come out the front way, and you’ll be
-stopped if you climb the wall!”
-
-“But why? Do you take me for a lunatic, or what?” he gasped out
-bitterly.
-
-“Never mind what I take you for!”
-
-“You’re treating me as though I were one!”
-
-“You’ve got to stay and see my uncle.”
-
-“I shan’t! Let me go, I tell you! You shall you shall! I hate your
-uncle, and you too!” But that was only half true, even then while he
-was struggling almost as passionately as though the girl had been
-another boy. He could not strike her; but that was the only line he
-drew, for she would grapple with him, and release himself he must. Over
-went walnut whatnots, and out came mutterings that made him hotter than
-ever for very shame. But he did not hate her even for what she made him
-say; all his hatred and all his fear were of the dreadful doctor whose
-will she was obeying; and both were at their highest pitch when the
-door burst open, and in he sprang to part them with a look. But it was
-a look that hurt more than word or blow; never had poor Pocket endured
-or imagined such a steady, silent downpour of indignation and contempt.
-It turned his hatred almost in a moment to hatred of himself; his fear
-it only increased.
-
-“Leave us, Phillida,” said Baumgartner at last. Phillida was in tears,
-and Pocket had been hanging his head; but now he sprang towards her.
-
-“Forgive me!” he choked, and held the door open for her, and shut it
-after her with all the gallantry the poor lad had left.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XI.
-ON PAROLE
-
-
-“So,” said Dr. Baumgartner, “you not only try to play me false, but you
-seize the first opportunity when my back is turned! Not only do you
-break your promise, but you break it with brutal violence to a young
-lady who has shown you nothing but kindness!”
-
-Pocket might have replied with justice that the young lady had brought
-the violence upon herself; but that would have made him out a greater
-cad than ever, in his own eyes at any rate. He preferred to defend his
-honour as best he could, which was chiefly by claiming the right to
-change his mind about what was after all his own affair. But that was
-precisely what Baumgartner would not allow for a moment; it was just as
-much his affair as accessory after the fact, and in accordance with
-their mutual and final agreement overnight. Pocket could only rejoin
-that he had never meant to give the doctor away at all.
-
-“I daresay not!” said Baumgartner sardonically. “It would have been
-dragged out of you all the same. I told you so yesterday, and you
-agreed with me. I put it most plainly to you as a case of then or never
-so far as owning up was concerned.  You made your own bed with your
-eyes open, and I left you last night under the impression that you were
-going to lie on it like a man.”
-
-“Then why did you lock me in?” cried Pocket, pouncing on the one point
-on which he did not already feel grievously in the wrong. The doctor
-flattered him with a slight delay before replying.
-
-“There were so many reasons,” he said, with a sigh; “you mustn’t forget
-that you walk in your sleep, for one of them. We might have had you
-falling downstairs in the middle of the night; but I own that I was
-more prepared for the kind of relapse which appears to have overtaken
-you. I was afraid you had more on your soul than you could keep to
-yourself without my assistance, and that you would get brooding over
-what has happened until it drove you to make a clean breast of the
-whole thing. I tell you it’s no good brooding or looking back; take one
-more look ahead, and what do you see if you have your way? Humiliating
-notoriety for yourself, calamitous consequences in your own family,
-certain punishment for me!”
-
-“The consequences at home,” groaned Pocket, “will be bad enough
-whatever we do. I can’t bear to think of them! If only they had taken
-Bompas’s advice, and sent me round the world in the _Seringapatam!_ I
-should have been at sea by this time, and out of harm’s way for the
-next three months.”
-
-“The _Seringapatam?_” repeated the doctor. “I never heard of her.”
-
-“You wouldn’t; she’s only a sailing vessel, but she carries passengers
-and a doctor, a friend of Dr. Bompas’s, who wanted to send me with him
-for a voyage round the world. But my people wouldn’t let me go. She
-sails this very day, and touches nowhere till she gets to Melbourne. If
-I could only raise the passage-money, or even stow away on board, I
-could go out in her still, and that would be the last of me for years
-and years!”
-
-It was not the last of him in his own mind; suddenly as the thought had
-come, and mad as it was, it flashed into the far future in the boy’s
-brain; and he saw himself making his fortune in a far land, turning it
-up in a single nugget, and coming home to tell of his adventures,
-bearded like the pard, another “dead man come to life,” after about as
-many years as the dream took seconds to fashion. And Baumgartner looked
-on as though following the same wild train of thought, as though it did
-not seem so wild to him, but extremely interesting; so that Pocket was
-quite disappointed when he shook his head.
-
-“A stowaway with an attack of asthma! I think I see my poor young
-fellow! Why, they’d hear you wheezing in the hold, and you’d gasp out
-your whole story before you were in the Bay of  Biscay! No, no, my
-fellow; you’ve taken your line, and you must stick to it, and stop with
-me till we can think of something better than a long sea voyage. If you
-say you won’t, I say I’ll make you—to save you from yourself—to save us
-both.”
-
-There was no mistaking the absolute intention in this threat; it was
-fixed and final, and the boy accepted it as he accepted his oppressor’s
-power to make good his words. It was true that he might have escaped
-already; the nearer he had been to it, the less chance was he likely to
-be given again. So reasoned Pocket from the face and voice now
-dominating him more powerfully than ever; but it is an interesting fact
-that his conclusion neither cowed nor depressed him as it might have
-done. There was actually an element of relief in his discomfiture. He
-had done his best to do his duty. It was not his fault that
-responsibility had been wrested from his shoulders, and an evil hour
-delayed. And yet there was a certain, an immediate, a creature comfort
-in such delay, which was all the greater because unsought by him; it
-was a comfort that he had both ways, as the saying is, and from all
-points of view but that of his poor people wondering what had become of
-him.
-
-“If only they knew!” he cried; “then I shouldn’t care. Let me write to
-one of them! My mother needn’t know; but I must write to one of the
-others, and at least let them know I am alive and well. My sister would
-keep my secret; she’d play the game all right, I promise you! And I’d
-play any game you like if only you let me write a line to her!”
-
-The doctor would not hear of it at first. Eventually he said he should
-have to inspect the letter before it went; and this proved the thin
-edge of consent. In the end it was arranged that Pocket should write
-what he liked to his sister only, and that Baumgartner should read and
-enclose it in a covering letter, so that everybody need not know it was
-a letter from the missing boy. Baumgartner was to have it posted from
-St. Martin’s-le-Grand, to destroy all trace of a locality which he now
-refused point-blank to disclose even to the writer. And in return for
-the whole concession the schoolboy was to give his solemn word and
-sacred promise on the following points.
-
-He was not to set foot outside the house without Baumgartner, nor to
-show himself for a moment at the windows back or front.
-
-On no account was he to confide in the doctor’s niece Phillida, to give
-her the slightest inkling of his connection with the latest of London
-mysteries, or even of the scene, or any of the circumstances of his
-first meeting with Baumgartner.
-
-“You are bound to see something of each other; the less you say about
-yourself the better.”
-
-“But what can she think?”
-
-“What she likes, my young fellow! I am a medical man; medical men may
-bring patients to their houses even when they have ceased to practise
-in the ordinary way. It is no business of hers, and what she chooses to
-think is no affair of ours. She has seen you very ill, remember, and
-she had your doctor’s orders not to let you out of the house in his
-absence.”
-
-“She obeyed them like a little brick!” muttered Pocket, with a wistful
-heaviness.
-
-“She did what she was told; think no more about it,” said the doctor.
-“Give me your hand on these your promises, and die on your feet rather
-than break one of them! Now I trust you, my young fellow; you will play
-the game, as you call it, even as the poor lads in these pictures
-played it at Gravelotte, and die like them rather than go back an inch.
-Look at this one here. No, not the one with the ridges, but here where
-we come to bayonets and the sword. See the poor devils of the Prussian
-Guard! See the sheet-lightning pouring into us from the walls of St.
-Privat! Look at that fellow with his head bound up, and this one with
-no head to bind. That’s meant for our colonel on the white horse. See
-him hounding us on to hell! And there’s a drummer drumming as though we
-could hear a single beat! Our very colours  were blown to ribbons, you
-see, and we ourselves to shreds; but the shreds hung together, my young
-fellow, and so will you and I in our day of battle!” Baumgartner might
-have known his boy for years, so sure was his touch upon the strings of
-a responsive nature, to strike the chords of a generous enthusiasm, and
-to wake the echoes of noble deeds. Pocket attacked his letter with the
-heart of a soldier, hardened and yet uplifted for the fight; it was
-only when he found himself writing down vague words, which nevertheless
-brought his innocent deed home to him as nothing had done before, that
-the artificial frost broke up, and real tears ran with his ink. He
-begged Lettice not to think too hardly of him, still less to be anxious
-about him, or to make anybody else; they must not fret for him, he
-wrote more than once, without seeing the humour of the injunction. He
-was better than he had been for years, and in the best of hands. But
-something terrible had happened; something he could not help, but would
-bitterly repent all his days, especially as it might prevent him from
-ever seeing any of them again. It was this monstrous remark, and others
-to which it led, that were literally blotted with the writer’s tears.
-But just then he saw himself in all vivid sincerity as an outcast who
-could never show himself at home or at school again. And it required
-the spell of Baumgartner’s presence to make the prospect such as could
-be borne with the least degree of visible manhood.
-
-Be it remembered that he was not a man at all, but a boy in many ways
-younger than most boys of sixteen and three quarters, albeit older in
-some few. He was old in imagination, but young in common sense. One may
-be imaginative and still have a level head, but it is least likely in
-one’s teens. The particular temperament does not need a label; but none
-who know it when they see it, and who see it here, will be surprised to
-learn that this emotional writer for one was enormously relieved and
-lightened in spirit when he had got his letter off his mind and hands.
-
-True to his warning, Dr. Baumgartner began to glance at it with a
-kindly gravity; it was with something else that he shook his head over
-the second leaf.
-
-“This is not for me to read!” said he. “I’d rather run the risk of
-trusting your discretion.”
-
-No words could have enslaved poor Pocket more completely; he clasped
-the hand that proceeded to write the covering note, and then the
-address, all openly before his eyes. And while the doctor was gone to
-the nearest messenger office to despatch the missive to the General
-Post Office, ostensibly to catch a particular post, his prisoner  would
-not have decamped for a hundred pounds, and the doctor knew it.
-
-Phillida did not appear at dinner, but at supper she did, and Pocket
-was only less uncomfortable in her absence, which he felt he had
-caused, than when they were both at table and he unable to say another
-word to express his sorrow for the unseemly scene of the forenoon. She
-spoke to him once or twice as though nothing of the kind had happened,
-but he could scarcely look her in the face. Otherwise both meals
-interested him; they were German in their order, a light supper
-following the substantial middle-day repast; but it appeared that they
-both came from an Italian restaurant, and the English boy was much
-taken with the pagoda-like apparatus in which the dishes arrived
-smoking hot in tiers. It provided a further train of speculation when
-he remembered that he had never seen a servant in the house, and that
-the steps had struck him as dirty, and the doctor’s waste-paper basket
-as very full. Pocket determined to make his own bed next morning. He
-had meanwhile an unpleasing suspicion that the young girl was clearing
-away, for the doctor took him back into the drawing-room after supper;
-and later, when they returned for a game of billiards on the toy board,
-which they placed between them on the dining-table, both Phillida and
-the fragments had disappeared.
-
-The little billiards were a bond and a distraction. They brought out
-Baumgartner’s simple side, and they emphasised the schoolboy’s
-simplicity. Both played a strenuous game, the doctor a most deliberate
-one; his brows would knit, his mouth shut, his eyes calculate, and his
-hand obey, as though his cue were a surgical instrument cutting deep
-between life and death. It was a curious glimpse of disproportionate
-concentration; even the Turk’s head was only lit to be laid aside as an
-obstruction. Pocket’s one chance was to hit hard and trust to the
-fortune that accrues on a small table. Both played to win, and the boy
-forgot everything when he actually succeeded in the last game. They had
-played very late for him, and he slept without stirring until
-Baumgartner came to his room about eight o’clock next morning.
-
-Now Pocket had not seen a newspaper all Friday, but it was the first
-thing he did see on the Saturday morning, for the doctor was waving one
-like a flag to wake him.
-
-“Trust your vermin press to get hold of the wrong end of the stick!” he
-cried, with fierce amusement; “it only remains to be seen whether they
-succeed in putting your precious police on the wrong tack too. Really,
-it’s almost worth being at the bottom of a popular mystery to watch the
-smartest men in this country making fools of themselves!”
-
-“May I see?” asked Pocket; he had winced at more than one of these
-remarks.
-
-“Certainly,” replied Baumgartner; “here’s the journalistic wonder of
-the age, and there you are in its most important column. I brought it
-up for you to see.”
-
-The boy bit his lips as he read. His deed had been promoted to leaded
-type and the highest rank in headlines. It appeared, in the first
-place, that no arrest had yet been made; but it was confidently
-asserted (by the omniscient butt of Teutonic sallies) that the police,
-wisely guided by the hint in yesterday’s issue (which Pocket had not
-seen), were already in possession of a most important clue. In
-subsequent paragraphs of pregnant brevity the real homicide was
-informed that his fatal act could only be the work of a totally
-different and equally definite hand. Pocket gathered that there had
-been a certain commonplace tragedy, in a street called Holland Walk, in
-the previous month of March. A licensed messenger named Charlton had
-been found shot under circumstances so plainly indicative of suicide
-that a coroner’s jury had actually returned a verdict to that effect.
-There appeared, however, to have been an element of doubt in the case.
-This the scribe of the leaded type sought to remove by begging the
-question from beginning to end. It had not been a case of suicide at
-all, he declared,  but as wilful a murder as the one in Hyde Park, to
-which it bore a close and sinister resemblance. Both victims had been
-shot through the heart in the early hours of the morning; both belonged
-to one neighbourhood, and to the same dilapidated fringe of the
-community. A pothouse acquaintanceship was alleged between them; but
-the suggestion was that the link lay a good deal deeper than that, and
-that the two dead men were known to the police, who were busy searching
-for a third party of equal notoriety in connection with both murders.
-
-“But we know he had nothing to do with the second one,” said the boy,
-looking up at last. “It wasn’t a murder, either; neither was the first,
-according to the coroner’s jury, who surely ought to know.”
-
-“One would have thought so,” said Baumgartner, with his sardonic smile;
-“but the yellow pressman knows better still, apparently.”
-
-“Do you suppose there’s a word of truth in what he says? I don’t mean
-about Charlton or—or poor Holdaway,” said Pocket, wincing over his
-victim’s name, which he had just gleaned from the paper. “But do you
-think the police are really after anybody?”
-
-“I don’t know,” said Baumgartner. “What does it matter?”
-
-“It would matter a great deal if they arrested somebody for what I
-did!”
-
-The boy was no longer looking up; and his voice trembled.
-
-“It would alter the whole thing,” he mumbled significantly.
-
-“I don’t see it,” returned the doctor, with grim good-nature. “The
-little wonder of the English reading world has nearly unearthed another
-mare’s nest, as two of its readers know full well. No real harm can
-come of this typical farrago. Let it lead to an arrest! There are only
-two living souls who can’t account for their time at that of this
-unfortunate affair.”
-
-Pocket realised this; but it was put in a way that gave him goose-skin
-under the clothes. He was always seeing his accident in some new light,
-always encountering some new possibility, or natural consequence of his
-silence, which had not occurred to him before. But he was learning to
-keep his feelings under control, to set his face and his teeth against
-the regular reactions of his coward conscience and his fickle will. And
-once again did Dr. Baumgartner atone for an unintentional minor by
-striking a rousing chord on the very heart-strings of the boy.
-
-“Eight o’clock!” cried the magician, with a glance at his watch and an
-ear towards the open  window. “The postman’s knock from door to door
-down every street in town—house to house from one end of your British
-Islands to the other! A certain letter is without doubt being delivered
-at this very moment—eh, my poor young fellow?”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XII.
-HUNTING WITH THE HOUNDS
-
-
-Eugene Thrush was a regular reader of the journal on which Dr.
-Baumgartner heaped heavy satire, its feats of compression, its genius
-for headlines, and the delicious expediency of all its views, which
-enabled its editorial column to face all ways and bow where it listed,
-in the universal joint of popularity, were points of irresistible
-appeal to a catholic and convivial sense of humour. He read the paper
-with his early cup of tea, and seldom without a fat internal chuckle
-between the sheets.
-
-That Saturday morning, however, Mr. Thrush was not only up before the
-paper came, but for once he took its opinion seriously on a serious
-matter. It said exactly what he wished to think about the Hyde Park
-murder: that the murderer would prove to be the author of a similar
-crime, committed in the previous month of March, when the Upton boy
-must have been safe at school. If that were so, it  was manifestly
-absurd to connect the lad with a mystery which merely happened to
-synchronise with that of his own disappearance—absurd, even if he were
-shown to have been somewhere near the scene of the murder, somewhere
-about the time of its perpetration.
-
-That much, though no more, had, however, been fairly established
-overnight. It was a conclusion to which Mullins, with the facile
-conviction of his class, had jumped on the slender evidence of the
-asthma cigarette alone; but before midnight Thrush himself had been
-forced to admit its extreme probability. There was a medicine cork as
-well as an asthma cigarette; the medicine cork had been found very much
-nearer the body; in fact, just across the pathway, under a shrub on the
-other side of the fence. It was Mullins, who had made both discoveries,
-who also craved permission to ring up Dr. Bompas, late at night, to ask
-if there was any particular chemist to whom he sent his patients with
-their prescriptions. Dr. Bompas was not at home, which perhaps was just
-as well but his man gave the name of Harben, in Oxford Street. Harbens,
-rung up in their turn, found that they certainly had made up one of the
-doctor’s prescriptions on the Wednesday, for a young Mr. Upton, and,
-within half an hour, had positively identified the cork found by
-Mullins in Hyde Park.  It was still sticky with the very stuff which
-had put poor Pocket asleep.
-
-Yet Thrush could not or would not conceive any actual connection
-between a harmless schoolboy and an apparently cold-blooded crime. He
-resisted the idea on more grounds than he felt disposed to urge in
-argument with his now strangely animated factotum. It was still a wide
-jump to a detestable conclusion, but he confined his criticism to the
-width of the jump. The cork and the cigarette might be stepping-stones,
-but at least one more was wanted to justify the slightest suspicion
-against the missing boy. Let it be shown that he had carried firearms
-on the Wednesday night, and Thrush undertook to join his satellite on
-the other side; but his mental bias may be gauged from the fact that he
-made no mention of the boy’s mother’s dream.
-
-Mullins found him not only up, shaved and booted, but already an
-enthusiastic convert to the startling theory of a sensation journalist,
-and consequently an irritable observer of the saturnine countenance
-which darkened to a tinge of distinct amusement over the leaded type.
-
-“So you don’t think there’s much in it, Mullins?”
-
-“I shouldn’t say there was anything at all, sir.”
-
-“Yet I suppose you remember the very similar occurrence in Holland
-Walk?”
-
-“Oh yes, sir, but it was a case of suicide.”
-
-“I don’t agree.”
-
-“But surely, sir, the jury brought it in suicide?”
-
-“The coroner’s jury did—in spite of the coroner—but it may come before
-another jury yet, Mullins! I remember the case perfectly; the medical
-evidence was that the shot had been fired at arm’s length. That isn’t
-the range at which we usually bring ourselves down! Then there was
-nothing to show that the man ever possessed a pistol, or even the price
-of one; he was so stony it would have gone up the spout long before.
-The very same point crops up in the case of this poor boy. Who says he
-ever had a revolver in his life? His father tells me explicitly that he
-never had; I happened to ask the question,” added Thrush, without
-explaining in what connection.
-
-“Well, sir,” said Mullins, with respect enough in his tone, “you talk
-about jumping to conclusions, but it strikes me the gentleman who write
-for the papers could give me some yards and a licking, sir!”
-
-This was a sprightly speech for Mullins; but it was delivered with the
-very faintest of deferential smiles, and Mr. Thrush shook his
-spectacles without one at all.
-
-“The gentlemen on this paper have a knack of lighting on the truth,
-however,” he remarked; “it  may be by fair means, or it may be by foul,
-but they have a way of getting there before the others start.”
-
-Mullins remarked with quiet confidence that they were not going to do
-it this time. His position was, briefly, that he could not bring
-himself to believe in two separate mysteries, at one and the same time
-and place, with no sort of connection between them.
-
-“That would be too much of a coincidence,” said Mullins, sententiously.
-
-Thrush looked at him for a moment.
-
-“But life’s one long collection of coincidences! That’s what I’m always
-telling you; the mistake is to look on them as anything else. Don’t you
-call it a bit of a coincidence that both these men should meet their
-death at the very hour of the morning when you’re on your way over here
-from Netting Hill, and in much the same degree of latitude, which
-you’ve got to cross somewhere or other on your way? Yet who has the
-nerve to say you must have gone through Holland Walk that other
-morning, and been mixed up in that affair because you are in this?”
-
-“I don’t admit I’m mixed up in anything,” replied Mullins, with some
-warmth.
-
-“I mean as a witness of sorts. I was merely reducing your argument to
-the absurd, Mullins; you didn’t take me literally, did you? It’s no use
-talking when we both seem to have made up our minds; but I’m always
-ready to unmake mine if you show me that young Mr. Upton carried a
-pistol, Mullins! Now I should like my breakfast, Mullins, and you must
-be roaring inside for yours. The man who’s been knocking up chemists
-all night is the man to whom breakfast is due; get your own and then
-mine, and after that you can tell me how you got on.”
-
-Anything more genial than the garrulous banter of Eugene Thrush, at his
-best, it was impossible to encounter or incur; he had been, however,
-for a few minutes at his worst, and it was difficult to see why the
-pendulum should have swung so suddenly to the other extreme. Mullins
-went about his business with his usual sleek solemnity. But Thrush was
-yet another man the moment he was alone. His face was a sunny
-background for ideas, misgivings, and half-formed plans, one after the
-other, whirling like clouds across a crimson sky. But the sky was clear
-whenever Mullins was in the room. And at the breakfast-table there was
-not a cloud.
-
-“To come back to those chemists, and this shop-to-shop canvassing,”
-resumed Thrush, as Mullins poured out his tea; “how many have you done,
-and how many have we still to do between us?”
-
-Mullins produced a pocket-book that did him credit, and consulted notes
-as neat.
-
-“Rung up when you were out at dinner—seventeen. Kept Cigarettes
-d’Auvergne—one. That was Thornycroft’s in Shaftesbury Avenue, where I’d
-just been when I met you down below in the street. In the night I
-knocked up other eight-and-twenty, all either in the neighbourhood of
-Trafalgar Square or else on the line of the Park.”
-
-“Poor devils! I suppose you urged a pretty bad case?”
-
-“A matter of life or death.”
-
-“Well?”
-
-“Three more kept them, not counting Harbens: one in Knightsbridge, one
-in New Bond Street, and one a little way down the Brompton Road.”
-
-“Much demand in any of those quarters?”
-
-“Only in the Brompton Road; a literary gentleman has a box regularly
-every week, and two in the autumn. Pringle, his name is.”
-
-“I know him; so he’s as breathless as his own yarns, is he?” murmured
-Thrush, to his buttered egg. “But has one of these apothecaries sold a
-box of d’Auvergnes since Wednesday afternoon?”
-
-“Two have,” said Mullins, “but one was to Mr. Pringle.”
-
-Thrush levelled inquiring spectacles.
-
-“How did you worm that out, Mullins?”
-
-“By changing my tune a bit, sir. I started asking if they knew anybody
-who could recommend  the cigarettes from personal experience, as we
-were only trying them on hearsay.”
-
-“Very smart of you, Mullins! And one wheezy novelist is the only
-consumer?”
-
-“That’s right, sir, but the man in Knights-bridge sold a box on
-Thursday to a doctor.”
-
-“Did you get the name?”
-
-“Bone-Gardner, I think it was a Dr. Otto Bone-Gardner.”
-
-“Baumgartner, I expect you mean!” cried Thrush, straightening a wry
-face to spell the name. “I’ve heard of an Otto Baumgartner, though I
-can’t say when or where. What’s his address?”
-
-“He couldn’t tell me, sir; or else he wouldn’t. Suppose he thought I’d
-be turning the doctor out next. Old customer, I understood he was.”
-
-“For d’Auvergne Cigarettes?”
-
-“I didn’t inquire.”
-
-“My good fellow, that’s the whole point! I’ll go myself and ask for the
-asthma cigarettes that Dr. Baumgartner always has; if they say he never
-had them before, that’ll be talking. His being a doctor looks well. But
-I’m certain I know his name; you might look it up in _Who’s Who_, and
-read out what they say.”
-
-And Mullins did so with due docility, albeit with queer gulps at
-barbaric mouthfuls such as the list of battle-fields on which Dr.
-Baumgartner had fought in his martial youth; the various Universities
-whereat he had studied psychology and theology in an evident reaction
-of later life; even the titles of his subsequent publications, which
-contained some long English words, but were given in German too. A
-copious contribution concluded with the information that photography
-and billiards were the doctor’s recreations, and that he belonged to a
-polysyllabically unpronounceable Berlin club, and to one in St. James’s
-which Mullins more culpably miscalled the Parthenian.
-
-“Parthenon!” said Thrush, as though he had bitten on a nerve. “But what
-about his address?”
-
-“There’s no getting hold of that address,” said Mullins, demoralised
-and perspiring. “It’s not given here either.”
-
-“Well, the chemist or the directory will supply that if we want it, but
-I’m afraid he sounds a wheezy old bird. The author of _Peripatetic
-Psychology_ deserves to have asthma all his nights, and _After this
-Life_ smacks of the usual Schopenhauer and Lager. No, we won’t build on
-Dr. Baumgartner, Mullins; but we’ll go through the chemists of London
-with a small tooth-comb, from here to the four-mile radius.”
-
-Thrush had finished breakfast, and Mullins was beginning to clear away,
-when a stormy step was heard upon the stairs, and in burst Mr. Upton
-with  a panic-stricken face. He was colourless almost to the neck, but
-he denied that he had any news, though not without a pregnant glance at
-Mullins, and fell to abusing London and the Londoners, but City men
-above all others, till Thrush and he should be alone together. The
-incidental diatribe was no mere padding, either; it was the sincere
-utterance of a passionately provincial soul. Nobody in all London, he
-declared, and apparently without excepting Mr. Thrush, cared a twopenny
-curse what became of his poor boy. In view of the fact that the present
-company alone knew of his disappearance, and not so very many more of
-the boy’s existence, this was an extravagantly sweeping statement. But
-the distracted man had a particular instance to bear him out; he had
-been to see his boy’s friends’ father, “a swine called Knaggs,” that
-very morning at his house in St. John’s Wood.
-
-“Rather early, wasn’t it?” suggested Thrush, whose manner was more
-softly sympathetic than it had been the night before. The change was
-slight, and yet marked. He was more solicitous.
-
-“Early!” cried Mr. Upton. “Haven’t I lost my boy, and wasn’t it these
-Cockney cads who turned him adrift in London? I ought to have gone to
-them last night. I wish I had, when my blood was up after your dinner;
-for I don’t mind telling you now, Mr. Thrush, that in spite of your 
-hospitality I was none too pleased at your anxiety to get rid of me
-afterwards. It made me feel like doing a little bit for the boy on my
-own; but I’d called once on my way into town, and only seen a servant
-then, so I thought I’d make sure of putting salt on somebody by waiting
-till this morning.”
-
-The visitor paused to look harder than ever at Mullins, and Thrush
-seized the opportunity to offer an apology for his abrupt behaviour in
-the street.
-
-“I confess I showed indecent haste,” said he; “but Mullins and I had
-our night’s work cut out, and he at any rate has not had his boots off
-since you saw him.”
-
-“Hasn’t he?” cried Mr. Upton, in remorseful recognition of an
-unsuspected devotion; “then I’ll say what I’ve got to say in front of
-him, for you’re both my friends, and I’ll unsay all I said just now.
-Bear with my temper, both of you, if you can, for I feel beside myself
-about the boy! It was all I could do to keep my hands off that smug
-little lump of London inhumanity! Kept me waiting while he finished his
-breakfast, he did, and then came in polishing a hat as sleek as
-himself, and saying ‘Rather early!’—just as you set me off by saying
-yourself a minute ago.”
-
-“But he seems to have told you something, Mr. Upton?”
-
-“Has he not! He began by telling me he was sorry for me, confound him!
-I could have made him sorrier for himself! He was sorry for me, but
-what could he do? London was a large place, and ‘we Londoners’ were
-busy men. I told him so were some of us in the iron-trade, but not too
-busy to keep an eye on boys who were friends of our boys. He said
-London life was different; and I said so I could see. They never had
-spare beds at a moment’s notice, much less for boys who might set fire
-to the house or—or shoot themselves——”
-
-His two hearers uttered a simultaneous exclamation, and Mr. Upton stood
-glancing piteously from one to the other, as though his lad’s
-death-warrant were written in their faces. Eugene Thrush, however,
-looked so genuinely distressed that the less legible handwriting on the
-face of Mullins also attracted less attention.
-
-“Had he anything to shoot himself with?” inquired Thrush, in a
-curiously gentle voice.
-
-Mr. Upton nodded violently as he moistened his lips.
-
-“He had, after all!” he croaked. “Little as I dreamt it yesterday, my
-unhappy boy, who had never to my knowledge pulled a trigger in his life
-before, was going about London with a loaded revolver in his pocket!”
-
-“Had he brought it from school?” asked Thrush, with a covert frown at
-the transfigured Mullins.
-
-Mr. Upton repeated what he had heard through the young Westminsters,
-with their father’s opinion of pawnbrokers’ shops as resorts for young
-schoolboys, of young schoolboys who frequented them, and of parents and
-guardians who gave them the chance. How the two gentlemen had parted
-without fisticuffs became the latest mystery to Eugene Thrush, whose
-only comment was that it behoved him all the more to do something to
-redeem the capital in the other’s eyes.
-
-“Now we know why my poor wife heard a shot!” was the only rejoinder, in
-a voice not too broken to make Mullins prick up his ears; it was the
-first he had heard about the dream.
-
-“I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Upton. We know no more than we knew before.
-Yet I will own now,” exclaimed Thrush, catching Mullins’s bright eye,
-“that the coincidence will be tremendous if there’s nothing in it!”
-
-But only half the coincidence was present in the father’s mind; no
-thought of the murder had yet entered it in connection with his boy;
-and to hear so emphatic an echo to his foreboding was more than his
-fretted nerves could stand. In the same breath he pounced on Thrush for
-a pessimist—apologised—and humbly entreated him to take a more hopeful
-view.
-
-“There may have been an accident, Thrush, but not necessarily a fatal
-one!”
-
-An accident! Thrush had never thought of that explanation of the public
-mystery; but evidently Mullins had, judging by his almost fiendish
-grins and nods behind the poor father’s back. Thrush looked at both men
-with the troubled frown of a strenuously reasoning being—looked and
-frowned again—frowned and reasoned afresh. And then, all in an instant,
-the trouble lifted from his face; light had come to him in an almost
-blinding flash, such as might well obscure the quality of the light;
-enough for Eugene Thrush that it lit him back to his mystery every bit
-as brightly as it lit him onward to its solution.
-
-He was even man enough to refrain from reflecting it automatically in
-his face, as he put a number of apparently irrelevant questions to Mr.
-Upton about the missing boy. What was his character? what its chief
-points? Was he a boy with the moral courage of his acts? Would he face
-their consequences like a man?
-
-“I never knew him tell a lie in his life,” said Mr. Upton, “either to
-save his own skin or any thing else; and it was a case of their young
-skins when they got into trouble with me! Poor Tony was the most
-conscientious of them all, and I hear that’s what they say of him at
-school.”
-
-Thrush put one or two further questions, and then said he had a clue,
-though a very slight one, which he was rather in a hurry to follow up
-himself; and this time the ironmaster went off quietly of his own
-accord, with a dejected undertaking to be at his hotel when he was
-wanted.
-
-“I don’t like the look of our friend,” remarked Thrush, looking hard at
-Mullins when at last they were alone. “He shapes none too well for the
-strain he’s got to bear; if he cracks up there’ll be a double tragedy,
-if not a triple one, in that family. We must catch our hare quickly,
-Mullins, or we may catch him too late.”
-
-Mullins turned on the disagreeable grin that Thrush had so resented a
-few minutes before; he took no notice of it now.
-
-“You’ll find your man,” said Mullins significantly, “the very moment
-that I find mine, Mr. Thrush.”
-
-“Meaning they’re the same person?”
-
-“To be sure.”
-
-“That this lad is the actual slayer of the man Holdaway?”
-
-“Surely, sir, it’s as plain as a pikestaff now?”
-
-“Not to me, Mullins—not to me.”
-
-Thrush was twinkling behind his great round goggles.
-
-“Then who do you think has done it, sir?” inquired Mullins, in
-deferential derision.
-
-“Ah! that’s another matter, my man; but I can tell you whom I hope to
-get arrested within another hour!”
-
-Mullins looked as though he could hardly believe his ears; his jaw,
-black as a crape hat-band this morning, fell in front of his grimy
-collar.
-
-“You’re actually thinking of arresting some one else?”
-
-“I am—with your permission, Mullins.”
-
-“Tell me who it is, sir, for Heaven’s sake!”
-
-And with his fattest smile Thrush whispered into an ear that recoiled
-from his words as though they had been so many drops of boiling oil.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIII.
-BOY AND GIRL
-
-
-Pocket Upton was able to relieve his soul of one load that morning. Dr.
-Baumgartner had left the schoolboy to his soap and water, taking the
-newspaper with him; but apparently Pocket had followed him down in
-quicker time than the other anticipated. At any rate the little lady of
-the house was all alone in the dining-room, where Pocket found her
-boiling eggs on the gas-fire, and had her to himself for several
-seconds of which he wasted none. There was neither grace nor tact in
-what he said, and his  manner was naturally at its worst, but the
-penitential torrent came from his heart, and was only stemmed by the
-doctor’s hasty arrival on the scene. Miss Platts had not been given
-time to say a word, but now she asked Mr. Upton how many minutes he
-liked his egg boiled, and would not let him do it himself, but smiled
-when he told her it was “done to a shake.” Dr. Baumgartner, on the
-other hand, scowled upon them both until observation or reflection had
-convinced him that no promises had been broken and no confidences
-exchanged.
-
-The callow pair saw something more of each other during the morning;
-for Pocket hotly resented being distrusted, and showed it by making up
-to the young girl under the doctor’s nose. He talked to her about books
-in the other room. He had the impertinence to invite her into the
-dining-room for a game of billiards, but the sense next moment to
-include her uncle in an amended form of more becoming suggestion.
-Baumgartner eventually countenanced a game, but spent most of the time
-with his back to the players and his eye on the street. The boy and
-girl got on very well now; they seemed frankly glad of each other,
-though he caught her more than once with a large and furtive eye on
-him. But she seemed to enjoy her baptism of schoolboy slang. And it was
-only when she began to question him about his special vocabulary, that
-Baumgartner looked on for a little, and put in his word.
-
-“You see he still believes in his public school,” said he to Phillida,
-in a tone which reminded their visitor of his first breakfast in the
-house.
-
-“I should think I did!” cried Pocket, and did a little loyal boasting
-about the best of schools, and the best house in that school, until
-memory took him by the throat and filled his eyes. It was twelve
-o’clock, and a summer’s Saturday. School was over for the week. Only
-your verses to do in your own time, and get signed by Spearman before
-you went up to dormitory on Saturday night; but meanwhile, Saturday
-afternoon! A match on the Upper, where you could lie on your rug and
-watch the game you couldn’t play; call-over at the match; ices and
-lemon-drinks in a tent on the field; and for Saturday supper anything
-you liked to buy, cooked for you in the kitchen and put piping hot at
-your place in hall, not even for the asking, but merely by writing your
-name plainly on the eggs and leaving them on the slab outside! It was
-not these simple luxuries that Pocket missed so sorely; it was the
-whole full life of ups and downs, and no yesterdays and no to-morrows,
-that he had lost for ever since last Saturday. The heavy midday meal
-came in smoking from the Italian restaurant, and Pocket was himself
-again, as a boy will be; after all, they knew about him at home by this
-time, their worst fears were allayed, and in the end it would all come
-right. In the end he would be sitting in his own old place at home,
-instead of with strangers in an unknown street; telling them
-everything, instead of holding his peace; and watching even Fred and
-Horace listening to every word—much as Dr. Baumgartner was listening to
-something now.
-
-What was it? Phillida was listening, too, and watching her uncle as she
-listened. Pocket did both in his turn.
-
-It was the voice of newspaper hawkers, shouting in couples, coming
-nearer with their shouts. Dr. Baumgartner jumped up from the table, and
-ran outside without his hat.
-
-His promise alone prevented Pocket from following and outstripping the
-doctor. He knew what the shouting was about before he could have sworn
-to a single raucous word. But Phillida could not know, and she resumed
-at once where they had left off before breakfast.
-
-“Of course I forgive you,” she whispered. “It was I began it!”
-
-“Began what?”
-
-“Our row yesterday.”
-
-Phillida had a demure twinkle, after all; but it  was lost on Pocket
-now. “I’d forgotten all about it,” he said with superfluous candour,
-his ear still on the street.
-
-“I haven’t.”
-
-Her voice made him remember better. “I hope to goodness I didn’t hurt
-you?”
-
-“Of course you didn’t.”
-
-“But you must have thought me mad!”
-
-There was a slight but most significant pause.
-
-“Well, I never shall again.”
-
-“Then you did!” he gasped. Their eyes had met sharply; both young faces
-were flooded with light, and it was much the same light. There was no
-nonsense about it, but there was indignant horror on his side, and
-indignant shame on hers.
-
-“You really are at school?” she whispered, not increduously, but as one
-seeking assurance in so many words; and in a flash he saw what she had
-thought, what she had been deliberately made to think, that his beloved
-school was not a school at all, but an Ayslum!
-
-But at that moment Dr. Baumgartner was heard bargaining at the gate
-with one raucous voice, while the other went on roaring huskily, “Park
-murder—arrest! ’Rest o’ de Park murderer! Park murder—Park
-murder—arrest!” And Pocket sprang up from the table in a state that
-swept his last thoughts clean from his mind.
-
-The girl said something; he did not hear what. He was white and
-trembling, in pitiable case even to eyes that could only see skin-deep;
-but the doctor’s step came beating like a drum to him, and he was
-solidly seated when the doctor entered—without any paper at all.
-
-“It’s that murder the papers are all exploiting,” he explained
-benignly. “They were shouting out something about an arrest; you would
-hear them, I daresay. But it’s the usual swindle; the police are merely
-hoping to effect an arrest. I threatened to send for them unless the
-scoundrel took his paper back!”
-
-He was in his lightest mood of sardonic gaiety. The sins of the vendors
-recalled those of “your vermin press itself”; the association was
-wilfully unfair, the favourite phrase a studied insult; but the English
-boy was either dense or indifferent, and Phillida’s great eyes were in
-some other world. Baumgartner subjected them both to a jealous
-scrutiny, and suddenly cried out upon his own bad memory. It appeared
-there was a concert at the Albert Hall, where “the most popular and
-handsome pair in England” (the inverted commas were in the doctor’s
-sneer) were being welcomed on their return from the ends of the earth.
-He had intended going to hear what they could do; but Phillida should
-go instead; she was not past the ballad stage.
-
-And Phillida rose submissively, with unreal thanks which could not
-conceal her recognition of the impromptu pretext for getting rid of
-her; her uncle called a taxicab, and with harsh hilarity turned her off
-the premises in the frock she had been wearing all day.
-
-“And now,” said he, returning with a scowl, “what the devil were you
-two talking about while my back was turned?”
-
-“Yesterday,” replied Pocket, more than ready for him, though his heart
-beat fast.
-
-“What about yesterday?”
-
-“Our scuffle in the other room.”
-
-“Is that all?”
-
-“No—I found out something; she didn’t tell me.”
-
-“What did you find out?”
-
-“That you let her think me mad!” cried Pocket, in monstrous earnest. He
-might have laughed at himself, could he have seen his own reproachful
-face. But he could have killed Baumgartner for laughing at him; it did
-not occur to him that the laugh was partly one of pure relief.
-
-“Why, my young fellow, how else can I account for you?”
-
-“You said she would think I was a patient.”
-
-“Exactly! A mental case.”
-
-“You had no business to make me out mad,” persisted Pocket, with dogged
-valour.
-
-“Pardon me! I had all the business in the world; and I beg that you’ll
-continue to foster the illusion as thoroughly as you did yesterday when
-I was out. It’s no good shaking your head at me; listen to reason,”
-continued Baumgartner, with an adroit change of tone. “And try, my good
-young fellow, do try to think of somebody besides yourself; have some
-consideration for my niece, if you have none for me.”
-
-Pocket was mystified, but still more incensed; for he felt himself
-being again put gently but clearly in the wrong.
-
-“And I should like to know,” he cried, “what good it does her to think
-she’s associating with a lunatic?”
-
-“She would probably prefer the idea to that of a murderer,” was the
-suave reply. “I speak only of ideas; otherwise I should not make use of
-such an expression, even in jest. It’s as ugly as it’s ridiculous in
-your case. Yet you heard for yourself that others are applying the
-horrid term in all sobriety.”
-
-“I heard more than that,” returned Pocket. “They’ve arrested somebody!”
-
-“I thought I told you there was no truth in that?”
-
-But Baumgartner had winced for once, and the boy had seen it, and his
-retort was a precocious inspiration.
-
-“That was only to avoid a scene at table, Dr. Baumgartner!”
-
-“Well, my young fellow,” said the doctor, after one of his wise pauses,
-“and what if it was?”
-
-“I can’t sit here and let an innocent man lie in prison.”
-
-“He won’t lie long.”
-
-“It’s absolutely wicked to let them keep him at all.”
-
-“Nor will they, longer than another hour or two.”
-
-“Well, if they do, you know what I shall do!”
-
-Pocket had never displayed such determination, nor incurred quite the
-same measure or quality of wrath that Baumgartner poured upon him
-without a word for the next few moments. It was a devouring gaze of
-sudden and implacable animosity. The ruthless lips were shut out of
-sight, yet working as though the teeth were being ground behind them;
-the crow’s footed face flushed up, and the crow’s feet were no more; it
-was as though age was swallowed in that flood of speechless passion
-till the whole man was no older than the fiery eyes that blazed upon
-the boy. And yet the most menacing thing of all was the complete
-control with which the doctor broke this pregnant silence.
-
-“You say that. I say otherwise. You had better find a book in the other
-room till you know your own mind again.”
-
-“I know it now, unless they release that man,” said Pocket, through his
-teeth, although they chattered.
-
-“Give them a chance, and give yourself one! It will be time to think of
-clearing other people when they fail to clear themselves. Have more
-patience! Think of your own friends, and give them time too.”
-
-If the last allusion was to the lad’s letter, due in Leicestershire
-that morning, it was as happy as all Baumgartner’s last words. If he
-meant himself to be included among Pocket’s friends, there was food for
-thought in the suggestion that a man of the doctor’s obvious capacity
-was not idle in the boy’s best interests. Pocket was made to feel
-rather ashamed of himself, as usual; but he could not forget the
-concentrated fury of the look which had not been weakened by infuriate
-words; and the recollection remained as an excuse, as well as a menace,
-in his mind. He had time enough to think it over. Dr. Baumgartner
-smoked his meerschaum in the gathering shade at the back of the house.
-The schoolboy sulked for some time in the big chair, but eventually
-took the doctor at his word about a book.
-
-If it be ever true that a man may be known by his books, it was
-certainly so to some extent in the case of Dr. Otto Baumgartner. His
-library  was singularly small for an intellectual man who wrote
-himself, and a majority of the volumes were in languages which no
-public schoolboy could be expected to read; but of the English books
-many were on military subjects, some few anthropological; there were
-photographic year-books and Psychical Research Reports by the foot or
-yard, and there was an odd assortment of second-hand books which had
-probably been labelled “occult” in their last bookseller’s list.
-Boismont on _Hallucinations_ was one of these; it was the book for
-Pocket. He took the little red volume down, and read a long chapter on
-somnambulism in the big chair. In a way it comforted him. It was
-something to find that he was far from being the only harmless creature
-who had committed a diabolical deed in his sleep; here among several
-cases was one of another boy who had made an equally innocent and yet
-determined attempt on his own father. But there was something peculiar
-in poor Pocket’s case, something that distinguished it from any of
-those cited in the book, and he was still ferreting for its absolute
-fellow when Phillida came in long before he expected her. Boismont had
-made the time fly wonderfully, in spite of everything; the girl, too,
-appeared to have been taken out of herself, and talked about her
-concert as any other young girl might have done, both to Pocket and her
- uncle, who glided in at once from the garden. The doctor, however, was
-himself in mellower mood; and they were having tea, for all the world
-like any ordinary trio, the girl still making talk about sundry songs,
-the man quizzing them and her, and the boy standing up for one that his
-sister sang at home, when a metallic tattoo put a dramatic stop to the
-conversation.
-
-The two young people, but not their elder, were startled quite out of
-their almost inadvertent tranquillity; and the knocker was not still
-before Pocket realised that it was the first time he had heard it. No
-letters were delivered at that house; not a soul had he seen or heard
-at the door before. Even in his excitement, however, with its stunning
-recrudescence of every reality, its instantaneous visions of his people
-or the police, there was room for a measure of disgust when the girl
-got up, at an ungallant nod from the German, to go to the door.
-
-“It’s a huge fat man,” whispered Phillida, on her return to the big
-room at the back of the house. “Here’s his card.”
-
-“Thrush!” muttered Baumgartner as though he knew the name, and he
-glowered at the two young faces on which it made no impression
-whatever. It was plain how he hated leaving them together; but for once
-it must be done, and done  quickly—with both doors open and the
-visitor’s very movements audible on the steps. To the door the doctor
-must go, and went, shutting that one pointedly behind him.
-
-The young creatures, looking in each other’s eyes, listened for raised
-voices and the slam of prompt expulsion; but the voices were pitched
-too low to reach their ears in words, and were only interrupted by the
-sound of footsteps in the hall, and the perfectly passive closing of an
-outer and an inner door in quick succession.
-
-“He’s taken him into the dining-room,” murmured Phillida. “Who can it
-be?”
-
-“Hasn’t he any friends?”
-
-“None who ever come here; none of that name anywhere, I feel sure.” Her
-great eyes, without leaving his for an instant, filled with thought as
-a blank screen takes a shadow. “I wonder if it’s about that!” she
-whispered.
-
-“What?”
-
-“What they were calling out with the newspapers while we were at
-table.”
-
-There was a pause. The look in her eyes had changed. It was purely
-penetrating now.
-
-“Why should it be?” asked Pocket, his own eyes falling.
-
-“It’s no use asking me, Mr. Upton.”
-
-“But I don’t understand the question.”
-
-“Is that true?”
-
-“No,” he muttered; “it isn’t.”
-
-She was leaning over to him; he felt it, without looking up.
-
-“Mr. Upton,” she said, speaking quickly in the undertone they were both
-instinctively adopting, “you know now what I thought about you at
-first. I won’t say what made me; but that was what I thought, but could
-hardly believe, and never will again. It makes it all the more a
-mystery, your being here. I can’t ask my uncle—he tells me nothing—but
-there’s something I can and must ask you.”
-
-Pocket hung his head. He knew what was coming. It came.
-
-“My uncle brought you here, Mr. Upton, on the very morning that thing
-happened they were calling out about to-day. In the Park. It is to the
-Park he goes so often in the early morning with his camera! How can I
-say what I want to say? But, if you think, you will see that everything
-points to it; especially the way he ran out for that paper—and hid the
-truth when he came in!”
-
-Pocket looked up at last.
-
-“I know the truth.”
-
-“About the arrest?”
-
-“Yes; it was quite obvious, and he admitted it when you’d gone.”
-
-“Why not before?”
-
-“I couldn’t tax him about it in front of you,” he muttered, looking up
-and down quickly, unable to face her fierce excitement.
-
-“Do tell me what it is you both know about this dreadful case!”
-
-“I can’t,” the boy said hoarsely; “don’t ask me.”
-
-“Then you know who did it. I can see you do.”
-
-There was a new anguish even in her whisper; he could hear what she
-thought.
-
-“It was nobody you care about,” he mumbled, hoarser than before, and
-his head lower.
-
-“You don’t mean——”
-
-She stopped aghast.
-
-“I can’t say another word—and you won’t say another to me!” he added, a
-bitter break in his muffled voice. He longed to tell her it had been an
-accident, to tell her all; but he had given his word to Baumgartner not
-to confide in her, and he did not think that he had broken it yet.
-
-“You don’t know me,” she whispered, and for a moment her hand lay warm
-in his; “trust me! I’m your friend in spite of all you’ve said—or
-done!”
-
-Dr. Baumgartner might have been ten minutes getting rid of the
-intruder; before that he had been first amazed and then relieved to
-hear the piano in the drawing-room; and that was all his anxious ear
-had heard of either boy or girl during his absence.  Yet the boy was
-not standing over the piano, as he might have been, for Phillida was
-trying to recall one of the concert songs he said his sister sang.
-Pocket, however, was staring out into the garden with a troubled face,
-which he turned abruptly, aggressively, and yet apprehensively to meet
-the doctor’s.
-
-But the doctor no longer looked suspiciously from him to Phillida, but
-stood beaming on them both, and rubbing his hands as though he had done
-something very clever indeed.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIV.
-BEFORE THE STORM
-
-
-Sunday in London has got itself a bad name among those who occasionally
-spend one at their hotel, and miss the band, their letters, and the
-theatre at night; but at Dr. Baumgartner’s there was little to
-distinguish the seventh day from the other six. The passover of the
-postman, that boon to residents and grievance of the traveller, was a
-normal condition in the dingy house of no address. More motor-horns
-were heard in the distance, and less heavy traffic; the sound of church
-bells came as well through the open windows; then the street-door shut,
-and there was a long period  without Phillida, until it opened and shut
-again, and in she peeped with her parasol and Prayer-book, as though
-they were all quite ordinary people without a guilty secret among them!
-
-Such was the Sunday morning. It was fine and warm. Dr. Baumgartner
-pottered about his untidy little garden, a sun-trap again as Pocket had
-seen it first; the Turk’s head perspired from internal and external
-heat, but its rich yellow, shading into richer auburn, clashed rather
-with a red geranium which the doctor wore jauntily in the button-hole
-of his black alpaca jacket.
-
-It was Phillida who had given him the flower at breakfast. She grew
-what she could in the neglected garden; the plants in the miniature
-conservatory were also hers, though the doctor took a perfunctory
-interest in them, obviously on her account. It was obvious at least to
-Pocket Upton. He saw all these things, and what they meant. He was not
-without his little gifts of observation and deduction. He noticed the
-difference in Baumgartner’s voice when he addressed his niece, the
-humane kindling of the inexorable eyes, and to-day he thought he saw a
-reciprocal softening on the part of Phillida. There had been none to
-see yesterday or the day before. It was her uncle whom the girl had
-seemed unable to forgive for the unseemly scuffle of Friday morning. 
-But now it was as though memory and common fairness had set years of
-kindness against these days of unendurable mystery, and bidden her
-endure them with a better grace. If she felt she had been disloyal to
-him, she could not have made sweeter amends than she did by many an
-unobtrusive little office. And she exchanged no more confidences with
-poor Pocket.
-
-Yet these two were together most of the day; all three were; and it was
-a strangely peaceful day, a day of natural hush, and the cessation of
-life’s hostilities, such as is sometimes almost pointedly bestowed
-before or after a time of strain. It was a day on which Pocket
-certainly drew his spiritual breath more freely than on any other since
-the dire catastrophe. There were few fresh clouds; perhaps the only one
-before evening was the removal of the book on hallucinations in which
-Pocket had become interested on the Saturday afternoon. It was no
-longer lying about the room as he had left it. There was a gap in its
-place in the shelf. The book had been taken away from him; it made him
-feel as though he were back again at his very first dame’s school.
-
-And the church bells sent him back to the school he was at now! They
-were more mellow and sedate then the chapel bells there, that rang you
-down the hill at the double if you were late and not too  asthmatical;
-and Pocket saw and heard himself puffing up the opposite hill to take
-his place for chapel call-over in the school quad. The fellows would be
-forming in squads there now, all in their Sunday tails or Eton jackets
-as the case might be; of course Pocket was in tails, though still
-rather proud of them. The masters, in their silk hoods or their
-rabbit-skins were prominent in his mind’s eye. Then came the cool and
-spacious chapel, with its marble pulpit and its brazen candelabra, and
-rows of chastened chapel faces, that he knew better than his own,
-giving a swing to chants which ran in his head at the very thought. How
-real it all was to him, and how unreal this Sunday morning, in the
-sunny room with the battle engravings over the book-cases, and the
-walnut chairs in front of them, and Dr. Baumgartner in and out in his
-alpaca coat! After chapel he would have gone for a walk with Blundell
-minor, most probably, or else written his letter home and got it over.
-And that chapter would have ended with cold boiled beef and apple-pie
-with cloves in it at Spearman’s.
-
-The Italian restaurant which sent in Dr. Baumgartner’s meals certainly
-provided richer fare than that. There was a top-floor of soup in the
-portable contrivance, and before the meat a risotto, which the doctor
-praised without a single patriotic reservation.
-
-“Italy is a country where one can live,” said he. “Not that you must
-understand me to be altogether down on your own fatherland, my young
-fellow; there is something to be said for London, especially on a
-Sunday. No organs from my dear Italy, none of those so-called German
-bands which we in Germany would not tolerate for a moment; no postman
-every hour of the day, and no gaolbirds crying false news down the
-streets.”
-
-Pocket looked for a grim twinkle in the speaker’s eye, but found it
-fixed on Phillida, who had not looked up. Instinct prompted Pocket to
-say something quickly; that he had not seen a postman there, was the
-actual remark.
-
-“That is because I conduct my correspondence at my club,” explained the
-doctor. “I give out no other address; then you only get your letters
-when you want them.”
-
-“Do you often go there?” the boy ventured to inquire, devoutly wishing
-he would go that afternoon.
-
-“Not when I have visitors,” replied Baumgartner, with a smiling bow.
-“And I look upon my patients in that light,” he added, with benevolent
-but futile hypocrisy, embarrassing enough to Phillida, but not more so
-than if she had still believed it to be the truth.
-
-Silence ensued until they were all in the other room; then the niece
-took refuge at her piano,  and this time Pocket hung over her for an
-hour or more. He went through her music, and asked for everything that
-Lettice played or sang. Phillida would not sing to him, but she had the
-makings of a pianist. The boy’s enthusiasm for the things he knew made
-her play then as well as ever he had heard them played. Even the
-doctor, dozing in the big chair with eyes that were never quite shut,
-murmured his approval more than once; he loved his Mendelssohn and
-Schubert, and had nothing to say against the Sousas and others that the
-boy picked out as well, and mentioned with ingenuous fervour in the
-same breath. Pocket would have sung himself if the doctor had not been
-there, for he had a bit of a voice when he was free from asthma; and
-once or twice he stopped listening to wonder at himself. Could he be
-the boy who had killed a man, however innocently, three days before!
-Could it be he whom the police might come and carry off to prison at
-any moment? Was it true that he might never see his own people any
-more? Such questions appalled and stunned him; he could neither answer
-them nor realise their full import. They turned the old man in the
-chair, who alone could answer them, back into the goblin he had seemed
-at first. Yet they did give a certain shameful zest and excitement even
-to this quiet hour of motley music in his presence.
-
-Besides, there was always one comfort to remember now: his letter home.
-Of course Lettice would show it to their father; of course something
-would be done at once. Shame and sorrow for the accident would be his
-for ever; but as for his present situation, there were moments when
-Pocket felt rather like a story-book cabin-boy luxuriously marooned,
-and already in communication with the mainland.
-
-He wondered what steps had been taken so far. No doubt his father had
-come straight up to town; it was a moving thought that he might be
-within a mile of that very room at that very moment. Would all the
-known circumstances of his disappearance be published broadcast in the
-papers? Pocket felt he would have red ears all his life if that were
-done; and yet it had hurt him a little to gather from Baumgartner that
-so far there was nothing in the papers to say he had so much as
-disappeared. That fact must have been known since Thursday or Friday.
-Once it did cross his mind that to keep it from his mother they would
-have to keep it out of the papers. Well, as long as she did not know!
-
-He pictured the blinds down in her room; it was the hour of her
-afternoon rest. If he were at home, he would be going about quietly.
-Lettice would be reading or writing in the morning-room,  most
-probably. Father would be gloating over his rhododendrons with a strong
-cigar; in his last letter the boy had heard how beautiful they were.
-Horace might be with him, smoking a cigarette, if he and Fred were not
-playing tennis. Their pocket edition had not to look very far ahead to
-see himself smoking proper cigarettes with the others, to hear his own
-voice telling them of his own experience—of this very hour at Dr.
-Baumgartner’s. Even Fred and Horace would have to listen to that!
-Pocket looked at the long lean figure in the chair, at the eyelids
-never quite closed, and so imparting at once a softening and a sinister
-effect. He noted the drooping geranium in his buttonhole, and grey ash
-from the Turk’s head sprinkling the black alpaca coat. It brought the
-very phrases of a graphic portrait almost to his lips.
-
-Yet if anybody had told the boy he was beginning to gloat over the
-silver lining to the cloud that he was under, and that it was not
-silver at all but one of the baser metals of the human heart, how
-indignantly he would have denied it at first, how humbly seen it in the
-end!
-
-When Phillida went off to make the tea her uncle sought his room and
-sponge, but did not neglect to take Pocket with him. Pocket was for
-going higher up to his own room; but Baumgartner said that would only
-make more work, in a tone precluding argument. It struck Pocket that
-the doctor really needed sleep, and was irritable after a continuous
-struggle against it. If so, it served him right for not trusting a
-fellow—and for putting Boismont in the waste-paper basket, by Jove!
-
-There was no mistaking the red book there; it was one of the first
-things Pocket noticed, while the doctor was stooping over his basin in
-the opposite corner; and the schoolboy’s strongest point, be it
-remembered, was a stubborn tenacity of his own devices. He made a dive
-at the waste-paper basket, meaning to ask afterwards if the doctor
-minded his reading that book. But the question never was asked; the
-book was still in the basket when the doctor had finished drying his
-face; and the boy was staring and swaying as though he had seen the
-dead.
-
-“Why, what’s the matter with my young fellow?” inquired Baumgartner,
-solicitously.
-
-“Nothing! I’ll be all right soon,” muttered Pocket, wiping his forehead
-and then his hand.
-
-“You look faint. Here’s my sponge. No, lie flat down there first!”
-
-But Pocket was not going to lie down on that bed.
-
-“I do feel seedy,” he said, in a stronger voice with a new note in it,
-“but I’m not going to faint. I’m quite well able to go upstairs. I’d
-rather lie down on my own bed, if you don’t mind.”
-
-His own bed! The irony struck him even as he said the words. He was
-none the less glad to sit down on it; and so sitting he made his first
-close examination of two or three tiny squares of paper which he had
-picked out of the basket in the doctor’s room instead of Boismont’s
-book on hallucinations. There had been no hallucination about those
-scraps of paper; they were fragments of the boy’s own letter to his
-sister, which Dr. Baumgartner had never posted at all.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XV.
-A LIKELY STORY
-
-
-At that moment help was as far away as it had been near the day before,
-when Eugene Thrush was closeted in the doctor’s dining-room; for not
-only had Mr. Upton decamped for Leicestershire, without a word of
-warning to anybody, on the Saturday afternoon, but Thrush himself had
-followed by the only Sunday train.
-
-A bell was ringing for evening service when he landed in a market town
-which reversed the natural order by dozing all summer and waking up for
-the hunting season. And now the famous grass country was lying in its
-beauty-sleep, under a gay counterpane of buttercups and daisies, and
-leafy coverts,  with but one blot in the sky-line, in the shape of a
-permanent plume of sluggish smoke. But the works lay hidden, and the
-hall came first; and Thrush, having ascertained that this was it,
-abandoned the decrepit vessel he had boarded at the station, and
-entered the grounds on foot.
-
-A tall girl, pacing the walks with a terribly anxious face, was
-encountered and accosted before he reached the house.
-
-“I believe Mr. Upton lives here. Can you tell me if he’s at home? I
-want to see him about something.”
-
-Lettice flushed and shrank.
-
-“I know who you are! Have you found my brother?”
-
-“No; not yet,” said Thrush, after a pause. “But you take my breath
-away, my dear young lady! How could you be so sure of me? Is it no
-longer to be kept a secret, and is that why your father bolted out of
-town without a word?”
-
-“It’s still a secret,” whispered Lettice, as though the shrubs had
-ears, “only I’m in it. Nobody else is—nobody fresh—but I guessed, and
-my mother was beginning to suspect. My father never stays away a Sunday
-unless he’s out of England altogether; she couldn’t understand it, and
-was worrying so about him that I wired begging him to come back if only
-for the night. So it’s all my  fault, Mr. Thrush; and I know everything
-but what you’ve come down to tell us!”
-
-“That’s next to nothing,” he shrugged. “It’s neither good nor bad. But
-if you can find your father I’ll tell you both exactly what I have
-found out.”
-
-In common with all his sex, he liked and trusted Lettice at sight,
-without bestowing on her a passing thought as a person capable of
-provoking any warmer feeling. She was the perfect sister—that he felt
-as instinctively as everybody else—and a woman to trust into the
-bargain. It would be cruel and quite unnecessary to hide anything from
-that fine and unselfish face. So he let her lead him to a little
-artificial cave, lined and pungent with pitch-pine, over against the
-rhododendrons, while she went to fetch her father quietly from the
-house.
-
-The ironmaster amplified the excuses already made for him; he had
-rushed for the first train after getting his daughter’s telegram,
-leaving but a line for Thrush with his telephone number, in the hopes
-that he would use it whether he had anything to report or not.
-
-“As you didn’t,” added Mr. Upton, in a still aggrieved voice, “I’ve
-been trying again and again to ring you up instead; but of course you
-were never there, nor your man Mullins either. I was  coming back by
-the last train, however, and should have been with you late to-night.”
-
-“Did you leave the motor behind?”
-
-“Yes; it’ll be there to meet me at St. Pancras.”
-
-“It may have to do more than that,” said Thrush, spreading his full
-breadth on the pitch-pine seat. “I’ve found out something; how much or
-how little it’s too soon to tell; but I wasn’t going to discuss it
-through a dozen country exchanges as long as you wanted the thing a
-dead secret, Mr. Upton, and that’s why I didn’t ring you up. As for
-your last train, I’d have waited to meet it in town, only that wouldn’t
-have given me time to say what I’ve got to say before one or other of
-us may have to rush off somewhere else by another last train.”
-
-“Do for God’s sake say what you’ve got to say!” cried Mr. Upton.
-
-“Well, I’ve seen a man who thinks he may have seen the boy!”
-
-“Alive?”
-
-“And perfectly well—but for his asthma—on Thursday.”
-
-The ironmaster thanked God in a dreadful voice; it was Lettice who
-calmed him, not he her. Her eyes only shone a little, but his were
-blinded by the first ray of light.
-
-“Where was it?” he asked, when he could ask anything.
-
-“I’ll tell you in a minute. I want first to be convinced that it really
-was your son. Did the boy take any special interest in Australia?”
-
-“Rather!” cried Lettice, the sister of three boys.
-
-“What kind of interest?”
-
-“He wanted to go out there. It had just been talked about.” She looked
-at her father. “I wouldn’t let him go,” he said. “Why?”
-
-“I want to know just how it came to be talked about.”
-
-“A fool of a doctor in town recommended it.”
-
-Lettice winced, but Thrush nodded as though that tallied.
-
-“Did he recommend any particular vessel?”
-
-“Yes, a sailing ship—the _Seringapatam_— an old East Indiaman they’ve
-turned into a kind of floating hospital. I wouldn’t hear of the beastly
-tub.”
-
-“Do you know when she was to sail?”
-
-“I did know,” said Lettice. “I believe it was just about now.”
-
-“She sailed yesterday,” said Thrush, impressively; “and your brother,
-if it was your brother, talked a good deal about her to this man. He
-told him all about your having always been in favour of it, Miss Upton,
-and his father not. I’m bound to say it sounds as though it may have
-been the boy.”
-
-Thrush seemed to be keeping something back; but the prime and absorbing
-question of identity prevented the others from noticing this.
-
-“It must have been!” cried Mr. Upton. “Who was the man, and where
-exactly did he see him?”
-
-“First on Thursday morning, and last on Thursday night. But perhaps I’d
-better tell you about my informant, since we’ve only his word for
-Thursday, and only his suspicions as to what has happened since. In the
-first place he’s a semi-public man, though I don’t suppose you know his
-name. It’s Baumgartner—Dr. Otto Baumgartner—a German scientist of some
-distinction.”
-
-The ironmaster made a remark which did him little credit, and Thrush
-continued with some pride: “There was some luck in it, of course, for
-he was the very first man I struck who’d bought d’Auvergne Cigarettes
-since Wednesday; but I was on his doorstep well within twenty-four
-hours of hearing that your son was missing; and you may chalk that up
-to A. V. M.! I might have been with him some hours sooner still, but I
-preferred to spend them getting to know something about my man. I tried
-his nearest shops; perfect mines! One was a chemist, who didn’t know
-him by sight, and had never heard of the cigarettes, but remembered
-being asked for them by an elderly gentleman last Thursday morning!
-That absolutely confirmed  my first suspicion that Baumgartner himself
-was not the asthmatic; if he had been, the nearest chemist would have
-known all about him. Yet he had gone to the nearest chemist first!”
-
-“The nearest butcher was next door; but he was so short about
-Baumgartner that I scented a true-green vegetarian. It was a false
-scent, Mr. Upton; not to mention the baker and the candlestick-maker,
-there’s a little restaurant in the same row, which was about the fifth
-place where I began by asking if they knew where a Dr. Baumgartner
-lived in that neighbourhood. The little Italian boss was all over me on
-the spot! The worthy doctor proved to be his most regular customer,
-having all his meals sent in hot from the restaurant in quite the
-Italian manner. I don’t suppose you see how very valuable this was to
-me. Germans love Italy, the little man explained; but I said that was
-the one point on which I should never yield to Germany—and I thought I
-was going to be kissed across the counter! It seems the good doctor
-lives alone with his niece (not always even her), and keeps no servants
-and never entertains. Yet on Friday, for the first time since the
-arrangement was made, the old chap went to the restaurant himself to
-complain of short commons; there had not been enough for them to eat on
-the Thursday night!”
-
-“Had they been alone?” asked Mr. Upton, with a puzzled face.
-
-“That’s the whole point! My little Florentine understood they were, but
-I deduced one extra, and then conceived a course that may astonish you.
-It was the bold course; but it nearly always pays. I lunched at my
-leisure (an excellent Chianti my little friend keeps) and afterwards
-went round and saw the doctor himself. The niece opened the door—I wish
-I’d seen more of her—but she fetched her uncle at once and I begged for
-an interview on an urgent matter. He consented in a way that, I must
-say, impressed me very favourably; and the moment we were alone I said,
-‘I want to know, Doctor, who you bought those asthma cigarettes for
-last Thursday!’”
-
-“That took him aback, but not unduly; so then I added, ‘I’m an inquiry
-agent with a very delicate case in hand, and if you’ll tell me it may
-solve at heart-breaking a mystery as I’ve ever handled.’ Is was
-treating him like a gentleman, but I believe in that; there’s no
-shorter cut to whether a man is one or not.”
-
-“Well, his face had lit up, and a very fine face it is; it hadn’t
-blackened for the fifth of a second; but I had a disappointment in
-store. ‘I’d tell you his name with all my heart,’ he said, ‘only I
-don’t really know it myself. He said it was  John Green—but his
-handkerchiefs were marked “A. A. U.”’”
-
-“Tony’s initials!” cried Tony’s father.
-
-“But it never was Tony under a false name,” his sister vowed. “That
-settles it for me, Mr. Thrush.”
-
-“Not even if he’d got into some scrape or adventure, Miss Upton?”
-
-“He would never give a name that wasn’t his.”
-
-“Suppose he felt he had disgraced his name?”
-
-“My brother Tony wouldn’t do it!”
-
-“He might feel he had?”
-
-“He might,” the father agreed, “even if he’d done no such thing; in
-fact, he’s just the kind of boy who would take an exaggerated view of
-some things.” His mind went back to his last talk with Horace on the
-subject.
-
-“Or he might feel he was about to do something, shall we say, unworthy
-of you all?” Thrush made the suggestion with much delicacy.
-
-“Then I don’t think he’d do it,” declared loyal Lettice.
-
-“Let us hear what you think he did,” said Mr. Upton.
-
-“It’s not what I think; it’s what this man Baumgartner thinks, and his
-story that you ought to hear.”
-
-And that which they now heard at second-hand  was in fact a wonderfully
-true version—up to a point—of poor Pocket’s condition and
-adventures—with the sleep-walking and the shooting left out—from the
-early morning of his meeting with Baumgartner until the late afternoon
-of that day.
-
-Baumgartner had actually described the boy’s long sleep in his chair;
-it was with the conversation when he awoke that the creative work began
-in earnest.
-
-“That’s a good man!” said Mr. Upton, with unimaginable irony. “I’d like
-to take him by the hand—and those infernal Knaggses by the scruff of
-their dirty necks—and that old hag Harbottle by the hair!”
-
-“I think of dear darling Tony,” said Lettice, in acute distress; “lying
-out all night with asthma—it was enough to kill him—or to send him out
-of his mind.”
-
-“I wonder if it could have done that,” remarked Thrush, in a tone of
-serious speculation which he was instantly called upon to explain.
-
-“What are you keeping back?” cried Lettice, the first to see that he
-had been keeping something all this time.
-
-“Only something he’d kept back from them,” replied Thrush, with just a
-little less than his usual aplomb. “It was a surprise he sprang on them
-after waking; it will probably surprise you still  more, Mr. Upton. You
-may not believe it. I’m not certain that I do myself. In the morning he
-had spoken of the Australian voyage as though you’d opposed it, but
-withdrawn your opposition—one moment, if you don’t mind! In the evening
-he suddenly explained that he was actually sailing in the
-_Seringapatam_, that his baggage was already on board, and he must get
-aboard himself that night!”
-
-“I don’t believe it, Thrush.”
-
-“No more do I, father, for a single instant. Tony, of all people!”
-
-Thrush looked from one to the other with a somewhat disingenuous eye.
-“I don’t say I altogether accept it myself; that’s why I kept it to the
-end,” he explained. “But we must balance the possibilities against the
-improbabilities, never losing sight of the one incontestable fact that
-the boy has undoubtedly disappeared. And here’s a man, a well-known
-man, who makes no secret of the fact that he found him wandering in the
-Park, in the early morning, breathless and dazed, and drove him home to
-his own house, where the boy spent the day; they took a hansom, the
-doctor tells me, than which no statement is more quickly and easily
-checked. Are we to believe this apparently unimpeachable and
-disinterested witness, or are we not? He was most explicit about
-everything,  offering to show me exactly where he found the boy, and
-never the least bit vague or unsatisfactory in any way. If you are
-prepared to believe him, if only for the sake of argument, you may care
-to hear Dr. Baumgartner’s theory as to what has happened.”
-
-Lettice shook her head in scorn, but Mr. Upton observed, “Well, we may
-as well hear what the fellow had to say to you; we must be grateful to
-him for taking pity on our boy, and he was the last who saw him; he may
-have seen something that we shouldn’t guess.”
-
-“Exactly!” exclaimed Eugene Thrush; “he saw, or at any rate he now
-thinks he saw, enough to build up a pretty definite theory on the
-foundation of fact supplied by me. He didn’t know the boy had come up
-to see a doctor and been refused a lodging for the night; he understood
-he had come up to join his ship, and suspected he had been on a sort of
-mild spree—if Miss Upton will forgive me!” And he turned deferential
-lenses on the indignant girl.
-
-“I don’t forgive the suggestion,” said she; “but it isn’t yours, Mr.
-Thrush, so please go on.”
-
-“It’s an idea that Dr. Baumgartner continues to hold in spite of all I
-was able to tell him, and we mustn’t forget, as Mr. Upton says, that he
-was the last to see your brother. Briefly, he believes  the boy did
-meet with some misadventure that night in town; that he had been
-ill-treated or intimidated by some unscrupulous person or persons;
-perhaps threatened with blackmail; at any rate imbued with the
-conviction that he is not more sinned against than sinning. That, I
-think, is only what one expects of these very conscientious characters,
-particularly in youth; he was taking something or somebody a
-thousandfold more seriously than a grown man would have done. Afraid to
-go back to school for fear of expulsion, ashamed to show his face at
-home! What’s to be done? He thinks of the ship about to sail, the ship
-he hoped to sail in, and in his desperation he determines to sail in
-her still—even if he has to stow away!”
-
-“My God!” cried Mr. Upton, “he’s just the one to think of it. His head
-was full of those trashy adventure stories!”
-
-But Lettice shook hers quietly.
-
-“To think of it, but not to do it,” said she, with a quiet conviction
-that rather nettled Mr. Thrush.
-
-“But really, Miss Upton, he must have done something, you know! And he
-actually talked to Dr. Baumgartner about this; not of doing it himself,
-but of stowaways in general, à propos of his voyage; and how many
-pounds of biscuit and how many  ounces of water would carry one alive
-into blue water. There’s another thing, by the way! He told Baumgartner
-the ship touched nowhere between the East India Docks and Melbourne; he
-would be out of the world for three whole months.”
-
-“And she only sailed yesterday?” cried Mr. Upton, coming furiously to
-his feet. “And you let her get through the Straits of Dover and out to
-sea while you came down here to tell me this by inches?”
-
-Thrush blinked blandly through his port-hole glasses.
-
-“I’m letting her go as far as Plymouth,” said he, “where one or both of
-us will board her tomorrow if she’s up to time!”
-
-“You said she didn’t touch anywhere between the docks and Melbourne?”
-
-“No; your son said that, Mr. Upton, and it was his one mistake. They
-don’t usually touch, but a son of one of the owners happens to have
-gone round in the ship to Plymouth for the trip. I got it first from an
-old boatswain of the line who’s caretaker at the office, and the only
-man there, of course, yesterday afternoon; but I’ve since bearded one
-of the partners at his place down the river, and had the statement
-confirmed and amplified. One or two pasengers are only going aboard at 
-Plymouth, so she certainly won’t sail again before to-morrow noon, even
-if she’s there by then. You will be in ample time to board her—and I’ve
-got a sort of search-warrant from the partner I saw—if you go down by
-the 12.15 from Paddington to-night.”
-
-The ironmaster asked no more questions; that was good enough for him,
-he said, and went off to tell a last lie to his wife, with the
-increasing confidence of one gradually mastering the difficulties of an
-uncongenial game. He felt also that a happy issue was in sight, and
-after that he could tell the truth and liberate his soul. He was
-pathetically sanguine of the solution vicariously propounded by Eugene
-Thrush, and prepared to rejoice in a discovery which would have filled
-him with dismay and chagrin if he had not been subconsciously prepared
-for something worse. It never occurred to Mr. Upton to question the
-man’s own belief in the theory he had advanced; but Lettice did so the
-moment she had the visitor to herself in the smoking-room, where it
-fell to her to do certain honours _vice_ Horace, luckily engaged at the
-works. “And do you believe this astounding theory, Mr. Thrush?”
-
-Thrush eyed her over his tumbler’s rim, but completed his draught
-before replying.
-
-“It’s not my province to believe or to disbelieve,  Miss Upton; my job
-is to prove things one way or the other.”
-
-“Then I’ll tell you just one thing for your guidance: my brother is
-absolutely incapable of the conduct you ascribe to him between you.”
-
-Thrush did not look as though he were being guided by anybody or
-anything, beyond the dictates of his own appetites, as he sat by the
-window of the restaurant car, guzzling new potatoes and such Burgundy
-as could be had in a train. But he was noticeably less garrulous than
-usual, and his companion also had very little to say until the train
-was held up inexplicably outside Willesden, when he began to fume.
-
-“I never knew such a thing on this line before,” he complained; “it’s
-all the harder luck, for I never was on such an errand before, and
-it’ll just make the difference to me.”
-
-“You’ll have time,” said Thrush, consulting his watch as the train
-showed signs of life at last.
-
-“Not for what I want to do,” said Mr. Upton firmly. “I want to shake
-that man’s hand, and to hear from his own lips about my boy!”
-
-“I’m not sure that you’ll find him at home,” Thrush said, after a
-contemplative pause.
-
-“I’ll take my chance of that.”
-
-“He said something about their both going out of town to-day—meaning
-niece and self. I heard  her playing just before I left, and that
-seemed to remind him of it.”
-
-“Well, Thrush, I mean to risk it.”
-
-“And losing the train?”
-
-“I can motor down to Plymouth; there’s plenty of time. I might take him
-with me, as well as you?”
-
-“Better,” said Thrush, after another slight pause. “I’d rather you
-didn’t count on me for that trip, Mr. Upton.”
-
-“Not count on you”?
-
-“One of us will be quite enough.”
-
-“Have you some other case to shove in front of mine, then?” cried the
-ironmaster, touched on the old raw spot.
-
-“I shouldn’t put it like that, Mr. Upton.”
-
-“All right! I’ll take your man Mullins instead; but I’ll try my luck at
-that German doctor’s first,” he growled, determined to have his own way
-in something.
-
-“I’m afraid you can’t have Mullins,” said Thrush, gently.
-
-“Want him yourself do you?”
-
-“I do; but I’m afraid neither of us can have him just now, Mr. Upton.”
-
-“Why not? Where is he.”
-
-Thrush leant across as they swam into the lighted terminus.
-
-“In prison.”
-
-“In prison! Your man Mullins?”
-
-“Yes, Mr. Upton, he’s the man they arrested yesterday on suspicion of
-complicity in this Hyde Park affair!”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVI.
-MALINGERING
-
-
-Pocket had put the fragments of his poor letter together again, and was
-still poring over those few detached and mutilated words, which were
-the very ones his tears had blotted, when there came a warning chink of
-tea-things on the stairs. He was just able to thrust the pieces back
-into his pocket, and to fling himself at full length on the bed, before
-Dr. Baumgartner entered with a tray.
-
-“There, my young fellow! This will make a man of you! Then we shall see
-you yourself again by supper-time.”
-
-“I’m not coming down again,” said Pocket. “Don’t force me, please”
-
-“Force you?” Baumgartner cocked a keen eye at the open window. “What a
-tyrant you would make me out! On the contrary, I think you show your
-wisdom in remaining quiet. Perhaps you would be quieter still with the
-window shut—so—and  fastened to prevent it rattling. I will open it
-when I come up again. There shall not be a sound in the house to
-disturb you.”
-
-And he took to tiptoes there and then, gliding about with a smiling
-stealth that set Pocket shivering on the bed; he shivered the more when
-an admirable doctor’s hand, cool and smooth as steel, was laid upon his
-forehead.
-
-“A little fever, I’m afraid! I should get right into bed, if I were
-you. It’s nothing to be alarmed about, much less astonished; you have
-been through so much, my poor young fellow.”
-
-“I have indeed!” cried Pocket, with unguarded bitterness.
-
-And Baumgartner paused between the foot of the bed and the door.
-
-“But there’s one consolation for you,” he said at length, in a sibilant
-whisper. “They’ve had that letter of yours at home quite a long time
-now—ever since yesterday morning, haven’t they?”
-
-The bed shook under Pocket when the door was shut—he only hoped it was
-not before. Up to the last minute, he felt quite sure that Dr.
-Baumgartner, suspicious as he was, had suspected nothing of the
-discovery downstairs behind his back. If he himself had betrayed
-anything it was in the last few seconds, when it had been all that he
-could do to keep from screaming out his knowledge of  the other’s
-trickery. To play such a trick upon a broken-hearted boy! To have the
-heart to play it! No wonder he felt feverish to that wicked hand; the
-wonder was that he had actually lain there listening to the smooth
-impostor gratuitously revelling in his imposition!
-
-Rage and disappointment seized him by turns, and both together; at
-first they bit deeper even than the fear of Baumgartner—a fear felt
-from the beginning, and naturally redoubled now. Disappointment had the
-sharper tooth: his letter had ever gone, not one of his people knew a
-thing about him yet, his tears had not drawn theirs, they had not hung
-in anxious conclave on his words! Not that he had recognised any such
-subtle consolations as factors in his temporary and comparative peace
-of mind; now that they were gone, he could not have said what it was he
-missed; he only knew that he could least forgive Baumgartner for this
-sudden sense of cruel and crushing disappointment.
-
-The phase passed, for the boy had the temperament that sees the other
-side eventually, and of course there was something to be said for the
-doctor’s stratagem. He could understand it, after all; the motive was
-not malevolent; it was to relieve his mind and keep him quiet. The plan
-had succeeded perfectly, and nobody was really any the worse off. His
-people would have known he was alive and well on the Friday; but that
-was all, and they had no reason yet to assume his death. No; even
-Pocket came to see that his letter had been more of a relief to write
-than it could have been to read; that, indeed, it could only have
-aggravated the anxiety and suspense at home. Yet there was in him some
-fibre which the deliberate deception had fretted and frayed beyond
-reason or forgiveness. He saw all there was to be said about it; he
-could imagine Baumgartner himself putting the case with irresistible
-logic, with characteristic plausibility, and all the mesmeric wisdom of
-a benevolent serpent; but for once, the boy felt, he would not be taken
-in. It was not coming to that, however, for he had quite decided not to
-betray his knowledge of the fraud—if only he had not already done so!
-
-His fears on that score were largely allayed by Baumgartner’s manner
-when at length he returned with another tray; for nothing could have
-been more considerate and sympathetic, and even fatherly, than the
-doctor’s behaviour then. Pocket had never touched his tea; he was very
-gently chidden for that. Obstinately he declared he did not want any
-supper either: it was true he did not want to want any, or another bite
-of that man’s bread, but he was sorry as soon as the words were out. It
-was against his reasoned policy to show  temper, and he was beginning
-to feel very hungry besides. The doctor said, “You’ll think better of
-that, my young fellow,” which turned a mere remark into more than half
-an absolute resolution. The second tray was set with a lighted candle
-on a chair by the bedside. The boy eyed it wistfully with set teeth,
-and Baumgartner eyed the boy.
-
-“Is there anything you could fancy, my young fellow?”
-
-“Nothing to eat.”
-
-“Is there any book?”
-
-“Yes,” said Pocket, without a moment’s premeditation. “There’s the book
-I was reading yesterday.”
-
-“What was that?”
-
-“Some Frenchman on hallucinations.”
-
-“So you were reading that book!” remarked the doctor, with detestable
-aplomb. “I wondered who had taken it down. It is a poor book. I have
-destroyed it.”
-
-“I’m sorry,” said Pocket, and tried to look it rather than revolted.
-
-“I am not,” rejoined Baumgartner. “Even if it were a good book, it is
-no book for you at the present time. It is morbid to dwell on what is
-done and over.”
-
-“If it is over,” murmured the boy.
-
-“It is over!” said Baumgartner, fiercely.
-
-“Well,” said Pocket, “I’m glad I read what he’d got to say about
-somnambulism.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-Pocket did not say it was a satisfaction to have done anything in spite
-of such a despot as his questioner. But he did say it was a comfort to
-know that others besides himself had committed terrible deeds in their
-sleep.
-
-“But,” he added, “they always seem to have dreamt the dreadful thing as
-well. Now, the funny thing is that I remember nothing until the shot
-woke me and I found myself where you saw me.”
-
-“I’m glad you find it funny!”
-
-The sneer seemed strangely unworthy of a keen intelligence; the
-increased asperity of Baumgartner’s manner, and his whole conduct about
-a harmless book, altogether inexplicable.
-
-“You know what I mean,” replied the boy, with spirit.
-
-“Yes, I know what you mean! You mean to go out of your mind, and to do
-your best to drive me out of mine, for the sake of a technically human
-life less precious than the average dog’s!”
-
-And, much as it puzzled him, there was certainly something more human
-about this sudden outburst than in anything Dr. Baumgartner had said
-since the scene between them in the bedroom below. He even slammed the
-door behind him when he went. But Pocket preferred that novel
-exhibition, for its very heat and violence, to the sleek and calculated
-solicitude of the doctor’s final visit, with pipe and candle, when the
-one by the bedside had burnt down almost to the socket.
-
-“My young fellow!” he exclaimed in unctuous distress. “Not a bite eaten
-in all these hours! Do you know that it’s nearly midnight?”
-
-“I’m not hungry,” replied Pocket, lying gloriously for once. “I told
-you I wasn’t well.”
-
-“You’ll be worse if you don’t force yourself to eat.”
-
-“I can’t help that.”
-
-“Well, well!” said the doctor, instead of the objurgation that seemed
-to tremble for an instant on his lips. He replaced between them the
-oval hook of clear amber enclosing the thin round one of black
-nicotine, and he puffed until the cruel carved face was hotter and more
-infuriate than ever, under the swirling smoke of mimic battle. To the
-boy it was all but a living face, and a vile one, capable of nameless
-atrocities; and the hard-frozen face of Baumgartner was capable of
-looking on.
-
-“Well, well! If I am to have you ill on my hands it’s my own fault. I
-take the responsibility for everything that has happened since the very
-first moment we met. Remember that, my young fellow! I took the law
-into my own hands, and  you I took into my own house for better or
-worse. You were worse then, remember, and yet I took you in! Is it not
-strange that your asthma has entirely left you under my roof? Does it
-not lead you to believe in me, my young fellow—to trust me perhaps more
-than you have done?”
-
-It did not. Pocket was not going to lie about that; he held his tongue
-stubbornly instead. He still believed in his own explanation, derived
-from one of his many doctors, and moreover already mentioned to this
-one, of the sudden cessation of his chronic complaint. He hated
-Baumgartner for forgetting that, and pretending for a moment to take
-any credit to himself. That again was not worthy of so cool and keen a
-brain, much less of the candid character with which Pocket had supposed
-himself to be dealing. The very young are pathetically apt to see their
-own virtues in those whom they trust at all; but the schoolboy’s faith
-in Dr. Baumgartner had been shattered to its base; and now (as sure a
-symptom of his youth) he could see no virtue at all.
-
-“You must trust me again,” said Baumgartner, as though he knew what he
-had forfeited. “I know what will do you good.”
-
-“What?” asked Pocket, out of mere incredulous curiosity.
-
-“Fresh air; some exercise; a glimpse of the  beautiful town we live in,
-before another soul is about, before the sun itself is up!”
-
-Pocket hardly knew what made him shudder at the proposition. It might
-have been the poignant picture of that other early morning, which came
-before him in a scorching flash. But there was something also in the
-way the doctor was bending over him in bed, holding his pipe nearer
-still, so that the two dreadful faces seemed of equal size. And
-Baumgartner’s had become a dreadful face in the boy’s eyes now; there
-was none among those cruel waxworks to match it in cold intellectual
-cruelty; and its smile—its new and strange smile it must have been that
-made him shudder and shake his head.
-
-“But, my young fellow,” urged the doctor, “it will do you so much good.
-And not a soul will see us so early, early in the morning!”
-
-Again that insinuating smile inspired a horror of which the boy himself
-could have offered no satisfactory explanation, especially as there was
-much to commend the proposal to his mind. But his face was white enough
-as he moved it from side to side on the pillow.
-
-“I tell you I’m ill,” he whimpered. “How can I go out with you, when
-you see I can’t eat a bite?”
-
-Baumgartner gave it up for the night. He was coming back in the early,
-early lovely summer’s  morning; then they would see, would they not?
-Pocket had a last wave from the hideous meerschaum head, and a nod from
-the other. He was alone for the night. And he meant to be alone next
-morning when the doctor took his early walk; let him prowl by himself.
-Pocket was not going with him. He had never been more determined about
-anything than that. It was an animal instinct of fear and deep
-revulsion, an impulse quite distinct from a further determination to
-slip away in his turn as soon as the coast was clear. On this course he
-was equally decided, but on other and more palpable grounds.
-Baumgartner had broken his side of their treaty, so the treaty was torn
-up with the letter which had never gone. And Pocket was going instead
-of his letter—going straight to his people to tell them all, and have
-that poor innocent man set free before the day was out.
-
-The night’s immunity was meanwhile doubly precious; but it had been
-secured, or rather its continuance could only be assured, at a price
-which he wondered even now if he could pay. He was a growing, hungry
-boy, no longer ailing in wind or limb. Distress of mind was his one
-remaining ill; the rest was sham; and distress of mind did not prevent
-him from feeling ravenous after fasting ten or eleven hours. Here was
-food still within his reach, even at his side; but he felt committed 
-to his declaration that he could not eat. If the tray were still
-untouched in the morning, surely there could be no further question of
-his going out with Baumgartner; but there was an “if.” The boy was not
-used to being very stern with himself; his strongest point was not
-self-denial. Much of his moral stamina had been expended in nightly
-tussles for mere breath; he had grit enough there. But his temperament
-was self-indulgent, and that he triumphed over positive pangs only
-shows the power of that rival instinct not to accompany the doctor a
-yard from his door.
-
-Yet it meant more hours with the food beside him than he could endure
-lying still. He got up, inch by inch, for he knew who lay underneath;
-and he opened the window, which Baumgartner had broken his promise to
-open, by even slower and more laborious degrees. He leant out as he had
-done that first morning, it might have been a month ago; and this scene
-must have challenged comparison with that, had his mind been even as
-free from dread and terror as it had been then. But all he saw was the
-few remaining lighted windows in the backs of those other houses; he
-could not have sworn there was a moon. The moon poured no beam of
-comfort on his aching head; but the lighted windows were as the open
-eyes of honest men, who would not see him come to harm; and  the last
-rumble in the streets was a faint but cheering chorus for lonely ears.
-
-Once a motor-horn blew a solo near at hand, and Pocket half recognised
-its note; but he did not connect it with quite another set of sounds,
-which grew but gradually on his ear out of the bowels of the house.
-Somebody was knocking and ringing at the doctor’s door, not furiously,
-but with considerable pertinacity. Pocket was thrilled to the marrow
-just at first, and flew from the open window to the landing outside his
-door. The house was in perfect darkness, and still as death in the
-patient intervals between each measured attempt to rouse the inmates
-without disturbing the street. It came to Pocket that it must be
-Baumgartner himself, gone out for something without his key; and the
-boy was about to run down and let him in, when he distinctly heard the
-retreat of feet down the front steps, and then a chuckle on the next
-landing as the doctor closed his bedroom door.
-
-Who could it have been? Baumgartner’s chuckle suggested the police; but
-in that case it was the boy upstairs who was going to have the last
-laugh, though a grim one, and very terribly at his own expense. He
-could not close an eye for thinking of it, and listening for another
-knocking and ringing down below. But nothing happened  until the doctor
-returned between five and six, still with his meerschaum pipe, still in
-his alpaca jacket, but wearing also the goblin hat and cloak of their
-first meeting, to renew and intensify the animal fear that glued the
-boy to his bed.
-
-“It is a pity,” said Baumgartner, standing at the window which Pocket
-had left open. “The air is like champagne at this hour, and not a cloud
-in the sky! It would do you more good than lying there. It is you who
-are making yourself ill. If I thought you were doing it on purpose
-”—and his eyes blazed—“I’d feed you like a fowl!”
-
-“It’s so likely that I should do it on purpose,” muttered Pocket, with
-schoolboy sarcasm. His eyes, however, were purposely closed, and they
-had missed the old daggers in Baumgartner’s.
-
-“You know best,” said the doctor. “But you are missing the morning of
-your life! Not a cloud in the sky, only the golden rain in my little
-garden. I suppose you have not learnt what the golden rain is at your
-public school? You English call it laburnum; but we Germans have more
-imagination, thank God!”
-
-Pocket did not open his eyes again till he had gone; next instant he
-had the door open too, as the doctor’s step was creaking down the lower
-flight of stairs. Once more Pocket ventured out upon the landing, not
-quite to the banisters; he trusted to  his ears as before. They told
-him the doctor had gone into his dark-room. His heart sank. It was only
-for a moment. The dark-room door shut sharply. The steps came creaking
-back along the hall, went grating out upon the doorstep. There was
-another sharp shutting. Food at last!
-
-It was neither very nice nor half enough for a famishing lad, that
-plate of cold mixed meats from the restaurant, with a hard stale roll
-to eke them out. But Pocket felt he had a fresh start in life when he
-had eaten every crumb and emptied his water-bottle. Nor was he without
-plan or purpose any longer; he was only doubtful whether to knock at
-Phillida’s door and shout goodbye, or to leave her a note explaining
-all. Baumgartner would be out for hours; he always was, on these early
-jaunts of his; there would almost be time to wait and say goodbye
-properly when the girl came down. She would hardly hinder him a second
-time, and he longed to see her and speak to her again, especially if
-that was to be the end between them. He did not mean it to be the end,
-by any means; but any nonsense that might have been gathering in the
-schoolboy’s head was, at this point, more than rudely dispelled by the
-discovery that Dr. Baumgartner had removed his clothes!
-
-Pocket swore an oath that would have shocked him in a schoolfellow; it
-was a practice he indeed  abhorred, but decent words would not meet
-such a case. It was to be met by action, however, just as that locked
-door had been met, and the policeman’s prohibition in the Park. He knew
-where his clothes must be. He slipped his overcoat, which he was using
-as a dressing-gown, over his pyjamas, and ran right downstairs as Dr.
-Baumgartner had done not many minutes before him. His clothes were in
-the dark-room. But the dark-room door had a Yale lock; there was no
-forcing it by foot or shoulder, though Pocket in his passion tried
-both. So round he went without a moment’s hesitation to the dark-room
-window by way of the little conservatory. The blind was drawn. That
-mattered nothing. He went back for a plant-pot, and smashed both it and
-a sheet of ruby glass with one vicious blow.
-
-Entry was simple after that; he had only to be careful not to cut his
-hands or feet. Inside, he removed the broken glass, closed the window,
-and let the blind down as he had found it, without looking twice at his
-clothes. There they were for him to carry upstairs at his leisure. They
-were not his only property in that room either. His revolver was there
-somewhere under lock and key. He might want it, waking, if Dr.
-Baumgartner came back before his time.
-
-It was easily located; of the lockers, built in  with the shelves on
-the folding doors, only one was actually locked, and the revolver was
-not in the others. Pocket went to his waistcoat for one of those knives
-beloved of schoolboys, with the hook for extracting stones from hoofs,
-among other superfluous implements. Pocket had never used this one, had
-often felt inclined to wrench it off because it was hard to open and in
-the way of the other tools. But he used it now with as little
-hesitation as he had done the other damage, with almost a lust for
-breakage; and there was his revolver, safe and sound as his clothes.
-
-It had been honoured with a place beside a rack of special negatives;
-at least, there were other racks, in the other lockers, not locked up
-like that; and there was no other treasure that Pocket could see. He
-had his hand on his own treasure, was in the act of taking it,
-trembling a little, but more elated, as he stood in a ruby flood only
-partially diluted by the broken window behind the blind.
-
-At that moment there came such a thunder of knuckles on the door beside
-him that the revolver caught in the rack of negatives, and brought the
-whole lot crashing about his toes.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVII.
-ON THE TRACK OF THE TRUTH
-
-
-The unseen knuckles renewed their assault upon the dark-room door; and
-Pocket wavered between its Yale lock, which opened on this side with a
-mere twist of the handle, and the broken red window behind the drawn
-red blind. Escape that way was easy enough; and if ever one could take
-the streets in pyjamas and overcoat, with the rest of one’s clothes in
-a bundle under one’s arm, it was before six o’clock in the morning. But
-it was not a course that vanity encouraged in an excited schoolboy with
-romantic instincts and a revolver which he perceived at a glance to be
-still loaded in most of its chambers. Pocket was not one of nature’s
-heroes, but he had an overwhelming desire to behave like one, and time
-to feel how he should despise himself all his life if he bolted by the
-window instead of opening the door. So he did open it, trembling but
-determined. And there stood Phillida in her dressing-gown, her dark
-hair tumbling over her shoulders.
-
-“It’s you!” she cried, taking the exclamation out of his mouth.
-
-“Yes,” he said, with a gust of relief; “did you think it was thieves?”
-
-“Isn’t it?” she demanded, pointing to the broken window visible through
-the blind. Then she saw his revolver, and drew back an inch.
-
-“He took this from me,” said Pocket. “I had a right to it. Take it if
-you will!”
-
-And he offered it, in the best romantic manner, by the barrel. But
-Phillida was too angry to look at revolvers.
-
-“You had no business to break in to get it,” she told him, with
-considerable severity.
-
-“I didn’t! I broke in for my clothes; he took them, too, this morning
-before he went out. They’re what I broke in for, and I’d a perfect
-right; you know I had! And while I’m about it I thought I might as well
-have this thing too. I knew it was in here somewhere. It was in there.
-And I’m glad I got it, and so should you be, because you and I are in
-the house of one of the greatest villains alive!”
-
-The words tumbled over each other with quite hereditary heat. They were
-all out in a few seconds, and the boy left panting with his
-indignation, the girl’s eyes flashing hers.
-
-“I begin to think my uncle was right,” said she. “This is the act of
-what he said you were, if anything could be.”
-
-“He lied to you, and he’s been lying to me!”
-
-“He may have been justified.”
-
-“You wait till you hear all he’s done! I don’t mean taking my revolver
-from me; he was justified in that, if you like, after what I’d done
-with it. He may even have been justified in taking away my clothes, if
-he couldn’t trust me to keep my word and stay in this awful house. But
-that isn’t the worst. He encouraged me to write a letter home, to my
-own poor people who may think me dead——”
-
-“Well?”
-
-There was more sympathy in her voice, more anxiety; but his was
-breaking with his great grief and grievance.
-
-“He took it out himself, to send it to the General Post Office to catch
-the country post. So he said; and I was so grateful to him! On Saturday
-morning he said they must have got it; he kept on saying so, and you
-don’t know how thankful I was every time! But yesterday afternoon I
-found scraps of my letter in the waste-paper basket in his room; he’d
-never posted it at all!”
-
-Phillida looked shocked and distressed enough at this; her liquid eyes
-filled with sympathy as they gazed upon the wretched youth.
-
-“I’m a fool to blub about it—but—but that was the Limit!” he croaked,
-and worked the poor word till it came distinctly.
-
-“It was cruel,” she allowed. “It must seem so,  at any rate; it does to
-me; but then I understand so little. I can’t think why he’s hiding you,
-or why you let yourself be hidden.”
-
-“But you must know what I’ve done; you must guess?”
-
-The revolver was still in his hand; he gave it a guilty glance, and she
-looked from it to him without recoiling.
-
-“Of course I guessed on Saturday.” There was a studious absence of
-horror in her tone. “Yet I couldn’t believe it, unless it was an
-accident. And if it was an accident——”
-
-“It was one!” he choked. “It was the most absolute accident that ever
-happened; he saw it; he can tell you; but he never told me till hours
-afterwards. I was nearly dead with asthma; he brought me here, he was
-frightfully good to me, I’m grateful enough for all that. But he should
-have told me before the accident became a crime! When he did tell me I
-lost my head, and begged him to keep me here, and afterwards when I
-came to my senses he wouldn’t let me go. I needn’t remind you of that
-morning! After that I promised to stay on, and I’d have kept all my
-promises if only my letter had gone to my poor people!”
-
-He told her what a guarded letter it had been, only written to let them
-know he was alive, and that with the doctor’s expressed approval. But 
-now he had learnt his lesson, and he was going to play the game. It was
-more than ever the game with that poor fellow lying in prison for what
-he had never done. And so the whole story would be in to-morrow’s
-papers, with the single exception of Dr. Baumgartner’s name.
-
-“Nothing shall make me give that,” said Pocket valiantly; “on your
-account, if not on his!”
-
-Phillida encouraged his new resolution without comment on this last
-assurance. She had stooped, and was picking up the unbroken negatives
-and putting them back in the rack; he followed her example, and
-collected the broken bits, while she put the rack back in its place,
-and certain splinters in theirs, until the locker shut without showing
-much damage. Pocket was left with the fragmentary negatives on his
-hands.
-
-“I should throw those away,” said Phillida. “And now, by the time
-you’re ready to go, I’ll have a cup of tea ready for you.”
-
-They faced each other in the rosy light, now doubly diluted by the open
-door, and Pocket did not move. He wanted to say something first, and he
-was too shy to say it. Shyness had come upon him all at once; hitherto
-they had both been like young castaways, finely regardless of
-appearances, he of his bare feet and throat, she of her dressing-gown
-and her bedroom slippers. She was  unconscious or careless still, as
-with a brother; but he had become the very embodiment of mauvaise
-honte, an awful example of the awkward age; and it was all the fault of
-what he suddenly felt he simply must say.
-
-“But—but I don’t want to leave you!” he blurted out at last.
-
-“But I want you to,” she returned promptly and firmly, though not
-without a faint smile.
-
-It was leaving her with a villain that he minded; but he could not get
-that out, except thus bluntly, nor could he denounce the doctor now as
-he had done when his blood was up. Besides, the man was a different man
-to his niece; all that redeemed him went out to her. Pocket did not
-think he was peculiar there; in fact, he thought romantically enough
-about the girl, with her dark hair all over her pink dressing-gown, and
-ivory insteps peeping out of those soft slippers especially when the
-vision was lost for ever, and he upstairs making himself as presentable
-as he could in a few minutes. But it seemed she was busy in the same
-way, and she took longer over it. He found the breakfast things on the
-table, the kettle on the gas-stove, but no Phillida to make the tea. He
-could not help wishing she would be quick; if he was going, the sooner
-he went the better, but he was terribly divided in his desires. He
-hated the thought of deserting a comrade, who was also a girl, and such
-a girl! He could only face it with the fixed intention of coming back
-to the rescue of his heroine, he the hero of their joint romance. But
-for his own immediate freedom he was already unheroically eager. And
-yet he could deliberately fit the broken negatives together, on the
-white tablecloth, partly to pass the time, partly out of a boyish
-bravado which involved little real risk; for the doctor had not yet
-been gone an hour; and a loaded revolver is a loaded revolver, be it
-brandished by man or boy.
-
-The piecing of the plates was like a children’s puzzle, only easier,
-because the pieces were not many. One of the reconstructed negatives
-was of painful interest; it reminded Pocket of the fatal one smashed to
-atoms by Baumgartner in the pink porcelain trough. There were trees
-again, only leafless, and larger, and there was a larger figure
-sprawling on a bench. Pocket felt he must have a print of this; he
-remembered having seen printing-frames and tubes of sensitised paper in
-the other room; and hardly had he filled his frame and placed it in
-position, than Phillida ran down stairs, and he told her what he had
-done.
-
-“I wish you hadn’t,” she said nervously, as she made mechanical
-preparations with pot and kettle. “It would only make matters worse if
-my uncle came in now.”
-
-“But he wasn’t back on Friday before ten or eleven.”
-
-“You never know!”
-
-Pocket spoke out with a truculence which his brothers had inherited,
-but not he, valiantly as he might try to follow a family example.
-
-“I don’t care! I can’t help it if he does come. I’ll tell him exactly
-what I’ve done, and why, and exactly what I’m going to do next. I give
-him leave to stop me if he can.”
-
-“I’m afraid he won’t wait for that. But I wish you had waited for his
-leave before printing his negative.”
-
-Pocket jumped up from table, and ran to the printing-frame in the sunny
-room at the back. He had been reminded of it only just in time. It was
-a rather dark print that he first examined, one half at a time, and
-then extracted from the frame. It was meshed with white veils, showing
-the joins of the broken plate. But it had been an excellent negative
-originally. And it was still good enough to hold Pocket rooted to the
-carpet in the sunny room, until Phillida came in after him, and stood
-looking over his shoulder.
-
-“I know that place!” said she at once. “It’s Holland Walk, in
-Kensington.”
-
-He turned to her quickly.
-
-“The place where there was a suicide or something not long ago?”
-
-“The very place!” exclaimed the girl, looking up from the darkening
-print.
-
-“I remember my uncle would take me to see it next day. He’s always so
-interested in mysteries. I’m sure that’s the very spot he showed me as
-the one where it must have happened.”
-
-“Did he take the photograph then?”
-
-“No; he hadn’t his camera with him.”
-
-“Then this is the suicide, or whatever it was!” cried Pocket, in
-uncontrollable excitement. “It’s not only the place; it’s the thing
-itself. Look at that man on the bench!”
-
-The girl took a long look nearer the window.
-
-“How horrible!” she shuddered. “His head looks as though it were
-falling off! He might be dying.”
-
-“Dying or dead,” said Pocket, “at the very second the plate was
-exposed!”
-
-She looked at him in blank horror. His own horror was no less apparent,
-but it was more understanding. He had Baumgartner’s own confession of
-his attempts to secure admission to hospital death-beds, even to
-executions; he expounded Baumgartner on the whole subject, briefly,
-clumsily, inaccurately enough, and yet with a certain graphic power
-which brought those incredible theories  home to his companion as
-forcibly as Baumgartner himself had brought them home to Pocket. It was
-the first she had ever heard of them. But then he had never discussed
-his photography with her, never showed her plate or print. That it was
-not merely a hobby, that he was an inventor, a pioneer, she had always
-felt, without dreaming in what direction or to what extent. Even now
-she seemed unable to grasp the full significance of the print from the
-broken negative; and when she would have examined it afresh, there was
-nothing to see; the June sunshine had done its work, and blotted out
-the repulsive picture even as she held it in her hands.
-
-“Then what do you think?” she asked at last; her voice was thin and
-strained with formless terrors.
-
-“I think that Dr. Baumgartner has the strangest power of any human
-being I ever heard of; he can make you do anything he likes, whether
-you like it yourself or not. The newspapers have been raking up this
-case in connection with—mine—and I see that one theory was that the man
-in this broken negative committed suicide. Well, if he did, I firmly
-believe that Dr. Baumgartner was there and willed him to do it!”
-
-“He must have been there if he took the photograph.”
-
-“Is there another man alive who tries these  things? I’ve told you all
-he told me about it, but I haven’t told you all he said about the value
-of human life.”
-
-“Nor need you! He makes no secret of his opinion about that!”
-
-“Then put the two things together, and where do they lead you? To these
-murders committed with the mad idea of taking the spirit in its flight
-from the flesh; that’s his own way of putting it, not mine.”
-
-“But I thought your case was an accident pure and simple?”
-
-“On my part, certainly; but how do I know he couldn’t get more power
-over me in my sleep than at any other time? He saw me walking in my
-sleep with this wretched revolver. He said himself I’d given him the
-chance of a lifetime. You may be sure he meant before that poor man’s
-death, not after it.”
-
-“It isn’t possible,” declared Phillida, as though she had laid hold of
-one solid certainty in a sea of floating hypotheses. “And I know he
-hasn’t a pistol of his own,” she added, lest he should simplify his
-charge.
-
-But there they were agreed.
-
-“He hadn’t one on him that morning; that I can swear,” said Pocket,
-impartially disposing of the idea. “Mine was the only one in that cape
-of his, because I once jolly nearly had it out again when he came back
-into the room. There was nothing of the sort in his other coat, or
-anywhere else about him, or I couldn’t have helped seeing it.” Phillida
-accepted this statement only too thankfully. She beamed on the boy, as
-if in recognition of a piece of downright magnanimity towards an enemy
-whom she could now understand his regarding in that light. If only he
-would go before the enemy returned! If her uncle had such a power over
-him as he himself seemed to feel, then that was all the more reason for
-him to go quickly. But Pocket was not the man to get up and run like
-that. Perhaps he enjoyed displaying his bravery on the point, and
-keeping his companion on tenter-hooks on his account; at any rate he
-insisted on finishing his breakfast, and gave further free expression
-to the wildest surmises as he did so. And yet he was even then on the
-brink of a discovery which was some excuse for the wildest of them all,
-while it demanded a fresh solution of the whole affair.
-
-He had been fingering the recovered weapon in his pocket, almost
-fondling it, though with mingled feelings, as the Prodigal Son of his
-small possessions; suddenly it leapt out like a live thing in his hand,
-and clattered on the table between the girl and boy. It was a wonder
-neither of them was shot dead in his excitement. His whole face  was
-altered; but so was his whole life. She could not understand his
-incoherent outburst; she only knew that he was twisting the chambers
-round and round under her nose, and that there appeared to be live
-cartridges in all six.
-
-“Don’t you see?” the words came pouring. “Not one of them’s been
-fired—it’s as I loaded it myself the other night! It can’t have been
-this revolver at all!”
-
-“But you must have known whether you fired or not?”
-
-“I tell you I was walking in my sleep till the row woke me. I’d only
-heard it once before, in a room. It sounded loud enough for the open
-air, though I do remember wondering I hadn’t felt any kick. But I was
-so dazed, and there was this beastly thing in my hand; and he took it
-from me in such a rage that of course I believed I’d let it off. But
-now I can see I can’t have done. It wasn’t my revolver and it wasn’t
-me!”
-
-“Yet you say yourself my uncle didn’t carry one?”
-
-“I’ll swear he didn’t; but there’s another man in all this! There was
-the man they arrested on Saturday—the man I was so keen to set free!”
-
-The boy’s laugh grated; he was beside himself with righteous joy. What
-was it to him that his innocence implied another’s complicity? Only too
-characteristically, he saw simply the central fact from his own point
-of view; but was it such an undoubted fact as he hot-headedly supposed?
-There was the broken negative to confirm a certain suspicion, but that
-was not enough for Phillida.
-
-She asked if he had no more cartridges, and he said he had a few loose
-in his waistcoat pocket; he had thrown away the box. “Then my uncle
-might have put in a fresh one while you were asleep.”
-
-“Why should he?”
-
-“I don’t know, but it sounds quite as possible as the other.”
-
-“I’ll soon tell you if he did!” cried Pocket. “There were fourteen in
-the box to start with, because I counted them, and we only shot away
-one at the Knaggses’ before we were cobbed. That left thirteen—six in
-the revolver and seven in my pocket. There are your six, and here’s
-one, two, three, four—and three’s seven!”
-
-He swept them over the cloth like crumbs, for her to count them for
-herself, while he looked on with flaming cheeks and wagging tongue. He
-was beginning to see what it all meant now, but still only what it
-meant to him and his. He could look his people in the face again; that
-was the burden of his loud thanksgiving. He was as sure of his 
-innocence as though the dead man had risen to prove it.
-
-“Very well,” said Phillida, briskly; “then it’s all the more reason you
-should go this minute, and catch the very first train home.”
-
-And in her sudden anxiety to see him safely off, she was for helping
-him on with the overcoat he had brought down again with his bag; but he
-followed her out slowly, and he would not turn his back.
-
-“I can’t leave you now,” he said; and she knew that he saw it from her
-side at last.
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“Because the whole thing’s altered! I’m not going to leave you with a
-man like that!”
-
-So Pocket, without a moment’s thought either for her immediate feelings
-or the ultimate consequences to himself; and yet with an unconscious
-air of sacrifice more wounding than his actual words. She would have
-flung open the door, and ordered him out, but he got his back to it
-first. So her big eyes blazed at him instead.
-
-“You’re very kind!” she cried. “But suppose I don’t believe a word you
-say against my uncle behind his back?”
-
-“I shall wait and say it to his face. That’s another reason for
-waiting.”
-
-“Do you think you’re the person to judge him—a boy like you?”
-
-“I don’t say I am. I only say that print——”
-
-“How do you know he took the negative?”
-
-“I don’t, but——”
-
-“But you jump to conclusions like a baby!” cried the girl, too quick
-for him in following up a confusing advantage. “I never heard anybody
-like you for flying from one wild notion to another; first you say he
-must have made you fire, though you own you were walking in your sleep
-with a loaded revolver, and then you’re sure you never fired at all,
-simply because you find the revolver fully loaded after days and days!
-Then you find a photograph that needn’t necessarily be what we thought
-it, that my uncle needn’t have taken even if it was; but you jump to
-another conclusion about him, and you dare to speak of him to me as
-though you knew every horrid thing you chose to think! As if you knew
-him and I didn’t! As if he hasn’t been kind and good to me for years
-and years—and kind to you—far too kind——”
-
-The strained voice broke, tears were running down her face, and in it
-and them there was more sincerity. Grief, and not anger, was the well
-of those bitter tears. And it was in simple supplication, not
-imperiously any more, that she pointed to the door when speech failed
-her. The boy’s answer was to go close up to her  instead. “Will you
-come with me?” he asked hoarsely.
-
-She shook her head; she was past surprise as well as indignation; she
-could only shake her head.
-
-“My people would be as good to you as ever he was,” urged Pocket
-extravagantly. “They’d understand, and you’d stay with us, Phillida!
-You might live with us altogether!”
-
-She smiled very faintly at that.
-
-“Oh, Phillida, can’t you see that they’d do anything for you after all
-we’ve been through together? And I, oh! there’s nothing I wouldn’t do
-if only you’d come with me now this minute! I know there’s a train
-about ten, and I know where we could borrow the money on the way. Come,
-Phillida, get on your things and come away from all this horror!”
-
-He had gone on, even into details, encouraged by the tolerance or
-apathy which had allowed him to go on at all. He took it for
-indecision; but, whatever it was, she shook it off and declared once
-for all that she would never leave Dr. Baumgartner, even if everything
-was true about him, and he as mad as that would make him out.
-
-“But he is!” cried Pocket, with most eager conviction. “That’s the only
-possible explanation, and you’d believe it fast enough if you’d heard
-all he said to me that first night, and been with  me in the dark-room
-when he developed his negative of the man he said I shot! You’d see how
-it all fits in, and how this other negative this morning simply shows
-he was at the bottom of that other affair as well! Of course he’s mad;
-but that’s the very reason why I can’t go and leave you with him.”
-
-“He would be as he’s always been to me.”
-
-“I believe he would,” said honest Pocket.
-
-“Then why don’t you go away and leave us?”
-
-“Because I can’t.”
-
-“Because you won’t!”
-
-“Very well, because I won’t and never will! But, mind you, it’ll be
-your fault if anything happens to either of us after this!”
-
-He only meant it as a last argument, though he did resent her fatal
-obstinacy, and all the obligations which it imposed upon himself. He
-stood chained in fetters of her forging, as it were to the stake, but
-he was prepared to stand there like a man, and he did not deserve the
-things she said to him in a fresh paroxysm of unreasonable wrath. He
-might be a baby, but he was not a complete coward, or simply trying to
-make her miserable, as she declared; neither, on this occasion, was he
-thinking only of himself. But Phillida seemed suddenly to realise that,
-for she broke off with a despairing little cry, and ran sobbing up the
-stairs.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XVIII.
-A THIRD CASE
-
-
-In days to come, when the boy had schooled himself not to speak of
-these days, nor to let his mind dwell on their mystery and terror, it
-was as a day of dark hours and vivid moments that he remembered the one
-which Phillida and he began alone together in her uncle’s house. Those
-endless hours were either mercifully forgotten or else contracted to an
-endurable minimum; but the unforgettable moments would light themselves
-up in his memory without a detail missing.
-
-There was their first encounter at the dark-room door, and Phillida
-standing all but barefoot in the ruby light, with her glorious hair
-about her shoulders, a picture that could never fade. Then there was
-the moment of the incriminating print, which the sun wiped out even as
-Phillida stood with it in her hands. That moment merged itself in the
-greater one of his discovery that the revolver was fully loaded, his
-inspiration that neither it nor he had done the fatal mischief in the
-Park. Then she was begging him to go (she who would keep him the time
-before!) and he entreating her to come with him, and neither giving way
-an inch, so that they quarrelled just when they should have stuck
-together, and she ran away in tears, and he stayed below in a glow of
-anger which dissolved his fears like snow in May.
-
-That was the beginning of a black hour and more. Phillida was never to
-be forgiven, then; he was staying there at his peril, staying
-absolutely on her account, and so far from giving him the slightest
-credit for it, or a single word of encouragement, she said all sorts of
-things and was off before he could answer one of them. It was not for
-Pocket to see the many ironies of that moment, and not for him to
-recognise the tonic property of his heroic grievance. He could only see
-himself at the foot of those stairs, first gnashing his teeth and not
-sorry he had made her cry, then sitting down with his eye on the front
-door, revolver in hand, to await the click of the doctor’s key. Another
-click was to answer it; and at the point of the cocked revolver
-Baumgartner was to have made a clean breast of his crimes, not only to
-the giant-killer at the foot of the stairs but to the girl he meant to
-call to witness with her own ears.
-
-Pocket saw himself a desperate character just then, and one not
-incapable of desperate action had the climax only come at once. But he
-had more than an hour of it alone at his post; he had a whole hot
-forenoon of unmitigated suspense, of sickening alarms from tradesmen’s
-carts, boys  whistling past the house as though they were not in a
-wicked world at all, and then a piano-organ that redoubled his
-watchfulness, and spoilt some tunes for him for ever. Once he did hear
-shambling feet on the very steps outside. Once was quite enough, though
-it was but an advertisement for cast-off clothing (and false teeth)
-that came fluttering through the letter-box. Pocket was left in such a
-state that he would not have backed himself to hit the door from the
-stairs; and he put the chain on it, thinking to interview the doctor
-over that, in the manner of old Miss Harbottle.
-
-So it happened that the first significant sound was entirely lost upon
-him, because he was listening for one so much nearer at hand, until
-Phillida ran downstairs and almost over him where he sat.
-
-He got up to make way stiffly, but a glance assured him that the
-quarrel was over on her side. The great eyes were fixed appealingly
-upon him, but with a distressing look which he had done nothing to
-provoke. Not before then was he aware of another duet between newsboys
-coming nearer and nearer, and shouting each other down as they came.
-
-“You hear that?” she whispered, as if not to drown a note.
-
-“I do now.”
-
-“Do you hear what it is?”
-
-Pocket listened, and caught a word he was not likely to miss.
-
-“Something fresh about the murder,” said he grimly.
-
-“No; it’s another one,” she shuddered. “Can’t you hear? ‘Another awful
-murder!’ Now they’re saying something else.”
-
-“It is something about the Park.” Pocket stuck to his idea.
-
-“And something else about some ‘well-known’—I can’t hear what!”
-
-“No more can I.”
-
-“I’ll open the door.”
-
-She opened it on the chain as he had left it. That did not help them.
-The shouting had passed the end of their quiet road. It was dying away
-again in the distance.
-
-“I must go out and get one,” said Phillida. “Some well-known man!”
-
-“You’re not thinking of the doctor, surely?”
-
-“I don’t know! I can’t think where he is.”
-
-“But you’re worse than I am, if you jump to that!” said Pocket, smiling
-to reassure her. He did not smile when she had run out as she was; he
-had shut the door after her, and he was waiting to open it in a fever
-of impatience.
-
-Dr. Baumgartner had left the house before six  o’clock in the morning;
-now it was after twelve. If some tragedy had overtaken him in his turn,
-then there was an end to every terror, and for him a better end than he
-might meet with if he lived. The boy remembered Him who desireth not
-the death of a sinner, and was ashamed of his own thought; but that did
-not alter it. Unless his fears and his surmises were all equally
-unfounded, better for everybody, and best of all for Phillida, if this
-criminal maniac came to his end without public exposure of his crimes.
-Pocket may have misconceived his own attitude of mind, as his elders
-and betters do daily; he may have been thinking of his own skin more
-than he knew, or wanted to know. In that case he had his reward, for
-the murdered man was not Dr. Baumgartner. Phillida’s first words on
-returning were to that effect; and yet she trembled as though they were
-not the truth.
-
-“Who was it, then?” the schoolboy asked suspiciously.
-
-“Sir Joseph Schelmerdine.”
-
-“So he was the well-known man!”
-
-He was well known even to the boy by name, but that was all. He had
-seen it in newspapers, and he thought he had heard it execrated by
-Baumgartner himself in one of his little digs at England. Pocket was
-not sure about this, but he mentioned his impression, and Phillida
-nodded with swimming eyes.
-
-“Did the doctor know him?”
-
-“Not personally; but he thought him a European danger.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“I can’t tell you. It was something to do with politics and gold-mines,
-and some financial paper. I never understood.”
-
-“May I see the paper you’ve brought in?”
-
-The girl held it tight in her hand, and tighter still as he held out
-his.
-
-“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said.
-
-“Then there’s something you haven’t told me.”
-
-“There is!”
-
-“I shall know it sooner or later.”
-
-“I know you will, and I know what you’ll think! You may think what you
-like, and still be wrong!”
-
-There was a pause between the sentences, and in the pause the boy found
-the paper at his feet. There was no need to open it at the place; it
-was so folded already, the news standing out in its leaded type, and
-more of it in the late corner. Sir Joseph Schelmerdine, Bart., M.P.,
-the well-known proprietor of the _Money-maker_, had been shot dead in
-front of his house in Park Lane. The murder had been committed in the
-early hours of the morning, before anybody was about except  Sir Joseph
-and his groom, and the person whom the groom described as the only
-possible murderer. The man had just seen his master mounted for the
-early morning ride, and had left him in conversation with a
-photographer representing himself as concerned with the press, and
-desirous of obtaining an equestrian photograph for his paper. The groom
-thought it was to be taken in the Park, and was himself on his way back
-to the mews when the riderless horse overtook him. Mounting the animal,
-he had galloped round to find Sir Joseph dead in the road, and no trace
-of the “photographer” but a false beard and spectacles which he had
-evidently discarded in his flight, and which unfortunately precluded a
-close description of his appearance. But a hue and cry had been
-started, and it was believed that the criminal was still in hiding in
-the immediate neighbourhood, which was being subjected to a thorough
-search under the direction of responsible officers from Scotland Yard.
-
-Such was the news which the young girl had shrunk from showing to her
-companion. She had left him, indeed, to read it by himself. And the
-next thing he remembered was finding her quite insensible in the big
-chair in the back room.
-
-The afternoon was a blank broken by no more moments such as these. It
-was a period of dull misery and gnawing dread; but the pair saw  each
-other through it, they were not divided any more. Now they listened for
-his step no longer, but for more newsboys crying his capture to the
-world. And in the hours that they spent thus listening, and listening,
-the girl had much to say, that it did her good to say, about this Dr.
-Baumgartner as she had known and almost loved him in the past.
-
-Lovable, however, he had never been, though more than good and kind to
-her for all that. He had never taken her into his life, or entered into
-hers, in the many years they had been more or less together. All she
-really knew of him was from her mother, whose elder sister he had
-married soon after the Franco-Prussian War, and lost soon after
-marriage. He must have been settled in England many years before
-Phillida’s mother, herself an Englishman’s widow, came to keep house
-for him. The girl could not remember her father, but her mother had
-lived to see her in her teens, and in her lifetime Dr. Baumgartner had
-seemed much as other men. It was only of late years that he had
-withdrawn from a world in which he was justly honoured, and buried
-himself ever deeper in his books and his photographic experiments. His
-niece had never known anything of these; he had told her nothing, and
-she had always gone in awe of him. But he had sent her to school, he
-was going to send her  to college, he had only just given her six
-months in Switzerland. It was during those months that all his
-eccentricities had become pronounced; that he had given up servants,
-and taken to doing half the work of the house himself, with the casual
-aid of charwomen, and saving the other half by having the meals in from
-a restaurant. Phillida had no influence with him in these or any other
-matters. She only blamed herself for not having realised the change in
-him and done more to save him from himself. He had done so much for
-her, whatever madness might have overtaken him in the end; her own
-kinsfolk so much less, for all their opulent integrity. Nothing could
-make her forget what he had done. She never could or would desert him;
-it was no use asking her again; but she took her callow champion’s
-hand, and wrung it with her final answer, which was unaccompanied by
-further prayers for his departure.
-
-And Pocket could understand her now, though it was no consecutive tale
-that he heard, but a very chaos of excuses and extenuations, regrets,
-suppositions, and not always revelant recollections, of which he had to
-make what he could in his own mind. What he made was a narrative so
-natural that he could not believe it was the life-story of a murderer.
-His own convictions became preposterous in his own eyes. What had he
-been thinking about all  day? Was that the way a murderer would behave?
-Was this the way a murderer would live, in these surroundings, with
-those books about him, with that little billiard-table in the next
-room? Had those waxen murderers in the garish vault lived ordinary
-lives as well? Pocket had only thought of them as committing their
-dreadful deeds, yet now he could only think of Baumgartner as living
-this ordinary life.
-
-The mood passed, but it would recur as sure as Phillida thought of
-something else to be said for Dr. Baumgartner; it was the creature of
-her feeling for him, and of the schoolboy’s feeling for her. If he
-could have convicted himself of the fatal affair in the Park, and so
-cleared Baumgartner of all blood-guiltiness whatsoever, in that or any
-other case, he would have done it for Phillida’s sake that afternoon.
-But with every hour of the doctor’s absence suspicions multiplied.
-Phillida herself was a prey to them. She was almost as ready to recall
-symptoms of incipient insanity as instances of personal kindness; if
-one lost one’s reason, she broke a long silence to contend, there could
-be no question of regret and wrong. She was not so sure about crime and
-punishment. Pocket, of course, said there could be no question of that
-either; but in his heart he wondered how much method they must prove to
-hang a madman.
-
-The evening meal had been taken in, but that was all. The girl and boy
-had no thought of sitting down to it; she had made tea not long before;
-and strong excitement is its own meat and drink. They were sitting
-silently together in the room at the back. The scented summer dusk was
-deepening every minute. Suddenly there was a sound of small branches
-breaking in the garden. Pocket peeped out, standing back from the
-window at her entreaty.
-
-The laburnum by the wall was shaking violently, pouring its golden rain
-into both gardens, and the bush beneath it looked alive; a tall figure
-rose out of it, and came creeping towards the little conservatory, bent
-double, and brushing the soil from his clothes as he advanced with long
-and stealthy strides. It was Dr. Baumgartner, in a cap pulled down over
-his eyes, and the old alpaca jacket. He had a newspaper parcel under
-his arm.
-
-The boy and girl were in the dark angle between the window and the
-door; but it was only comparative darkness, and Baumgartner might have
-seen them; they were clasping hands as they shrank away from him with
-one accord. But he did not seem to see them at all. He stretched
-himself, as though he found it a relief to stand upright, and more
-mould trickled from his garments in the act; he took off the alpaca
-jacket, and shook it as one shakes  a handkerchief. There could have
-been nothing in the pockets, certainly no weapon, and if he had a
-hip-pocket there was none in that, for his gaunt figure stood out
-plainly enough in the middle of the room. There was still the newspaper
-parcel; he had put it down on one of the walnut-tables. He now removed
-the paper; it fell at Pocket’s feet, a newspaper and nothing more; and
-nothing had come out of it but the stereoscopic camera, that either
-watcher could detect.
-
-And he passed through the room without taking the least notice of
-either of them, whether he saw them or not; and they heard him go
-upstairs, and shut the door, and then his footsteps overhead.
-
-“I’ll go up and tackle him at once,” said Pocket, through his set
-teeth; but Phillida would not hear of it.
-
-“No! I must go first and see if there’s nothing I can get him; he
-mayn’t have had anything all day. There’s no need for you to come at
-all—I believe he’s forgotten all about us both!”
-
-“Not he!” whispered Pocket, as the door opened overhead. “Here he
-comes!”
-
-He could not help gripping his revolver as the stairs creaked again
-under Dr. Baumgartner; he had gripped it more than once already with
-the hand that was not holding Phillida’s. The doctor was coming down in
-a hurry, as though he had indeed  forgotten something. But he passed
-the open drawing-room door; they saw him pass, jingling a bunch of
-keys, and never so much as glancing in on the way. It was the dark-room
-door he opened. Now he would find out everything! They heard a match
-struck, and saw the faint light turn into a strong deep crimson glow.
-The door shut. The children stood listening in the dark.
-
-Running water, and the chink of glass; the tapping of a stoppered
-bottle; the opening of the dark slide; these stages the younger
-photographer followed as though he were again looking on. Then there
-was a long period without a sound.
-
-“He’s developing now!” whispered Pocket, close to the folding-doors. He
-caught the sound of laboured breathing on the other side. “There it
-is—there it is—there it is!” cried the doctor’s voice in mingled
-ecstasy and mad excitement. A deep sigh announced the blackening of the
-plate at the conclusion of the first process. A tap ran for a moment;
-interminable minutes ensued. “It’s gone! It’s gone again!” cried the
-wild voice, with a sob; “it’s gone, gone, gone like all the rest!”
-
-One listener waited for the passionate smashing of the negative as
-before; but that did not happen again; and then he wondered if it was
-being put straight into the rack with the others, if the damage  to the
-locker had been discovered at last. He never knew. The door opened. The
-red glow showed for a moment in the passage, then went out. The door
-shut behind Baumgartner, and again he passed the drawing-room, a bent
-figure, without looking in. And the flagging step on the stairs bore no
-resemblance to the one which had come hurrying down not many minutes
-before.
-
-“I must go to him!” said Phillida in broken undertones, and her grief
-communicated itself to the other young sympathetic soul, for all the
-base fears he had to fight alone. Personal safety, little as she might
-think of it, was the essence of her position as opposed to his; and he
-was of the type that thinks of everything. She left him listening
-breathless in the dark. And in the dark she found him when at length
-she returned to report the doctor busy writing at his desk; but a pin’s
-head of blue gas glimmered where there had been none before, and a
-paper which had been trodden underfoot now rustled in Pocket’s hand.
-
-“Does he know I’m here?” he asked.
-
-“I don’t think so. We never mentioned you. I believe he’s forgotten
-your existence altogether; he began by looking at me as though he’d
-forgotten mine. He says he wants nothing, except time to write. He
-seems so strange—so old!”
-
-Again the break in her voice, and again the  boyish sympathy in his. “I
-wonder if something would be any comfort to you?”
-
-“I don’t think so. What is it?”
-
-“Something I saw in the paper he brought in with him. I lit the gas
-while you were upstairs.”
-
-Phillida turned it out again without comment.
-
-“Nothing that you saw can make any difference to me,” she sighed.
-
-“Do you remember my saying there must be another man in
-these—mysteries?”
-
-“I think I do. What difference does it make? Besides, the man you meant
-is in prison.”
-
-“He isn’t!”
-
-“You said he was?”
-
-“He was let out early this morning! Let me light the gas while you read
-it for yourself.”
-
-But Phillida had no desire to read it for herself. “I doubt if there’s
-anything in that,” she said; “but what if there were? Does it make it
-any better if a man has an accomplice in his crimes? If he’s guilty at
-all, it makes it all the worse.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIX.
-THE FOURTH CASE
-
-
-The boy and girl sat long and late in the open window at the back of
-the house. The room would have been in darkness but for a flood of
-moonlight pouring over them. The only light in the house was in the
-room above, and they only saw its glimmer on the garden when a casual
-cloud hid the moon; but once Pocket had crept out into the garden to
-steal a look at the lighted window itself; and what he saw was the
-shadow of a huge bent head smoking a huge bent pipe, and dense clouds
-of shadow floating up the wall and over the ceiling.
-
-It seemed hours since they had heard footstep or other sound upstairs
-or anywhere. There had been a brisk interval—and then an end—of more or
-less distant hansom-bells and motor-horns. There was no longer even a
-certain minute intermittent trembling of trifles on the walnut-tables,
-to which Pocket had become subconsciously accustomed in that house, so
-that he noticed its absence more than the thing itself. It was as
-though the whole town was at rest, and the tunnels under the town, and
-every single soul above or below ground, but those two white faces in
-the moonlight, and perhaps one other overhead.
-
-Pocket wondered; it was so long since a single sound had come down to
-their ears. He wanted to steal out and look up again. Phillida was
-against it; perhaps she was wondering too. Pocket, as usual, saw what
-he did see so very vividly, in his mind’s eye, that he shivered and was
-asked if he felt cold. The whispered debate that followed was the
-longest conversation they had that night. The window was not shut as a
-result of it, but Pocket fetched his overcoat on tiptoe, and it just
-went over both their shoulders, when the chairs were drawn as near
-together as they would go.
-
-The ragged little garden was brimming over with moonlight from wall to
-wall. The unkempt grass looked pale and ghostly, like the skin of some
-monstrous wolf. The moon rolled high in the sky and clouds flew above
-and below the moon, varying in pace as well. Yet it was a still night,
-and Pocket did not think that he had broken the stillness, until the
-door burst open behind them, and Baumgartner stood there, holding his
-lamp aloft. The wick was turned too high, the flame ran up the chimney
-in the draught, and for an instant a demoniac face flared up behind it.
-Then the chimney cracked, and fell in a tinkling shower, and the doctor
-was seen whirling a naked tongue of fire about his head. The boy drew
-back as the lamp flew through the open window, within  an inch of his
-nose, and crashed upon the path outside.
-
-The trio stood without a word in the moonbeams; but the doctor was
-breathing hard through his teeth, like a man wrestling with himself;
-and at last he laughed sardonically as though he had won.
-
-“A lamp like that’s a dangerous thing,” said he, with a kind of forced
-solemnity and a shake of the head; “you never know what may happen when
-a lamp does that! I’m glad the window was open; it didn’t go very near
-my young fellow, I hope?”
-
-And he took Pocket playfully by the ear, but pinched it so hard that
-the boy could have screamed with pain.
-
-“It would have served you right,” continued the doctor, before Pocket
-could find his tongue, “for sitting up so late, and keeping a young
-lady from her bed to bear you company. Come, Phillida! I shall have
-another word with you, young fellow.”
-
-The two words to the girl were in a different key from all the rest.
-They were tolerant, conciliatory, tenderly persuasive. The rest was
-suavely sinister; it made her hesitate; but Pocket had the presence of
-mind to bid her a cheery good-night, and she went, closely followed by
-Baumgartner.
-
-Posted once more at the open door, the boy heard Baumgartner on the
-next flight, soothing and affectionate still, allaying her fears; and
-his  own surged into his throat. He looked wildly about him, and an
-idea came. He opened the front door wide, and then stole back through
-the conservatory into the moonlight. He heard Baumgartner coming down
-before he gained the garden. He tore to the end of it, and cowered in
-the shadow of the far wall.
-
-The doctor came running into the moonlit room, but not for a minute; it
-looked as though he had run out first into the road. In the room he lit
-the gas, and Pocket saw him have a look in all the corners, but hardly
-the look of a seeker who expects to find. Some long moments he stood
-out horribly at the open window, gazing straight at the spot where the
-fugitive crouched a few inches out of the moonlight and hugged the
-revolver in his pocket. He seemed to see nothing to bring him out that
-way, for he closed that window and put out the gas. The trembling
-watcher heard the front door shut soon after, and saw another light in
-Baumgartner’s room the minute after that, and the blind drawn down. But
-on the blind there lagged a cloud-capped shadow till the doctor’s pipe
-was well in blast.
-
-There were no more shadows after that. The moon moved round to the
-right, and set behind the next house. The sky grew pale, and the
-lighted blind paler still, until Baumgartner drew it up  before putting
-out his light. Pocket was now too stiff to stir; but it was not
-necessary; the doctor had scarcely looked out. There was a twitter of
-sparrows all down the road, garden answering to garden. The sun came up
-behind Pocket’s wall, behind the taller houses further back. And
-Baumgartner reappeared at his window for one instant in his cap.
-
-The front door shut again.
-
-Down the garden ran Pocket without the least precaution now. There was
-a gravel passage between the tradesmen’s entrance, on the detached side
-of the house, and the garden wall. This passage was closed by a gate,
-and the gate was locked, but Pocket threw himself over it almost in his
-stride and darted over into the open road.
-
-Just then it was a perfectly empty road, but for a gaunt black figure
-stalking away in the distance. An overwhelming curiosity urged the boy
-to follow, but an equal dread of detection kept him cowering in
-gateways, until Baumgartner took the turning past the shops without a
-backward glance. Pocket promptly raced to that corner, and got another
-glimpse of his leader before he vanished round the next. So the
-spasmodic chase continued over a zigzag course; but at every turn the
-distance between them was a little less. Neither looked round, and once
-the boy’s feet were actually on the man’s shadow; for half the streets
-were raked with  level sunlight, but the other half were ladders of
-dusk with rungs of light at the gaps between the houses. All were
-dustier, dirtier, and emptier than is ever the case by night or day,
-because this was neither one nor the other, though the sun was up to
-make the most of dust, dirt, and emptiness. It was before even the
-cleansing hour of the scavenger and the water-cart. A dead cat was
-sprawling horribly in one deserted reach of wood-paving. And a
-motor-car at full speed in a thoroughfare calling itself King’s Road,
-which Pocket was about to cross, had at all events the excuse of a
-visible mile of asphalt to itself.
-
-Pocket drew back to let it pass, without looking twice at the car
-itself, which indeed was disguised out of knowledge in the promiscuous
-mire of many countries; but the red eyes behind the driver’s goggles
-were not so slow. Down went his feet on clutch and brake without a
-second’s interval; round spun the car in a skid that tore studs from
-the tyres, and fetched her up against the kerb with a shivered wheel.
-Pocket started forward with a cry; but at that moment a ponderous step
-fell close behind him; his arm was seized, and he was dragged in
-custody across the road.
-
-“Your boy, I think!” cried one whom he had never seen before, and did
-not now, being locked already in the motorist’s arms.
-
-“When did you find him?” the father asked when he was man enough, still
-patting Pocket’s shoulders as if he were a dog.
-
-“Only last night when I wired.”
-
-“And where?”
-
-“In the house where you and I couldn’t make ourselves heard.”
-
-The schoolboy flared up through all his emotion.
-
-“Why, I never saw you before this minute!”
-
-“Well, I’ve had my eye on you, more or less, for a day or two.”
-
-“Then why didn’t you wire before?” demanded Mr. Upton, quite ready to
-mask his own emotion with a little heat. “I didn’t get it till after
-nine o’clock—too late for the evening train—but I wasn’t going to waste
-three hours with a forty-horser eating its head off! So here I am, on
-my way to the address you gave.”
-
-“It was plumb opposite Baumgartner’s. I mounted guard there the very
-night you left. He came out twenty minutes ago, and your boy after
-him!”
-
-“But what does it all mean, Thrush? What on earth were you doing there,
-my dear boy?”
-
-The notes of anger and affection were struck in ludicrously quick
-succession; but the first was repeated on the boy’s hang-dog admission
-that he had been hiding.
-
-“Hiding, Tony?”
-
-Thrush himself seemed surprised at the expression. “But at all events
-we found you better employed,” he said to Pocket, “and the sooner we
-all take up the chase again the more chance we shall have of laying
-this rascal by the heels.”
-
-“Take it up, then!” snapped Mr. Upton. “Jump into the motor, and bring
-the brute to me when you’ve got him! I want to speak to my boy.”
-
-He did not realise the damage done to his car, or listen to a word that
-passed between Thrush and his chauffeur; he had eyes only for those of
-his child who had been lost but was found, and not a thought in his
-head outside the story he extracted piecemeal on the spot. Poor Pocket
-told it very volubly and ill; he would not confine himself to simple
-facts. He stated his suspicion of Baumgartner’s complicity in the Hyde
-Park affair as though he knew it for a fact; cited the murders in
-Holland Walk and Park Lane as obvious pieces of the same handiwork, and
-yet declared his conviction that the actual hand was not Dr.
-Baumgartner’s at all.
-
-“But why should you think he had an accomplice, Tony?”
-
-“He was unarmed the other morning. I’m quite positive of that. And his
-niece, who lives  with him, has never seen a firearm of any kind in the
-house.”
-
-“Well, he’s villain enough to hang, if ever there was one! It’s time we
-laid hold of him. Where’s Mr. Thrush? I thought you’d taken him on in
-the car?”
-
-This to the chauffeur, now the centre of the carrion crowd that gathers
-about the body of any disabled motor. The chauffeur, a countryman like
-his master, was enjoying himself vastly with a surreptitious cigarette
-and sardonic mutterings on the cause of his scattered spokes; the facts
-being that he had nearly fallen asleep at his wheel, which Mr. Upton
-had incontinently taken into his own less experienced hands.
-
-“The car won’t take anybody anywhere to-day,” explained the chauffeur,
-with his cigarette behind his back. “I shall have to get a lorry to
-take the car.” He held his head on one side suddenly. “There’s a bit o’
-tyre trouble for somebody!” he cried, grimly.
-
-Indeed, a sharp crack had come from the direction of the river, not
-unlike the bursting of a heavy tyre; but Pocket Upton did not think it
-was that. He caught his father’s arm, and whispered in his father’s
-ear, and they plunged together into a side street broader than the
-asphalt thoroughfare, but with scarcely a break in either phalanx of
-drab  mediocre dwellings, and not a creature stirring except themselves
-and a few who followed. The hog’s back of a still more deserted bridge
-arched itself at the foot of the street, its suspension cables showing
-against the sky in foreshortened curves. As they ran a peculiarly
-shrill whistle cut the morning air like a streak of sound.
-
-“P’lice!” screamed one of those bringing up the rear, and they easily
-spurted past father and son, each already contending with his own
-infirmity. Mr. Upton was dangerously scarlet in the neck, and Pocket
-panting as he had not done for days. In sad labour they drew near the
-suspension bridge, to a crescendo accompaniment on the police whistle.
-It was evidently being blown on the Embankment to the right of the
-bridge, and already with considerable effect. As the pair were about to
-pass an intermediate turning on the right, a constable flew across it
-on a parallel course, and they altered theirs with one accord. Pocket
-panted after the constable, and his father thundered after Pocket, into
-a narrow street debouching upon a fenced strip of greenery, not too
-dense to hide broad pavement and low parapet on its further side, with
-a strip of brown river beyond that, and a skyline of warehouses on the
-Surrey shore.
-
-The narrow garden had not been opened for the day. There was a gate
-opposite the end of the road,  another gate leading out on the
-Embankment opposite that. Between the two gates a grimy statue rose
-upon a granite pedestal, a meditative figure clad to the heels in some
-nondescript garment, and gazing across the river as he sat with a
-number of discarded volumes under his chair. It was a peculiarly
-lifelike monument, which Pocket would have been just the boy to
-appreciate at any other time; even now it struck him for an instant,
-before his attention was attracted to the group of commonplace living
-people on the Embankment beyond the narrow garden. They were standing
-together on the far side of one of the fixed seats. There was the
-policeman who had blown the whistle, and a small but motley crew who
-had answered to the call. Conspicuous units were a gentleman in
-dressing-gown and pyjamas, a couple of chimneysweeps, and a labouring
-cyclist on his way to work. They had formed a circle about some hidden
-object on the ground; and long before the new-comers could run round
-and join them, the schoolboy had steeled himself to look upon another
-murdered man. He was in no hurry to look; apart from a natural dread of
-death, which he had seen for the first time, and then unwittingly, only
-the other morning, it was the murderer and not his victim of whom the
-boy was thinking as he arrived last upon the scene. It was Dr.
-Baumgartner whom he half expected to  see swimming the river or hiding
-among the bushes in the enclosed garden; for he was not one of the
-group on the Embankment; and how else could he have made his escape?
-The point was being discussed as Pocket came into earshot; all he could
-see of the fallen man was the soles of his boots upright among living
-legs.
-
-“Is he dead?” he asked of one of the chimneysweeps, who was detaching
-himself from the group with the air of a man who had seen the best of
-the fun.
-
-“Dead as an ’erring,” replied the sweep cheerfully. “Sooicide in the
-usual stite o’ mind.”
-
-“Rats!” said the other sweep over a sooty shoulder; “unless ’e shot
-’isself first an’ swallered the shooter afterwards! Some’un’s done ’im
-in.”
-
-Pocket set his teeth, and shouldered his way into the group. His father
-was already in the thick of it, talking to the stout man in spectacles,
-who had risen miraculously from the ground and was busy brushing his
-trouser-knees. Pocket forced himself on with much the same nutter he
-had taken into the Chamber of Horrors, but with an equal determination
-to look just once upon Dr. Baumgartner’s latest victim. A loud cry
-escaped him when he did look; for the murdered man, and not the
-murderer, was Dr. Baumgartner himself.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XX.
-WHAT THE THAMES GAVE UP
-
-
-Phillida was prepared for anything when she beheld a motor-car at the
-gate, and the escaped schoolboy getting out with a grown man of shaggy
-and embarrassed aspect; but she was not prepared for the news they
-brought her. She was intensely shocked and shaken by it. Her grief and
-horror were not the less overwhelming for the shame and fear which they
-replaced in her mind. Yet she remained instinctively on her guard, and
-a passionate curiosity was the only emotion she permitted herself to
-express in words.
-
-“But have they no idea who did it? Are they quite sure he didn’t do it
-himself?”
-
-Mr. Upton broke through his heavy embarrassment with no little relief,
-to dispose of the question of suicide once and for all.
-
-“It’s the one thing they are sure about,” said he. “In the first place
-no weapon was to be found, and we saw no sign of a camera either,
-though this boy tells me your uncle had his with him when he went out.
-That’s more or less conclusive in itself. But there was a doctor on the
-spot before we left, and I heard him say the shot couldn’t have been
-fired at very close quarters, and that death must have  been
-instantaneous. So it’s no more a suicide than the case in Park Lane
-yesterday or the one in Hyde Park last week; there’s evidently some
-maniac prowling about at dawn, and shooting down the first person he
-sees and then vanishing into thin air as maniacs seem to have a knack
-of doing more effectually than sane men. But the less we jump to
-conclusions about him—or anybody else—the better.”
-
-The girl was grateful for the covert sympathy of the last remark, and
-yet it startled her as an index of what must have passed already
-between father and son. It was a new humiliation that this big bluff
-man should know as much as the boy whom she had learnt to look upon as
-a comrade in calamity. Yet she could not expect it to be otherwise.
-
-“What must you think!” she cried, and her great eyes filled and fell
-again. “Oh! what must you think?”
-
-“It’s no good thinking,” he rejoined, with almost a jovial kindness.
-“We’re all three on the edge of a mystery; we must see each other
-through before we think. Not that I’ve had time to hear everything yet,
-but I own I can’t make head or tail of what I have heard. I’m not sure
-that I want to. I like a man’s secrets to die with him; it’s enough for
-me to have my boy back again, and to know that you stood by him as you
-did. It’s our turn to stand by you, my dear! He says it wasn’t your
-fault he didn’t come away long ago; and it shan’t be mine if you stay
-another hour alone in this haunted house. You’ve got to come straight
-back with us to our hotel.”
-
-They happened to be all three standing in the big back room, a haunted
-chamber if there was one in the house. With his battle-pictures on the
-walls, his tin of tobacco on the chimney-piece, and the scent of
-latakia rising from the carpet, the whole room remained redolent of the
-murdered man; and the window still open, the two chairs near it as they
-had been overnight, and the lamp lying in fragments on the path
-outside, brought the last scene back to the boy’s mind in full and
-vivid detail. Yet the present one was in itself more desolate and
-depressing than any in which Dr. Baumgartner had figured. It might be
-that the constant menace of that portentous presence had thrown his
-simple middle-class surroundings, at the time, into a kind of
-reassuring relief. But it was the case that the morning had already
-clouded over; the sunshine of the other mornings was sadly missing; and
-Phillida looked only too eager to fly from the scene, until she
-declared she never could.
-
-“But that’s absurd!” cried Mr. Upton bluntly. “I’m not going to leave a
-young girl like you alone  in the day of battle, murder and sudden
-death! You needn’t necessarily come with us, as long as you don’t stay
-here. Have you no other relatives in London?”
-
-“None anywhere that I know much about.”
-
-“That doesn’t matter. It’s time they knew more about you. I’ll hunt
-them up in the motor, if they’re anywhere within a hundred miles, but
-you simply must let me take their place meanwhile.”
-
-He was a masterful man enough; it did not require the schoolboy’s added
-supplications to bring about an eventual compromise. The idea had
-indeed been Pocket’s originally, but his father had taken it up more
-warmly than he could have hoped. It was decided that they should return
-to their hotel without Phillida, but to send the car back for her later
-in the morning, as it would take her some time to pack her things and
-leave the deserted house in some semblance of order.
-
-But her packing was a very small matter, and she left it to the end;
-most of the time at her disposal was spent in a hurried investigation
-of the dead man’s effects, more especially of his store of negatives in
-the dark-room. The only incriminating plates, however, were the one she
-had already seen on its discovery by Pocket the day before and another
-of a man lying in a heap in the middle of a road. This one had been put
-to dry openly  in the rack, the wood of which was still moist from the
-process. Phillida only held it up to the light an instant, and then not
-only smashed both these negatives, but poured boiling water on the
-films and floated them down the sink. The bits of glass she put in the
-dust-bin with those of the broken lamp, and had hardly done so when the
-first policeman arrived to report the fatality. He was succeeded by a
-very superior officer, who gained admittance and asked a number of
-questions concerning the deceased, but in a perfunctory manner that
-suggested few if any expectations from the replies. Neither functionary
-made any secret of his assumption that the latest murder was but
-another of the perfectly random series which had already thrilled the
-town, but on which no light was likely to be shed by the antecedents of
-the murdered men. A third official came to announce that the inquest
-was to be opened without delay, at two o’clock that afternoon, and to
-request Phillida to accompany him to the mortuary for the formal
-identification of the deceased.
-
-That was a dread ordeal, and yet she expected a worse. She had steeled
-herself to look upon a debased image of the familiar face, and she
-found it startlingly ennobled and refined. Death had taken away nothing
-here, save the furrows of age and the fires of madness, and it had
-given back the  look of fine courage and of sane integrity which the
-girl was just old enough to associate with the dead man’s prime. She
-was thankful to have seen him like this for the last time. She wished
-that all the world could see him as he was, so noble and so calm, for
-then nobody would ever suspect that which she herself would find it
-easier to disbelieve from this hour.
-
-“You do identify him, I suppose, miss?” the officer whispered,
-impressed by her strange stare.
-
-“Oh, yes!” said Phillida. “But he looks as I have not seen him look for
-years. There are worse things than death!”
-
-She said the same thing to Mr. Upton at luncheon in his private
-sitting-room at the hotel, whereupon he again assured her that he had
-no desire to know a dead man’s secrets. He had found his boy; that was
-quite enough for him, and he was able to deliver himself the more
-freely on the subject since Pocket was not at table, but in bed making
-up for lost sleep. Not only had he succeeded in finding his son, but he
-had found him without the aid of police or press, and so not more than
-a dozen people in the world knew that he had ever disappeared. Mr.
-Upton explained why he had deemed it essential to keep the matter from
-his wife’s ears, and added almost equally good reasons for continuing
-to hush it up on the boy’s account  if only it were possible to do so;
-but would it be possible to Phillida to exclude from her evidence at
-the inquest all mention of so recent a visitor at her uncle’s house?
-Phillida promised to do her best, and it proved not only possible but
-easy. She was questioned as to the habits of the deceased so far as
-they explained his presence on the Embankment at such a very early
-hour, but that was all. Asked if she knew of a single person who could
-conceivably have borne such a grudge against Dr. Baumgartner as to wish
-to take his life, the witness answered in the negative, and the coroner
-bowed as much as to say that of course they all knew the character of
-the murder, but he had put the question for form’s sake. The only one
-which caused her a moment’s hesitation arose from a previous answer,
-which connected the doctor’s early ramblings with his hobby of
-instantaneous photography. Had he his camera with him that morning?
-Phillida thought so. Why? Well, he always did take it out, and it
-certainly was not in the house. Mr. Upton wiped his forehead, for he
-knew that his boy’s name had been on the tip of the witness’s tongue.
-And there was a sensation in court as well; for here at last was a bone
-for the detectives, who obtained a minute description of the missing
-camera, but grumbled openly that they had not heard of it before.
-
-“They never told me they hadn’t got it,” explained Phillida to the
-coroner, who made her his courteous bow, and permitted her to leave the
-court on the conclusion of her evidence.
-
-On the stairs Mr. Upton paid her compliments that made her wince as
-much as the crude grip of his hand; but he was tact itself compared
-with his friend Mr. Thrush, who sought an interview in order to ply the
-poor girl there and then with far more searching questions than she had
-been required to answer upon oath. She could only look at Mr. Upton in
-a way that secured his peppery intervention in a moment. The two men
-had scarcely seen each other since the morning, and the ironmaster
-thought they had enough to say to each other without bothering Miss
-Platts just then; they accordingly adjourned to Glasshouse Street, and
-Phillida was to have gone on to the hotel; but she made them drop her
-at a shop near Sloane Square on the pretext of seeing about her
-mourning.
-
-Phillida had promised to drive straight back to Trafalgar Square and
-order tea for herself if Tony had not appeared; but she did not drive
-straight back. She had a curious desire to see the place where the
-murder had been committed. It had come upon her at the inquest, while
-listening to the constable who had found the body, her predecessor  in
-the witness-box. She had failed to follow his evidence. He had
-described that portion of his beat which had brought him almost on the
-scene of the murder, almost at the moment of its commission. It
-included only the short section of Cheyne Walk between Oakley Street
-and Cheyne Row. The houses at this point are divided from the
-Embankment by the narrow garden which contains the Carlyle statue. He
-had turned up Cheyne Row, at the back of the statue, but before turning
-he had noticed a man on the seat facing the river on the far side of
-the garden. The man was sitting down, but he was said to have turned
-round and watched the policeman as he passed along Cheyne Walk. There
-might have been a second man lying on that seat, or crouching on the
-flags between the seat and the parapet, but he would have been
-invisible from the beat. Not another creature was in sight anywhere.
-Yet the policeman swore that he had not proceeded a dozen yards up
-Cheyne Row before the shot was fired. He had turned round actually in
-time to see the puff of smoke dispersing over the parapet. It was all
-he saw. He had found the deceased lying in a heap, nearer the seat than
-the parapet, but between the two. Not another soul did he see, or had
-he seen. And he had not neglected to look over the parapet into the
-river, and along the foreshore in both  directions, without discovering
-sign or trace of human being.
-
-Such was the story which Phillida found so hard to credit that she
-proceeded to the spot in order to go over the ground for her own
-satisfaction. This did not make it easier to understand. It had come on
-to rain heavily while she was in the shop; the shining Embankment was
-again practically deserted, and she was able to carry out her
-experiment without exciting observation. She took a dozen steps up
-Cheyne Row, pretended she heard the shot, turned sharp round, and quite
-realised that from where she was the body could not have been seen,
-hidden as it must have been by the seat, which itself was almost hidden
-by the long and narrow island of enclosed garden. But a running man
-could have been seen through the garden, even if he stooped as he ran,
-and the murderer must have run like the wind to get away as he had
-done. The gates through the garden, back and front of the statue, had
-not been opened for the day when the murder took place, so Phillida in
-her turn made a half-circuit of the island to get to the spot where the
-body had been found, but without taking her eyes off the spot until she
-reached it. No! It was as she had thought all along; by nothing short
-of a miracle could the assassin have escaped observation if the
-policeman had eyes in his head and had acted  as he swore he had done.
-He might have dashed into the garden, when the policeman was at his
-furthest point distant, if the gates had been open as they were now;
-but they had been locked, and he could not have scaled them unobserved.
-Neither would it have been possible to take a header into the river
-with the foreshore as described by the same witness. Yet the murderer
-had either done one of these things, or the flags of the Embankment had
-opened and swallowed him.
-
-The girl stood on the very spot where the murdered man must have
-fallen, and in her utter perplexity it was no longer the tragedy but
-the problem which engrossed her mind. What had happened, had happened;
-but how could it have happened? She raised her umbrella and peered
-through the rain at a red pile of many-windowed flats; had that Argus
-of the hundred eyes been sleeping without one of them open at the time?
-Her own eyes fell as far as the black statue in the narrow garden,
-standing out hi the rain, like the greenery about its granite base, as
-though the blackened bronze were polished marble. How lifelike the
-colossal scholar in his homely garb! How scornful and how shrewd the
-fixed eternal gaze across his own old Father Thames! It assumed another
-character as the girl gazed in her turn, she seemed to intercept that
-stony stare, to distract it from the river to herself, and to  her
-fevered fancy the grim lips smiled contemptuously on her and her
-quandary. He knew—_he_ knew—those grim old eyes had seen it all, and
-still they stared and smiled as much as to say: “You are looking the
-wrong way! Look where I am looking; that way lies the truth you are
-poor fool enough to want to know!”
-
-And Phillida turned her back towards the shiny statue, and looked over
-the wet parapet, almost expecting to see something, but never dreaming
-of what she actually saw. The tide, which must have been coming in that
-early morning, was now going out, and between the Embankment masonry
-and the river there was again a draggled ribbon of shelving foreshore,
-black as on some volcanic coast; and between land and water, at a point
-that would necessarily have been submerged for the last eight or nine
-hours, a small object was being laid more bare by every receding
-wavelet. It was black and square, perhaps the size of two large
-cigar-boxes side by side; and it had one long, thin, reddish tentacle,
-finishing in a bulb that moved about gently in the rain-pocked water.
-
-Phillida felt the parapet strike cold and wet through her rain-coat
-sleeves as she leant far over to make doubly sure what she object was;
-but indeed she had not a moment’s doubt but that it was the missing
-camera of the murdered man.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXI.
-AFTER THE FAIR
-
-
-Mr. Upton was dumfoundered when the top-floor door in Glasshouse Street
-was opened before Eugene Thrush could insert his key; for it was the
-sombre Mullins who admitted the gentleman as though nothing had
-happened to him except a fairly recent shave.
-
-“I thought he was in prison?” exclaimed the ironmaster when the two
-were closeted.
-
-“Do you ever read your paper?”
-
-“I haven’t looked at one since Plymouth.”
-
-“Well, I howked him out first thing yesterday morning.”
-
-“_You_ did, Thrush?”
-
-“Why not? I had need of the fellow, and that part of the game was up.”
-
-Mr. Upton showed symptoms of his old irritability under the Thrush
-mannerism.
-
-“My good fellow, I wish to goodness you’d explain yourself!”
-
-“If I cared to be profane,” returned Thrush, mixing drinks in the
-corner, “I should refer you to the first chapter of the Book of Job. I
-provided the prisoner, and I’d a perfect right to take him away again.
-Blessed be the song of the Thrush!”
-
-“You say you provided him?”
-
-“In other words, I laid the information against my own man, but only
-with his own consent.”
-
-“Well, well, you must have your joke, I suppose. I can afford to put up
-with it now.”
-
-“It wasn’t meant as a joke,” returned Thrush, and drank deep while his
-client sipped. “If it had come off it would have been the coup of my
-career; as it didn’t—quite—one must laugh it off at one’s own expense.
-Your son has told you what that poor old sinner made him think he’d
-done?”
-
-“Of course.”
-
-“Would it surprise you to hear that one or two others thought the same
-thing?”
-
-“Not you, Thrush?”
-
-“Not I to quite the same positive extent as my rascal Mullins. He
-jumped to it from scratch!”
-
-“He connected Tony with the Park murder?”
-
-“From the word ‘go.’ ”
-
-“On the strength of an asthma cigarette and my poor wife’s dream?”
-
-“No; he didn’t know about the dream. But he refused to believe in two
-independent mysteries at one time and on one spot. The eternal unities
-was too many measles for Mullins, though he never heard tell of ’em in
-his life.”
-
-Mr. Upton was no longer irritated by the other’s  flippancy. He looked
-at Thrush with a shining face.
-
-“And you never told me what was in your minds!”
-
-“It was poison even in mine; it would have been deadly poison to you,
-in the state you were in. I say! I’ll wear batting-gloves the next time
-we shake hands!” and Thrush blew softly on his mangled fingers.
-
-“You believed he’d done it, and you kept it to yourself,” murmured Mr.
-Upton, still much impressed. “Tell me, my dear fellow—did you believe
-it after that interview with Baumgartner in his house?”
-
-Thrush emptied his glass at once.
-
-“Don’t remind me of that interview, Mr. Upton; there was the lad on the
-other side of so much lath-and-plaster, and I couldn’t scent him
-through it! But he never made a sound, confound him!”
-
-“Tony’s told me about that; they were whispering, for reasons of their
-own.”
-
-“I ought to have seen that old man listening! His ears must have grown
-before my purblind eyes! But his story was an extraordinarily
-interesting and circumstantial effort. And to come back to your
-question, it did fit in with the theory of a fatal accident on your
-boy’s part; he was frightened to show his face at school after sleeping
-in the Park,  let alone what he was supposed to have done there; and
-that, he believed, would break his mother’s heart in any case.”
-
-“By Jove, and so it might! It wouldn’t take much just now,” said Mr.
-Upton, sadly.
-
-“So he thought of the ship you wouldn’t let him go out in—and the whole
-thing fitted in! Of course he had told the old ruffian—saving his
-presence elsewhere—all about the forbidden voyage; and that gentleman
-of genius had it ready for immediate use. I’m bound to say he used it
-on me with excellent effect.”
-
-“Same here,” said the ironmaster—“though I’d no idea what you
-suspected. I thought it a conceivable way out of any bad scrape, for
-that particular boy.”
-
-“It imposed upon us all,” said Thrush, “but one. I was prepared to
-believe it if you did, and you believed it because you didn’t know your
-boy as well as you do now. But Miss Upton, who seems to know him better
-than anybody else—do you remember how she wouldn’t hear of it for a
-moment?”
-
-“I do _so_, God bless her!”
-
-“That shook me, or rather it prevented me from accepting what I never
-had quite accepted in my heart. That’s another story, and you’re only
-in the mood for one at present; but after seeing  Baumgartner on
-Saturday, I thought I’d like to know a little more about him, not from
-outsiders but from the inside of his own skull. So I went to the
-British Museum to have a look at his books. It was after hours for
-getting books, but I made such representations that they cut their red
-tape for once; and I soon read enough to wonder whether my grave and
-reverend seignior was quite all there. Spiritualism one knows, but here
-was spiritualism with a difference; psychic photography one had heard
-about, but here was a psychical photographer gone mad or bad! When a
-gifted creature puts into admirable English his longing to snap-shoot
-the souls of murderers coming up through the drop, like the clown at
-Drury Lane, you begin to want him elected to a fauteuil in Broadmoor.
-Will you believe me when I tell you that I stumbled mentally on the
-very thing I shall presently prove to have been the truth, and that I
-dismissed it from my mind as the wildest impossibility?”
-
-“I don’t see how you’re going to prove it now,” remarked Mr. Upton, who
-hoped there would be no such proof, for the sake of the girl who had
-been good to his boy; but that was a private consideration which there
-was no necessity to express.
-
-“I shall want another chat with your lad when he’s had his sleep out,”
-replied Thrush, significantly; “he’s told me quite enough to make me
-eager for  more. But you haven’t told me anything about your own
-adventures?”
-
-And he got another drink to help him listen; for as a rule the
-ironmaster was only succinct when thoroughly irate. But now for once he
-was both brief and amiable.
-
-“What have I to tell compared with you?” he asked. “Those damned old
-wooden walls only cleared the Thames on Sunday morning, and they
-weren’t near Plymouth when I left last night; but my little aluminium
-lot broke all her records before I broke one of her wheels. What I want
-to know is what you did from the time I left on Sunday night to that
-great moment this morning.”
-
-“I sat down to watch Baumgartner, his house,” replied Thrush. “The
-merit of those quiet little streets is that there are always apartments
-of sorts, though not always the most admirable sort, to be had in half
-the houses. There was quite a choice bang opposite Baumgartner’s, and
-I’d taken a front room before you were through Hammersmith. Of course I
-explained that I had lost a last train, and the landlady’s son
-embarrassed me with pyjamas of inadequate dimensions. Well, I sat at
-the front window all night, for no better reasons than my strong
-feeling about the doctor’s writings, and your daughter’s disbelief in
-his yarn about her brother. Soon after five in the morning the old bird
-came out,  and I was after him like knife. I tracked him to
-Knightsbridge without much difficulty, excepting the one of avoiding
-being spotted, but there that happened by the merest accident. He was
-passing under the scaffolding outside the church they’re pulling down
-there, and he’s so tall he knocked his hat off. I admit I was too
-close. He saw, and must have recognised me; but I shouldn’t have
-recognised him if I hadn’t seen him start out. He was wearing a false
-beard and spectacles!”
-
-“That’s proof positive,” said ingenuous Mr. Upton, under his breath.
-
-“Well, I confess it’s something like it in this case; but it was a very
-awkward moment for me. I hadn’t to let him see I knew him, nor yet that
-I was following him, and the only way was to abandon the chase as
-openly as possible. It was then I decided that it was no use leaving
-poor old Mullins in pawn to the police. I redeemed him without delay.
-We went back to my new rooms together, which I needn’t tell you I liked
-so much that I brought a suit-case and took them for a week. Of course,
-as we had lost the run of Baumgartner, the next best thing was to watch
-for his return. Mullins took that on while I got some sleep; when I
-awoke the Park Lane murder was the latest, and I won’t say I didn’t
-suspect who’d done it. Perhaps I didn’t tell you he had his camera with
-him as  well as beard and goggles, and all three figured in the first
-reports.”
-
-“But all this time you had no idea my boy was in the house?”
-
-“None whatever; we saw the girl once or twice, but that was all until I
-wired last night. What I never saw myself was Baumgartner’s return; but
-in the afternoon I sent Mullins round to another road to try and get a
-room overlooking the place from the back. Well, the houses were too
-much class for that; but one was empty, and he got the key and risked
-going back to prison for the cause! Suffice it that he set eyes on both
-man and boy before I sent that wire.”
-
-“And you left my son in that murderer’s clutches a minute longer than
-you could help?” It was a previous incarnation of Pocket’s father that
-broke in with this.
-
-“You must remember in the first place that I couldn’t be in the least
-sure it was your son; in the second, if murder had been intended,
-murder would have been done with as little delay in his case as in the
-others; thirdly, that we’ve nothing to show that Dr. Baumgartner is an
-actual murderer at all, but, fourthly, that to raid his place was the
-way to make him one. Poor Mullins, too, as the original Sherlock of the
-show, was desperately against calling in the police under any
-circumstances.  He assured me there was no sign of bad blood about the
-house, until the small hours, and then he saw your son make his escape.
-I told him he should have collared the lad, but he lost sight of him in
-the night and preferred to keep an eye on that poor desperate doctor.”
-
-Thrush treated this part of his narrative with the peculiar confidence
-which most counsel reserve for the less satisfactory aspects of their
-case. But Mr. Upton was not in a mood to press a point of grievance
-against anybody. And the name of Mullins reminded him that his
-curiosity on a very different point had not been gratified.
-
-“Why on earth did you have Mullins run in?” he inquired, with
-characteristic absence of finesse.
-
-“I’m not very proud of it,” replied Thrush. “It didn’t come off, you
-see.”
-
-“But whatever could the object have been?”
-
-“I must have a damn-it if I’m to tell you that,” said Thrush; and the
-ironmaster concluded that he meant a final drink, from the action which
-he suited to the oath. “It was one way that occurred to me of putting
-salt on the lad.”
-
-“Tony?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“You puzzle me more and more.”
-
-“Well, you see, I gathered that he was a particularly honourable boy,
-of fine sensibilities, and  yet Mullins thought he had shot this man by
-accident and was lying low. I only thought that, if that were so, the
-news of an innocent man’s arrest would bring him into the open as quick
-as anything. Mullins proving amenable to terms, and having really been
-within a hundred miles of both murders at the time they were committed,
-the rest was elementary. But what’s the good of talking about it? It
-didn’t come off.”
-
-“It very nearly did! I can tell you that straight from Tony; he was
-going to give himself up yesterday morning, if he hadn’t accidentally
-satisfied himself of his own innocence.”
-
-Mr. Upton said more than this, but it was the explicit statement of
-fact that alone afforded Thrush real consolation. His spectacled eyes
-blinked keenly behind their flashing lenses; the button of a nose
-underneath twitched as though it scented battle once again; and the
-drink with the opprobrious name was suddenly put down unfinished.
-
-“If only I could find that camera!” he cried. “It’s the touchstone of
-the whole thing, mark my words. If it’s an accomplice who did this
-thing, he’s got it; even if not——”
-
-He stood silenced by a sudden thought, a gleam of light that illumined
-his whole flushed face.
-
-“Mullins!” he roared. Mullins was on the spot with somewhat suspicious
-alacrity. “Get the  almanac, Mullins, and look up Time of High Water at
-London Bridge to-day!”
-
-He himself flopped down behind the telephone to ring up the cab-office
-in Bolton Street. But it takes time even for a Eugene Thrush to consume
-all but three large whiskies and sodas; and the afternoon was already
-far advanced.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XXII.
-THE SECRET OF THE CAMERA
-
-
-The camera had been placed upon a folded newspaper, for the better
-preservation of the hotel table-cloth. Its apertures were still choked
-with mud; beads of slime kept breaking out along the joints. And
-Phillida was still explaining to Pocket how the thing had come into her
-possession.
-
-“The rain was the greatest piece of luck, though another big slice was
-an iron gangway to the foreshore about a hundred yards up-stream. It
-was coming down so hard at the time that I couldn’t see another
-creature out in it except myself. I don’t believe a single soul saw me
-run down that gangway and up again; but I dropped my purse over first
-for an excuse if anybody did. I popped the camera under my waterproof,
-and carried it up to the King’s Road before I could get a cab. But I
-never expected to find you awake and about again; next to the rain
-that’s the best luck of all!”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Because you know all about photography and I don’t. Suppose he took a
-last photograph, and suppose that led directly to the murder!”
-
-“That’s an idea.”
-
-“The man threw the camera into the river, but the plate would be in it
-still, and you could develop it!”
-
-The ingenious hypothesis had appealed to the eager credulity of the
-boy; but at the final proposition he shook a reluctant head.
-
-“I’m afraid there’s not much chance of there being anything to develop;
-the slide’s been open all this time, you see.”
-
-“I know. I tried to shut it, but the wood must have swollen in the
-water. Yet the more it has swollen, the better it ought to keep out the
-light, oughtn’t it?”
-
-“I’m afraid there isn’t a dog’s chance,” he murmured, as he handled the
-camera again. Yet it was not of the folding-bellows variety, but was
-one of the earlier and stronger models in box form, and it had come
-through its ordeal wonderfully on the whole. Nothing was absolutely
-broken; but  the swollen slide jammed obstinately, until in trying to
-shut it by main force, Pocket lost his grip of the slimy apparatus, and
-sent it flying to the floor, all but the slide which came out bodily in
-his hand.
-
-“That settles it,” remarked Phillida, resignedly. The exposed plate
-stared them in the face, a sickly yellow in the broad daylight. It was
-cracked across the middle, but almost dry and otherwise uninjured.
-
-“I am sorry!” exclaimed Pocket, as they stood over the blank sheet of
-glass and gelatine; it was like looking at a slate from which some
-infinitely precious message had been expunged unread. “I’m not sure
-that you weren’t right after all; what’s water-tight must be more or
-less light-tight, when you come to think of it. I say, what’s all this?
-The other side oughtn’t to bulge like that!”
-
-He picked the broken plate out of the side that was already open, and
-weighed the slide in his hand; it was not heavy enough to contain
-another plate, he declared with expert conviction; yet the side which
-had not been opened was a slightly bulging but distinctly noticeable
-convexity. Pocket opened it at a word from Phillida, and an over-folded
-packet of MS. leapt out.
-
-“It’s his writing!” cried the girl, with pain and awe in her
-excitement. She had dropped the document at once.
-
-“It’s in English,” said Pocket, picking it up.
-
-“It must be what he was writing all last night!”
-
-“It is.”
-
-“You see what it is!” urged Phillida, feebly. But she watched him
-closely as he read to himself:—
-
-“_June_ 20, 190—.”
-
-
-“It is a grim coincidence that I should sit down to reveal the secret
-of my latter days on what is supposed to be the shortest night of the
-year; for they must come to an end at sunrise, viz., at 3.44 according
-to the almanac, and it is already after 10 p.m. Even if I sit at my
-task till four I shall have less than six hours in which to do justice
-to the great _ambition_ and the crowning folly of my life. I used the
-underlined word advisedly; some would substitute ‘monomania,’ but I
-protest I am as sane as they are, fail as I may to demonstrate that
-fact among so many others to be dealt with in the very limited time at
-my disposal. Had I more time, or the pen of a readier writer, I should
-feel surer of vindicating my head if not my heart. But I have been ever
-deliberate in all things (excepting, certainly, the supreme folly
-already mentioned), and I would be as deliberate over the last words I
-shall ever write, as in my final preparations for death——”.
-
-
-“What is it?” asked Phillida, for his eyes had dilated as he read, and
-he was breathing hard.
-
-“He practically says he was going to commit suicide at daybreak! He’s
-said so once already, but now he says it in so many words!”
-
-“Well, we know he didn’t do it,” said Phillida, as though she found a
-crumb of comfort in the thought.
-
-“I’m not so sure about that.”
-
-“Go on reading it aloud. I can bear it if that’s the worst.”
-
-“But it isn’t, Phillida. I can see it isn’t!”
-
-“Then let us read it together. I’d rather face it with you than
-afterwards all by myself. We’ve seen each other through so much, surely
-we can—surely——”
-
-Her words were swept away in a torrent of tears, and it was with dim
-eyes but a palpitating heart that Pocket looked upon the forlorn drab
-figure of the slip of a girl; for as yet, despite her pretext to Mr.
-Upton, she had taken no thought for her mourning, that unfailing
-distraction to the normally bereaved, but had put on anything she could
-find of a neutral tint; and yet it was just her dear disdain of
-appearance, the intimate tears gathering in her great eyes, unchecked,
-and streaming down the fresh young face, the very shabbiness of her
-coat and skirt, that made her what she was  in his sight. Outside, the
-rain had stopped, and Trafalgar Square was drying in the sun, that
-streamed in through the open window of the hotel sitting-room, and
-poured its warm blessing on the two young heads bent as one over the
-dreadful document.
-
-This was the part they read together, now in silence, now one and now
-the other whispering a few sentences aloud:—.
-
-“What I have called my life’s ambition demands but little explanation
-here. I have never made any secret of it, but, on the contrary, I have
-given full and frank expression to my theories in places where they are
-still accessible to the curious. I refer to my signed articles on
-spirit photography in _Light Human Nature_, _The Occult Review_ and
-other periodicals, but particularly to the paper entitled ‘The Flight
-of the Soul,’ in _The Nineteenth Century and After_ for January of last
-year. The latter article contains my last published word on the matter
-which has so long engrossed my mind. It took me some months to prepare
-and to write, and its reception did much to drive me to the extreme
-measures I have since employed. Treated to a modicum of serious
-criticism by the scientific press, but more generally received with
-ignorant and intolerant derision, which is the Englishman’s attitude
-towards whatsoever is without his own contracted ken, my article, the
-work of months, was dismissed and forgotten in a few days. I had
-essayed the stupendous feat of awaking the British nation to a new
-idea, and the British nation had responded with a characteristic snore
-of unfathomable indifference. My name has not appeared in its vermin
-press from that day to this; it was not mentioned in the paragraph
-about the psychic photographer which went the rounds about a year ago.
-Yet I was that photographer. I am the serious and accredited inquirer
-to whom the London hospitals refused admittance to their pauper
-deathbeds, thronged though those notoriously are by the raw material of
-the British medical profession. Begin at the bottom of the British
-medical ladder, and you are afforded the earliest and most frequent
-opportunities of studying (if not accelerating) the phenomena of human
-dissolution; but against the foreign scientist the door is closed,
-without reference either to the quality of his credentials or the
-purity of his aims. I can conceive no purer and no loftier aim than
-mine. It is as high above that of your ordinary physician as heaven
-itself is high above this earth. Your physician wrestles with death to
-lengthen life, whereas I would sacrifice a million lives to prove that
-there is no such thing as death; that this human life of ours, by which
-we set such childish store, is but a fleeting phase of the permanent
-life of the spirit. One shrinks from setting down so trite a truism; it
-is the common ground of all religion, but I have reached it from the
-opposite pole. Religion is to me the unworthy triumph of instinct over
-knowledge, a lazy substitution of invention for discovery. Religion
-invites us to take her postulates on trust; but a material age is
-deserving of material proofs, and it is these proofs I have striven to
-supply. Surely it is a higher aim, and not a lower, to appeal to the
-senses that cannot deceive, rather than to the imagination which must
-and does? But I am trenching after all upon ground which I myself have
-covered before to-day; it is my function to-night to relate a personal
-narrative rather than to reiterate personal views. Suffice it that to
-me, for many years, the only path to the Invisible has been the path of
-so-called spiritualism; the only lamp that illumined that path, so that
-all who saw might follow it for themselves, the lamp of spirit
-photography. It is a path with a bad name, a path infested with quacks
-and charlatans, and by false guides who rival the religious fanatics in
-the impudence of their appeal to man’s credulity. Even those who bear
-the lamp I hold aloft are too often jugglers and rogues, to whose
-wiles, unfortunately, the simple science of photography lends itself
-all too readily. Nothing is  easier than the production of impossible
-pictures by a little manipulation of film or plate; if the spiritual
-apparition is not to be enticed within range of the lens, nothing
-easier than to fabricate an approximate effect. And what spiritualist
-has yet succeeded in summoning spirits at will? It is the crux of the
-whole problem of spiritualism, to establish any sort or form of
-communication with disembodied spirits at the single will of the
-embodied; hence the periodical exposure of the paid medium, the smug
-scorn of the unbeliever, and the discouragement of genuine exploration
-beyond the environment of the flesh. There is one moment, and only one,
-at which a man may be sure that he stands, for however brief a particle
-of time, in the presence of a disembodied soul. It is the moment at
-which soul and body part company in what men call death. The human
-watcher sees merely the collapse of the human envelope; but many a
-phenomenon invisible to the human eye has been detected and depicted by
-that of the camera, as everybody knows who has the slightest
-acquaintance with the branch of physics known as ‘fluorescence.’ The
-invisible spirit of man surely falls within this category. To the
-crystal eye of science it is not so much invisible as elusive and
-intractable. Once it has fled this earth, the sovereign opportunity is
-gone; but photography may often intercept the actual flight of the
-soul.”
-
-“I say no more than ‘often’ because there are special difficulties into
-which I need not enter here; but they would disappear, or at least be
-minimised, if the practice received the encouragement it deserves,
-instead of the forbidding ban of a sentimental generation. It would
-hurt nobody; it would comfort and convince the millions who at present
-have only their Churches’ word for the existence of an eternal soul in
-their perishable bodies. It would prove more, in the course of a few
-experiments, than all the Churches have proved between them in nineteen
-centuries. Yet how are my earnest applications received, in hospitals
-where men die daily, in prisons where they are still occasionally put
-to death? I am refused, rebuffed, gratuitously reprimanded; in fact, I
-am driven ultimately to the extreme course of taking human life, on my
-own account, in order to prove the life eternal. Call it murder, call
-it what you will; in a civilisation which will not hear of a lethal
-chamber for congenital imbeciles it would be waste of time to urge the
-inutility of a life as an excuse for taking it, or the misery of an
-individual as a reason for sending him to a world which cannot use him
-worse than this world. I can only say that I have not deprived the
-State of one conceivably profitable servant, or cut short a single life
-of promise or repute. I have picked my few victims with infinite care
-from  amid the moral or material wreckage of life; either they had
-nothing to live for, or they had no right to live. Charlton, the
-licensed messenger, had less to live for than any man I ever knew; in
-the course of our brief acquaintance he frequently told me how he
-wished he was dead. I came across him in Kensington, outside a house to
-which an unseemly fracas had attracted my attention as I passed.
-Charlton had just been ejected for being drunk and insolent, and
-refusing to leave without an extra sixpence. I befriended him. He was
-indeed saturated with alcohol and honeycombed with disease; repulsive
-in appearance, and cantankerous in character, his earnings were so
-slender that he was pitifully clad, and without a night’s lodging
-oftener than not. He had not a friend in the world, and was suffering
-from an incurable malady of which the end was certain agony. I resolved
-to put him out of his misery, and at the same time to try to photograph
-the escape of his soul. A favourable opportunity did not present itself
-for some time, during which Charlton subsisted largely on my bounty; at
-last one morning I found him asleep on a bench in Holland Walk, and not
-another being in sight, and I shot him with a cheap pistol which I had
-purchased second-hand for the purpose, and which I left beside him on
-the seat. Yet the weapon it was that cast a doubt upon the 
-authenticity of the suicide, despite my final precaution of stuffing a
-number of cartridges into the dead man’s pocket; pot-house associates
-came forward to declare that he could never have possessed either the
-revolver or its price without their knowledge. Hence the coroner’s
-repudiation of the verdict at the inquest. Yet it is to be feared that
-the fate of such as poor Charlton excites but little public interest in
-its explanation, and that the police themselves never took more than an
-academic interest in the case.”
-
-“To me it was a bitter disappointment on other grounds. I had lost very
-few seconds between pulling the revolver trigger and pressing the bulb
-of my pneumatic shutter; but one had to get back into position for
-this, and the fact remains that I was too late. The result may be found
-among my negatives. It is dreadfully good of the dead man, if not a
-unique photograph of actual death; but it lacks the least trace of the
-super-normal. The flight of the soul had been too quick for me; it
-would be too quick again unless I hit upon some new method. I had not
-only failed to leave convincing evidence of suicide, but the fatal
-pause between pistol-shot and snap-shot was due entirely to my
-elaborate attempt in that direction. It was not worth making again. The
-next case should be a more honest breach of the Sixth  Commandment; the
-shot to be fired, and the photograph taken, at the same range and all
-but at the same instant. There would be no further point in leaving the
-weapon behind, so I was free to choose the one best suited to my
-purpose, and to adapt it at my leisure to my peculiar needs. Eventually
-I evolved the ingenious engine which, no doubt, has already explained
-itself better than I could possibly explain it; if not, the discoverer
-of the camera need not hesitate to experiment with the pistol, as it
-will not be loaded when found.”
-
-There was a brief discussion here. The children could not understand
-about the pistol; but only one of them cared what had become of it. For
-Phillida it was enough to know that the writer of this shameless
-rigmarole, with its pompous periods and its callous gusto, must long
-ago have lost his reason. She had no doubt whatever about that, and
-already it had brought a new light into her eyes. She would pause to
-discuss nothing else. It was her finger that pointed the way through
-the next passages.
-
-“The perfection or completion of my device was the secret work of many
-weeks; it brings me down almost to the other day, and to what I have
-described as the supreme folly of my life. I had everything in
-readiness for another attempt to  liberate and photograph a human soul
-in consecutive fractions of a second. But the right man was never in
-the right place at the right time; one saw him by the dozen in a crowd,
-but the people one met all by themselves, in the early summer mornings,
-stayed one’s hand repeatedly by the eager brightness of their eyes or a
-happy elasticity of step. Once an out-patient at the Brompton Hospital,
-whom I had dogged all the way down to Richmond Park, was cheated of a
-merciful end by dusk falling just as I had him to myself. No; the dawn
-and the drunkard were still my best chance. So it was that the wretch
-whose name I forget met with his death in Hyde Park last Tuesday
-morning. I knew him by sight as a pot-house loafer of the Charlton
-circle, but it was quite by chance that I followed his uncertain
-footsteps through the Park, and saw him go deliberately to bed in the
-drenching dew. His face filled in his tale; it was another farrago of
-privation and excess. This was the type that caused me no compunction:
-having aimed and focussed at the same time, as my invention provides, I
-despatched the poor devil as he lay on his side, with his hat over his
-eyes, and exposed my plate as he rolled over on his face. It may be
-reckoned an offensive detail, but the click of my instantaneous shutter
-coincided with the last clutter in his throat.
-
-“I need hardly say that I had looked about me pretty thoroughly before
-firing, and my first act after taking the photograph was to make
-another wary survey of the scene. It had the advantage that one could
-see a considerable distance in three directions, and in none of these,
-neither right nor left along the path, nor yet straight ahead across
-the grass on the edge of which my victim lay, was a living creature to
-be seen. This was very reassuring, as I felt that I could see a good
-deal farther than the report of my small automatic pistol was likely to
-be heard; for it is a remarkable feature of most shooting cases,
-especially where a pistol has been used, and in the open air, how
-seldom it is that a witness can be found who has actually heard the
-fatal shot. In the fourth quarter, where there was a bank of shrubbery
-behind some iron palings, I looked last, for I was standing with my
-back that way. How shall I describe my sensations on turning round?
-There was a young lad within a few feet of me, on the other side of the
-palings; and this young lad was flourishing a revolver in his right
-hand!
-
-“At first I made certain he had seen everything; but his blank and
-frank bewilderment was more reassuring at a second glance, and at a
-third I guessed what had happened to him. His crumpled clothes were
-dank with dew. His eyes were puddles  of utter stupefaction. He had
-been sleeping in the Park, and walking in his sleep, and in all
-probability it was my shot which had brought him to himself; of this,
-however, I was less sure, and in my doubt I was disastrously inspired
-to accuse him of having fired the shot himself. It never struck me that
-he could mistake the body behind me for a living man; it was with a
-wild idea of being the first to accuse the other, that I asked him if
-he knew what he had done, and seized his revolver at the same moment. I
-had the wit to grasp it in my hot hand until the barrel was just warm
-enough to help me convince the child that he really had fired the shot;
-but, since he could not see it for myself, I was not going out of my
-way just then to tell him it was a fatal shot. Already I regretted that
-I had gone so far, and yet already I saw myself committed to a course
-of action as rash as it was now inevitable. The boy became convulsed
-with asthma; I could not leave him there, to tell his story when the
-body was discovered, to have it disproved perhaps on the spot, at the
-latest on a comparison of bullets, and the truth brought home to me
-through his description. Again, when I had taken him to my house, with
-all sorts of foolish precautions, and still more foolish risks, I had
-to keep him there. How could I let him loose to blurt out his story and
-implicate  me more readily than ever after what he had seen of me at
-home? I had to keep him there—I repeat it—alive or dead. And I was not
-the kind of murderer (if I am one at all) to take a young and innocent
-life, if I could help it, to preserve my own; on the contrary, I had,
-and I hope I always should have had, humanity enough at least to do
-what I could for a fellow-creature battling with an attack which almost
-threatened to remove him from my path without my aid.”
-
-There followed a few remarks on Pocket’s character as the writer read
-it. They were not uncomplimentary to Pocket personally, but they
-betrayed a profound disdain for the typically British institution of
-which Pocket was too readily accepted as a representative product. His
-general ignorance and credulity received a grim tribute; they were the
-very qualities the doctor would have demanded in a chosen dupe. Yet he
-appeared to have enjoyed the youth’s society, his transparent honesty,
-his capacity for enthusiastic interest, whether in the delights of
-photography or in the horrors of war. Baumgartner seemed aware that he
-had been somewhat confidential on both subjects, and that either his
-contempt of human life, or his ambitions in the matter of psychic
-photography, would have been better kept to himself; but, on the other
-hand,  he “greatly doubted whether they taught boys to put two and two
-together, at these so-called public schools”; and, after all, it was
-not detection by the boy, but through the boy, that he had to fear.
-
-“The madness of keeping him prisoner, as he had been from the
-beginning, in spite of all pretences and persuasions to the contrary,
-was another thing to which Baumgartner had been thoroughly alive all
-along. He had regarded it from the first as ‘the certain beginning of
-the end’; from the first, he had been prepared with specious
-explanations for any such inquisitor as the one who had actually
-arrived no later than the Saturday afternoon. He wrote without elation
-of his interview with Thrush, whose name he knew; the doctor had not
-been deceived as to the transitory character of his own deception. It
-was the same with the letter which he had pretended to post, which
-could only have kept the boy quiet for a day or two, if he had posted
-it, but which the boy himself had discovered never to have been posted
-at all. There was a sufficiently cool description of the desperate mood
-into which Baumgartner’s intuition of the boy’s discovery had thrown
-him on the Sunday night.”
-
-“It was then,” he wrote, “that I formed a  project which I should have
-been sorry indeed to carry out, though I should certainly have done so
-if he had given me the chance I sought. It must be understood that my
-second attempt to photograph the flight of the soul had proved as great
-a fiasco as the first. Suddenly I hit upon a perfectly conceivable
-(even though it seem a wilfully grotesque) explanation of my failure.
-What if the human derelicts I had so far chosen for my experiments had
-no souls to photograph? Sodden with drink, debauched, degraded, and
-spiritually blurred or blunted to the last degree, these after all were
-the least likely subjects to yield results to the spirit photographer.
-I should have chosen saints instead of sinners such as these, entities
-in which the soul was a major and not a minor factor. I thought of the
-saintliest men I knew in London, of some Jesuit Fathers of my
-acquaintance, of a ‘light’ specialist I know of who is destroying
-himself by inches in the cause of science, of certain missioners in the
-slums; but I did not think twice of any one of them; their lives are
-much too valuable for me to cut them short on the mere chance of a
-compensating benefit to mankind at large. Last, and longest, I thought
-of the boy upstairs. I had not meant to sacrifice him; a young life, of
-some promise, is only less sacred to me than a mature life rich in
-beneficent activities. But this young  fellow was going to be my ruin.
-I could see it in his eyes. He had found me out about the letter; he
-would be the means of my being found out and stopped for ever in the
-work of my life. It was his life or mine; it should be his; but I was
-not going to take it there in the house, for reasons I need not enter
-into here, and I intended to take more than his life while I was about
-it. But he never gave me the chance. I did my best to get him to go out
-with me this morning. But he refused, as a horse refuses a jump, or a
-dog the water. He said he was ill; he looked ill. But I have no doubt
-he was well enough to make his escape soon after my back was turned. I
-see he has broken into my dark-room for the clothes I took away from
-him before I went out; he would scarcely remain after that; but, to
-tell the truth, I have hardly given him a thought since my return.”
-
-The readers shuddered over this long paragraph. More than once the boy
-broke in with his own impulsive version of the awful moments on the
-Sunday night and the Monday morning, in his bedroom at the top of the
-doctor’s house. He declared that nothing short of main force would have
-dragged him out-of-doors that morning, that he felt it in his bones
-that he would never come back alive. Then he would be sorry he had said
-so much. It only increased his companion’s anguish. She was reading
-every word religiously, with a most painful fascination; it was as
-though every word drew blood. There was a brief but terrible account of
-the murder of Sir Joseph Schelmerdine outside his own house in Park
-Lane. It was the rashest of all the crimes; but, apparently, the one
-occasion on which the doctor had disguised himself before hand; and
-that only because Sir Joseph and he knew and disliked each other so
-intensely that a “straight” interview was out of the question. As it
-was he had escaped by a miracle, after lying all day in a straw-loft,
-creeping into a carriage at nightfall, and getting out on the wrong
-side when it drove round to its house. Baumgartner described the
-incident with a callous relish, as perhaps the most exciting in his
-long career; he was going on to explain his subsequent return, in
-propria persona, and yet by stealth, when he paused in the middle of a
-sentence which was never finished. And his statement concluded as
-follows, in less careful language and a more flowing hand:—
-
-“I thought the fool had cleared out long ago. The day’s excitement must
-have driven him clean out of my head. I never thought of him when I got
-back, never till I saw the damage to the darkroom window and missed his
-clothes. I didn’t  waste two thoughts upon him then. I had my negative
-to develop. A magnificent negative it was, too, yet another absolute
-failure from the practical point of view, perhaps from the same reason
-as its predecessors. South African mines may produce gold and diamonds
-(licit and illicit!) but their yield in souls is probably the poorest
-to the square mile anywhere on earth. Schelmerdine never had one in his
-gross carcass. So there was an end of him, and a good riddance to
-rotten clay. I have not thought of him again all night. I have thought
-of nothing but this perhaps passionately dispassionate statement that I
-have made up my mind to leave behind me. It has given me strange
-pleasure to write, a satisfaction which I have no longer the time to
-attempt to analyse; all night long my pen has scarcely paused, and I
-not conscious of a moment’s weariness of mind, body, or hand. Only
-sometimes have I paused to light my pipe. I had made such a pause,
-perhaps half an hour ago, when in the terrible stillness of the night I
-heard a footstep in the hall. My nerves were somewhat on edge with all
-this writing; it might be my imagination. I stole to my door, and as I
-opened it the one below shut softly. I waited some time, heard nothing
-more, went down with my lamp, and threw open the drawing-room door.
-There was my young fellow, not gone at all, but  sitting in the dark
-with one whose name there is no need to mention. I do not wish to be
-misunderstood. It was all innocent enough, even I never doubted that.
-But somehow the sight of that boy and girl, sitting there in the dark
-without a word, afraid to go to bed—afraid of me—made the blood boil
-over in my veins. I could have trampled on that lad, my Jonah whom I
-had pictured overboard at last, and I did hurl the lamp at his head. I
-am glad it missed him. I am glad he made good his escape while I was
-seeing his companion safe upstairs. If I had found him where I left
-him, God knows what violence I might not have done him after all. The
-boy has good in him, and more courage than he knows himself; again I
-say that I am glad he has escaped unscathed. His life was not safe, but
-now I shall only take my own.
-
-“Yes! I have made up my mind; it is better than leaving it to the
-common hangman of this besotted country. I know what to expect in
-enlightened England: either a death unfit for a dog, or existence worse
-than death in a criminal lunatic asylum. I prefer my own peculiar
-quietus; it has stood on my table all night long, ready and pointed at
-my heart; a hand upon the door, a step behind me, and I should have
-rolled over dead at their feet. So it will be if even now they are
-waiting for me outside; but, if not, I know where to go,  where already
-it is broad daylight, where the wide open space will quicken and
-enhance every ray, and the broad river multiply the sun by a million
-facets of living fire. It is not the light that will fail me, there;
-and as I have served others, so also will I serve myself, and it may be
-with better fortune than they have brought me. Who knows? It would be
-in keeping with the poetic ironies of this existence. At all events,
-unless waylaid at once, I am giving it a chance. I shall place the
-camera on the parapet of the Embankment. I have fitted the shutter with
-a specially long pneumatic tube, and the bulb will do its double work
-as usual when my fingers relax. I have long had it all in my mind. I
-have written full instructions on the envelope which I shall stick by
-the flap to the open slide; if we are found by a reasonably intelligent
-person, the slide will be shut, and the camera handed over bodily to
-the police. They, I think, may be trusted to honour one’s last
-instructions, if only out of curiosity; their eyes will be the first to
-read what I fear they will describe as my ‘full confession.’ Well, it
-is ‘full,’ and the substantive must be left to them. So long as the
-document does not fall into one little pair of gentle hands, I shall
-lie easy in whatever ignominious grave they lay me. That is why I hide
-it where I do: since, if it fell first into those hands, it would never
-see the light at all.”
-
-There was a little more, but Phillida suddenly snatched the MS. away,
-and wept over the end, bitterly, and yet not altogether in bitterness,
-while Pocket picked up the camera and set it back in its place on the
-muddy newspaper. Phillida folded up the packet, and after a moment’s
-hesitation went away with it, jingling keys in her other hand. On her
-return she stood petrified on the threshold.
-
-Pocket was seated at the table, the red bulb of the pneumatic shutter
-between his finger and thumb; he pressed the bulb, and there was a loud
-metallic snap inside the camera; he released the pressure, and the
-shutter snapped like a shutter and nothing else. Phillida came forward
-with a cry. Pocket had taken the top off the camera; it was like a box
-without the lid, and on the one side there was nothing between the lens
-and the grooved carrier for the slide, but on the other there was an
-automatic pistol, fixed down with wires, as a wild beast might be
-lashed, and its muzzle pointing through the orifice intended for the
-second lens of the stereoscopic camera.
-
-Pocket pressed again, and again the mild clash of the shutter was
-preceded by the vicious one that would have been an explosion if there
-had been another cartridge in the pistol.
-
-“And we never guessed it!” said he. “That’s why he went in for this
-sort of double camera,  and rigged it up to take both kinds of shot in
-quick succession. It’s the cleverest thing I ever heard of in my life.”
-
-He spoke as if it were only clever! Phillida stared at it and him
-without a word.
-
-“The cleverest part is the way you aim. I do believe he relied
-altogether on that spot about the middle of the focussing screen. I’ve
-been trying it against the window, and where that spot comes the
-pistol’s pointing every time. It’s a fixed focus, about ten to fifteen
-feet, I fancy, and the spot isn’t quite in the middle of the screen,
-but just enough to the left to allow. I don’t quite see how the one
-bulb works everything, but these springs and things are a bit
-confusing. We shan’t understand everything till we take it to pieces.”
-
-“You mean the police won’t!” said Phillida, bitterly.
-
-“The police! I never thought of them.”
-
-“What do you mean to do with this—this infernal machine?” the girl
-asked, her voice breaking over the perfectly applicable term.
-
-“What do _you_ mean to do with—the writing?” demanded Pocket in his
-turn.
-
-“Burn it! I’ve asked for a fire in my room; it’s locked away
-meanwhile.”
-
-“Well, this is yours, too,” said Pocket, deliberately, “to do what you
-like with as well.”
-
-“They wouldn’t think so!”
-
-“They’ll never know.”
-
-Phillida shook her head, and not without some scorn. “You couldn’t keep
-it to yourself,” she said. “You would _have_ to tell.”
-
-“Well, but not everybody,” said poor Pocket. “Only my father, if you
-like!” he added, valiantly.
-
-“Mr. Upton would feel bound to tell.”
-
-“I don’t see that. Didn’t you hear what he said about a man’s secrets
-dying with him?”
-
-“He’s so kind! He says that; he said it again to me; but this is the
-mystery of the day. It’ll be the talk for months, if not years. And as
-yet only you and I, in all the world, have found it out!”
-
-She looked at him so wistfully, so sweetly and sadly and
-confidentially, that he would have been either more or less than human
-boy if he had failed to see her heart’s desire, and how it was still in
-his power to save her the supreme humiliation and distress of sharing
-their secret with the world. He made up his mind on the spot; and yet
-it was a mind that looked both ways at every turn of affairs, and even
-then he saw what he was going to lose. Fred and Horace would not sit
-nearly so spellbound as they might have done, would probably back their
-penetration of the mystery against his! There would be no boasting
-about it in front of the  hall fire at school, no breathing it even to
-Smith minor out for a walk; no adventure to recount all his days; and
-Pocket was one to whom the salt of an adventure would always be its
-subsequent recital. But he could “play the game” as well as Horace
-himself, when he happened to have no doubt as to the game to play. And
-now he had none whatever.
-
-“Phillida, if you wish it, I’ll never breathe a syllable of all this to
-a single soul on earth, I don’t care who they are, or what they do to
-me!”
-
-He wanted them to put him on the rack that moment.
-
-“Oh, Tony, do you mean it?”
-
-Her eyes had filled.
-
-“Of course I mean it! I’ll swear it more solemnly than I’ve ever sworn
-anything in my life so far.”
-
-“No, no! Your word’s enough. Don’t I know what that’s worth, after this
-terrible week?”
-
-And she cried again at its hideous memories, so that Pocket turned away
-and put the camera together again, and wrapped it up in her waterproof,
-so that he might not see her tears.
-
-“I’ll never breathe a single word to a single soul,” he vowed, “except
-yourself.”
-
-She caught at that through her tears. He could talk to her about it,
-always, as much as ever he  liked; it would be a bond between them all
-their lives. And not until she said it, to be just to Pocket, did he
-think of a reward or look beyond those days.
-
-But what were they to do with a stereoscopic camera containing an
-automatic pistol? It was not to be burnt in a grate like a sheaf of MS.
-They thought about it for some time with anxious faces; for it was
-getting on towards evening now, though the sun was out again, and it
-was lighter than the early afternoon; but Mr. Upton might be back any
-minute. It was Phillida who at last said she knew. She would not tell
-him what she meant to do; but she put on her waterproof again, little
-as it was wanted now, and the camera under it as before; and together
-they sallied forth into the noisy and crowded Strand.
-
-Pocket did not know where he was, and Phillida would not tell him where
-she was going, neither could he question her in that alarming throng.
-He felt a frightful sense of guilt and danger, not so much to himself
-as to her, with that lethal weapon concealed about her; every man who
-looked at them was a detective in his eyes, and past the policemen at
-the corners he wanted to run. But they gained the middle of Waterloo
-Bridge undetected and ensconced themselves in a recess without creating
-a sensation.
-
-“Now, then,” said Phillida, “will you focus Westminster Bridge and the
-Houses of Parliament, or shall I?”
-
-There they were before them against the sunset, the long lithe bridge,
-the stately towers. But Pocket could not see Phillida’s drift until she
-aimed herself, and, aiming, let the square black box slip clean through
-her fingers into the depths of the river from which she had only
-retrieved it a couple of hours before, as a body is committed to the
-deep.
-
-She bewailed her stupidity; he had the wit to echo her then, and in a
-loud voice, that any eye-witness or passer-by might be struck with the
-genuine severity of their loss. But there had been no eye-witness who
-thought it worth while to rally them on the occurrence, and the busy
-townsfolk hastening past were all too much engrossed in their own
-affairs to take any interest in those of the boy and girl who seemed
-themselves in something of a hurry to get back to the Strand.
-
-And in the Strand the first thing they saw was a yellow poster bearing
-but four words in enormous black letters:—
-
-CHELSEA INQUEST
-CAMERA CLUE!
-
-
-Phillida slipped her hand within Pocket’s arm. Pocket was man enough to
-press it to his side.
-
-THE END
-
-
-Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons, Ltd., London and Reading
-
-
-
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-<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Camera Fiend by E.W. Hornung</div>
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
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-country where you are located before using this eBook.
-</div>
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Camera Fiend</div>
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: E.W. Hornung</div>
-<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 26, 2009 [eBook #30096]<br />
-[Most recently updated: January 30, 2021]</div>
-<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
-<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
-<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAMERA FIEND ***</div>
-
-<div class="fig" style="width:55%;">
-<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" />
-</div>
-
-<h1>The Camera Fiend</h1>
-
-<h2 class="no-break">by E.W. Hornung</h2>
-
-<h4>
-London<br />
-T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd.<br />
-Adelphi Terrace<br />
-1911
-</h4>
-
-<hr />
-
-<h2>Contents</h2>
-
-<table summary="" style="">
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap01">I. A CONSCIENTIOUS ASS</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap02">II. A BOY ABOUT TOWN</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap03">III. HIS PEOPLE</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. A GRIM SAMARITAN</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap05">V. THE GLASS EYE</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. AN AWAKENING</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. BLOOD-GUILTY</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. POINTS OF VIEW</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. MR. EUGENE THRUSH</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap10">X. SECOND THOUGHTS</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. ON PAROLE</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap12">XII. HUNTING WITH THE HOUNDS</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap13">XIII. BOY AND GIRL</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap14">XIV. BEFORE THE STORM</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap15">XV. A LIKELY STORY</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap16">XVI. MALINGERING</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap17">XVII. ON THE TRACK OF THE TRUTH</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap18">XVIII. A THIRD CASE</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap19">XIX. THE FOURTH CASE</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap20">XX. WHAT THE THAMES GAVE UP</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap21">XXI. AFTER THE FAIR</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-<tr>
-<td> <a href="#chap22">XXII. THE SECRET OF THE CAMERA</a></td>
-</tr>
-
-</table>
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br />
-A CONSCIENTIOUS ASS</h2>
-
-<p>
-Pocket Upton had come down late and panting, in spite of his daily exemption
-from first school, and the postcard on his plate had taken away his remaining
-modicum of breath. He could have wept over it in open hall, and would probably
-have done so in the subsequent seclusion of his own study, had not an obvious
-way out of his difficulty been bothering him by that time almost as much as the
-difficulty itself. For it was not a very honest way, and the unfortunate Pocket
-had been called &ldquo;a conscientious ass&rdquo; by some of the nicest fellows
-in his house. Perhaps he deserved the epithet for going even as straight as he
-did to his house-master, who was discovered correcting proses with a blue
-pencil and a briar pipe.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Please, sir, Mr. Coverley can&rsquo;t have me, sir. He&rsquo;s got a
-case of chicken-pox, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
- The boy produced the actual intimation in a few strokes of an honoured but
- laconic pen. The man poised his pencil and puffed his pipe.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then you must come back to-night, and I&rsquo;m just as glad. It&rsquo;s
-all nonsense your staying the night whenever you go up to see that doctor of
-yours.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He makes a great point of it, sir. He likes to try some fresh stuff on
-me, and then see what sort of night I have.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You could go up again to-morrow.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Of course I could, sir,&rdquo; replied Pocket Upton, with a delicate
-emphasis on his penultimate. At the moment he was perhaps neither so acutely
-conscientious nor such an ass as his critics considered him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What else do you propose?&rdquo; inquired Mr. Spearman.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, sir, I have plenty of other friends in town, sir. Either the
-Knaggses or Miss Harbottle would put me up in a minute, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Who are the Knaggses?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The boys were with me at Mr. Coverley&rsquo;s, sir; they go to
-Westminster now. One of them stayed with us last holidays. They live in St.
-John&rsquo;s Wood Park.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And the lady you mentioned?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Miss Harbottle, sir, an old friend of my  mother&rsquo;s; it was through
-her I went to Mr. Coverley&rsquo;s, and I&rsquo;ve often stayed there.
-She&rsquo;s in the Wellington Road, sir, quite close to Lord&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Spearman smiled at the gratuitous explanation of an eagerness that other
-lads might have taken more trouble to conceal. But there was no guile in any
-Upton; in that one respect the third and last of them resembled the great twin
-brethren of whom he had been prematurely voted a &ldquo;pocket edition&rdquo;
-on his arrival in the school. He had few of their other merits, though he took
-a morbid interest in the games they played by light of nature, as well as in
-things both beyond and beneath his brothers and the average boy. You cannot sit
-up half your nights with asthma and be an average boy. This was obvious even to
-Mr. Spearman, who was an average man. He had never disguised his own
-disappointment in the youngest Upton, but had often made him the butt of
-outspoken and disastrous comparisons. Yet in his softer moments he had some
-sympathy with the failure of an otherwise worthy family; this fine June morning
-he seemed even to understand the joy of a jaunt to London for a boy who was
-getting very little out of his school life. He made a note of the two names and
-addresses.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;re quite sure they&rsquo;ll put you up, are you?&rdquo;
-&ldquo;Absolutely certain, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you&rsquo;ll come straight back if they can&rsquo;t?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rather, sir!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then run away, and don&rsquo;t miss your train.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket interpreted the first part of the injunction so literally as to arrive
-very breathless in his study. That diminutive cell was garnished with more
-ambitious pictures than the generality of its order; but the best of them was
-framed in the ivy round the lattice window, and its foreground was the
-nasturtiums in the flower-box. Pocket glanced down into the quad, where the
-fellows were preparing construes for second school in sunlit groups on garden
-seats. At that moment the bell began. And by the time Pocket had changed his
-black tie for a green one with red spots, in which he had come back after the
-Easter holidays, the bell had stopped and the quad was empty; before it filled
-again he would be up in town and on his way to Welbeck Street in a hansom.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The very journey was a joy. It was such sport to be flying through a world of
-buttercups and daisies in a train again, so refreshing to feel as good as
-anybody else in the third smoker; for even the grown men in the corner seats
-did not dream of calling the youth an &ldquo;old ass,&rdquo; much less a young
-one, to his face. His friends and contemporaries at school were in the habit of
-employing the ameliorating adjective, but there were still a few fellows  in
-Pocket&rsquo;s house who made an insulting point of the other. All, however,
-seemed agreed as to the noun; and it was pleasant to cast off friend and foe
-for a change, to sit comfortably unknown and unsuspected of one&rsquo;s foibles
-in the train. It made Pocket feel a bit of a man; but then he really was almost
-seventeen, and in the Middle Fifth, and allowed to smoke asthma cigarettes in
-bed. He took one out of a cardboard box in his bag, and thought it might do him
-good to smoke it now. But an adult tobacco-smoker looked so curiously at the
-little thin cross between cigar and cigarette, that it was transferred to a
-pocket unlit, and the coward hid himself behind his paper, in which there were
-several items of immediate interest to him. Would the match hold out at
-Lord&rsquo;s? If not, which was the best of the Wednesday matinees? Pocket had
-received a pound from home for his expenses, so that these questions took an
-adventitious precedence over even such attractive topics as an execution and a
-murder that bade fair to lead to one. But the horrors had their turn, and
-having supped on the newspaper supply, he continued the feast in <i>Henry
-Dunbar</i>, the novel he had brought with him in his bag. There was something
-like a murder! It was so exciting as to detach Pocket Upton from the flying
-buttercups and daisies, from the reek of the smoking carriage, the real crimes 
-in the paper, and all thoughts of London until he found himself there too soon.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The asthma specialist was one of those enterprising practitioners whose
-professional standing is never quite on a par with their material success. The
-injurious discrepancy may have spoilt his temper, or it may be that his temper
-was at the root of the prejudice against him. He was never very amiable with
-Pocket Upton, a casual patient in every sense; but this morning Dr. Bompas had
-some call to complain.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You mean to tell me,&rdquo; he expostulated, &ldquo;that you&rsquo;ve
-gone back to the cigarettes in spite of what I said last time? If you
-weren&rsquo;t a stupid schoolboy I should throw up your case!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket did not wish to have his case thrown up; it would mean no more days and
-nights in town. So he accepted his rebuke without visible resentment.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the only way I can stop an attack,&rdquo; he mumbled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; snapped the specialist. &ldquo;You can make yourself
-coffee in the night, as you&rsquo;ve done before.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t at school. They draw the line at that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then a public school is no place for you. I&rsquo;ve said so from the
-first. Your people should have listened to me, and sent you on a long sea
-voyage under the man I recommended, in the ship I told them about. She sails
-the day after to-morrow, and you should have sailed in her.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The patient made no remark; but he felt as sore as his physician on the subject
-of that long sea voyage. It would have meant a premature end to his
-undistinguished schooldays, and goodbye to all thought of following in his
-brothers&rsquo; steps on the field of schoolboy glory. But he might have had
-adventures beyond the pale of that circumscribed arena, he might have been
-shipwrecked on a desert island, and lived to tell a tale beyond the dreams of
-envious athletes, if his people had but taken kindly to the scheme. But they
-had been so very far from taking to it at all, with the single exception of his
-only sister, that the boy had not the heart to discuss it now.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If only there were some medicine one could take to stop an
-attack!&rdquo; he sighed. &ldquo;But there doesn&rsquo;t seem to be any.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There are plenty of preventives,&rdquo; returned the doctor.
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s what we want. Smoking and inhaling all sorts of rubbish is
-merely a palliative that does more harm than good in the long run.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But it does you good when the preventives fail. If I could get a good
-night without smoking I should be thankful.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If I promise you a good night will you give me your cigarettes to keep
-until to-morrow?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If you like.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The doctor wrote a prescription while the boy produced the cardboard box from
-his bag.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Bompas, as they made an exchange. &ldquo;I
-don&rsquo;t want you even to be tempted to smoke to-night, because I know what
-the temptation must be when you can&rsquo;t get your breath. You will get this
-prescription made up in two bottles; take the first before you go to bed
-to-night, and the second if you wake with an attack before five in the morning.
-You say you are staying the night with friends; better give me the name and let
-me see if they&rsquo;re on the telephone before you go. I want you to go to bed
-early, tell them not to call you in the morning, and come back to me the moment
-you&rsquo;ve had your breakfast.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-They parted amicably after all, and Pocket went off only wondering whether he
-ought to have said positively that he was staying with friends when he might be
-going back to school. But Dr. Bompas had been so short with him at first as to
-discourage unnecessary explanations; besides, there could be no question of his
-going back that night. And the difficulty of the morning, which he had quite
-forgotten in the train, was not allowed to mar a moment of his day in town.
-</p>
-
-<p>
- The time-table of that boy&rsquo;s day must speak for itself. It was already
- one o&rsquo;clock, and he was naturally hungry, especially after the way his
- breakfast had been spoilt by Coverley&rsquo;s card. At 1.15 he was munching a
- sausage roll and sipping chocolate at a pastry-cook&rsquo;s in Oxford Street.
- The sausage roll, like the cup of chocolate, was soon followed by another; and
- a big Bath bun completed a debauch of which Dr. Bompas would undoubtedly have
- disapproved.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-At 1.45, from the top of an Atlas omnibus in Baker Street, he espied a placard
-with &ldquo;Collapse of Middlesex&rdquo; in appalling capitals. And at the
-station he got down to learn the worst before going on to Lord&rsquo;s for
-nothing.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The worst was so hopelessly bad that Pocket wished himself nearer the theatres,
-and then it was that the terra-cotta pile of Madame Tussaud&rsquo;s thrust
-itself seductively upon his vision. He had not been there for years. He had
-often wanted to go again, and go alone. He remembered being taken by his sister
-when a little boy at Coverley&rsquo;s, but she had refused to go into the
-Chamber of Horrors, and he had been relieved at the time but sorry ever
-afterwards, because so many of the boys of those days had seen everything and
-seemed none the worse for the adventure. It was one of the things he had always
-wanted not so much to  do as to have done. The very name of the Chamber of
-Horrors had frozen his infant blood when he first heard it on the lips of a
-criminological governess. On the brink of seventeen there was something of the
-budding criminologist about Pocket Upton himself; had not a real murder and
-<i>Henry Dunbar</i> formed his staple reading in the train? And yet the boy had
-other sensibilities which made him hesitate outside the building, and enter
-eventually with quite a nutter under the waistcoat.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-A band in fantastic livery was playing away in the marble hall; but Pocket had
-no ear for their music, though he was fond enough of a band. And though history
-was one of his few strong points at school, the glittering galaxy of kings and
-queens appealed to him no more than the great writers at their little desks and
-the great cricketers in their unconvincing flannels. They were waxworks one and
-all. But when the extra sixpence had been paid at the inner turnstile, and he
-had passed down a dungeon stair into the dim vaults below, his imagination was
-at work upon the dreadful faces in the docks before he had brought his
-catalogue to bear on one of them.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Here were wretches whose vile deeds had long been familiar to the schoolboy
-through a work on his father&rsquo;s shelves called <i>Annals of Our Time</i>.
-He recalled bad nights when certain of those annals  had kept him awake long
-after his attack; and here were the actual monsters, not scowling and ferocious
-as he had always pictured them, but far more horribly demure and plump. Here
-were immortal malefactors like the Mannings; here were Rush and Greenacre cheek
-by jowl, looking as though they had stepped out of Dickens in their obsolete
-raiment, looking anything but what they had been. Some wore the very clothes
-their quick bodies had filled; here and there were authentic tools of death,
-rusty pistols, phials of poison with the seals still bright, and a smug face
-smirking over all in self-conscious infamy. There was not enough of the waxwork
-about these creatures; in the poor light, and their own clothes, and the
-veritable dock in which many of them had heard their doom, they looked
-hideously human and alive. One, a little old man, sat not in the dock but on
-the drop itself, the noose dangling in front of him; and the schoolboy felt
-sorry for him, for his silver bristles, for the broad arrows on his poor legs,
-until he found out who it was. Then he shuddered. It was Charles Peace. He had
-first heard of Charles Peace from the nice governess aforesaid; and here under
-his nose were the old ruffian&rsquo;s revolver, and the strap that strapped it
-to his wrist, with the very spectacles he had wiped and worn. The hobbledehoy
-was almost as timorously  entranced as he had been in infancy by untimely tale
-of crime. He stood gloating over the gruesome relics, over ropes which had
-hanged men whose trials he had read for himself in later days, and yet
-wondering with it all whether he would ever get these things out of his mind
-again. They filled it to overflowing. He might have had the horrid place to
-himself. Yet he had entered it with much amusement at the heels of a whole
-family in deep mourning, a bereaved family drowning their sorrow in a sea of
-gore, their pilot through the catalogue a conscientious orphan with a
-monotonous voice and a genius for mis-pronunciation. Pocket had soon ceased to
-see or hear him or any other being not made of wax. And it was only when he was
-trying to place a nice-looking murderer in a straw hat, who suddenly moved into
-a real sightseer like himself, that the unwholesome spell was broken.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket was not sorry to be back in the adulterated sunshine and the
-comparatively fresh air of the Marylebone Road. He was ashamed to find that it
-was after four o&rsquo;clock. Guy and Vivian Knaggs would be home from
-Westminster in another hour. Still it was no use getting there before them, and
-he might as well walk as not; it was pleasant to rub shoulders with flesh and
-blood once more, and to look in faces not made of wax in the devil&rsquo;s
-image. His way, which he knew of old, would  naturally have led him past Miss
-Harbottle&rsquo;s door; but, as she was only to be his second string for the
-night, he preferred not to be seen by that old lady yet. Such was the tiny
-spring of an important action; it led the wanderer into Circus Road and a quite
-unforeseen temptation.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-In the Circus Road there happens to be a highly respectable pawnbroker&rsquo;s
-shop; in the pawnbroker&rsquo;s window the chances are that you might still
-find a motley collection of umbrellas, mandolines, family Bibles, ornaments and
-clocks, strings of watches, trays of purses, opera-glasses, biscuit-boxes,
-photograph frames and cheap jewellery, all of which could not tempt you less
-than they did Pocket Upton the other June. There were only two things in the
-window that interested him at all, and they were not both temptations. One was
-an old rosewood camera, and Pocket was interested in cameras old and new; but
-the thing that tempted him was a little revolver at five-and-six, with what
-looked like a box of cartridges beside it, apparently thrown in for the price.
-A revolver to take back to school! A revolver to fire in picked places on the
-slow walks with a slow companion which were all the exercise this unfortunate
-fellow could take! A revolver and cartridges complete, so that one could try it
-now, in no time, with Guy and Vivian at the end of their garden in  St.
-John&rsquo;s Wood Park! And all very likely for five bob if one bargained a
-bit!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket took out his purse and saw what a hole the expenditure of any such sum
-would make. But what was that if it filled a gap in his life? Of coure it would
-have been breaking a school rule, but he was prepared to take the consequences
-if found out; it need not involve his notion of dishonour. Still, it must be
-recorded that the young or old as was conscientious enough to hesitate before
-making his fatal plunge into the pawnbroker&rsquo;s shop.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br />
-A BOY ABOUT TOWN</h2>
-
-<p>
-The young Westminsters had not come in when Pocket finally cast up in St.
-John&rsquo;s Wood Park. But their mother was at home, and she gave the boy a
-cup of tepid tea out of a silver tea-pot in the drawing-room. Mrs. Knaggs was a
-large lady who spoke her mind with much freedom, at all events to the young.
-She remarked how much Upton (so she addressed him) had altered; but her tone
-left Pocket in doubt as to whether any improvement was implied. She for one did
-not approve of his luncheon in Oxford Street, much less of the way  he had
-spent a summer&rsquo;s afternoon; indeed, she rather wondered at his being
-allowed alone in London at all. Pocket, who could sometimes shine in
-conversation with his elders, at once reminded Mrs. Knaggs that her own
-Westminster boys were allowed alone in London every day of their lives. But
-Mrs. Knaggs said that was a very different thing, and that she thought
-Pocket&rsquo;s public school must be very different from Westminster. Pocket
-bridled, but behaved himself; he knew where he wanted to stay the night, and
-got as far towards inviting himself as to enlarge upon Mr. Coverley&rsquo;s
-misfortune and his own disappointment. Mrs. Knaggs in her turn did ask him
-where he meant to and even the conscientious Pocket caught himself declaring he
-had no idea. Then the boys were heard returning, and Mrs. Knaggs said of course
-he would stop to schoolroom supper, and Pocket thanked her as properly as
-though it were the invitation he made sure must follow. After all, Vivian
-Knaggs had stayed at Pocket&rsquo;s three weeks one Christmas, and Guy a
-fortnight at Easter; the boys themselves would think of that; it was not a
-matter to broach to them, or one to worry about, prematurely.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Vivian and Guy were respectively rather older and rather younger than Pocket,
-and they came in looking very spruce, the one in his Eton jacket, the  other in
-tails, but both in shiny toppers that excited an unworthy prejudice in the
-wearer of the green tie with red spots. They seemed very glad to see him,
-however, and the stiffness was wearing off even before Pocket produced his
-revolver in the basement room where the two Westminsters prepared their lessons
-and had their evening meal.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The revolver melted the last particle of ice, though Vivian Knaggs pronounced
-it an old pin-firer, and Guy said he would not fire it for a thousand pounds.
-This only made Pocket the more eager to show what he and his revolver were made
-of, then and there in the garden, and the more confident that it never would be
-heard in the house.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It would,&rdquo; answered Vivian, &ldquo;and seen as well. No, if you
-want to have a shot let&rsquo;s stick up a target outside this window, and fire
-from just inside.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The window was a French one leading into the back garden; but, unhappily, Mrs.
-Knaggs&rsquo;s bedroom was only two floors higher, and it also looked out on
-the back; and Mrs. Knaggs herself was in her room and near her window when the
-report startled her, and not less because she little dreamt what it was until
-she looked out in time to see a cloud of smoke escaping from the schoolroom
-window, and Pocket examining the target, weapon in hand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was a great scene about it. Mrs. Knaggs  shrieked a prohibition from
-aloft, and having pacified an incoherent cook upon the stairs, descended to
-extract a solemn promise which might well have ended the matter. Pocket was
-very contrite, indeed, drew his weapon&rsquo;s teeth with a promptitude that
-might have been his death, and offered it and them to be placed under lock and
-key until he left. But Mrs. Knaggs contented herself with promoting a solemn
-promise into a Sacred Word of Honour&mdash;which rather hurt poor
-Pocket&mdash;and with sending him a very straight message by Vivian after
-supper.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The mater&rsquo;s awfully sorry,&rdquo; said Vivian, returning from a
-mission which Pocket had been obliged to instigate after all.
-&ldquo;There&rsquo;s not a spare bed in the house.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Guy incontinently declared there was. A fraternal frown alone prevented him
-from going into particulars.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A sofa would do me all right,&rdquo; suggested Pocket, who had long ago
-lost his last train, and would have preferred a bare plank where there were
-boys to fussy old Miss Harbottle&rsquo;s best bed. But Vivian Knaggs shook his
-head.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The mater says she couldn&rsquo;t sleep with firearms in the
-house.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bury them in the garden if she likes.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then you smoke in the night, and at Coverley&rsquo;s you once walked in
-your sleep,&rdquo; pursued Vivian,  who certainly seemed to have been urging
-the interloper&rsquo;s cause. &ldquo;And the mater&rsquo;s afraid you might
-walk out of a window or set the house on fire.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t do either to-night,&rdquo; protested Pocket, with a
-grin. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve not got anything to smoke, and I have got something to
-keep me quiet.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And with further information on both points the son of the house went upstairs
-again, only to return in quicker time with a more embarrassed gravity.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;She&rsquo;s awfully sorry,&rdquo; he said unconvincingly, &ldquo;but she
-can&rsquo;t undertake the responsibility of putting you up with your
-asthma.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Oddly enough, for he was only too sensitive on some points, Pocket was not
-really hurt by his treatment at the hands of these people; he felt he had made
-rather a mistake, but not that he had been most inhumanly cast adrift at
-sixteen among the shoals and quicksands of London. Nor was this quite the case
-as yet; there was still old Miss Harbottle in Wellington Road. But to her he
-was not going until decency compelled him; he was going to have another game of
-bagatelle with Guy Knaggs first. It will be seen that with all his
-sensibilities the youngest Upton was a most casual and sanguine youth. He took
-a great deal for granted, prepared only for the best, and although inclined to
-worry over the irrevocable, took no thought for the morrow until he was
-obliged. He was sorry he had been so  positive with Spearman on the subject of
-his friend&rsquo;s hospitality. He was sorry he had asked and been refused,
-rather sorry he had not caught that last train back from St. Pancras. Yet he
-left poor Miss Harbottle the best part of another hour to go to bed in; and
-that was neither the first nor the last of his erratic proceedings.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What about your luggage?&rdquo; asked the elder Knaggs, as he put on his
-hat to walk round with Pocket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; cried that worthy, standing still in the hall.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you got any?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I left it at Madame Tussaud&rsquo;s!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Left your luggage there?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was only a handbag. How long are they open?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Young Knaggs looked in <i>Whitaker</i> and said they closed at ten. There was
-still time to recover the bag with a taxicab, but in that case it was not much
-use his going too. So they said goodbye at the Swiss Cottage, and the
-adventures of Pocket Upton began in earnest.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Old Miss Harbottle, his mother&rsquo;s great friend, would have none of him
-either! He stopped on the way to Baker Street to make sure. The garden gate was
-one that only opened by a catch and a cable manipulated indoors. The downstairs
-lights  were out. The gate opened at last, a light shone through the front
-door, and the door opened a few inches on the chain. Pocket confronted a
-crevice of quilted dressing-gown and grey curls; but his mother&rsquo;s
-friend&rsquo;s mastiff was making night so hideous within, and trying so hard
-to get at his mother&rsquo;s son, that it was some time before he could
-exchange an intelligible word with the brute&rsquo;s mistress. It was not a
-satisfactory interchange then, for Miss Harbottle at first flatly refused to
-believe that this was Tony Upton, whom she had not seen since his preparatory
-schooldays, and she seemed inclined to doubt it to the end. Upton or no Upton,
-she could not take him in. She had no sheets aired, no fire to air them at, and
-the cook had just left. Miss Harbottle&rsquo;s cook had always just left,
-except when she was just leaving. The rejected visitor got an instant&rsquo;s
-fun out of the reflection as he returned to his palpitating taxicab.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His position was now quite serious. He had not many shillings in his purse. The
-only thing to do was to put up at Shaw&rsquo;s Hotel, Trafalgar Square; that
-was where his people always stayed, where every servant was supposed to know
-them all. He pushed on at once through the cool June night, and paid away three
-of his last shillings for the drive. Alas! not a bed to be had at Shaw&rsquo;s;
-it was the worst time of the year, they told him, and he  supposed they meant
-the best. He also supposed there had been changes in the staff, for nobody
-seemed to know his name as well as he had been led to expect at home.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-They were quite nice about it. They pointed out the big hotels opposite, and
-recommended more than one of the little ones in Craven Street. But the big
-hotels were all full to overflowing; and at the only little one he tried the
-boy lost his temper like a man on being requested to deposit six shillings
-before proceeding to his room. Pocket had not got it to deposit, and the
-galling reflection caused him to construe the demand as a deliberate reflection
-upon his outward respectability&mdash;as if he could not have borrowed the
-money from Dr. Bompas in the morning!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll see you blowed,&rdquo; was his muttered reply, and he caught
-up his bag in a passion.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;All right, little man! I shouldn&rsquo;t be rude about it,&rdquo; said
-the dapper cashier. &ldquo;If I couldn&rsquo;t pay my shot I should sleep in
-the Park, on a nice fine night like this.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shall!&rdquo; shouted Pocket through his teeth, as though that would
-prevent the brute of a cashier from sleeping soundly in his bed. And it was his
-own idle and childish threat that set him presently wondering what else he was
-to do. He had the spirit of adventure, as we have seen.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He had the timorous, or let us say, the imaginative temperament, which lends to
-adventure its very salt. He wished to have done dangerous or heroic things, if
-not to have to do them. He had so little to boast about; his brothers, and so
-many other fellows of his own age, had so much. It would make a great yarn some
-day, how he had come up from school to see a doctor&mdash;and slept in the
-Park!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Meanwhile he had only a vague idea of his way there; he knew hardly anything of
-London except St. John&rsquo;s Wood and his present landmark of the Nelson
-column and the Landseer lions. He knew them from having stayed some time (under
-another doctor) as a child at Shaw&rsquo;s Hotel. But, I say! What would Bompas
-say to his sleeping out, and what sort of night could he expect in the open
-air?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He had an overcoat. It had been in his way all day; it would come in more than
-handy for the night. And it suddenly struck Pocket, with all the force of a
-forgotten novelty, that he had a revolver and cartridges as well.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That decided him. Not that he seriously thought himself the kind of person to
-use a revolver with resolution or effect; but it made him feel doughty and even
-truculent to find the means of heroic defence all ready to his hand. He began
-to plume himself on his providential purchase. He would sell his young life
-dearly if he fell among London thieves;  in his death he would not be
-unhonoured at school or at home. Obituary phrases of a laudatory type sprang
-like tears to a mind still healthy enough to dash them away again, as though
-they had been real tears; but it was with all the nervous exaltation of the
-unsuspected desperado that he inquired his way of a colossal constable at the
-corner of Pall Mall and the Haymarket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The man wanted to know if he meant Hyde Park Corner. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said
-Pocket, hastily, because his heart was in his mouth and the policeman looked as
-though he had seen it there. And he overshot the mark in the motor omnibus
-through being ashamed to ask again, only alighting at Albert Gate; but here
-there was quite a little stream of decent people to follow without further
-tremors into the indubitable Park.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He followed them across the drive and across Rotten Row, gaining confidence as
-he went. In a minute it was all delightful; his eyes were turned outward by all
-there was to see; and now his chief fear was lest some one or other of the
-several passers should stand in his path and ask what he was doing there. He
-was still afraid of speaking or being spoken to, but no longer unreasonably so.
-Detection as an escaped schoolboy was his one great dread; he felt he was doing
-something for which he might be expelled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But nobody took any notice of him; this gradually encouraged him to take more
-notice of other people, when he found, not altogether to his surprise, that the
-majority of those passing through the Park at that late hour were hardly of his
-own class. So much the more infinitesimal were the chances of his being
-recognised or even suspected for what he was. There were young men in straw
-hats, there were red-coated soldiers, and there were girls. They all filled the
-schoolboy with their fascinating possibilities. They were Life. The boy&rsquo;s
-heart beat at what he heard and saw. The couples were hilarious and unrefined.
-One wench, almost under his nose, gave her soldier a slap with such a remark as
-Pocket had never heard from a woman&rsquo;s lips before. He turned away,
-tingling, and leant upon the parapet of a bridge he had been in the act of
-crossing, and thought of school and home and Mr. Coverley.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was not really a bridge at all. It was only the eastern extremity of the
-Serpentine; but as the boy leant over the stone balustrade, and gazed upon the
-artificial flood, broadening out indefinitely in the darkness, it might have
-been the noblest river in the world. Its banks were muffled in a feather boa of
-trees, bedizened by a chain of many lights; the lights of a real bridge made a
-diadem in the distance; and between these sped  the lamps of invisible
-vehicles, like fretful fireflies. And the still water gave back every glimmer
-with its own brilliance, unchallenged and undimmed by moon or star, for not a
-trace of either was in the sky; and yet it was the most wonderful sky the boy
-had ever seen&mdash;a black sky tinged with sullen rose, or a red sky seen
-through smoked glasses, he hardly knew which he would have called it. But he
-did know that warm and angry glow for the reflection of London&rsquo;s light
-and life; he could not forget he was in London for a moment. Her mighty
-machinery with its million wheels throbbed perpetually in his ears; and yet
-between the beats would come the quack of a wild duck near at hand, the splash
-of a leaping fish, the plaintive whistle of water-fowl: altogether such a
-chorus of incongruities as was not lost upon our very impressionable young
-vagabond. The booming strokes of eleven recalled him to a sense of time and his
-immediate needs. His great adventure was still before him; he pushed on, bag in
-hand, to select its scene. Another road he crossed, alive with the lamps of
-cyclists, and came presently upon a wide space intersected with broad footpaths
-from which he shrank; it was altogether too public here; he was approaching an
-exposed corner in an angle of lighted streets, with the Marble Arch at its
-apex, as a signboard made quite clear. He had come right across the Park; back
-over the grass, keeping rather more to the right, in the direction of those
-trees, was the best thing now.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was here that he found the grass distinctly damp; this really was enough to
-deter an asthmatic, already beginning to feel asthmatical. Pocket Upton,
-however, belonged to the large class of people, weak and strong alike, who are
-more than loth to abandon a course of action once taken. It would have required
-a very severe attack to baulk him of his night out and its subsequent
-description to electrified ears. But when bad steering had brought him up at
-the bandstand, the deserted chairs seemed an ordained compromise between
-prudence and audacity, and he had climbed into the fenced enclosure when
-another enormous policeman rose up horribly in its midst.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What are you doing here?&rdquo; inquired this policeman, striding upon
-Pocket with inexorable tread.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No harm, I hope,&rdquo; replied our hero humbly, but with unusual
-readiness.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nor no good either, I&rsquo;ll be bound!&rdquo; said the policeman,
-standing over him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I was only going to sit down,&rdquo; protested Pocket, having satisfied
-his conscience that in the first place that was all he really had been going to
-do.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There are plenty of places to sit down,&rdquo; rejoined the policeman.
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;re not allowed in here.  And unless you look sharp about it
-you won&rsquo;t have time to sit down at all.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The Park closes at twelve.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Closes?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;At twelve o&rsquo;clock, and it&rsquo;s half-past eleven now.&rdquo; The
-boy&rsquo;s heart sank into his wet boots. Here was an end of all his dashing
-plans. He was certain he had heard or read of people sleeping in the Park; he
-had looked upon it as a vast dormitory of the houseless; that was the only
-reason he was there. The offensive clerk in the hotel had evidently entertained
-the same belief. This idiot of a policeman must be wrong. But he seemed quite
-clear about it.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Did you think we were open all night?&rdquo; he inquired with a grin.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I did,&rdquo; said Pocket; and he was inspired to add, &ldquo;I even
-thought a lot of loafers used to sleep here all night!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The policeman chuckled aloud.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They may if they get up the trees; that&rsquo;s about their only
-chance,&rdquo; said he.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You search the whole place so thoroughly?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;We keeps our eyes open,&rdquo; said the policeman significantly, and
-Pocket asked no more questions; he scaled the forbidden fence and made off with
-the alacrity of one who meant to go out before he was  put out. Such was his
-then sincere and sound intention. But where next to turn, to what seat on the
-Embankment, or what arch in the slums, in his ignorance of London he had no
-idea.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Meanwhile, to increase the irony of his dilemma, now that he was bent on
-quitting the Park he found himself striking deeper and deeper into its heart.
-He skirted a building, left it behind and out of sight, and drifted before the
-wind of destiny between an upright iron fence on one hand and a restricted open
-space upon the other. He could no longer see a single light; but the ground
-rose abruptly across the fence, and was thick with shrubs. Men might have been
-lying behind those shrubs, and Pocket could not possibly have seen them from
-the path. Did the policeman mean to tell him that he or his comrades were going
-to climb every fence and look behind every bush in Hyde Park?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket came to anchor with a new flutter at his heart. This upright fence was
-not meant for scaling; it was like a lot of area palings, as obvious and
-intentional an obstacle. And the whole place closed at twelve, did it? The
-flutter became a serious agitation as Pocket saw himself breaking the laws of
-the land as well as those of school, saw himself not only expelled but put in
-prison! Well, so much the better for his story so long as those  penalties were
-not incurred; even if they were, so much the greater hero he!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-No wonder his best friends called him disparaging names; he was living up to
-the hardest of them now, and he with asthma on him as it was! But the will was
-on him too, the obstinate and reckless will, and the way lay handy in the shape
-of a row of Park chairs which Pocket had just passed against the iron palings.
-He went back to them, mounted on the first chair, wedged his bag between two of
-the spikes, set foot on the back of the chair, and somehow found himself on the
-other side without rent or scratch. Then he listened; but not a step could he
-hear. So then the cunning dog put his handkerchief through the palings and
-wiped the grit from the chair on which he had stood. And they called him a
-conscientious ass at school!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But then none of these desperate deeds were against his conscience, and they
-had all been thrust on Pocket Upton by circumstances over which he had lost
-control when the last train went without him from St. Pancras. They did not
-prevent him from kneeling down behind the biggest bush that I he could find,
-before curling up underneath it; neither did his prayers prevent him from
-thinking&mdash;even on his knees&mdash;of his revolver, nor yet&mdash;by the
-force of untimely association&mdash;of the other revolvers in the Chamber of
-Horrors. He saw those waxen  wretches huddled together in ghastly groups, but
-the thought of them haunted him less than it might have done in a feather bed;
-he had his own perils and adventures to consider now. One thing, however, did
-come of the remembrance; he detached the leather strap he wore as a
-watch-guard. And used it to strap a pin-fire revolver, loaded in every chamber,
-to his wrist instead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That was the last but one of the silly boy&rsquo;s proceedings under the bush;
-the last of all was to drain the number-one draught prescribed by Bompas in the
-morning, and to fling away the phial. The stuff was sweet and sticky in the
-mouth, and Pocket felt a singular and most grateful warmth at his extremities
-as he curled up in his overcoat. It was precisely then that he heard a measured
-tread approaching, and held his breath until it had passed without a pause. Yet
-the danger was still audible when the boy dropped off, thinking no more about
-it, but of Mr. Coverley and Charles Peace and his own people down in
-Leicestershire.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br />
-HIS PEOPLE</h2>
-
-<p>
-It so happened that his people in Leicestershire were thinking of him. They had
-been talking about him at the very time of the boy&rsquo;s inconceivable
-meanderings in Hyde Park. And two of them were at it still.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-On a terrace outside lighted windows a powerful young fellow, in a butterfly
-collar and a corded smoking jacket, was walking up and down with a tall girl
-not unlike him in the face; but their faces were only to be seen in glimpses as
-they passed the drawing-room windows, and at not less regular intervals when a
-red light in the sky, the source of which was concealed by the garden foliage,
-became positively brilliant. The air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle
-and musk-roses and mown grass; midges fretted in and out of the open windows.
-But for the lurid lighting of the sky, with its Cyclopean suggestion of some
-mammoth forge, you were in the heart of England undefiled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s no use our talking about Tony,&rdquo; the tall girl said.
-&ldquo;I think you&rsquo;re frightfully down on him; we shall never
-agree.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not as long as you make a fool of the fellow,&rdquo; said the blunt
-young man.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Tony&rsquo;s no fool,&rdquo; remarked Lettice Upton, irrelevantly
-enough.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You know what I mean,&rdquo; snapped her brother Horace.
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;s being absolutely spoilt, and you&rsquo;re at the bottom of
-it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t give him asthma!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be childish, Letty.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s spoiling his life.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I wasn&rsquo;t talking about his life. I don&rsquo;t believe it,
-either.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You think he enjoys his bad nights?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I think he scores by them. He&rsquo;d tell you himself that he never
-even thinks of getting up to first school now.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Would you if you&rsquo;d been sitting up half the night with
-asthma?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Perhaps not; but I don&rsquo;t believe that happens so often as you
-think.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It happens often enough to justify him in making one good night pay for
-two or three bad ones.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t call that playing the game. I call it shamming.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, if it is, he makes up for it. They were doing Ancient Greek
-Geography in his form at early school last term. Tony tackled it in his spare
-time, and got most marks in the exam.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Beastly young swot!&rdquo; quoth his elder  brother. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
-glad he didn&rsquo;t buck to me about that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think there&rsquo;s much danger of his bucking to
-you,&rdquo; said Lettice, smiling in the red light. She did not add as her
-obvious reason that Horace, like many another athletic young man, was quite
-incapable of sympathising with the non-athletic type. But he guessed that she
-meant something of the sort, and having sensibilities of his own, and a good
-heart somewhere in his mesh of muscles, he felt hurt. &ldquo;I looked after him
-all right,&rdquo; said Horace, &ldquo;the one term we were there together. So
-did Fred for the next year. But it&rsquo;s rather rough on Fred and myself, who
-were both something in the school at his age, to hear and see for ourselves
-that Tony&rsquo;s nobody even in the house!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Lettice slipped a sly hand under the great biceps of her eldest brother.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But don&rsquo;t you see, old boy, that it makes it the worse for Tony
-that you and Fred were what you were at school? They measure him by the
-standard you two set up; it&rsquo;s natural enough, but it isn&rsquo;t
-fair.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He needn&rsquo;t be a flyer at games,&rdquo; said Horace, duly softened
-by a little flattery. &ldquo;But he might be a tryer!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Wait till we get a little more breath into his body.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A bag of oxygen wouldn&rsquo;t make him a cricketer.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yet he&rsquo;s so keen on cricket!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I wish he wasn&rsquo;t so keen; he thinks and talks more about it than
-Fred or I did when we were in the eleven, yet he never looked like making a
-player.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I should say he thinks and talks more about most things; it&rsquo;s his
-nature, just as it&rsquo;s Fred&rsquo;s and yours to be men of action.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;m glad he&rsquo;s not allowed to cumber the crease this
-season,&rdquo; said Horace, bowling his cigarette-end into the darkness with a
-distinct swerve in the air. &ldquo;To have him called our &lsquo;pocket
-edition,&rsquo; on the cricket-field of all places, is a bit too thick.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Lettice withdrew her sympathetic hand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;s as good a sportsman as either of you, at heart,&rdquo; she
-said warmly. &ldquo;And I hope he may make you see it before this
-doctor&rsquo;s done with him!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;This doctor!&rdquo; jeered Horace, quick to echo her change of tone as
-well. &ldquo;You mean the fool who wanted to send that kid round the world on
-his own?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;s no fool, Horace, and you know nothing whatever about
-him.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No; but I know something about our Tony! If he took the least care of
-himself at home, there  might be something to be said for letting him go; but
-he&rsquo;s the most casual young hound I ever struck.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know he&rsquo;s casual.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Lettice made the admission with reluctance; next moment she was sorry her sense
-of fairness had so misled her.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; said Horace, &ldquo;he wouldn&rsquo;t be cured if he
-could. Think what he&rsquo;d miss!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Oh, if you&rsquo;re coming back to that, there&rsquo;s no more to be
-said.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And the girl halted at the lighted windows.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But I do come back to it. Isn&rsquo;t he up in town at this moment under
-this very doctor of yours?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;s not my doctor.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you first heard about him; you&rsquo;re the innovator of the family,
-Letty, so it&rsquo;s no use trying to score off me. Isn&rsquo;t Tony up in
-London to-night?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I believe he is.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll tell you what he&rsquo;s doing at this moment,&rdquo;
-cried Horace, with egregious confidence, as he held his watch to the windows.
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s after eleven; he&rsquo;s in the act of struggling out of some
-theatre, where the atmosphere&rsquo;s so good for asthma!&rdquo; Lettice left
-the gibe unanswered. It was founded on recent fact which she had been the first
-to deplore when Tony made no secret of it in the holidays; indeed, she was by
-no means blind to his many and obvious failings; but they interested  her more
-than the equally obvious virtues of her other brothers, whose unmeasured
-objurgations drove her to the opposite extreme in special pleading. She tried
-to believe that there was more in her younger brother than in any of them, and
-would often speak up for him as though she had succeeded. It may have been
-merely a woman&rsquo;s weakness for the weak, but Lettice had taught herself to
-believe in Tony. And perhaps of all his people she was the only one who could
-have followed his vagaries of that night without thinking the worse of him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But she had no more to say to Horace about the matter, and would have gone
-indoors without another word if Mr. Upton had not come out hastily at that
-moment. He had been looking for her everywhere, he declared with some asperity.
-Her mother could not sleep, and wished to see her; otherwise it was time they
-were all in bed, and what there was to talk about till all hours was more than
-he could fathom. So he saw the pair before him through the lighted rooms, a
-heavy man with a flaming neck and a smouldering eye. Horace would be heavy,
-too, when his bowling days were over. The girl was on finer lines; but she
-looked like a woman at her worst; tired, exasperated, and clearly older than
-her brother, but of other clay.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That young man smoked a last cigarette in his  father&rsquo;s library, and
-unhesitatingly admitted the subject of dissension and dissent upon the terrace.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I said he wasn&rsquo;t doing much good there,&rdquo; he added,
-&ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t think he is. Letty stood up for him, as she always
-does.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you mean that he&rsquo;s doing any harm?&rdquo; asked Mr. Upton
-plainly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not for a moment. I never said there was any harm in Tony. I&mdash;I
-sometimes wish there was more!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;More manhood, I suppose you&rsquo;d call it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton spoke with a disconcerting grimness.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;More go about him,&rdquo; said Horace. He could not say as much to his
-father as he had to Letty. That was evident. But he was not the boy to bolt
-from his guns.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yet you know how much he has to take all that out of him?&rdquo;
-continued Mr. Upton, with severity.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said Horace hastily, &ldquo;and of course that&rsquo;s
-really why he&rsquo;s doing no good; but I must say that doctor of his
-doesn&rsquo;t seem to be doing him any either.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton got excitedly to his feet, and Horace made up his mind to the
-downright snub that he deserved. But by a lucky accident Horace had turned the
-wrath that had been gathering against himself into quite another quarter.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I agree with you there!&rdquo; cried his father vehemently. &ldquo;I
-don&rsquo;t believe in the man myself; but he was recommended by the surgeon
-who has done so much for your poor mother, so what could one do but give him a
-trial? The lad wasn&rsquo;t having a fair chance at school. This looked like
-one. But I dislike his going up to town so often, and I dislike the letters the
-man writes me about him. He&rsquo;d have me take him away from school
-altogether, and pack him off to Australia in a sailing ship. But what&rsquo;s
-to be done with a boy like that when we get him back again? He&rsquo;d be too
-old to go to another school, and too young for the University: no use at the
-works, and only another worry to us all.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton spoke from the full heart of an already worried man, not with
-intentional unkindness, but yet with that unimaginative want of sympathy which
-is often the instinctive attitude of the sound towards the unsound. He hated
-sickness, and seemed at present surrounded by it. His wife had taken ill the
-year before, had undergone a grave operation in the winter, and was still a
-great anxiety to him. But that was another and a far more serious matter; he
-had patience and sympathy enough with his wife. The case of the boy was very
-different. Himself a man of much bodily and mental vigour, Mr. Upton expected
-his own qualities of his own children;  he had always resented their apparent
-absence in his youngest born. The others were good specimens; why should Tony
-be a weakling? Was he such a weakling as was made out? Mr. Upton was often
-sceptical on the point; but then he had always heard more about the asthma than
-he had seen for himself. If the boy was not down to breakfast in the holidays,
-he was supposed to have had a bad night; yet later in the day he would be as
-bright as anybody, at times indeed the brightest of the party. That, however,
-was usually when Lettice drew him out in the absence of the two athletes; he
-was another creature then, excitable, hilarious, and more capable of taking the
-busy man out of himself than any of his other children. But Lettice overdid
-matters; she made far too much of the boy and his complaint, and was inclined
-to encourage him in random remedies. Cigarettes at his age, even if said to be
-cigarettes for asthma, suggested a juvenile pose to the man who had never
-studied that disorder. The specialist in London seemed another mistake on the
-part of that managing Lettice, who had quite assumed the family lead of late.
-And altogether Mr. Upton, though he saw the matter from a different point of
-view, was not far from agreeing with his eldest son about his youngest.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And what chance was there for a boy whose own father thought he posed, whose
-brothers considered  him a bit of a malingerer, and his schoolfellows &ldquo;a
-conscientious ass,&rdquo; while his sister spoilt him for <i>un enfant
-incompris?</i> You may say it would have taken a miracle to make an ordinary
-decent fellow of him. Well, it was a night of strange happenings to the boy and
-his people; perhaps it was the one authentic type of miracle that capped all in
-the morning.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The father had gone to bed at midnight, after an extra allowance of
-whisky-and-water to take the extra worry off his mind; it did so for a few
-hours only to stretch him tragically awake in the early morning. The birds were
-singing down in Leicestershire as in Hyde Park. The morning sun was slanting
-over town and country, and the father&rsquo;s thoughts were with his tiresome
-son in town. Suddenly a shrill cry came from the adjoining room.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-In a trice the wakeful man was at his sick wife&rsquo;s side, supporting her in
-bed as she sat up wildly staring, trembling in his arms.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Tony!&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;My Tony!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I was just thinking of him!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;What about him,
-dear?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I saw him,&rdquo; she quavered. &ldquo;I saw him plainer than I see you
-now. And I&rsquo;m almost positive I heard&mdash;a shot!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br />
-A GRIM SAMARITAN</h2>
-
-<p>
-Though he afterwards remembered a shout as well, it actually was the sound of a
-shot that brought the boy to his senses in Hyde Park. He opened his eyes on a
-dazzle of broad daylight and sparkling grass. The air was strangely keen for
-the amount of sunshine, the sunshine curiously rarefied, and the grass swept
-grey where it did not sparkle.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket&rsquo;s first sensation was an empty stomach, and his next a heavy head
-into which the puzzle of his position entered by laborious steps. He was not in
-bed. He was not at school. He was not even under the shrub he now remembered in
-a mental flash which lit up all his adventures overnight. He was wandering
-ankle deep in the dew, towards a belt of poplars like birch-rods on the
-skyline, and a row of spiked palings right in front of his nose. He had walked
-in his sleep for the first time for years, and some one had fired a shot to
-wake him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Slow as these automatic discoveries had seemed, they had been in reality so
-swift that the report was still ringing in his ears when he who must have made
-it sprang hideously into being across the palings. A hand darted through them
-and caught Pocket&rsquo;s  wrist as in a vice. And he looked up over the spikes
-into a gnarled face tinged with fear and fury, and working spasmodically at the
-suppression of some incomprehensible emotion.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you know what you did?&rdquo; the man demanded in the end. The
-question seemed an odd one, but a very slight foreign accent, not to be
-reproduced phonetically, corresponded with the peculiarity of tense, reminding
-Pocket of the music-masters at his school. It was less easy to account for the
-tone employed, which was low in pitch and tremulous with passion. And the man
-stood tall and dominant, with a silver stubble on an iron jaw, and a weird
-cloak and hat that helped to invest him with the goblin dignity of a Spanish
-inquisitor; no wonder his eyes were like cold steel in quivering flesh.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I must have been walking in my sleep,&rdquo; began Pocket, shakily;
-further explanations were cut very short.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Sleep!&rdquo; echoed the other, in bitter unbelief.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket felt his prime quality impugned.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well? I can&rsquo;t help it! I&rsquo;ve done it before to-day; you
-needn&rsquo;t believe me if you don&rsquo;t like! Do you mind letting go of my
-hand?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;With that in it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The scornful tone made the boy look down, and there was the pistol he had
-strapped to his wrist,  not only firm in his unconscious clasp, but his finger
-actually on the trigger.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean to say I let it off?&rdquo; cried Pocket,
-horrified.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Feel the barrel.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The tall man had done so first. Pocket touched it with his left hand. The
-barrel was still warm.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was in my sleep,&rdquo; protested Pocket, in a wheezy murmur.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad to hear it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I tell you it was!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The tall man opened his lips impulsively, but shut them on a second impulse.
-The daggers in his eyes probed deeper into those of the boy, picking his
-brains, transfixing the secrets of his soul. No master&rsquo;s eye had ever
-delved so deep into his life; he felt as though the very worst of him at school
-was known in an instant to this dreadful stranger in the wilds of London. He
-writhed under the ordeal of that protracted scrutiny. He tugged to free his
-imprisoned wrist. His captor was meanwhile fumbling with a penknife in his
-unoccupied hand. A blade was slowly opened; the leather watch-guard was sliced
-through in a second; the revolver dropped harmlessly into the dew. The man
-swooped down and whipped it through the railings with a snarl of satisfaction.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said he, releasing Pocket, but  standing by with his
-weapon, &ldquo;I suppose you know that, apart from everything else, you had no
-right to spend the night in here at all?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy, already suffering from his humiliating exertions, gasped out,
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not the only one!&rdquo; He had just espied a recumbent figure
-through the palings; it was that of a dilapidated creature lying prone, a
-battered hat beside him, on the open grass beyond the path. The tall man merely
-redoubled his scrutiny of the face in front of, him, without so much as a
-glance behind.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is the sort that staggers in as soon as the
-gates are open, and spends the day sleeping itself sober. But you are not that
-sort at all, and you have spent the night here contrary to the rules. Who are
-you, and what&rsquo;s the matter with you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Asthma,&rdquo; wheezed Pocket, clinging to the palings in dire distress.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So I thought. Yet you spend your night on the wet grass!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I had nowhere else to go.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Have you come up from the country?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;To see a doctor about it!&rdquo; cried Pocket bitterly, and told the
-whole truth about himself in a series of stertorous exclamations. It scarcely
-lessened the austerity of the eyes that still ran him through and through; but
-the hard mouth did relax  a little; the lined face looked less deeply slashed
-and furrowed, and it was a less inhuman voice that uttered the next words.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, we must get you out of this, my young fellow! Come to these
-chairs.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket crept along the palings towards the chairs by which he had climbed them.
-His breathing was pitiful now. The stranger accompanied him on the other side.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If I lift one over, and lend you a hand, do you think you can manage
-it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I did last night.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Here, then. Wait a bit! Can you tell me where you slept?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket looked round and pointed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Behind that bush.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Have you left nothing there?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes; my bag and hat!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-In his state it took him some time to go and fetch them; he was nearly
-suffocating when he came creeping back, his shoulders up to his ears.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Stop! I see something else. Is that medicine-bottle yours?
-There&mdash;catching the sun.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Bring it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s empty.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Bring it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket obeyed. The strange man was standing  on a chair behind the palings,
-waiting to help him over, with a wary eye upon the path. But no third creature
-was in sight except the insensate sprawler in the dew. Pocket surmounted the
-obstacle, he knew not how; he was almost beside himself in the throes of his
-attack. Later, he feared he must have been lifted down like a child; but this
-was when he was getting his breath upon a seat. They had come some little
-distance very slowly, and Pocket had received such support from so muscular an
-arm as to lend colour to his humiliating suspicion.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His grim companion spoke first.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;m sorry for you. But I feel for your doctor too. I am one
-myself.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket ignored the somewhat pointed statement.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll never forgive the brute!&rdquo; he panted.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Come, come! He didn&rsquo;t send you to sleep in the Park.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But he took away the only thing that does me any good.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Cigarettes d&rsquo;Auvergne.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I never heard of them.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They&rsquo;re the only thing to stop it, and he took away every one I
-had.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But even as he spoke Pocket remembered the cigarette he had produced from his
-bag, but lacked  the moral courage to light, in the train. He had slipped it
-into one of his pockets, not back into the box. He felt for it feverishly. He
-gave a husky cheer as his fingers closed upon the palpable thing, and he drew
-forth a flattened cylinder the size of a cigarette and the colour of a cigar.
-The boy had to bite off both ends; the man was ready with the match. Pocket
-drank the crude smoke down like water, coughed horribly, drank deeper, coughed
-the tears into his eyes, and was comparatively cured.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And your doctor forbids a sovereign remedy!&rdquo; said his companion.
-&ldquo;I cannot understand him, and I&rsquo;m a doctor myself.&rdquo; His voice
-and look were deliberate even for him. &ldquo;My name is Baumgartner,&rdquo; he
-added, and made a pause. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose you know it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not sure I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied Pocket, swelling with
-breath and gratitude; but in truth the name seemed vaguely familiar to him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A schoolboy in the country,&rdquo; observed Dr. Baumgartner, &ldquo;is
-scarcely likely to have heard of me; but if you inquire here in London you will
-find that I am not unknown. I propose to carry you off to my house for
-breakfast, and a little rest. That is,&rdquo; added the doctor, with his first
-smile, &ldquo;if you will trust yourself to me first and make your inquiries
-later.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket scouted the notion of inquiries in an  impulsive outburst; but even as
-he proceeded to mumble out his thanks he could not help feeling it would have
-been less embarrassing to know more exactly whom he was thanking and must needs
-accompany now. Dr. Baumgartner? Where was it he had come across that name? And
-when and where had anybody ever seen such a doctor as this unshaven old fellow
-in the cloak and hat of a conspirator by limelight?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But the schoolboy had still to learn the lesson of naked personality as the one
-human force; and he learnt it now unknown to himself. The gaunt grey man stood
-up in his absurd and rusty raiment, and Pocket thought, &ldquo;How the chaps
-would rag him at school!&rdquo; because the dreadful old hat and cloak
-suggested a caricature of a master&rsquo;s cap and gown. But there was no
-master at Pocket&rsquo;s school whom he would not sooner have disobeyed than
-this shabby stranger with the iron-bound jaw and the wintry smile; there was no
-eye on the staff that had ever made him quail as he had quailed that morning
-before these penetrating eyes of steel. Baumgartner said they must hurry, and
-Pocket had his asthma back in the first few yards. Baumgartner said they could
-buy more cigarettes on the way, and Pocket kept up, panting, at his side.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-In the cab Baumgartner said, &ldquo;Try sitting with your head between your
-knees.&rdquo; Pocket tried it  like a lamb. They had encountered a young man or
-so hurrying into the Park with towels round the neck but no collar, an early
-cavalcade who never looked at them, and that was about all until the hansom had
-been hailed outside. During the drive, which seemed to Pocket interminable, his
-extraordinary attitude prevented him from seeing anything but his own boots,
-and those only dimly owing to the apron being shut and indeed pressing
-uncomfortably against his head. Yet when Dr. Baumgartner inquired whether that
-did not make him easier, he said it did. It was not all imagination either; the
-posture did relieve him; but it was none the less disagreeable to be driven
-through London by an utter stranger, and not to see the names of the streets or
-a single landmark. Pocket had not even heard the cabman&rsquo;s instructions
-where to drive; they had been given after he got in. His ear was more alert
-now. He noted the change from wood-paving to rough metal. Then more wood, and
-an indubitable omnibus blundering by; then more metal, in better repair;
-quieter streets, the tinkle of cans, the milkman&rsquo;s queer cry; and
-finally, &ldquo;Next to the right and the fifth house on your left,&rdquo; in
-the voice with the almost imperceptibly foreign accent.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The fifth house on the left was exactly like the fourth and the sixth from the
-little Pocket saw  of any of them. He was hurried up a tiled path, none too
-clean between swarthy and lack-lustre laurels; the steps had not been
-&ldquo;done&rdquo;; the door wore the nondescript complexion of prehistoric
-paint debased by the caprices of the London climate. One touch of colour the
-lad saw before this unpromising portal opened and shut upon him: he had already
-passed through a rank of pollard trees, sprouting emeralds in the morning sun,
-that seemed common to this side of the road, and effectually hid the other.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Within the doctor held up a finger and they both trod gently. The passage was
-dark and short. The stairs began abruptly on the right. Baumgartner led the way
-past a closed door on the left, into an unexpectedly bright and large room
-beyond it. &ldquo;Sit down,&rdquo; said he, and shut the door softly behind
-him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket took observations from the edge of his chair. The room was full of
-walnut trivialities that looked aggressively obsolete in the sunshine that
-filled it and flooded a green little garden at the back of the house. Dr.
-Baumgartner had pulled up a blind and opened a window, and he stood looking out
-in thought while Pocket hurriedly completed his optical round. A set of walnut
-chairs were dreadfully upholstered in faded tapestry; but a deep, worn one
-looked comfortable enough,  and a still more redeeming feature was the
-semi-grand piano. There were books, too, and in the far corner by the
-bow-window a glass door leading into a conservatory as minute as Pocket&rsquo;s
-study at school, and filled with geraniums. On the walls hung a series of
-battle engravings, one representing a bloody advance over ridged fields in
-murderously close formation, others the storming of heights and villages.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner met his visitor&rsquo;s eyes with the faint cold smile that
-scarcely softened the hoary harshness of his visage.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I was present at some of those engagements,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;They
-were not worse than disarming a man who has just fired a revolver in his
-sleep!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He flung his cloak upon one of the walnut chairs, and Pocket heard the pistol
-inside it rattle against the back; but his attention was distracted before he
-had time to resent the forgotten fact of its forcible confiscation. Under his
-cloak the doctor had been carrying all this time, slung by a strap which the
-boy had noticed across his chest, a stereoscopic camera without a case. Pocket
-exclaimed upon it with the instructed interest of a keen photographer.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you take photographs?&rdquo; asked Baumgartner, a reciprocal note in
-his unemotional voice.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rather!&rdquo; cried the schoolboy, with considerable enthusiasm.
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the only thing I have to do instead of playing games. But I
-haven&rsquo;t got an instantaneous camera like that. I only wish I had!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he looked with longing eyes at the substantial oblong of wood and black
-morocco, and duplicate lenses like a pair of spectacles, which the doctor had
-set between them on one of the fussy little walnut tables.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br />
-THE GLASS EYE</h2>
-
-<p>
-Dr. Baumgartner produced a seasoned meerschaum, carved in the likeness of a
-most ferocious face, and put a pinch of dark tobacco through the turban into
-the bowl. &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I must have my smoke like you!
-I can&rsquo;t do without it either, though what is your misfortune is my own
-fault. So you are also a photographer!&rdquo; he added, as the fumes of a
-mixture containing latakia spiced the morning air.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I am only a beginner,&rdquo; responded Pocket, &ldquo;but a very keen
-one.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t merely press the button and let  them do the
-rest?&rdquo; suggested the doctor, smiling less coldly under the influence of
-his pipe.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rather not! I develop, print, tone, and all the rest of it; that&rsquo;s
-half the fun.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Plates or films?&rdquo; inquired Baumgartner, with an approving nod.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Only plates, I&rsquo;m afraid; you see, the apparatus is an old one of
-my father&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And honest Pocket was beginning to blush for it, when the other made a gesture
-more eloquent and far more foreign than his speech.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s none the worse for that,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;So far we
-have much in common, for I always use plates myself. But what we put upon our
-plates, there&rsquo;s the difference, eh?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I should imagine so,&rdquo; said Pocket, smiling.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Dr. Baumgartner was smiling too, and still less coldly than before, but yet
-darkly to himself, and at the boy rather than with him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You take portraits of your friends, perhaps?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes; often.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In the body, I presume?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket looked nonplussed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You only take them in the flesh?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Of course.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Exactly! I take the spirit,&rdquo; said the doctor; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s
-the difference.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket watched the now wonderfully genial  countenance of Baumgartner follow
-the brutal features of the meerschaum Turk through a melting cloud of smoke.
-The boy had been taken aback. But his bewilderment was of briefer duration than
-might have been the case with a less ardent photographer; for he took a
-technical interest in his hobby, and read the photographic year-books, nearly
-as ravenously as <i>Wisden&rsquo;s Almanacke</i>.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I see,&rdquo; he said, lukewarmly. &ldquo;You go in for psychic
-photography.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Psychic,&rdquo; said Baumgartner; for the public schoolboy, one regrets
-to report, had pronounced the word to rhyme with sly-chick. The doctor added,
-with more disdain: &ldquo;And you don&rsquo;t believe in it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t say so.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you looked and sounded it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t set myself up as a believer or unbeliever,&rdquo; said the
-boy, always at his ease on a subject that attracted him. &ldquo;But I do say I
-don&rsquo;t believe in the sort of thing I read somewhere last holidays. It was
-in a review of a book on that sort of photography. The chap seemed to have said
-you could get a negative of a spirit without exposing the plate at all; hide
-away your plate, never mind your lens, only conjure up your spirit and see what
-happens. I&rsquo;ll swear nothing ever happened like that! There may be ghosts,
-you may see them,  and so may the camera, but not without focusing and exposing
-like you&rsquo;ve got to do with ordinary flesh and blood!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The youth had gone further and flown higher than he meant, under the stimulus
-of an encouragement impossible to have foreseen. And the doctor had come to his
-feet, waving eloquently with his pipe; his grey face beamed warmly; his eyes
-were lances tipped with fire.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well said, my young fellow!&rdquo; cried he. &ldquo;I agree with every
-syllable you have spoken.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a question of photography, not of spiritualism,&rdquo;
-concluded Pocket, rounding off his argument in high excitement.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I agree, I agree! All that is rubbish, pure moonshine; and you see it
-even at your age! But there&rsquo;s much more in it than that; you must see the
-rest as well, since you see so far so clearly.&rdquo; The boy blushed with
-pleasure, determined to see as far as anybody. &ldquo;You admit there may be
-such things as ghosts, as you call them?&rdquo; he was asked as by an equal.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Certainly, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Visible shapes, in the likeness of man? As visible and yet as tangible
-as that sunbeam?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rather!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You allow that the camera can see them if we can?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket allowed it like the man he was being made to feel; the concession gave
-him a generous glow. Promotion had come to him by giant leaps. He felt five
-years older in fewer minutes.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; cried the doctor, with further flattery in his air of
-triumph, &ldquo;then you admit everything! You may not see these images, but I
-may. I may not see them, but my lens may! Think how much that glass eye throws
-already upon the retina of a sensitised film that our living lenses fail to
-throw upon ours; think of all that escapes the eye but the camera catches. Take
-two crystal vases, fill one with one acid and the other with another; one comes
-out like water as we see it; the other, though not less limpid in our sight,
-like ink. The eye sees through it, but not the lens. The eye sees emptiness as
-though the acid itself were pure crystal; the lens flings an inky image on the
-plate. The trouble is that, while you can procure that acid at the nearest
-chemist&rsquo;s, no money and no power on earth can summon or procure at will
-the spirit which once was man.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His voice was vibrant and earnest as it had been when Pocket heard it first an
-hour earlier in the Park. It was even as passionate, but this was the passion
-of enthusiastic endeavour. If the man had a heart at all, it was in this wild
-question without a doubt. Even the schoolboy  perceived this dimly. There was
-something else which had become clearer to him with each of these later
-remarks. Striking as they seemed to him, they were not wholly unfamiliar. The
-ring of novelty was wanting to his ear.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Suddenly he exclaimed, &ldquo;I knew I knew your name!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You do know it, do you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner spoke ungraciously, as though the announcement was discounted by
-the interruption it entailed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was in connection with the very book I mentioned. I knew I had come
-across it somewhere.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You read the correspondence that followed the review?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Some of it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My letter among others?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes! I remember every word of it now.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then you recall my view as to the alleged necessity of a medium&rsquo;s
-co-operation in these spirit-photographs?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You said it wasn&rsquo;t necessary, if I remember,&rdquo; replied Pocket
-somewhat tentatively, despite his boast.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was the pith and point of my contention! I mentioned the two moments
-at which I hold that a man&rsquo;s soul may be caught apart, may be cut off 
-from his body by no other medium than a good sound lens in a light-tight
-camera. You cannot have forgotten them if you read my letter.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;One,&rdquo; said the boy, &ldquo;was the moment of death.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The moment of dissolution,&rdquo; the doctor corrected him. &ldquo;But
-there is a far commoner moment than that, one that occurs constantly to us all,
-whereas dissolution comes but once.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket believed he remembered the other instance too, but was not sure about
-it, the fact being that the whole momentous letter had struck him as too
-fantastic for serious consideration. That, however, he could not and dared not
-say; and he was not the less frightened of making a mistake with those inspired
-eyes burning fanatically into his.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The other moment,&rdquo; the doctor said at last, with a pitying smile,
-&ldquo;is when the soul returns to its prison after one of those flights which
-men call dreams. You know that theory of the dream?&rdquo; Baumgartner asked
-abruptly. The answer was a nod as hasty, but the doctor seemed unconvinced, for
-he went on didactically: &ldquo;You visit far countries in your dreams; your
-soul is the traveller. You speak to the absent or the dead; it is your soul
-again; and we dismiss the miracle as a dream! I fix the moment as that of the
-soul&rsquo;s return because its departure on these errands is imperceptible, 
-but with its return we awake. The theory is that in the moment of waking the
-whole experience happens like the flash of an electric spark.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy murmured very earnestly that he saw; but he was more troubled than
-enlightened, and what he did see was that he had picked up a very eccentric
-acquaintance indeed. He was not a little scared by the man&rsquo;s hard face
-and molten eyes; but there was a fascination also that could not be lost upon
-an impressionable temperament, besides that force of will or character which
-had dominated the young mind from the first. He began to wish the interview at
-an end&mdash;to be able to talk about it as the extraordinary sequel of an
-extraordinary adventure&mdash;yet he would not have cut it short at this point
-if he could.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I grant you,&rdquo; continued the doctor, &ldquo;that the final flight
-of soul from body is infinitely the more precious from my point of view. But
-how is one to be in a position to intercept that? When beloved spirits pass it
-would be cold-blooded desecration; and public opinion has still to be educated
-up to psychical vivisection! I have myself tried in vain to initiate such
-education. I have applied for perfectly private admission to hospital
-deathbeds, even to the execution-shed in prisons. My applications have been
-peremptorily refused.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket&rsquo;s thoughts went off at a gruesome tangent.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You could see a man hanged!&rdquo; he shuddered, and himself saw the
-little old effigy on the model drop in Marylebone Road.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; asked the other in wide wonder. &ldquo;But as I am not
-allowed,&rdquo; he continued in lighter key, &ldquo;I have to do the best I
-can. If I cannot be in at the death, I may still by luck be in at a dream or
-two! And now you may guess why I wander with my camera where men come in to
-sleep in broad daylight. I prowl among them; a word awakens them; and then I
-take my chance.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They&rsquo;re not all like that man this morning, then,&rdquo; remarked
-Pocket, looking back on the inanimate clod reclining in the dew.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The doctor deliberated with half-shut eyes that seemed to burn the brighter for
-their partial eclipse.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;This morning,&rdquo; he rejoined, &ldquo;was like no other. I owe you
-some confidence in the matter. I had the chance of a lifetime this
-morning&mdash;thanks to you!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Thanks to me?&rdquo; repeated Pocket. A flash enlightened him. &ldquo;Do
-you mean to say I&mdash;you took me&mdash;walking&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You shall see my meaning,&rdquo; replied Baumgartner, rising.
-&ldquo;Wait one minute.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He was not gone longer. Pocket heard him on the other side of double doors in
-an alcove; but he had gone out into the passage to get there. Running  water
-and the chink of porcelain were specially audible in his absence, but the boy
-was thinking of another sound. The doctor before leaving had discarded a black
-alpaca jacket, light as a pocket handkerchief, which had fallen so softly as to
-recall by contrast the noise made by the revolver in the pocket of the cloak.
-The lad was promptly seized with a strong desire to recover his property; he
-was within an ace of doing so, the cloak containing it being actually in his
-hands and only dropped as Baumgartner returned to announce that all was ready.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Sharp to the left, at the end of the passage, was a door which would simply
-have been a second way into the drawing-room had the double doors within been
-is use; these being shut, the space behind made a separate chamber which again
-reminded the schoolboy of his study, that smallest of small rooms. This one was
-as narrow, only twice the length. One end was monopolised by the door that
-admitted them, the other by a window from floor to ceiling. And this window was
-in two great sheets of ruby glass, so that Pocket looked down red-hot iron
-steps into a crimson garden, and therefrom to his companion dyed from head to
-foot like Mephistopheles.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;This is something like a dark-room!&rdquo; exclaimed the lad as the door
-was shut and locked behind him. The folding doors were permanently barred by
-shelves and lockers; opposite was a long porcelain trough, pink as the
-doctor&rsquo;s shirt-sleeves in the strong red light; racks of negatives and
-stoppered bottles glimmered over brass taps stained to an angry copper.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Everything was perfection from a photographer&rsquo;s standpoint; the boy felt
-instantaneously spoilt for his darkened study and his jugs of water. All he had
-ever sighed for in the prosecution of his hobby was here in this little
-paradise of order and equipment. The actual work, he felt, would be a secondary
-consideration in such a workshop; the mere manipulation of such stoppered
-bottles as his host was handling now, the choice of graduated phials, the
-wealth of trays and dishes, would have been joy enough for him. He watched the
-favoured operator with a watering mouth. A crimson blind had been lowered to
-reduce the light; the doctor had turned up his shirt-cuffs; his wrists were
-muscular and furry, as it now seemed with a fiery fur, yet they trembled with
-excitement as he produced his plate. And Pocket remembered how extravagant an
-image was expected on that plain pink surface.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He did not know whether to expect it or not himself. It was difficult to
-believe in that sort of thing, difficult to disbelieve in this sort of man, who
-entertained no shadow of doubt himself, whose  excitement and suspense were as
-infectious as everything else about him. Pocket had come into the dark-room
-wheezing almost as much as ever; he was not to be heard breathing as the plate
-was rocked to and fro as in raspberry-juice, and gradually the sky showed sharp
-and black. But the sky it was that puzzled Pocket first. It was broken by
-perpendicular objects like white torpedoes. He was photographer enough to know
-what these were almost at once; they were those poplars in the park. But how
-could Baumgartner have photographed Pocket with those poplars behind him when
-they had been behind Baumgartner all the time?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket said to himself, &ldquo;Where am I, by the way?&rdquo; and bent lower to
-see. His ear touched the doctor&rsquo;s; it heard the doctor breathing as
-though he were the asthmatic; and now a human shape was visible, but not
-walking in its sleep, lying in it like the man in the wet grass. &ldquo;When
-did you get me?&rdquo; asked Pocket aloud. But the tense crimson face paid no
-attention; in the ruby light it was glistening as though with beads of blood.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There! there! there!&rdquo; croaked a voice, husky and yet staccato.
-Pocket could scarcely believe it was the voice of his host&mdash;the one gentle
-thing about him. &ldquo;You saw the figure? Surely you saw something else,
-hovering over it? I did, I swear I did! But now we shall have to wait.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The plate had blackened all over, as though the uncanny thing had choked out
-its life. It was meticulously held under a tap, between fingers that most
-distinctly trembled now. Then he plunged it in the hyposulphite, and pulled up
-the blind. The sun shone again through the tall window, blood-red as before;
-grass and sky were as richly incarnadined. Baumgartner babbled while he waited
-for the fixing-bath to clear the plate. The chance of his life, he still
-pronounced it. &ldquo;And I owe it to you, my young fellow!&rdquo; This he said
-again and again, aloud but chiefly to himself. He picked up the plate at last
-and held it to the flaming window. He cried out in German to himself, a cry the
-schoolboy never forgot.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Open the window!&rdquo; he ordered. &ldquo;It opens like a door.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket did as he was told. The pure white sunlight struck him momentarily
-blind. Baumgartner had the plate under the tap again. Pocket thought him
-careless with it, thought the tap on too full; it was held up an instant to the
-naked sun, and then dashed to a hundred fragments in the porcelain trough.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket knew better than to ask a question. He followed his leader back into the
-drawing-room, and watched him pick up his coat. It might have been a minute
-before their eyes met again; the  doctor&rsquo;s were calm and cold and
-critical as in the earlier morning. It was another failure, he said, and
-nothing more. Breakfast would be ready soon; they would go upstairs; and if his
-young fellow felt equal to a warm bath, he thought as a physician it might do
-him good.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br />
-AN AWAKENING</h2>
-
-<p>
-It was a normal elderly gentleman, with certain simple habits, but no little
-distinction of address, who welcomed the schoolboy at his breakfast-table. The
-goblin inquisitor of Hyde Park had vanished with his hat and cloak. The excited
-empiric of the dark-room was a creature of that ruby light alone. Dr.
-Baumgartner was shaved and clad like other men, the iron-grey hair carefully
-brushed back from a lofty forehead, all traces of strong acids removed from his
-well-kept hands. There was a third person, and only a third, at table in the
-immature shape of a young lady whom the doctor introduced as his niece Miss
-Platts, and addressed as Phillida.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket thought he had never heard of nobler atonement for unmitigable surname.
-He could not help thinking that this Phillida did not look the one  to flout a
-fellow, after the fashion of the only other Phillida he had ever heard of, and
-then that it was beastly cheek to start thinking of her like that and by her
-Christian name. But he was of the age and temperament when thoughts will come
-of contact with young animals of the opposite sex. He looked at her sidelong
-from time to time, but all four eyes dropped directly they met; she seemed as
-shy and uninteresting as himself; her conversation was confined to table
-attentions to her uncle and his guest.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket made more valiant attempts. A parlour billiard-table, standing against
-the wall, supplied an irresistible topic. &ldquo;We have a full-size table at
-home,&rdquo; he said, and could have mutilated his tongue that instant.
-&ldquo;I like a small one best,&rdquo; he assured the doctor, who shook his
-head and smiled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Honestly, sir, and snob-cricket better than the real thing! I&rsquo;m no
-good at real games.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The statement was too true, but not the preference.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That must be awkward for you, at an English public school,&rdquo; was
-the doctor&rsquo;s comment.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket heaved an ingenuous sigh. It was hateful. He blamed the asthma as far as
-modesty would permit. He was modest enough in his breakfast-table talk, yet
-nervously egotistical, and apt to involve himself in lengthy explanations. He
-had  two types of listener&mdash;the dry and the demure&mdash;to all he said.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And they let you come up to London alone!&rdquo; remarked Dr.
-Baumgartner when he got a chance.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But it wasn&rsquo;t their fault that I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket stopped at a glance from his host, and plunged into profuse particulars
-exonerating his house-master, but was cut short again. Evidently the niece was
-not to know where he had spent the night.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I suppose there are a number of young men at
-your&mdash;establishment?&rdquo; said the doctor, exchanging a glance with Miss
-Platts.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There are over four hundred boys,&rdquo; replied Pocket, a little
-puzzled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And how many keepers do they require?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-A grin apologised for the word.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There must be over thirty masters,&rdquo; returned Pocket more pointedly
-than before. He was not going to stand chaff about his public school from a mad
-German doctor.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And they arm you for the battle of life with Latin and Greek, eh?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not necessarily; there&rsquo;s a Modern Side. You can learn German if
-you like!&rdquo; said Pocket, not without contempt.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like,&rdquo; said the boy gratuitously.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then we must stick to your excellent King&rsquo;s English.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket turned a trifle sulky. He felt he had not scored in this little passage.
-Then he reflected upon the essential and extraordinary kindness which had
-brought him to a decent breakfast-table that morning. That made him ashamed;
-nor could he have afforded to be too independent just yet, even had he been so
-disposed in his heart. His asthma was a beast that always growled in the
-background; he never knew when it would spring upon him with a roar. Breakfast
-pacified the brute; hot coffee always did; but the effects soon wore off, and
-the boy was oppressed again, yet deadly weary, long before it was time for him
-to go to Welbeck Street.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is there really nothing you can take?&rdquo; asked Dr. Baumgartner,
-standing over him in the drawing-room, where Pocket sat hunched up in the big
-easy-chair.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nothing now, I&rsquo;m afraid, unless I could get some of those
-cigarettes. And Dr. Bompas would kick up an awful row!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But it&rsquo;s inhuman. I&rsquo;ll go and get them myself. He should
-prescribe for such an emergency.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He has,&rdquo; said Pocket. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got some stuff in my bag;
-but it&rsquo;s no use taking it now. It&rsquo;s  meant to take in bed when you
-can have your sleep out.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he was going into more elaborate details than Dr. Bompas had done, when the
-other doctor cut him short once more.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But why not now? You can sleep to your heart&rsquo;s content in that
-chair; nobody will come in.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket shook his head.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m due in Welbeck Street at twelve.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll wake you at quarter to, and have a taxi ready at the
-door. That will give you a good two hours.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket hesitated, remembering the blessed instantaneous effect of the first
-bottle under the bush.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Would you promise to wake me, sir? You&rsquo;re not going out?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shall be in again.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then it is a promise?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket would have liked it in black and white.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Certainly, my young fellow! Is the stuff in your bag?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was, and the boy took it with much the same results as overnight. It tasted
-sweeter and acted quicker; that was the only difference. The skin seemed to
-tighten on his face. His fingers tingled at the ends It was not at all an
-unpleasant sensation, especially as the labour in his breast came to an end as
-if by magic. The faintly foreign  accents of Dr. Baumgartner sounded unduly
-distant in his last words from the open door. It was scarcely shut before the
-morning&rsquo;s troubles ceased deliciously in the cosy chair.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yet they seemed to begin again directly, and this was a horrid crop! Of course
-he was back in Hyde Park; but the sky must have rained red paint in his
-absence, or else the earth was red-hot and the sky reflected it. No! the grass
-was too wet for that. It might have been wet with blood. Everything was as red
-as beet-root, as wet and red and one&rsquo;s body weltering in it like the
-slain! Reddest of all was the old photographer, who turned into Mr. Spearman in
-cap and gown, who turned into various members of the Upton family, one making
-more inconsequent remarks than the other, touching wildly on photography and
-the flitting soul, and between them working the mad race up to such a pace and
-pitch that Pocket woke with a dreadful start to find Dr. Baumgartner standing
-over him once more in the perfectly pallid flesh.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve had a beast of a dream!&rdquo; said Pocket, waking
-thoroughly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m in a cold perspiration, and I thought it was cold
-blood! What time is it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A quarter to six,&rdquo; said the doctor, who had invited the question
-by taking out his watch.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A quarter to twelve, you mean!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No&mdash;six.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And the boy was shown the dial, but would not believe it until he had gaped at
-his own watch, which had stopped at half-past three. Then he bounded to his
-feet in a puerile passion, and there lay the little garden, a lake of sunlight
-as he remembered it, swallowed up entirely in the shadow of the house.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You promised to wake me!&rdquo; gasped Pocket, almost speechless.
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve broken your word, sir!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Only in your own interest,&rdquo; replied the other calmly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I believe you were waiting for me to wake&mdash;to catch my soul, or
-some rot!&rdquo; cried the boy, with bitter rudeness; but he looked in vain for
-the stereoscopic or any other sort of camera, and Dr. Baumgartner only shrugged
-his shoulders as he opened an evening paper.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I apologise for saying that,&rdquo; the boy resumed, with a dignity that
-sounded near to tears. &ldquo;I know you meant it for the best&mdash;to make up
-for my bad night&mdash;you&rsquo;ve been very kind to me, I know! But I was due
-in Welbeck Street at twelve o&rsquo;clock, and now I shall have to bolt to
-catch the six-thirty from St. Pancras.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You won&rsquo;t catch the six-thirty from St. Pancras,&rdquo; replied
-Baumgartner, scarcely looking up from his paper.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I will unless I&rsquo;m in some outlandish part of London!&rdquo; cried
-Pocket, reflecting for the first time that he had no idea in what part of
-London he was. &ldquo;I must catch it. It&rsquo;s the last train back to
-school. I&rsquo;ll get into an awful row if I don&rsquo;t!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll get into a worse one if you do,&rdquo; rejoined the doctor,
-looking over his paper, and not unfeelingly, at the boy.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What about?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket held his breath instinctively as their eyes met. Baumgartner answered
-with increased compassion and restraint, a grey look on his grey face:
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Something that happened this morning. I fear you will be wanted here in
-town about it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do tell me what, sir!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Can you face things, my young fellow?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is it about my people&mdash;my mother?&rdquo; the boy cried wildly, at
-her funeral in a flash.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No&mdash;yourself.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then I can!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The doctor overcame his final hesitation.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you remember a man we left behind us on the grass?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Perfectly; the grass looked as wet as it felt just now in my
-dream.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Exactly. Didn&rsquo;t it strike you as strange that he should be lying
-there in the wet grass?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I thought he was drunk.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He was dead!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket was shocked; he was more than shocked, for he had never witnessed death
-before; but next moment the shock was uncontrollably mitigated by a sudden view
-of the tragic incident as yet another adventure of that adventurous night. No
-doubt one to retail in reverential tones, but a most thrilling adventure none
-the less. He only failed to see why it should affect him as much as the doctor
-suggested. True, he might be called as witness at the inquest; his very natural
-density was pierced with the awkward possibility of that. But then he had not
-even known the man was dead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Had the doctor?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yes.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket wondered why he had not been told at the time, but asked another
-question first.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What did he die of?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A bullet!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Suicide?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not murder?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;This paper says so.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Does it say who did it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It cannot.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Can you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Tell me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The doctor threw out both hands in a despairing gesture.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Have I to tell you outright, my young fellow, that you did it
-yourself?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br />
-BLOOD-GUILTY</h2>
-
-<p>
-His overwhelming horror was not alleviated by a moment&rsquo;s doubt. He
-marvelled rather that he had never guessed what he had done. The walking in his
-sleep, the shot that woke him, the first words of Dr. Baumgartner, his first
-swift action, and the warm pistol in his own unconscious hand: these burning
-memories spoke more eloquently than any words. They would have told their own
-tale at once, if only he had known the man was dead. Why had he been deceived?
-It was cruel, it was infamous, to have kept the truth from him for a single
-instant. Thus wildly did the stricken youth turn and rend his benefactor for
-the very benefaction of a day&rsquo;s rest in ignorance of his deed. The doctor
-defended himself firmly, frankly, with much patience and some cynicism. Pocket
-was reminded of the state he himself had been in at the time. He also might
-have been a dying  man, he was assured, and could well believe on looking back.
-Baumgartner had actually opened his lips to tell him the truth, but had checked
-himself in sheer humanity. Again the boy could confirm the outward detail out
-of his own recollection. To have told him later in the morning, the doctor went
-on to say, with an emphasis not immediately understood, could have undone
-nothing. He acknowledged a grave responsibility, but rightly or wrongly he had
-put the living before the dead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-How had he known the man was dead? Baumgartner smiled at the question. He was
-not only a doctor, but an old soldier who had fought in one at least of the
-bloodiest battles in European history. He had seen too many men fall shot
-through the heart to be mistaken for a moment; but in point of fact he had
-confirmed his conviction by brief examination while Pocket was fetching his
-things from behind the bush. Pocket pressed for earlier details with a morbid
-appetite which was not gratified without reluctance, and out of a laconic
-interchange the deed was gradually reconstructed with appealing verisimilitude.
-It was Baumgartner who had first caught sight of the somnambulist, treading
-warily like the blind, yet waving the revolver as he went, as though any moment
-he might let it off. The moment came with a wretched reeling man who joined
-Baumgartner on the path, and would not be warned. The poor man had raised a
-drunken shout and been shot pointblank through the heart. The doctor described
-him as leaping backward from the levelled barrel, then into the air and down in
-the dew upon his face.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy buried his face and wept; but even in his anguish he now recalled the
-shout before the shot. The enforced description had been so vivid in the end
-that he beheld the scene as plainly as though he had been wide awake. Then he
-dwelt upon the dead man, looking nothing else as he now remembered him, and
-that sent him off at a final tangent.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He cried, looking up with a shudder for all his tears, &ldquo;What about that
-negative you smashed? It was the poor dead man all the time!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was,&rdquo; replied Baumgartner; &ldquo;but it was never meant to be.
-I had you in focus when you fired. What I did was done instinctively, but with
-time to think I should have done just the same. You had given me the chance of
-a lifetime, though nothing has come of it so far. And that was another reason
-for saving you, ill as you were, from the immediate consequences of an innocent
-act.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket was passionately honest, as his worst friends knew; he had an
-instinctive admiration  for downright honesty in another. His young soul was
-torn with grief and pity for the dead; he was already haunted by the inevitable
-and complex consequences of his fatal misadventure, and yet he could dimly
-appreciate the candid declaration of one who had attempted to turn that tragedy
-to instantaneous and inconceivable account. It was the mistaken kindness to
-himself that he still found most difficult to forgive.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s got to come out,&rdquo; he groaned; &ldquo;this will make it
-all the worse.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You mean the delay?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes! Who&rsquo;s to tell them I didn&rsquo;t do it on purpose, and run
-away, and then think better of it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner smiled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Surely I am,&rdquo; said he; but his smile went out with the words.
-&ldquo;If only they believe me!&rdquo; he added as though it was a new idea to
-him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was a terrifying one to Pocket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t they?&rdquo; was his broken exclamation.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. I never thought of it before. But what can I swear
-to, after all? I can swear you shot a man, but I can&rsquo;t swear you shot him
-in your sleep!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You said you saw I did!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So I did, my young fellow,&rdquo; replied the doctor,  with a kinder
-smile; &ldquo;at least I can swear that you were walking with your eyes shut,
-and I thought you were walking in your sleep. It&rsquo;s not quite the same
-thing. It is near it. But we are talking about my evidence on oath in a court
-of justice.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Shall I be tried?&rdquo; asked the schoolboy in a hoarse whisper.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Perhaps only by the magistrate,&rdquo; replied the other, soothingly;
-&ldquo;let us hope it will stop at that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But it must, it must!&rdquo; cried Pocket wildly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
-absolutely innocent! You said so yourself a minute ago; you&rsquo;ve only to
-swear it as a doctor? They can&rsquo;t do anything to me&mdash;they can&rsquo;t
-possibly!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The doctor stood looking into the sunless garden with a troubled face.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Dr. Baumgartner!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes, my young fellow?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They can&rsquo;t do anything to me, can they?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner returned to the fireside with his foreign shrug.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It depends what you call anything,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;They cannot
-hang you; after what I should certainly have to say I doubt if they could even
-detain you in custody. But you would only be released on bail; the case would
-be sent for trial; it would get into every paper in England; your family could
-not stop it, your schoolfellows would  devour it, you would find it difficult
-to live down both at home and at school. In years to come it will mean at best
-a certain smile at your expense! That is what they can do to you,&rdquo;
-concluded the doctor, apologetically. &ldquo;You asked me to tell you. It is
-better to be candid. I hoped you would bear it like a man.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket was not even bearing it like a manly boy; he had flung himself back into
-the big chair, and broken down for the first time utterly. One name became
-articulate through his sobs. &ldquo;My mother!&rdquo; he moaned.
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;ll kill her! I know it will! Oh, that I should live to kill my
-mother too!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Mothers have more lives than that; they have more than most
-people,&rdquo; remarked Baumgartner sardonically.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand! She has had a frightful illness, bad news of
-any kind has to be kept from her, and can you imagine worse news than this? She
-mustn&rsquo;t hear it!&rdquo; cried the boy, leaping to feet with streaming
-eyes. &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, sir, help me to hush it up!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s in the papers already,&rdquo; replied Baumgartner, with a
-forbearing shrug.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But my part in it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You said it had got to come out.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t realise all it meant&mdash;to her!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I thought you meant to make a clean breast of it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So I did; but now I don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; cried Pocket, vehemently.
-&ldquo;Now I would give my own life, cheerfully, rather than let her know what
-I&rsquo;ve done&mdash;than drag them all through that!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you mean what you say?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner appeared to be forming some conditional intention.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Every syllable!&rdquo; said Pocket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Because, you know,&rdquo; explained the doctor, &ldquo;it is a case of
-now or never so far as going to Scotland Yard is concerned.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then it&rsquo;s never!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I must put it plainly to you. It&rsquo;s not too late to do whatever you
-decide, but you must decide now. I would still go with you to Scotland Yard,
-and the chances are that they would still accept the true story of to-day. I
-have told you what I believe to be the worst that can happen to you; it may be
-that rather more may happen to me for harbouring you all day as I have done. I
-hope not, but I took the law into my own hands, and I I am prepared to abide by
-the law if you so decide this minute.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I have decided.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Mind you, it would mean putting yourself unreservedly in my hands, at
-any rate for the  present,&rdquo; said Baumgartner, impressively. &ldquo;Better
-come to Scotland Yard this minute than go back to school and blab about the
-whole thing there!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t do that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so sure,&rdquo; replied the acute doctor. &ldquo;I believe
-I know you better than you know yourself; one learns more of a person in an
-hour like this than in a whole humdrum lifetime. I believe you would find it
-very difficult not to tell somebody.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket admitted it with a natural outburst of his leading quality. In truth no
-previous act or word of Baumgartner&rsquo;s had inspired such confidence as
-this unerring piece of insight. It seemed to the boy a perfect miracle of
-discernment. He was not old enough to know that what he would have done, in his
-weakness, most grown-up men and women of his temperament would have done in
-theirs.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Remember,&rdquo; resumed the doctor, &ldquo;you would have the whole of
-to-day to account for; it&rsquo;s not as though you wouldn&rsquo;t have some
-very awkward questions to answer the moment you got back to school.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And again the lad marvelled at this intuition into public-school conditions on
-the part of one who could have no first-hand knowledge of those  insular
-institutions. But this fresh display of understanding only confirmed him in his
-resolve.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I trust you, sir,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;haven&rsquo;t you done enough
-for me to make me? I put myself, as you say, absolutely in your hands; and
-I&rsquo;m grateful to you for all you&rsquo;ve done and whatever you mean to
-do!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Even though it comes to hiding with us here in London?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No matter what it comes to,&rdquo; cried Pocket, strangely exalted now,
-&ldquo;so long as my people never know!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They may think you dead.&rdquo; He thought of saying that he wished he
-was; but it would not have been true; even then it would have been a lie, and
-Pocket was not the boy to tell one if he knew it.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That would be better than knowing what I have done,&rdquo; was what he
-said; and in his exaltation he believed no less.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You quite see that you are taking a step which must be final?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It is final&mdash;absolutely&mdash;so far as I am concerned.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And it was meant to be, in all good faith; the very fulness and fairness of the
-doctor&rsquo;s warnings served but to strengthen that resolve. But Baumgartner,
-as if to let well or ill alone, dropped the  matter with a clinching shrug; and
-presently he left his visitor, less wisely, to brood on it alone.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket was a dab at brooding! That is the worst of your conscientious ass; he
-takes his decision like a man; he means to stick to it like a sportsman; but he
-cannot help wondering whether he has decided for the best, and what would have
-happened if he had decided otherwise, and what his world will say about him as
-it is.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-This one went much further in the unique stress of his extraordinary position.
-He pictured his people dressing for dinner at home; he pictured his form
-sitting down to private-work in his form-master&rsquo;s hall; there was no end
-to his mental pictures, for they included one of himself on the scaffold in the
-broad-arrows of the little old waxwork at Madame Tassaud&rsquo;s! He could not
-help himself; his mind was crumbling with his dreadful deed and its awful
-possibilities. Now his heart bled honestly for the poor dead man, now for his
-own mother and sister, and now not less freely for himself. He had been so
-innocent in the whole matter; he had only been an innocent and rather sporting
-fool. And now one of these lives was ended by his hand, and all the rest would
-be darkened for ever after!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was too great a burden for a boy to bear; but Pocket bore it far into the
-long June twilight,  scarcely stirring in the big soft chair, yet never leaning
-back in it again. He sat hunched up as though once more battling for breath,
-but curiously enough his bodily distress had flown before that of the mind.
-Pocket would thankfully have changed them back again, for his brain was as
-clear as his bronchial tubes, its capacity for suffering undimmed by a single
-physical preoccupation. Between seven and eight the young lady of the house
-came in with candles and a kind of high-tea on a tray; she also brought a box
-of d&rsquo;Auvergne Cigarettes and the latest evening paper, which her uncle
-thought that Mr. Upton would like to see. That was how the girl addressed the
-boy, and the style always made him feel, and wish to seem, something of a man.
-But his present effort in that direction was sadly perfunctory: he almost
-ejected little Miss Platts in his eagerness to shut the door on her and see the
-news.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was neither unimportant nor at first sight reassuring. The dead man had been
-identified by the police, who knew him of old, and were reported as hopeful of
-obtaining a clue through his identity. The clue was the point that stuck like a
-burr in the boyish brain; his idea of a clue was one leading straight to
-himself; it took Dr. Baumgartner to explain the true value of the identity
-clause, and bid the boy eat his meal.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Trust the police!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re on a false scent
-already; they may try at that end till it turns their hair grey!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket disliked this tone; he had begun to think almost as reverentially of his
-victim as of a dead member of his own family. It appeared thus early, however,
-that in life the defunct had been by no means worthy of respect. Rowton Houses
-had been his only home, except when his undistinguished offences got him into
-gaol; the surreptitious practices of the professional mendicant, his sole means
-of livelihood. So much was to be read between the few brief lines in the
-stop-press column of the latest evening paper. Again it required Baumgartner to
-extract comfort from such items.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;At all events,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you cannot reproach yourself with
-the destruction of a valuable life! The man was evidently the worthless
-creature that he looked. You talk about your undesirable aliens, but here in
-England you breed undesirables enough to manure the world! It&rsquo;s a public
-service to reduce their number.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-This pitch of nauseous cynicism had not been reached at a bound; the doctor had
-been working up to it all the evening, and this was the climax of his
-cold-blooded consolation as the schoolboy mechanically undressed himself for
-bed. His host had accompanied him up two pairs of stairs, carrying  candles,
-and his meerschaum pipe in aromatic blast. Pocket felt a new chill through his
-veins, but he was not revolted as he would have been at first. This
-extraordinary man had shown him still more extraordinary kindness; the die was
-cast for them to stand or fall together; and there was something about the
-gaunt old visionary, a confidential candour, a dry intellectual plausibility,
-which could not but stimulate respect for his ungodliest views. Whether they
-really were his views, or only a tortuous attempt at comfort, the sympathy
-underlying their expression was undoubted and indubitable. But the doctor spoke
-as though he meant every word, and the boy only longed to agree with him: his
-conscientious failure to do so declared itself in a series of incoherent
-expostulations to which Baumgartner himself gave articulate shape in order to
-demolish them in the next breath.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You say his life was as much to him as yours to you? Is that it, my
-young fellow?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket acknowledged the interpretation, and watched the Turk&rsquo;s head
-wreathed in cool blue clouds.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You might as well compare withered weed with budding flower!&rdquo;
-cried the poetic doctor. &ldquo;You have an honourable life before you; he had
-a disreputable one behind him. You were bred and  nurtured in the lap of
-luxury; he finds it for the first time in his&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But here even Baumgartner broke off abruptly. The boy was writhing in his bed;
-the man sat down on the end of it.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You do such poor devils a service,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;in sending
-them to a world that cannot use them worse than this one. They are better under
-the ground than lying on it drenched and drunk!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was a human life,&rdquo; groaned the boy, shutting his eyes in pain.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Human life!&rdquo; cried Baumgartner, leaping to his feet, his huge
-shadow guying him on the ceiling. &ldquo;What is this human life, and who are
-you and I, that we set such store by it? The great men of this world never did;
-it&rsquo;s only the little people and the young who pule and whine about human
-life. The ancient Roman sacrificed his weaklings as on an altar; there are some
-of us in these days who would prescribe a Tarpeian Rock for modern decadence.
-So much in pious parenthesis! Napoleon thought nothing of your human life. Von
-Moltke, Bismarck, and our staff in Germany thought as little of it as Napoleon;
-the Empire of my countrymen was founded on a proper appreciation of the
-infinitesimal value of human life, and your British Empire will be lost through
-exaggerating its importance. Blood and Iron were our  watchwords; they&rsquo;re
-on the tip of every Fleet Street pen to-day, but I speak of what I know.
-I&rsquo;ve heard the Iron shriek without ceasing, like the wind, and I&rsquo;ve
-felt the Blood like spray from a hot spring! I fought at Gravelotte; as a
-public schoolboy you probably never heard the name before this minute. I fought
-in the Prussian Guard. I saw you looking at the pictures downstairs. I was in
-that charge across those hellish ridges. Over two thousand of us fell dead in
-half an hour, but we gained the victory. More Germans were killed that
-day&mdash;that sweltering August afternoon&mdash;than English in your whole
-South African War that took you years! The flower of Germany fell at
-Gravelotte; that was human life with a vengeance! But an Empire rose out of my
-comrades&rsquo; ashes. And that&rsquo;s all it&rsquo;s for, this human life of
-yours: for the master-builders to lay out in their wisdom on the upward
-road.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The schoolboy was carried away. In the sudden eloquence of this strange
-outburst, with its poetic frenzy, its ruthless idealism, its wild bloodthirsty
-nobility, the youthful listener lost sight of its irrelevancy, or rather it was
-the irrevelant features that flared up first in his brain. It was a childish
-question, but here was a very child, and he could not help asking the fierce
-old soldier whether he had escaped without a wound.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Without a scratch,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;I come home. I leave the
-army. I ally my human life with one that is all but divine. My Queen is struck
-down dead at my side within a year. And you expect me to pity the veriest pawn
-in the game!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy was never to forget these bitter speeches altogether; there was not a
-single sentence of them that he failed to recall at one time or another word
-for word. He would see a wild arm waving, wisps of smoke from a waving pipe, a
-core of nicotine in a curve of amber, and the Turk&rsquo;s face glistening in
-its heat like that of the hard old man himself. He would hear the cynical and
-scornful voice softening in a breath to the simple, tender, and domestic
-humanity of his race. The voice and the face were with him throughout that
-night of his own manifold misery; but the time had not come for so young a boy
-to realise that Dr. Baumgartner had begun to say one thing, and been carried
-away like his listener.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br />
-POINTS OF VIEW</h2>
-
-<p>
-On the following morning, the ominous Friday of this disastrous week, there was
-a letter for Mr. Upton on the breakfast-table down in Leicestershire. This
-circumstance was not so usual as it sounds, because Mr. Upton conducted all his
-correspondence from his office at the works. If you simply put the name of the
-village, as he did on his stationery, to the works it went; it was necessary to
-direct your letter to the hall if you wished it to be delivered there; and few
-there were who had anything to say to Mr. Upton, on paper, unless it was on
-business too. His youngest son, however, had furnished the more impressive
-address to Dr. Bompas, whose hurried hand it was that dealt the first blow.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It so happened that a letter from Dr. Bompas had been expected; this made the
-letter he wrote especially upsetting, and for the following reason. Mrs. Upton
-had been so shaken by her vivid dream on the Thursday morning, that her husband
-had telegraphed to Bompas, somewhat against his own judgment, to know how he
-found their son. The reply had been: &ldquo;Better expecting him again to-day
-will write&rdquo;&mdash;which prepared the family for still more reassuring
-accounts in the morning. Lettice  felt relieved as the original discoverer of
-Dr. Bompas. Horace found his views confirmed as to the systematic exaggeration
-of a touch of asthma, and Fred was only prevented by absence from entirely
-agreeing with Horace. Mr. Upton thought no more about the matter. But poor Mrs.
-Upton lay upstairs looking forward to a letter which it was quite impossible to
-show her now that it had come.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton read it more than once without a word; and it was not his way to keep
-a family matter to himself at his own table; but on this occasion he triumphed
-over temperament with an extraordinary instinct for what was in the air.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The most infernal letter I ever had in my life!&rdquo; was his only
-comment as he thrust it in his pocket out of sight. Lettice, however, might
-have seen that her father was far more distressed than angry had not Horace
-promptly angered him by saying he was not surprised. The young fellow&rsquo;s
-face and the old one&rsquo;s neck were redder before the last was heard of that
-remark. A garbled paraphrase of the letter was eventually vouchsafed; the boy
-had made very little improvement, and was not likely to make more while he
-remained at a school where he was allowed to use any remedy he liked; in fact,
-until he was taken away from school, and placed under his own immediate control
-in town, Dr. Bompas declined to persevere with the case.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Blighter!&rdquo; said Horace impartially, as though now there were two
-of them. Such was, in fact, the sum of his observations to Lettice when their
-father had taken himself and his letter upstairs. Young Tony was not
-&ldquo;playing the game&rdquo;; but then he never did play it to the expert
-satisfaction of Fred and Horace.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Upstairs the husband gave a more elaborate version of his letter, and told a
-lie. He said he had destroyed the letter in his indignation. He had destroyed
-it, but solely to escape any question of his showing it to his wife. He said a
-happier thing by chance; he said that for two pins he would motor over to the
-school and see for himself how the boy really was; then perhaps he would be in
-a position to consider the entreaty which Mrs. Upton added to the
-specialist&rsquo;s demand, that his patient should be placed under his eye in
-town. Mr. Upton went so far, however, without much immediate intention of
-taking so strong a measure.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He wished to discuss the matter with Horace; he might be quite justified in his
-fears. He was sorry he had let them lead to words with his eldest son. There
-were aspects of the case, as it presented itself to his mind, which he could
-hardly thresh out with Lettice, and her mother must not know of his anxiety on
-any account. Horace, however, had gone off earlier than usual in his dudgeon.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton was not long in following him to the works.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was a charming garden that he passed through on his way; it charmed its
-owner all the more from his having made it himself out of a few rolling
-meadows. The rhododendrons were at the climax of their June glory. The new red
-gravel (his own colouring to a shade) appealed to an eye which had never looked
-longer than necessary in the glass. Lawn-tennis courts were marked out snowily
-on a shaven lawn; the only eyesore the good man encountered was poor
-Pocket&rsquo;s snob-wickets painted on a buttress in the back premises; his own
-belching blast-furnaces, corroding and defiling acres and acres within a few
-hundred yards of his garden wall, were but another form of beauty to the sturdy
-Briton who had made them too.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Horace was called into the private office and speedily propitiated. &ldquo;I
-was more anxious than I could tell you at the time,&rdquo; his father said;
-&ldquo;the fact is, I concealed half the fellow&rsquo;s letter on account of
-Lettice. But it&rsquo;s a man&rsquo;s matter, and you ought to know.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Of course the letter had stated that the erratic patient had failed to keep his
-appointment on the morning of writing; but if it had drawn the line of
-information there, it is highly improbable that Mr. Upton would have exercised
-so wise a discretion  at table and in his wife&rsquo;s room. It now appeared
-that as a busy professional man the outspoken Bompas had gone far out of his
-way to play Mahomet to his patient&rsquo;s mountain. Tony had told him where he
-hoped to stay in London, which Bompas particularly wished to know on account of
-some special prescription the boy was to try that night. On his failure to
-appear at the appointed time, the doctor had telephoned to the address in
-question, only to learn that the boy had not stayed there at all. He had been
-given another address with the same result, except that from the second house
-he gathered that the young gentleman had gone on to some hotel. Horace was left
-to imagine a professional opinion of such proceedings, and asked for his own on
-the facts as a man of the world.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Exactly like young Tony!&rdquo; quoth Horace, never afraid to say what
-he thought.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What! Like a lad of sixteen to go and put up at some hotel?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Like Tony,&rdquo; repeated Horace significantly. &ldquo;Trust him to do
-what nobody else ever did.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But how could Spearman give him the chance?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Heaven knows! Fred and I never got it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I thought he was to stay at Coverley&rsquo;s?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So I heard.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like it! It&rsquo;s all wrong at his age,&rdquo; said Mr.
-Upton. He had his notions of life and its  temptations, and he was blunt enough
-with his elder sons, yet it was not without some hesitation that he added:
-&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t think there&rsquo;s any question of bad company, do
-you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And though Horace had &ldquo;no use for&rdquo; his so-called pocket edition, he
-answered without any hesitation at all: &ldquo;Not for a moment, from what I
-know of Tony.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton was sorry he had said so much. He excused himself by mentioning his
-wife&rsquo;s dream, now family property, which had been on his mind all this
-time. Horace, however, had no hesitation in informing him that nobody nowadays
-believed in dreams.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I never have, certainly,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton. &ldquo;But what
-can it be?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He probably went up to Lord&rsquo;s, and forgot all about his
-doctor.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I hope not! You&rsquo;re too down on him, Horace.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If there was nobody to put him up it was the game to go back to
-school.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But he&rsquo;s said to have gone to some hotel.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose he did,&rdquo; said Horace. &ldquo;I expect he got
-back somehow.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The question was still under discussion when a telegram from Mr. Spearman
-settled it. Where was Tony? He had not returned when due the day before, and
-his friends in London wired that they knew nothing about him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What friends?&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton, in a fury. &ldquo;Why the devil
-couldn&rsquo;t Spearman give their names or Bompas the addresses he talked
-about?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Horace could only think of Mr. Coverley or &ldquo;that Knaggs crowd.&rdquo;
-Neither he nor Fred had been at Coverley&rsquo;s school, and young Tony&rsquo;s
-friends were by no means theirs.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton thought Lettice would know, and was going to speak to her on the
-telephone when Horace reminded him of his own remark about its being &ldquo;a
-man&rsquo;s matter&rdquo;; it was beginning to look, even to Horace, like a
-serious one as well, and in his opinion it was much better that neither his
-mother nor his sister should know anything at all about it before it was
-absolutely necessary. Horace now quoted his mother&rsquo;s dream as the devil
-did Scripture, but adduced sounder arguments besides; he was speaking quite
-nicely of them both, for instance, when he declared that Lettice was wrapped up
-in Tony, and would be beside herself if she thought any evil had overtaken him.
-It would be simply impossible for her to hide her anxiety from the mother on
-whom she also waited hand and foot. Mr. Upton disagreed a little there; he had
-good reason to believe in Lettice&rsquo;s power of suppressing her own
-feelings; but for her own sake, and particularly in view of that discredited
-dream, he now decided to keep his daughter in the dark as long as his wife.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was his first decision; his next was to motor over to the school, as he had
-fortunately told his wife he might, and have a word with Mr. Spearman, who
-deserved hanging for the whole thing! The mischief was done, however, and it
-was now a matter in which home and school authorities must act together. A
-clerk was instructed to telephone to the garage for the car to come straight to
-the works. And the ironmaster stood waiting at his office window in a fever of
-anxiety.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The grimy scene on which he looked had a constant charm for him, and yet to-day
-it almost added to the bitterness of his heart. His was the brain that had
-conceived those broad effects of smoke and flame, and blackened faces lit by
-the light of molten metal; his the strong hand and the stout heart which had
-brought his conception into being. Those were his trucks bringing in his ore
-from his mines; that was his consequential little locomotive fussing in front
-of them. His men, dwellers in his cottages on the brow of that hill, which was
-also his, happened to be tapping one of his furnaces at the moment; that was
-his pig-iron running out into the moulds as magically as an electric
-advertisement writes itself upon the London sky at night. The sense of
-possession is the foible of many who have won all they have; the ironmaster
-almost looked upon the hot air dancing over the  white-hot bars as his too. The
-whole sulphurous prospect, once a green pasture, had long been his to all
-intents and purposes, and no second soul would ever take his pride in it; to
-his children it would never be more than the means of livelihood; and how had
-it repaid even him for a life&rsquo;s devotion? With a house of sorrow in the
-next valley! With a stricken wife, and sons whose right hands kept their
-cunning for the cricket-field, and one of whom the very thought had become a
-sudden madness!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yet he could think of nothing else, except his wife, even in the great green
-car that whisked him westward in a dancing cloud of dust; for he did not drive
-himself, and the rush through the iced fragrance of the summer&rsquo;s day was
-a mental stimulant that did its work only too well. Now it recalled the ailing
-infancy of the missing boy&mdash;bronchitis it had been in the early
-stages&mdash;and how his mother had taken him to Hastings three successive
-winters, and wrapped him up far too much. Old family jokes cropped up in a new
-light, dimming the eyes without an instant&rsquo;s warning. On one of those
-flittings south the solicitous mother had placed the uncomplaining child on a
-footwarmer, and forgotten him until a cascade of perspiration apprised her of
-the effect: poor Mr. Upton had never thought of the incident without laughter,
-until to-day. Without  doubt she had coddled him, and all for this, and she
-herself too ill to hear a word about it!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His mind harked back to his wife. In her sad case there was no uncertainty. He
-thought of thirty years ago when he had seen her first. There had been drama
-and colour in their meeting; the most celebrated of the neighbouring packs had
-run a fox to earth on his works, indeed in his very slag-heap! The author of
-cancerous furnaces in the green heart of a grass country had never been a
-popular personage with the hunting folk; but he was master of the situation
-that memorable day. It was his terrier that went into the slag-heap like a
-ferret, and came out bloody with a moribund fox; his pocket-knife that shore
-through the brush, his hand that presented it across the wall to the only young
-lady in at the death. The men in pink looking over, the hunt servants with
-their work cut out on the other side, the tongue of molten slag sticking out of
-the furnace mouth&mdash;the momentary contact of the industrial and the
-sporting world&mdash;it was that strange and yet significant scene which had
-first endeared its dingy setting to the ironmaster&rsquo;s heart. But he had
-made the contact permanent by falling in love with the young lady of the brush
-and marrying her under all the guns of her countified kith and kin. And now she
-was a stricken invalid, and their youngest-born was God knew where!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Of course there were no tidings of him at the school, where the now distracted
-father spent a more explosive hour than he cared to think about as he flew on
-to town in the car. He was afraid he had been very rude to Mr. Spearman; but
-then Spearman had been rash enough to repudiate his obvious responsibility in
-the matter. It was not his fault that the boy went up to town so often to see
-his doctor and stay the night. He had his own opinion of that arrangement, but
-it had become his business to see it carried out. Mr. Upton got in a sharp
-thrust here, to which the house-master retorted that if a boy of seventeen
-could not be trusted to keep his word, he should like to know who could! Tony
-had promised him faithfully to return that same night, failing friends whom he
-had mentioned as certain to put him up; their names Mr. Upton was able to
-demand at last as though they were so much blood; and he could not have cursed
-them more freely if Spearman had been a layman like himself. But that was all
-the information forthcoming from this quarter; for, happening to ask what the
-head master thought of the affair, Mr. Upton was calmly informed that it had
-still to reach his ears; at which he stared, and then merely remarked that he
-was not surprised, but in such a tone that Spearman sprang up and led him
-straight into the presence.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Now the Benevolent Despot of this particular seat of learning was an astute
-pedagogue who could handle men as well as boys. He explained to Mr. Upton that
-the safe-keeping of the unit was the house-master&rsquo;s concern, but agreed
-it was time that he himself was made acquainted with the present case. He took
-it as seriously, too, as Mr. Upton could have wished, but quite as frankly from
-his own point of view as his two visitors did from each of theirs. He had no
-doubt the boy would turn up, but when he did it would be necessary for him to
-give a satisfactory account of his proceedings before he could be received back
-into the school.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Bother the school!&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton, diluting the anathema with
-difficulty. &ldquo;Let me find my lad alive and well; then you can do what you
-like.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But how do you propose to find him?&rdquo; inquired the head master,
-with only a dry smile (which disappointed Spearman) by way of rejoinder.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;First I shall have a word with these infernal people who, on their own
-showing, refused the boy a bed. I&rsquo;ll give them a bit of my mind, I
-promise you! Then there&rsquo;s the hotel they seem to have driven him to; it
-may be the one we always stay at, or one they&rsquo;ve recommended. If I
-can&rsquo;t hear anything of him there, I suppose there&rsquo;ll be nothing for
-it but to call in the police.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My dear sir,&rdquo; exclaimed the head master,  &ldquo;you may as well
-call in the public at once! It will be in the papers before you know where you
-are; and that, I need hardly point out to you, is as undesirable from our point
-of view as I should have thought it would be from yours.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s more so from mine!&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton, in fresh alarm and
-indignation. &ldquo;You think about your school. I think about my wife and boy;
-it might kill her to hear about this before he&rsquo;s found. But if I
-don&rsquo;t go to the police, who am I to go to?&rdquo; The head master leant
-back in his chair, and joined his finger-tips judicially.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There was a man we had down here to investigate an extraordinary case of
-dishonesty, in which I was actually threatened with legal proceedings on behalf
-of a certain boy. But this man Thrush came down and solved the mystery within
-twenty-four hours, and saved the school a public scandal.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He may save you another,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton, &ldquo;if he can find my
-boy. What did you say the name was?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Thrush&mdash;Eugene Thrush&mdash;quite a remarkable man, and, I think, a
-gentleman,&rdquo; said the head master impressively. Further particulars,
-including an address in Glasshouse Street, were readily supplied from an
-advertisement in that day&rsquo;s <i>Times</i>, in which Mr. Thrush was
-described as an &ldquo;inquiry agent,&rdquo; capable alike of &ldquo;delicate
-investigations&rdquo; and &ldquo;confidential negotiations.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That was the very man for Mr. Upton, as he himself agreed. And he departed both
-on speaking terms with Mr. Spearman, who said a final word for his own
-behaviour in the matter, and grimly at one with the head master on the
-importance of keeping it out of the papers.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br />
-MR. EUGENE THRUSH</h2>
-
-<p>
-The remarkable Mr. Thrush was a duly qualified solicitor, who had never been
-the man for that orderly and circumscribed profession. The tide of events which
-had turned his talents into their present channel, was known to but few of his
-many boon companions, and much nonsense was talked about him and his first
-career. It was not the case (as anybody might have ascertained) that he had
-been struck off the rolls in connection with the first great scandal in which
-he was professionally concerned. Nor was there much more truth in the report
-that he drank, in the ordinary interpretation of the term.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It is true, however, that Mr. Thrush had a tall tumbler on his dressing-table,
-to help him shave for the evening of that fateful Friday. He was  dressing for
-an early dinner before a first night. His dressing-room, in which he also slept
-in Spartan simplicity, was the original powder-closet of the panelled library
-out of which it led. There was a third room in which his man Mullins prepared
-breakfast and spent the day. But the whole was a glorified garret, at the top
-of such stairs as might have sent a nervous client back for an escort.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins, with the expression of an undertaker&rsquo;s mute (a calling he had
-followed in his day), was laying out his master&rsquo;s clothes as mournfully
-as though his master were in them, instead of chatting genially as he shaved.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry to have missed your evidence, Mullins, but if we go into
-this case it&rsquo;s no use letting the police smell the competitive rat too
-soon. Inquests are not in my line, and they&rsquo;d have wondered what the
-devil I was doing there, especially as you refrained from saying you were in my
-service.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I had no call, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Quite right, Mullins! An ideal witness, I can see you were. So
-you&rsquo;d only to describe the finding of the body?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That was all, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And your description was really largely founded on fact?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins stood like a funereal grenadier at his gentleman&rsquo;s shaving elbow.
-&ldquo;I told the truth,  sir, and nothing but the truth,&rdquo; said he, with
-sombre dignity.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But not the whole truth, eh, Mullins! What about the little souvenirs
-you showed me yesterday?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There was no call to name them either, sir. The cheroot-end I must have
-picked up a hundred yards away, and even the medicine-cork wasn&rsquo;t on the
-actual scene of the murder.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right, Mullins. I don&rsquo;t see what they could
-possibly have to do with it, myself; and really, but for the fluke of your
-being the one to find the body, and picking the first-fruits for what
-they&rsquo;re worth, it&rsquo;s the last kind of case that I should dream of
-touching with a ten-foot pole. By the way, I suppose they won&rsquo;t require
-you at the adjourned inquest?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They may not require me, sir, but I should like to attend, if quite
-convenient,&rdquo; replied Mullins deferentially. &ldquo;The police were very
-stingy with their evidence to-day; they&rsquo;ve still to produce the fatal
-bullet, and I should like a sight of that, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Thrush did not continue the conversation, possibly because he took as
-little real interest as he professed in the case which was being thrust upon
-him, but more obviously owing to the necessary care in shaving the corners of a
-delightfuly long and mobile mouth. Indeed, the whole face emerging from the
-lather, as a cast from its clay, would have  delighted any eye but its own. It
-was fat and flabby as the rest of Eugene Thrush; there was quite a collection
-of chins to shave; and yet anybody but himself must have recognised the
-invincible freshness of complexion, the happy penetration of every glance, as
-an earnest of inexhaustible possibilities beneath the burden of the flesh.
-Great round spectacles, through which he stared like a wise fish in an
-aquarium, were caught precariously on a button of a nose which in itself might
-have prevented the superficial observer from taking him any more seriously than
-he took himself.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton, who arrived before Thrush was visible, was an essentially
-superficial and antipathetic observer of unfamiliar types; and being badly
-impressed by the forbidding staircase, he had determined on the landing to
-sound his man before trusting him. In the rank undergrowth of his prejudices
-there was no more luxuriant weed than an innate abhorrence of London and all
-Londoners, which neither the cause of his visit nor the murky mien of Mullins
-was calculated to abate. The library of books in solid bindings, many of them
-legal tomes, was the first reassuring feature; another was the large desk, made
-business-like with pigeon-holes and a telephone; but Mr. Upton was only
-beginning to recover confidence when Eugene Thrush shook it sadly at his first
-entry.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It might have been by his face, or his fat, or his evening clothes seen from
-the motorist&rsquo;s dusty tweeds, almost as much as by the misplaced joviality
-with which Thrush exclaimed: &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry to have kept you waiting,
-sir, and the worst of it is that I can&rsquo;t let you keep me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-This touched a raw nerve in the ironmaster, as the kind of reception one had to
-come up to London to incur. &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll clear out!&rdquo; said he,
-and would have been as good as his word but for its instantaneous effect.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush had pulled out a gold watch after a stare of kindly consternation.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I really am rather rushed,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but I can give you
-four minutes, if that&rsquo;s any good to you.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Now, at first sight, before a word was spoken, Mr. Upton would have said four
-hours or four days of that boiled salmon in spectacles would have been no good
-to him; but the precise term of minutes, together with a seemlier but not less
-decisive manner, had already quickened the business man&rsquo;s respect for
-another whose time was valuable. This is by no means to say that Thrush had won
-him over in a breath. But the following interchange took place rapidly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I understand you&rsquo;re a detective, Mr. Thrush?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Hardly that, Mr.&mdash;&mdash;I&rsquo;ve left your card in the other
-room.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Upton is my name, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t aspire to the official designation, Mr. Upton, an inquiry
-agent is all I presume to call myself.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you do inquire into mysteries?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve dabbled in them.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;As an amateur?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A paid amateur, I fear.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I come on a serious matter, Mr. Thrush&mdash;a very serious matter to
-me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Pardon me if I seem anything else for a moment; as it happens, you catch
-me dabbling, or rather meddling, in a serious case which is none of my
-business, but strictly a matter for the police, only it happens to have come my
-way by a fluke. I am not a policeman, but a private inquisitor. If you want
-anything or anybody ferreted out, that&rsquo;s my job and I should put it
-first.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Mr. Thrush, that&rsquo;s exactly what I do want, if only you can do it
-for me! I had reason to fear, from what I heard this morning, that my youngest
-child, a boy of sixteen, had disappeared up here in London, or been decoyed
-away. And now there can be no doubt about it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-So, in about one of the allotted minutes, Thrush was trusted on grounds which
-Mr. Upton could not easily have explained; but the time was up before he had
-concluded a briefly circumstantial report of the facts within his knowledge.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;When can I see you again?&rdquo; he asked abruptly of Thrush.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;When? What do you mean, Mr. Upton?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The four minutes must be more than up.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Go on, my dear sir, and don&rsquo;t throw good time after bad. I&rsquo;m
-only dining with a man at his club. He can wait.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Thank you, Mr. Thrush.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;More good time! How do you know the boy hasn&rsquo;t turned up at school
-or at home while you&rsquo;ve been fizzing in a cloud of dust?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I was to have a wire at the hotel I always stop at; there&rsquo;s
-nothing there; but the first thing they told me was that my boy had been for a
-bed which they couldn&rsquo;t give him the night before last. I did let them
-have it! But it seems the manager was out, and his understrappers had
-recommended other hotels; they&rsquo;ve just been telephoning to them all in
-turn, but at every one the poor boy seems to have fared the same. Then
-I&rsquo;ve been in communication with these infernal people in St. John&rsquo;s
-Wood, and with the doctor, but none of them have heard anything. I thought
-I&rsquo;d like to do what I could before coming to you, Mr. Thrush, but
-that&rsquo;s all I&rsquo;ve done or know how to do. Something must have
-happened!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It begins to sound like it,&rdquo; said Thrush gravely.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But there are happenings and happenings; it may be only a minor
-accident. One moment!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he returned to the powder-closet of its modish day, where Mullins was still
-pursuing his ostensibly menial avocation. What the master said was inaudible in
-the library, but the man hurried out in front of him, and was heard clattering
-down the evil stairs next minute.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In less than an hour,&rdquo; explained Thrush, &ldquo;he will be back
-with a list of the admissions at the principal hospitals for the last
-forty-eight hours. I don&rsquo;t say there&rsquo;s much in it; your boy had
-probably some letter or other means of easier indentification about him; but
-it&rsquo;s worth trying.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It is, indeed!&rdquo; murmured Mr. Upton, much impressed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And while he is trying it,&rdquo; exclaimed Eugene Thrush, lighting up
-as with a really great idea, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ll greatly oblige me by having a
-whisky-and-soda in the first place.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No, thank you! I haven&rsquo;t had a bite all day. It would fly to my
-head.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But that&rsquo;s its job; that&rsquo;s where it&rsquo;s meant to
-fly,&rdquo; explained the convivial Mr. Thrush, preparing the potion with
-practised hand. Baited with a biscuit it was eventually swallowed, and a
-flagging giant refreshed by his surrender. It made  him like his new
-acquaintance too well to bear the thought of detaining him any more.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Go to your dinner, man, and let me waylay you later!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Thank you, I prefer to keep you now I&rsquo;ve got you, Mr. Upton! My
-man begins his round by going to tell my pal I can&rsquo;t dine with him at
-all. Not a word, I beg! I&rsquo;ll have a bite with you instead when Mullins
-gets back, and in a taxi that won&rsquo;t be long.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But do you think you can do anything?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The question floated in pathetic evidence on a flood of inarticulate thanks.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If you give me time, I hope so,&rdquo; was the measured answer.
-&ldquo;But the needle in the hay is nothing to the lost unit in London, and it
-will take time. I&rsquo;m not a magazine detective, Mr. Upton; if you want a
-sixpenny solution for soft problems, don&rsquo;t come to me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-At an earlier stage the ironmaster would have raised his voice and repeated
-that this was a serious matter; even now he looked rather reproachfully at
-Eugene Thrush, who came back to business on the spot.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t asked you for a description of the boy, Mr. Upton,
-because it&rsquo;s not much good if we&rsquo;ve got to keep the matter to
-ourselves. But is there anything distinctive about him besides the
-asthma?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nothing; he was never an athlete, like my other boys.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Come! I call that a distinction in itself,&rdquo; said Mr. Thrush,
-smiling down his own unathletic waistcoat. &ldquo;But as a matter of fact,
-nothing could be better than the very complaint which no doubt unfits him for
-games.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nothing better, do you say?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Emphatically, from my point of view. It&rsquo;s harder to hide a
-man&rsquo;s asthma than to hide the man himself.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I never thought of that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was impossible to tell whether Thrush had thought of it before that moment.
-The round glasses were levelled at Mr. Upton with an inscrutable stare of the
-marine eyes behind them.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I suppose it has never affected his heart?&rdquo; he inquired
-nonchalantly; but the nonchalance was a thought too deliberate for paternal
-perceptions quickened as were those of Mr. Upton.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is that why you sent round the hospitals, Mr. Thrush?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was one reason, but honestly not the chief.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I certainly never thought of his heart!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nor do I think you need now, in the case of so young a boy,&rdquo; said
-Thrush earnestly. &ldquo;On the other hand, I shouldn&rsquo;t be surprised if
-his asthma were to prove his best friend.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It owes him something!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you know what he does for it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes, I do,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton, remembering the annoying letter he
-seemed to have received some weeks before. &ldquo;He smokes, against his
-doctor&rsquo;s orders.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you mean tobacco?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No&mdash;some stuff for asthma.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In cigarettes?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you know the name?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I have it here.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The offensive letter was not only produced, but offered for inspection after a
-precautionary glance. Thrush was on his feet to receive it in outstretched
-hand. Already he looked extraordinarily keen for his bulk, but the reading of
-the letter left him alive and alert to the last superfluous ounce.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But this is magnificent!&rdquo; he cried, with eyes as round as their
-glasses.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I confess I don&rsquo;t see why.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Cigarettes d&rsquo;Auvergne!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Some French rubbish.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The boy has evidently been dependent on them?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It looks like it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And this man Bompas made him give them all up?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So he has the impudence to say.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is it possible you don&rsquo;t see the importance of all this?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton confessed incompetence unashamed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I never heard of these cigarettes before; they&rsquo;re an imported
-article; you can&rsquo;t get them everywhere, I&rsquo;ll swear! Your boy has
-got to rely on them; he&rsquo;s out of reach of the doctor who&rsquo;s
-forbidden them; he&rsquo;ll try to get them somewhere! If he&rsquo;s been
-trying in London, I&rsquo;ll find out where before I&rsquo;m twenty-four hours
-older!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But how can you?&rdquo; asked Mr. Upton, less impressed with the
-possibility than by this rapid if obvious piece of reasoning.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A. V. M.!&rdquo; replied Eugene Thrush, with cryptic smile.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Who on earth is he?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nobody; it&rsquo;s the principle on which I work.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A. V. M.?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Otherwise the old nursery game of Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Again Mr. Upton had to prevent himself by main force from declaring it all no
-laughing matter; but his silence was almost bellicose.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You divide things into two,&rdquo; explained Thrush, &ldquo;and go on so
-dividing them until you come down to the indivisible unit which is the answer
-to the riddle. Animal or Vegetable? Vegetable or  Mineral? Northern or Southern
-Hemisphere? Ah! I thought your childhood was not so very much longer ago than
-mine.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton had shrugged an impatient recognition of the game.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In this case it&rsquo;s Chemists Who Do Sell D&rsquo;Auvergne Cigarettes
-and Chemists Who Don&rsquo;t. Then&mdash;Chemists Who Do and Did Yesterday, and
-Chemists Who Do but Didn&rsquo;t! But we can probably improve on the old game
-by playing both rounds at once.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I confess I don&rsquo;t quite follow,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton,
-&ldquo;though there seems some method in the madness.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s all the method I&rsquo;ve got,&rdquo; rejoined Thrush
-frankly. &ldquo;But you shall see it working, for unless I&rsquo;m much
-mistaken this is Mullins back sooner than I expected.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins it was, and with the negative information expected and desired, though
-the professional melancholy of his countenance might have been the precursor of
-the worst possible news. The hospitals on his rapid round had included Charing
-Cross, St. Thomas&rsquo;s, St. George&rsquo;s, and the Royal Free; but he had
-telephoned besides to St. Mary&rsquo;s and St. Bartholomew&rsquo;s. At none of
-these institutions had a young gentleman of the name of Upton, or of unknown
-name, been admitted in the last forty-eight hours. Mullins, however, looked as 
-sympathetically depressed as though no news had lost its proverbial value; and
-he had one of those blue-black faces that lend themselves to the look, his chin
-being in perpetual mourning for the day before.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go, Mullins! I&rsquo;ve another job for you,&rdquo; said
-Eugene Thrush. &ldquo;Take the telephone directory and the London directory,
-and sit you down at my desk. Look up &lsquo;chemists&rsquo; under
-&lsquo;trades&rsquo;; there are pages of them. Work through the list with the
-telephone directory, and ring up every chemist who&rsquo;s on the telephone,
-beginning with the ones nearest in, to ask if he keeps d&rsquo;Auvergne
-Cigarettes for asthma. Make a note of the first few who do; go round to them
-all in turn, and be back here at nine with a box from each. Complain to each of
-the difficulty of getting &rsquo;em elsewhere&mdash;say you wonder
-there&rsquo;s so little demand&mdash;and with any luck you should find out
-whether and to whom they&rsquo;ve sold any since Wednesday evening.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But surely that&rsquo;s the whole point?&rdquo; suggested the
-ironmaster.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the next point,&rdquo; said Thrush. &ldquo;The first is to
-divide the chemists of London into the Animals who keep the cigarettes and the
-Vegetables who don&rsquo;t. I should really like to play the next round myself,
-but Mullins must do something while we&rsquo;re out.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;While we&rsquo;re out, Mr. Thrush?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My dear Mr. Upton, you&rsquo;re going to step across into the Café Royal
-with me, and have a square meal before you crack up!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And what about your theatre?&rdquo; asked Mr. Upton, to whom resistance
-was a physical impossibility, when they had left the sombre Mullins entrenched
-behind telephone and directories.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The theatre! I was only going out of curiosity to see the sort of tripe
-that any manager has the nerve to serve up on a Friday in June; but I&rsquo;m
-not going to chuck the drama that&rsquo;s come to me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The ironmaster dined with his head in a whirl. It was a remarkably good dinner
-that Thrush ordered, if as inappropriate to the occasion as to his own weight.
-His guest, however, knew no more what he was eating or drinking than he knew
-the names of the people in diamonds and white waistcoats who stared at the
-distraught figure in the country clothes. It even escaped his observation that
-the obese Thrush was an unblushing gourmet with a cynical lust for Burgundy.
-The conscious repast of Mr. Upton consisted entirely of the conversation of
-Eugene Thrush, and of that conversation only such portions as exploited his
-professional theories, and those theories only as bearing on the case in hand.
-He was merely bored when Thrush tried to distract  him with some account of the
-murder in which he himself was only interested because his myrmidon happened to
-have discovered the body. What was the murder of some ragamuffin in Hyde Park
-to a man from the country who had lost his son?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see how your theory can work there,&rdquo; he sighed, out
-of pure politeness, when Thrush paused to punish the wine.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It should work all right,&rdquo; returned Thrush. &ldquo;You take an
-absolutely worthless life; what do you do it for? It must be one of two
-motives: either you have a grudge against the fellow or his existence is a
-menace to you. Revenge or fear; he wants your money, or he&rsquo;s taken your
-wife! But what revenge can there be upon a poor devil without the price of a
-bed on his indescribable person? He hasn&rsquo;t anything to bless himself
-with, and he makes it a bit too hot for somebody who has, eh? So you whittle it
-down. And then perhaps by sheer luck you run your blade into the root of the
-matter.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush gave up trying to take the other out of himself, since his boldest
-statements were allowed to pass unchallenged, unless they dealt with the one
-subject on the poor man&rsquo;s mind. The cessation of his voice, however,
-caused a twinge of conscience in the bad listener; he made a mental grab at the
-last phrase, and was astonished to find it germane to his own thoughts.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the second time you&rsquo;ve mentioned luck, Mr.
-Thrush!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;When was the first?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You spoke of Friday as an unlucky day, as God knows this one is to me!
-Are you of a superstitious turn of mind?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not seriously.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t believe in dreams, for example?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s another question,&rdquo; said Thrush, his spectacles
-twinkling to colossal rubies as he sipped his Santenay. &ldquo;Why do you
-ask?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If you&rsquo;re a disbeliever it&rsquo;s no use my telling you.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Perhaps I&rsquo;m neither one thing nor the other.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Have you ever known a mystery solved through a dream?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard of one,&rdquo; said Thrush, with a significant stress
-upon the verb; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s the famous old murder in the Red Barn a
-hundred years ago. The victim&rsquo;s mother dreamed three nights running that
-her missing daughter was buried in the Red Barn, and there she was all the
-time. There <i>may</i> have been other cases.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Cases in which a parent has dreamt of an absent child, at the very time
-at which something terrible has happened to that child?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Any amount of those.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The father&rsquo;s voice had trembled with the question. Thrush put down his
-glass as he gave his answer,  and his spectacled eyes fixed themselves in a
-more attentive stare.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you think they&rsquo;re all coincidences?&rdquo; demanded Mr. Upton
-hoarsely.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Some of them may be, but certainly not all,&rdquo; was the reply.
-&ldquo;That would be the greatest coincidence of the lot!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I hardly like to tell you why I ask,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton, much
-agitated; for he could be as emotional as most irascible men.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been dreaming about the boy?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not I; but my poor wife has; that was one reason why I daren&rsquo;t
-tell her he had disappeared.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why? What was the dream?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That she saw him&mdash;and heard a shot.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A shot!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush looked as though he had heard one himself, but only until he had time to
-think.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;She says she did hear one,&rdquo; added Mr. Upton, &ldquo;and that she
-wasn&rsquo;t dreaming at all.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But when was this?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Between six and seven yesterday morning.&rdquo; This time Thrush did not
-move a muscle of his face; it only lit up like a Chinese lantern, and again he
-was quick to quench the inner flame; but now the coincidence was complete.
-Coincidences, however, had nothing to say to the A. V. M. system, neither was
-Eugene Thrush the man to jump to  wild conclusions on the strength of one. He
-asked whether the boy was very fond of shooting in the holidays, as though that
-might have accounted for the dream, but his father was not aware that he had
-ever smelt powder in his life. He little dreamt what Thrush was driving at! The
-tone of subsequent inquiries concerning Mrs. Upton&rsquo;s health (already
-mentioned as the great reason for keeping the affair as long as possible a
-secret) sounded purely compassionate to an ear unconsciously aching for
-compassion.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then that accounts for it,&rdquo; said Thrush, when he had heard the
-whole sad story. There was the faintest ring of disappointment in his tone.
-&ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That anybody as ill as that, more particularly a lady, is naturally
-fanciful, I&rsquo;m afraid.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then you think it a mere delusion, after all?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My dear Mr. Upton, it would be presumption to express an opinion either
-way. I only say, don&rsquo;t think too much about that dream. And since you
-won&rsquo;t keep me company in my cups, we may as well rejoin the faithful
-Mullins.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-They ran into Mullins, as it happened, in Glasshouse Street, and Mr. Upton for
-one would not have recognised him as the same being. His sepulchral face was
-alight with news&mdash;it was the transformation of the undertaker&rsquo;s mute
-into the wedding guest. And yet he had only one box of the d&rsquo;Auvergne
-Cigarettes to show for his evening&rsquo;s work, and that chemist had declared
-it was the first he had sold for weeks.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush ordered his man upstairs, and took his late guest&rsquo;s hand as soon
-as ever he dared.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You need a good night&rsquo;s rest, my dear sir, and it&rsquo;s no use
-climbing to my masthead for nothing. Mullins and I will do best if you
-don&rsquo;t mind leaving us to ourselves for the night; but first thing
-tomorrow morning I shall be at your service again, and I hope there will be
-some progress to report.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins was waiting for him with all the lights on, his solemn face still more
-strikingly illuminated.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Look at this, sir, look at this! These are the d&rsquo;Auvergne
-Cigarettes!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So I perceive.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;This stump is the stump of a d&rsquo;Auvergne Cigarette.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I hope you enjoyed it, Mullins.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t smoke it, sir!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Who did?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s for you to say, sir; but it&rsquo;s one of the little
-things I collected near the scene of the murder, but took for a common cheroot,
-yesterday morning in Hyde Park.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Near the actual place?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush had pounced upon the stump, and was holding it under the strongest of
-the electric lamps.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Under a seat, sir, not above a hundred yards away!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br />
-SECOND THOUGHTS</h2>
-
-<p>
-Pocket had been dreaming again. What else could he expect? Waking, he felt that
-he had got off cheaply; that he might have been through the nightmare of
-battle, as described by one who had, and depicted in the engravings downstairs,
-instead of on a mercifully hazy visit to the Chamber of Horrors at Madame
-Tussaud&rsquo;s. The trouble was that he had seen the one and not the other,
-and what he had seen continued to haunt him as he lay awake, but quite horribly
-when he fell back into a doze. There was nothing nebulous about the vile place
-then; it was as light and bright as the room in which he lay. The sinister
-figures in the panelled pens were swathed in white, as he had somewhere read
-that they always were at nights. Their evil faces were shrouded out of sight.
-But that only made their defiant, portly figures the more humanly inhuman and
-terrifying; it was as though they had all risen, in their winding-sheets, from
-their  murderer&rsquo;s graves. Better by far their beastly faces, that you
-knew were wax! So he reasoned with himself, and screwed up his courage, and
-laid hands on one of the shorter figures that he could reach. It rocked stiffly
-in its place, a most palpable and reassuring waxwork. He unwound the cerements
-from the hollow and unyielding head; and the face was new to him; it had not
-been there the other afternoon. It was a young face like his own, as
-ill-mounted on high shoulders, with thickish lips ajar, and only a pair of
-intelligent eyes to redeem an apparent heaviness: one and all his own identical
-characteristics. And no wonder, for the last recruit to the waxen army of
-murderers was a faithful model of himself.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was no awaking from this dream: the dreamer was not positive that he had
-been asleep. The veiled sunlight in his room was just what it had seemed in
-that deserted dungeon of swaddled malefactors. The boy shuddered till the bed
-shook under him. But after that he still lay on, facing himself as he had seen
-himself, and his deed as others must see it soon or late. Not the actual
-accident in the Park; but this hiding in the heart of London, this skulking
-among strangers, this leaving his own people to mourn him as the dead!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The thought of them drew scalding tears. Never had they seemed so dear to him
-before. It was not  only Lettice and their parents. Fred and Horace, how good
-they had been to him at school, and how proud he had been of them! What would
-they think of him if he went on skulking like this? What would they have done
-in his place? Anything but lie low like that, thought Pocket, and resolved
-forthwith to play the game as preached and practised by his brothers. It was
-strange that he should have been so dense about so plain a duty overnight; this
-morning he saw it as sharp as an image in perfect focus on the ground-glass
-screen…To think that a mad photographer should have talked him into an attitude
-as mad as his own! This morning he saw the common sense of the situation as
-well as its right and wrong. Nothing would happen to him if he gave himself up,
-but anything might if he waited till he was caught. As for the consequences to
-his poor mother, surely in the end suspense and uncertainty would eat deeper
-into the slender cord of her life than the shock of the truth would cut.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Having made up his mind, however, as to the only thing to do, the boy behaved
-characteristically in not hastening to do it. The ordeal in front of him,
-beginning in certain conflict with Baumgartner, and ending in a blaze of
-wretched notoriety, was a severe one to face; meanwhile he lay in such peace
-and safety as it was only human to prolong  a little. That night, for all his
-moral innocence, he might lie in prison; let him make the most of a good bed
-while he had one, especially as he was still mysteriously free from asthma. The
-last consideration took his mind off the ethical dilemma for quite a little
-time. He remembered the doctor at home telling him that he himself had suffered
-from chronic asthma, but had lost it after a carriage accident in which he was
-nearly killed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My accident may have done the same for me,&rdquo; thought
-Pocket&mdash;and was bitterly ashamed next moment to catch himself thinking
-complacently of any aspect of his deed. Its other aspects were a sufficient
-punishment.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-To get up, and raise the green linen blind, flooding with sunshine the plain
-upstairs room to which Baumgartner had conducted his guest, was to conjure
-uncomfortable visions of the eccentric doctor, with his ferocious meerschaum,
-his bloodthirsty battle-talk, and all his arguments in favour of the course
-which Pocket had now determined to abandon. The boy fully realised that he had
-been given his chance, and had refused it. And of all the interviews before
-him, that with Dr. Baumgartner was the one that he most dreaded, and would have
-given most to escape.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Could he escape it? That was an idea; others came of it. If he did escape, and
-did give himself  up for what he had done, there was no reason why he should
-involve Baumgartner in that voluntary confession. Suppose he hailed the first
-cab he saw, and drove over to St. John&rsquo;s Wood to borrow money (they could
-scarcely refuse him that), and then took the first train home to tell his
-father everything in the first instance, that father would never hear of his
-incriminating a stranger who had befriended him according to his lights. He
-himself need never say where he had spent the twenty-four hours after the
-tragedy, even if he were ever to know. And so far he had no notion, thanks to
-the ridiculous posture prescribed by Baumgartner in the cab; he could only
-suppose the motive had been to keep him out of sight, the benefit to his
-breathing a mere pretext; and yet it was a curious result that after a day and
-a night he should still be in total ignorance of his whereabouts.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He opened his window and looked out; but it was a back window, and the sunny
-little strip of garden below was one of many in a row. Old discoloured walls
-divided them from each other and from the gardens of a parallel block of bigger
-houses, whose slates and chimneys towered above the intervening trees. The
-street in front of those houses was completely hidden, but the hum of its
-traffic travelled pleasantly to the ear, and  there were other reassuring
-sights and sounds. In one of the contiguous gardens a very small boy was
-wheeling a doll&rsquo;s perambulator; on the other side, where the fine, warm
-gravel reminded Pocket of the carroty kind at home, a man was mowing an equally
-trim lawn. Pocket listened to the murmur of the machine, and watched the green
-spray playing over the revolving knives, and savoured the curiously countrified
-smell of cut grass; the combined effect was a still stronger reminiscence of
-his father&rsquo;s garden, where his own old pony pulled the machine in leather
-shoes.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Because such associations filled his eyes again, there seemed no end to them.
-Somebody was playing the piano near some open window, and playing almost as
-well as Lettice did, and playing one of her things! Pocket could not bear to
-listen or look out any longer, and he dressed as quietly as he could. He had
-almost resolved to slip out without a word, whatever else he did, if the
-opportunity offered. It simply never occurred to him, until he made the
-discovery, that anybody would dare to lock him in his room!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yet they had done it; that infernal old German doctor had had the cheek to do
-it; and the effect on the boy, who so expressed the situation to himself, was
-rather remarkable. A wholly ineffectual tug or two told him he was on the wrong
-side of the door for applying mere bodily strength, that either he must raise
-an ignominious shout for freedom or else achieve it for himself by way of the
-window. Unathletic as he always had been, he was sportsman enough not to
-hesitate an instant between the two alternatives; and on again looking out of
-the window, saw his way down at a glance.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Immediately underneath was another window, opening on a leaded balcony over the
-bow-window in the drawing-room. To shift his bedstead with the least possible
-noise, to tie a sheet to it, and to slide down the sheet till he had but a few
-feet to drop into the balcony, was the work of a very few minutes to one as
-excitedly determined as Pocket had become on finding himself a prisoner.
-Thought they would lock him in, did they? They would just find out their
-mistake! It was exactly the same mood in which he had scaled the upright
-palings in defiance of the policeman who said he might not sleep in the Park.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The balcony window was open, the room within empty. It was obviously
-Baumgartner&rsquo;s bedroom. There was a camp bedstead worthy of an old
-campaigner, a large roll-top desk, and a waste-paper basket which argued either
-a voluminous correspondence or imperfect domestic service; it would have
-furnished scent for no short paper-chase. Otherwise the room was tidy enough,
-and  so eloquent of Baumgartner himself, in its uncompromising severity, that
-Pocket breathed more freely on the landing. And in the hall he felt absolutely
-safe, for he had gained it without the creaking of a stair, and there on the
-pegs hung his hat, but neither the cloak nor the weird wide-awake affected by
-his host.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner out. That was a bit of luck; and it was just like Pocket to lose a
-moment in taking advantage of it; but the truth was that he had made an
-interesting discovery. It was in that house the piano was being played. He
-heard it through the drawing-room door; he had heard it on the balcony up
-above; it had never stopped once, so silent had he been. It was that Phillida,
-with the large dark eyes, and she was playing something that Lettice sometimes
-played, and very nearly, though naturally not quite, as well. Pocket would have
-said that it was Mendelssohn, or Chopin, &ldquo;or something,&rdquo; for his
-love of music was greater than his knowledge. But it was not exactly the music
-that detained him; he was thinking more of the musician, who had shown him
-kindness, after all. It would be only decent to thank her before he went, and
-the doctor himself through his niece. If she knew he had been locked in, and he
-had to tell her how he had made his escape and yet not a sound&mdash;well, she
-would not think the less of him at  all events, and so they would part for
-ever. Or perhaps not for ever! The juvenile instinct for romance was not to be
-stifled at such a stimulating moment. The girl would be sorry for him when she
-knew all; she might know enough to be sorry for him as it was; in any case it
-was the game to say goodbye.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The girl sprang from the music-stool in extraordinary excitement. Her large
-eyes were larger than ever, as it were with fear, and yet they blazed at the
-intruder. Pocket could not understand it, unless she already knew the truth.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m so sorry for starting you,&rdquo; he apologised. &ldquo;I just
-came in to say goodbye.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he held out a hand which she never seemed to see.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;To say goodbye!&rdquo; she gasped.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ve got to go. I&rsquo;m afraid the doctor&rsquo;s
-out?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes, he is. Won&rsquo;t you wait?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid I can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She was shrinking from him, shrinking round towards the door. He stood aside,
-to let her bolt if that was her desire. And then she in turn took her stand,
-back to the door.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;ll be very sorry to miss you,&rdquo; she said more firmly, and
-with a smile.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And I&rsquo;m very sorry to miss him,&rdquo; said Pocket, 
-unconscientiously enough for anybody. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been most awfully good
-to me, and I wish you&rsquo;d tell him how grateful I am.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid he won&rsquo;t believe me,&rdquo; the girl said dryly,
-&ldquo;if he finds you gone.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I must go&mdash;really I must. I shall get into an awful row as it is.
-Do you mind giving him one other message?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;As many as you like.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, you might tell him from me that I&rsquo;ll give myself away, but
-I&rsquo;ll never give him! He&rsquo;ll know what I mean.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She was keeping him very cleverly, putting in her word always at the last
-moment, and again refusing to see his hand; but again it was the boy who helped
-to waste his own golden opportunity, this time through an indefensible bit of
-boyish braggadocio.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No; you may tell the doctor that if he wanted to detain me he went the
-worst way about it by locking me into my room!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She looked mystified at first, and then astounded.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;How did you get out?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;How do you suppose?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I never heard anything!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I took care you shouldn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he described the successful adventure with  pardonable unction in the end.
-After that he insisted on saying goodbye. And the young girl stood up to him
-like a little heroine.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m very sorry, but I can&rsquo;t let you go, Mr. Upton.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Can&rsquo;t let me?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I really am sorry&mdash;but you must wait to see my uncle.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He stood aghast before the determined girl. She was obviously older than
-himself, yet she was only a slip of a girl, and if he forced his way
-past&mdash;but he was not the fellow to do it&mdash;and that maddened him,
-because he felt she knew it.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Oh, very well!&rdquo; he cried, sarcastically. &ldquo;If you won&rsquo;t
-let me out that way, I&rsquo;ll go this!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he turned towards the tiny conservatory, which led down into the garden;
-but she was on him, and there was no hesitation about her; she held him firmly
-by the hand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If you do I&rsquo;ll blow a police-whistle!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We
-have one&mdash;it won&rsquo;t take an instant. You shan&rsquo;t come out the
-front way, and you&rsquo;ll be stopped if you climb the wall!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But why? Do you take me for a lunatic, or what?&rdquo; he gasped out
-bitterly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Never mind what I take you for!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;re treating me as though I were one!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to stay and see my uncle.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t! Let me go, I tell you! You shall you shall! I hate your
-uncle, and you too!&rdquo; But that was only half true, even then while he was
-struggling almost as passionately as though the girl had been another boy. He
-could not strike her; but that was the only line he drew, for she would grapple
-with him, and release himself he must. Over went walnut whatnots, and out came
-mutterings that made him hotter than ever for very shame. But he did not hate
-her even for what she made him say; all his hatred and all his fear were of the
-dreadful doctor whose will she was obeying; and both were at their highest
-pitch when the door burst open, and in he sprang to part them with a look. But
-it was a look that hurt more than word or blow; never had poor Pocket endured
-or imagined such a steady, silent downpour of indignation and contempt. It
-turned his hatred almost in a moment to hatred of himself; his fear it only
-increased.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Leave us, Phillida,&rdquo; said Baumgartner at last. Phillida was in
-tears, and Pocket had been hanging his head; but now he sprang towards her.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Forgive me!&rdquo; he choked, and held the door open for her, and shut
-it after her with all the gallantry the poor lad had left.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br />
-ON PAROLE</h2>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So,&rdquo; said Dr. Baumgartner, &ldquo;you not only try to play me
-false, but you seize the first opportunity when my back is turned! Not only do
-you break your promise, but you break it with brutal violence to a young lady
-who has shown you nothing but kindness!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket might have replied with justice that the young lady had brought the
-violence upon herself; but that would have made him out a greater cad than
-ever, in his own eyes at any rate. He preferred to defend his honour as best he
-could, which was chiefly by claiming the right to change his mind about what
-was after all his own affair. But that was precisely what Baumgartner would not
-allow for a moment; it was just as much his affair as accessory after the fact,
-and in accordance with their mutual and final agreement overnight. Pocket could
-only rejoin that he had never meant to give the doctor away at all.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I daresay not!&rdquo; said Baumgartner sardonically. &ldquo;It would
-have been dragged out of you all the same. I told you so yesterday, and you
-agreed with me. I put it most plainly to you as a case of then or never so far
-as owning up was concerned.  You made your own bed with your eyes open, and I
-left you last night under the impression that you were going to lie on it like
-a man.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then why did you lock me in?&rdquo; cried Pocket, pouncing on the one
-point on which he did not already feel grievously in the wrong. The doctor
-flattered him with a slight delay before replying.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There were so many reasons,&rdquo; he said, with a sigh; &ldquo;you
-mustn&rsquo;t forget that you walk in your sleep, for one of them. We might
-have had you falling downstairs in the middle of the night; but I own that I
-was more prepared for the kind of relapse which appears to have overtaken you.
-I was afraid you had more on your soul than you could keep to yourself without
-my assistance, and that you would get brooding over what has happened until it
-drove you to make a clean breast of the whole thing. I tell you it&rsquo;s no
-good brooding or looking back; take one more look ahead, and what do you see if
-you have your way? Humiliating notoriety for yourself, calamitous consequences
-in your own family, certain punishment for me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The consequences at home,&rdquo; groaned Pocket, &ldquo;will be bad
-enough whatever we do. I can&rsquo;t bear to think of them! If only they had
-taken Bompas&rsquo;s advice, and sent me round the world in the
-<i>Seringapatam!</i> I should have been at sea by this time, and out of
-harm&rsquo;s way for the next three months.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The <i>Seringapatam?</i>&rdquo; repeated the doctor. &ldquo;I never
-heard of her.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t; she&rsquo;s only a sailing vessel, but she carries
-passengers and a doctor, a friend of Dr. Bompas&rsquo;s, who wanted to send me
-with him for a voyage round the world. But my people wouldn&rsquo;t let me go.
-She sails this very day, and touches nowhere till she gets to Melbourne. If I
-could only raise the passage-money, or even stow away on board, I could go out
-in her still, and that would be the last of me for years and years!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was not the last of him in his own mind; suddenly as the thought had come,
-and mad as it was, it flashed into the far future in the boy&rsquo;s brain; and
-he saw himself making his fortune in a far land, turning it up in a single
-nugget, and coming home to tell of his adventures, bearded like the pard,
-another &ldquo;dead man come to life,&rdquo; after about as many years as the
-dream took seconds to fashion. And Baumgartner looked on as though following
-the same wild train of thought, as though it did not seem so wild to him, but
-extremely interesting; so that Pocket was quite disappointed when he shook his
-head.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A stowaway with an attack of asthma! I think I see my poor young fellow!
-Why, they&rsquo;d hear you wheezing in the hold, and you&rsquo;d gasp out your
-whole story before you were in the Bay of  Biscay! No, no, my fellow;
-you&rsquo;ve taken your line, and you must stick to it, and stop with me till
-we can think of something better than a long sea voyage. If you say you
-won&rsquo;t, I say I&rsquo;ll make you&mdash;to save you from yourself&mdash;to
-save us both.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was no mistaking the absolute intention in this threat; it was fixed and
-final, and the boy accepted it as he accepted his oppressor&rsquo;s power to
-make good his words. It was true that he might have escaped already; the nearer
-he had been to it, the less chance was he likely to be given again. So reasoned
-Pocket from the face and voice now dominating him more powerfully than ever;
-but it is an interesting fact that his conclusion neither cowed nor depressed
-him as it might have done. There was actually an element of relief in his
-discomfiture. He had done his best to do his duty. It was not his fault that
-responsibility had been wrested from his shoulders, and an evil hour delayed.
-And yet there was a certain, an immediate, a creature comfort in such delay,
-which was all the greater because unsought by him; it was a comfort that he had
-both ways, as the saying is, and from all points of view but that of his poor
-people wondering what had become of him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If only they knew!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;then I shouldn&rsquo;t care.
-Let me write to one of them! My mother needn&rsquo;t know; but I must write to
-one of the others, and at least let them know I am alive and well. My sister
-would keep my secret; she&rsquo;d play the game all right, I promise you! And
-I&rsquo;d play any game you like if only you let me write a line to her!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The doctor would not hear of it at first. Eventually he said he should have to
-inspect the letter before it went; and this proved the thin edge of consent. In
-the end it was arranged that Pocket should write what he liked to his sister
-only, and that Baumgartner should read and enclose it in a covering letter, so
-that everybody need not know it was a letter from the missing boy. Baumgartner
-was to have it posted from St. Martin&rsquo;s-le-Grand, to destroy all trace of
-a locality which he now refused point-blank to disclose even to the writer. And
-in return for the whole concession the schoolboy was to give his solemn word
-and sacred promise on the following points.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He was not to set foot outside the house without Baumgartner, nor to show
-himself for a moment at the windows back or front.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-On no account was he to confide in the doctor&rsquo;s niece Phillida, to give
-her the slightest inkling of his connection with the latest of London
-mysteries, or even of the scene, or any of the circumstances of his first
-meeting with Baumgartner.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You are bound to see something of each other; the less you say about
-yourself the better.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But what can she think?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What she likes, my young fellow! I am a medical man; medical men may
-bring patients to their houses even when they have ceased to practise in the
-ordinary way. It is no business of hers, and what she chooses to think is no
-affair of ours. She has seen you very ill, remember, and she had your
-doctor&rsquo;s orders not to let you out of the house in his absence.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;She obeyed them like a little brick!&rdquo; muttered Pocket, with a
-wistful heaviness.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;She did what she was told; think no more about it,&rdquo; said the
-doctor. &ldquo;Give me your hand on these your promises, and die on your feet
-rather than break one of them! Now I trust you, my young fellow; you will play
-the game, as you call it, even as the poor lads in these pictures played it at
-Gravelotte, and die like them rather than go back an inch. Look at this one
-here. No, not the one with the ridges, but here where we come to bayonets and
-the sword. See the poor devils of the Prussian Guard! See the sheet-lightning
-pouring into us from the walls of St. Privat! Look at that fellow with his head
-bound up, and this one with no head to bind. That&rsquo;s meant for our colonel
-on the white horse. See him hounding us on to hell! And there&rsquo;s a drummer
-drumming as though we could hear a single beat! Our very colours  were blown to
-ribbons, you see, and we ourselves to shreds; but the shreds hung together, my
-young fellow, and so will you and I in our day of battle!&rdquo; Baumgartner
-might have known his boy for years, so sure was his touch upon the strings of a
-responsive nature, to strike the chords of a generous enthusiasm, and to wake
-the echoes of noble deeds. Pocket attacked his letter with the heart of a
-soldier, hardened and yet uplifted for the fight; it was only when he found
-himself writing down vague words, which nevertheless brought his innocent deed
-home to him as nothing had done before, that the artificial frost broke up, and
-real tears ran with his ink. He begged Lettice not to think too hardly of him,
-still less to be anxious about him, or to make anybody else; they must not fret
-for him, he wrote more than once, without seeing the humour of the injunction.
-He was better than he had been for years, and in the best of hands. But
-something terrible had happened; something he could not help, but would
-bitterly repent all his days, especially as it might prevent him from ever
-seeing any of them again. It was this monstrous remark, and others to which it
-led, that were literally blotted with the writer&rsquo;s tears. But just then
-he saw himself in all vivid sincerity as an outcast who could never show
-himself at home or at school again. And it required the spell of 
-Baumgartner&rsquo;s presence to make the prospect such as could be borne with
-the least degree of visible manhood.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Be it remembered that he was not a man at all, but a boy in many ways younger
-than most boys of sixteen and three quarters, albeit older in some few. He was
-old in imagination, but young in common sense. One may be imaginative and still
-have a level head, but it is least likely in one&rsquo;s teens. The particular
-temperament does not need a label; but none who know it when they see it, and
-who see it here, will be surprised to learn that this emotional writer for one
-was enormously relieved and lightened in spirit when he had got his letter off
-his mind and hands.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-True to his warning, Dr. Baumgartner began to glance at it with a kindly
-gravity; it was with something else that he shook his head over the second
-leaf.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;This is not for me to read!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d rather run
-the risk of trusting your discretion.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-No words could have enslaved poor Pocket more completely; he clasped the hand
-that proceeded to write the covering note, and then the address, all openly
-before his eyes. And while the doctor was gone to the nearest messenger office
-to despatch the missive to the General Post Office, ostensibly to catch a
-particular post, his prisoner  would not have decamped for a hundred pounds,
-and the doctor knew it.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida did not appear at dinner, but at supper she did, and Pocket was only
-less uncomfortable in her absence, which he felt he had caused, than when they
-were both at table and he unable to say another word to express his sorrow for
-the unseemly scene of the forenoon. She spoke to him once or twice as though
-nothing of the kind had happened, but he could scarcely look her in the face.
-Otherwise both meals interested him; they were German in their order, a light
-supper following the substantial middle-day repast; but it appeared that they
-both came from an Italian restaurant, and the English boy was much taken with
-the pagoda-like apparatus in which the dishes arrived smoking hot in tiers. It
-provided a further train of speculation when he remembered that he had never
-seen a servant in the house, and that the steps had struck him as dirty, and
-the doctor&rsquo;s waste-paper basket as very full. Pocket determined to make
-his own bed next morning. He had meanwhile an unpleasing suspicion that the
-young girl was clearing away, for the doctor took him back into the
-drawing-room after supper; and later, when they returned for a game of
-billiards on the toy board, which they placed between them on the dining-table,
-both Phillida and the fragments had disappeared.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The little billiards were a bond and a distraction. They brought out
-Baumgartner&rsquo;s simple side, and they emphasised the schoolboy&rsquo;s
-simplicity. Both played a strenuous game, the doctor a most deliberate one; his
-brows would knit, his mouth shut, his eyes calculate, and his hand obey, as
-though his cue were a surgical instrument cutting deep between life and death.
-It was a curious glimpse of disproportionate concentration; even the
-Turk&rsquo;s head was only lit to be laid aside as an obstruction.
-Pocket&rsquo;s one chance was to hit hard and trust to the fortune that accrues
-on a small table. Both played to win, and the boy forgot everything when he
-actually succeeded in the last game. They had played very late for him, and he
-slept without stirring until Baumgartner came to his room about eight
-o&rsquo;clock next morning.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Now Pocket had not seen a newspaper all Friday, but it was the first thing he
-did see on the Saturday morning, for the doctor was waving one like a flag to
-wake him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Trust your vermin press to get hold of the wrong end of the
-stick!&rdquo; he cried, with fierce amusement; &ldquo;it only remains to be
-seen whether they succeed in putting your precious police on the wrong tack
-too. Really, it&rsquo;s almost worth being at the bottom of a popular mystery
-to watch the smartest men in this country making fools of themselves!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;May I see?&rdquo; asked Pocket; he had winced at more than one of these
-remarks.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; replied Baumgartner; &ldquo;here&rsquo;s the
-journalistic wonder of the age, and there you are in its most important column.
-I brought it up for you to see.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy bit his lips as he read. His deed had been promoted to leaded type and
-the highest rank in headlines. It appeared, in the first place, that no arrest
-had yet been made; but it was confidently asserted (by the omniscient butt of
-Teutonic sallies) that the police, wisely guided by the hint in
-yesterday&rsquo;s issue (which Pocket had not seen), were already in possession
-of a most important clue. In subsequent paragraphs of pregnant brevity the real
-homicide was informed that his fatal act could only be the work of a totally
-different and equally definite hand. Pocket gathered that there had been a
-certain commonplace tragedy, in a street called Holland Walk, in the previous
-month of March. A licensed messenger named Charlton had been found shot under
-circumstances so plainly indicative of suicide that a coroner&rsquo;s jury had
-actually returned a verdict to that effect. There appeared, however, to have
-been an element of doubt in the case. This the scribe of the leaded type sought
-to remove by begging the question from beginning to end. It had not been a case
-of suicide at all, he declared,  but as wilful a murder as the one in Hyde
-Park, to which it bore a close and sinister resemblance. Both victims had been
-shot through the heart in the early hours of the morning; both belonged to one
-neighbourhood, and to the same dilapidated fringe of the community. A pothouse
-acquaintanceship was alleged between them; but the suggestion was that the link
-lay a good deal deeper than that, and that the two dead men were known to the
-police, who were busy searching for a third party of equal notoriety in
-connection with both murders.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But we know he had nothing to do with the second one,&rdquo; said the
-boy, looking up at last. &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t a murder, either; neither was
-the first, according to the coroner&rsquo;s jury, who surely ought to
-know.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;One would have thought so,&rdquo; said Baumgartner, with his sardonic
-smile; &ldquo;but the yellow pressman knows better still, apparently.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you suppose there&rsquo;s a word of truth in what he says? I
-don&rsquo;t mean about Charlton or&mdash;or poor Holdaway,&rdquo; said Pocket,
-wincing over his victim&rsquo;s name, which he had just gleaned from the paper.
-&ldquo;But do you think the police are really after anybody?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said Baumgartner. &ldquo;What does it
-matter?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It would matter a great deal if they arrested somebody for what I
-did!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy was no longer looking up; and his voice trembled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It would alter the whole thing,&rdquo; he mumbled significantly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see it,&rdquo; returned the doctor, with grim good-nature.
-&ldquo;The little wonder of the English reading world has nearly unearthed
-another mare&rsquo;s nest, as two of its readers know full well. No real harm
-can come of this typical farrago. Let it lead to an arrest! There are only two
-living souls who can&rsquo;t account for their time at that of this unfortunate
-affair.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket realised this; but it was put in a way that gave him goose-skin under
-the clothes. He was always seeing his accident in some new light, always
-encountering some new possibility, or natural consequence of his silence, which
-had not occurred to him before. But he was learning to keep his feelings under
-control, to set his face and his teeth against the regular reactions of his
-coward conscience and his fickle will. And once again did Dr. Baumgartner atone
-for an unintentional minor by striking a rousing chord on the very
-heart-strings of the boy.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Eight o&rsquo;clock!&rdquo; cried the magician, with a glance at his
-watch and an ear towards the open  window. &ldquo;The postman&rsquo;s knock
-from door to door down every street in town&mdash;house to house from one end
-of your British Islands to the other! A certain letter is without doubt being
-delivered at this very moment&mdash;eh, my poor young fellow?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br />
-HUNTING WITH THE HOUNDS</h2>
-
-<p>
-Eugene Thrush was a regular reader of the journal on which Dr. Baumgartner
-heaped heavy satire, its feats of compression, its genius for headlines, and
-the delicious expediency of all its views, which enabled its editorial column
-to face all ways and bow where it listed, in the universal joint of popularity,
-were points of irresistible appeal to a catholic and convivial sense of humour.
-He read the paper with his early cup of tea, and seldom without a fat internal
-chuckle between the sheets.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That Saturday morning, however, Mr. Thrush was not only up before the paper
-came, but for once he took its opinion seriously on a serious matter. It said
-exactly what he wished to think about the Hyde Park murder: that the murderer
-would prove to be the author of a similar crime, committed in the previous
-month of March, when the Upton boy must have been safe at school. If that were
-so, it  was manifestly absurd to connect the lad with a mystery which merely
-happened to synchronise with that of his own disappearance&mdash;absurd, even
-if he were shown to have been somewhere near the scene of the murder, somewhere
-about the time of its perpetration.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That much, though no more, had, however, been fairly established overnight. It
-was a conclusion to which Mullins, with the facile conviction of his class, had
-jumped on the slender evidence of the asthma cigarette alone; but before
-midnight Thrush himself had been forced to admit its extreme probability. There
-was a medicine cork as well as an asthma cigarette; the medicine cork had been
-found very much nearer the body; in fact, just across the pathway, under a
-shrub on the other side of the fence. It was Mullins, who had made both
-discoveries, who also craved permission to ring up Dr. Bompas, late at night,
-to ask if there was any particular chemist to whom he sent his patients with
-their prescriptions. Dr. Bompas was not at home, which perhaps was just as well
-but his man gave the name of Harben, in Oxford Street. Harbens, rung up in
-their turn, found that they certainly had made up one of the doctor&rsquo;s
-prescriptions on the Wednesday, for a young Mr. Upton, and, within half an
-hour, had positively identified the cork found by Mullins in Hyde Park.  It was
-still sticky with the very stuff which had put poor Pocket asleep.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yet Thrush could not or would not conceive any actual connection between a
-harmless schoolboy and an apparently cold-blooded crime. He resisted the idea
-on more grounds than he felt disposed to urge in argument with his now
-strangely animated factotum. It was still a wide jump to a detestable
-conclusion, but he confined his criticism to the width of the jump. The cork
-and the cigarette might be stepping-stones, but at least one more was wanted to
-justify the slightest suspicion against the missing boy. Let it be shown that
-he had carried firearms on the Wednesday night, and Thrush undertook to join
-his satellite on the other side; but his mental bias may be gauged from the
-fact that he made no mention of the boy&rsquo;s mother&rsquo;s dream.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins found him not only up, shaved and booted, but already an enthusiastic
-convert to the startling theory of a sensation journalist, and consequently an
-irritable observer of the saturnine countenance which darkened to a tinge of
-distinct amusement over the leaded type.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So you don&rsquo;t think there&rsquo;s much in it, Mullins?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t say there was anything at all, sir.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yet I suppose you remember the very similar occurrence in Holland
-Walk?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Oh yes, sir, but it was a case of suicide.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t agree.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But surely, sir, the jury brought it in suicide?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The coroner&rsquo;s jury did&mdash;in spite of the coroner&mdash;but it
-may come before another jury yet, Mullins! I remember the case perfectly; the
-medical evidence was that the shot had been fired at arm&rsquo;s length. That
-isn&rsquo;t the range at which we usually bring ourselves down! Then there was
-nothing to show that the man ever possessed a pistol, or even the price of one;
-he was so stony it would have gone up the spout long before. The very same
-point crops up in the case of this poor boy. Who says he ever had a revolver in
-his life? His father tells me explicitly that he never had; I happened to ask
-the question,&rdquo; added Thrush, without explaining in what connection.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said Mullins, with respect enough in his tone,
-&ldquo;you talk about jumping to conclusions, but it strikes me the gentleman
-who write for the papers could give me some yards and a licking, sir!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-This was a sprightly speech for Mullins; but it was delivered with the very
-faintest of deferential smiles, and Mr. Thrush shook his spectacles without one
-at all.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The gentlemen on this paper have a knack of lighting on the truth,
-however,&rdquo; he remarked; &ldquo;it  may be by fair means, or it may be by
-foul, but they have a way of getting there before the others start.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins remarked with quiet confidence that they were not going to do it this
-time. His position was, briefly, that he could not bring himself to believe in
-two separate mysteries, at one and the same time and place, with no sort of
-connection between them.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That would be too much of a coincidence,&rdquo; said Mullins,
-sententiously.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush looked at him for a moment.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But life&rsquo;s one long collection of coincidences! That&rsquo;s what
-I&rsquo;m always telling you; the mistake is to look on them as anything else.
-Don&rsquo;t you call it a bit of a coincidence that both these men should meet
-their death at the very hour of the morning when you&rsquo;re on your way over
-here from Netting Hill, and in much the same degree of latitude, which
-you&rsquo;ve got to cross somewhere or other on your way? Yet who has the nerve
-to say you must have gone through Holland Walk that other morning, and been
-mixed up in that affair because you are in this?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t admit I&rsquo;m mixed up in anything,&rdquo; replied
-Mullins, with some warmth.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I mean as a witness of sorts. I was merely reducing your argument to the
-absurd, Mullins; you didn&rsquo;t take me literally, did you? It&rsquo;s no 
-use talking when we both seem to have made up our minds; but I&rsquo;m always
-ready to unmake mine if you show me that young Mr. Upton carried a pistol,
-Mullins! Now I should like my breakfast, Mullins, and you must be roaring
-inside for yours. The man who&rsquo;s been knocking up chemists all night is
-the man to whom breakfast is due; get your own and then mine, and after that
-you can tell me how you got on.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Anything more genial than the garrulous banter of Eugene Thrush, at his best,
-it was impossible to encounter or incur; he had been, however, for a few
-minutes at his worst, and it was difficult to see why the pendulum should have
-swung so suddenly to the other extreme. Mullins went about his business with
-his usual sleek solemnity. But Thrush was yet another man the moment he was
-alone. His face was a sunny background for ideas, misgivings, and half-formed
-plans, one after the other, whirling like clouds across a crimson sky. But the
-sky was clear whenever Mullins was in the room. And at the breakfast-table
-there was not a cloud.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;To come back to those chemists, and this shop-to-shop canvassing,&rdquo;
-resumed Thrush, as Mullins poured out his tea; &ldquo;how many have you done,
-and how many have we still to do between us?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins produced a pocket-book that did him credit, and consulted notes as
-neat.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rung up when you were out at dinner&mdash;seventeen. Kept Cigarettes
-d&rsquo;Auvergne&mdash;one. That was Thornycroft&rsquo;s in Shaftesbury Avenue,
-where I&rsquo;d just been when I met you down below in the street. In the night
-I knocked up other eight-and-twenty, all either in the neighbourhood of
-Trafalgar Square or else on the line of the Park.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Poor devils! I suppose you urged a pretty bad case?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A matter of life or death.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Three more kept them, not counting Harbens: one in Knightsbridge, one in
-New Bond Street, and one a little way down the Brompton Road.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Much demand in any of those quarters?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Only in the Brompton Road; a literary gentleman has a box regularly
-every week, and two in the autumn. Pringle, his name is.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know him; so he&rsquo;s as breathless as his own yarns, is he?&rdquo;
-murmured Thrush, to his buttered egg. &ldquo;But has one of these apothecaries
-sold a box of d&rsquo;Auvergnes since Wednesday afternoon?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Two have,&rdquo; said Mullins, &ldquo;but one was to Mr. Pringle.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush levelled inquiring spectacles.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;How did you worm that out, Mullins?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;By changing my tune a bit, sir. I started asking if they knew anybody
-who could recommend  the cigarettes from personal experience, as we were only
-trying them on hearsay.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Very smart of you, Mullins! And one wheezy novelist is the only
-consumer?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, sir, but the man in Knights-bridge sold a box on
-Thursday to a doctor.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Did you get the name?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Bone-Gardner, I think it was a Dr. Otto Bone-Gardner.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Baumgartner, I expect you mean!&rdquo; cried Thrush, straightening a wry
-face to spell the name. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard of an Otto Baumgartner, though
-I can&rsquo;t say when or where. What&rsquo;s his address?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He couldn&rsquo;t tell me, sir; or else he wouldn&rsquo;t. Suppose he
-thought I&rsquo;d be turning the doctor out next. Old customer, I understood he
-was.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;For d&rsquo;Auvergne Cigarettes?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t inquire.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My good fellow, that&rsquo;s the whole point! I&rsquo;ll go myself and
-ask for the asthma cigarettes that Dr. Baumgartner always has; if they say he
-never had them before, that&rsquo;ll be talking. His being a doctor looks well.
-But I&rsquo;m certain I know his name; you might look it up in <i>Who&rsquo;s
-Who</i>, and read out what they say.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And Mullins did so with due docility, albeit with queer gulps at barbaric
-mouthfuls such as the list of battle-fields on which Dr. Baumgartner had fought
-in his martial youth; the various Universities whereat he had studied
-psychology and theology in an evident reaction of later life; even the titles
-of his subsequent publications, which contained some long English words, but
-were given in German too. A copious contribution concluded with the information
-that photography and billiards were the doctor&rsquo;s recreations, and that he
-belonged to a polysyllabically unpronounceable Berlin club, and to one in St.
-James&rsquo;s which Mullins more culpably miscalled the Parthenian.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Parthenon!&rdquo; said Thrush, as though he had bitten on a nerve.
-&ldquo;But what about his address?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There&rsquo;s no getting hold of that address,&rdquo; said Mullins,
-demoralised and perspiring. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not given here either.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, the chemist or the directory will supply that if we want it, but
-I&rsquo;m afraid he sounds a wheezy old bird. The author of <i>Peripatetic
-Psychology</i> deserves to have asthma all his nights, and <i>After this
-Life</i> smacks of the usual Schopenhauer and Lager. No, we won&rsquo;t build
-on Dr. Baumgartner, Mullins; but we&rsquo;ll go through the chemists of London
-with a small tooth-comb, from here to the four-mile radius.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush had finished breakfast, and Mullins was beginning to clear away, when a
-stormy step was heard upon the stairs, and in burst Mr. Upton with  a
-panic-stricken face. He was colourless almost to the neck, but he denied that
-he had any news, though not without a pregnant glance at Mullins, and fell to
-abusing London and the Londoners, but City men above all others, till Thrush
-and he should be alone together. The incidental diatribe was no mere padding,
-either; it was the sincere utterance of a passionately provincial soul. Nobody
-in all London, he declared, and apparently without excepting Mr. Thrush, cared
-a twopenny curse what became of his poor boy. In view of the fact that the
-present company alone knew of his disappearance, and not so very many more of
-the boy&rsquo;s existence, this was an extravagantly sweeping statement. But
-the distracted man had a particular instance to bear him out; he had been to
-see his boy&rsquo;s friends&rsquo; father, &ldquo;a swine called Knaggs,&rdquo;
-that very morning at his house in St. John&rsquo;s Wood.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rather early, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; suggested Thrush, whose manner was
-more softly sympathetic than it had been the night before. The change was
-slight, and yet marked. He was more solicitous.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Early!&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton. &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t I lost my boy, and
-wasn&rsquo;t it these Cockney cads who turned him adrift in London? I ought to
-have gone to them last night. I wish I had, when my blood was up after your
-dinner; for I don&rsquo;t mind telling you now, Mr. Thrush, that in spite of
-your  hospitality I was none too pleased at your anxiety to get rid of me
-afterwards. It made me feel like doing a little bit for the boy on my own; but
-I&rsquo;d called once on my way into town, and only seen a servant then, so I
-thought I&rsquo;d make sure of putting salt on somebody by waiting till this
-morning.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The visitor paused to look harder than ever at Mullins, and Thrush seized the
-opportunity to offer an apology for his abrupt behaviour in the street.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I confess I showed indecent haste,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but Mullins
-and I had our night&rsquo;s work cut out, and he at any rate has not had his
-boots off since you saw him.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Hasn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton, in remorseful recognition of an
-unsuspected devotion; &ldquo;then I&rsquo;ll say what I&rsquo;ve got to say in
-front of him, for you&rsquo;re both my friends, and I&rsquo;ll unsay all I said
-just now. Bear with my temper, both of you, if you can, for I feel beside
-myself about the boy! It was all I could do to keep my hands off that smug
-little lump of London inhumanity! Kept me waiting while he finished his
-breakfast, he did, and then came in polishing a hat as sleek as himself, and
-saying &lsquo;Rather early!&rsquo;&mdash;just as you set me off by saying
-yourself a minute ago.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But he seems to have told you something, Mr. Upton?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Has he not! He began by telling me he was sorry for me, confound him! I
-could have made him sorrier for himself! He was sorry for me, but what could he
-do? London was a large place, and &lsquo;we Londoners&rsquo; were busy men. I
-told him so were some of us in the iron-trade, but not too busy to keep an eye
-on boys who were friends of our boys. He said London life was different; and I
-said so I could see. They never had spare beds at a moment&rsquo;s notice, much
-less for boys who might set fire to the house or&mdash;or shoot
-themselves&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His two hearers uttered a simultaneous exclamation, and Mr. Upton stood
-glancing piteously from one to the other, as though his lad&rsquo;s
-death-warrant were written in their faces. Eugene Thrush, however, looked so
-genuinely distressed that the less legible handwriting on the face of Mullins
-also attracted less attention.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Had he anything to shoot himself with?&rdquo; inquired Thrush, in a
-curiously gentle voice.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton nodded violently as he moistened his lips.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He had, after all!&rdquo; he croaked. &ldquo;Little as I dreamt it
-yesterday, my unhappy boy, who had never to my knowledge pulled a trigger in
-his life before, was going about London with a loaded revolver in his
-pocket!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Had he brought it from school?&rdquo; asked Thrush, with a covert frown
-at the transfigured Mullins.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton repeated what he had heard through the young Westminsters, with their
-father&rsquo;s opinion of pawnbrokers&rsquo; shops as resorts for young
-schoolboys, of young schoolboys who frequented them, and of parents and
-guardians who gave them the chance. How the two gentlemen had parted without
-fisticuffs became the latest mystery to Eugene Thrush, whose only comment was
-that it behoved him all the more to do something to redeem the capital in the
-other&rsquo;s eyes.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Now we know why my poor wife heard a shot!&rdquo; was the only
-rejoinder, in a voice not too broken to make Mullins prick up his ears; it was
-the first he had heard about the dream.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t say that, Mr. Upton. We know no more than we knew
-before. Yet I will own now,&rdquo; exclaimed Thrush, catching Mullins&rsquo;s
-bright eye, &ldquo;that the coincidence will be tremendous if there&rsquo;s
-nothing in it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But only half the coincidence was present in the father&rsquo;s mind; no
-thought of the murder had yet entered it in connection with his boy; and to
-hear so emphatic an echo to his foreboding was more than his fretted nerves
-could stand. In the same breath he pounced on Thrush for a
-pessimist&mdash;apologised&mdash;and humbly entreated him to take a more
-hopeful view.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There may have been an accident, Thrush, but not necessarily a fatal
-one!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-An accident! Thrush had never thought of that explanation of the public
-mystery; but evidently Mullins had, judging by his almost fiendish grins and
-nods behind the poor father&rsquo;s back. Thrush looked at both men with the
-troubled frown of a strenuously reasoning being&mdash;looked and frowned
-again&mdash;frowned and reasoned afresh. And then, all in an instant, the
-trouble lifted from his face; light had come to him in an almost blinding
-flash, such as might well obscure the quality of the light; enough for Eugene
-Thrush that it lit him back to his mystery every bit as brightly as it lit him
-onward to its solution.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He was even man enough to refrain from reflecting it automatically in his face,
-as he put a number of apparently irrelevant questions to Mr. Upton about the
-missing boy. What was his character? what its chief points? Was he a boy with
-the moral courage of his acts? Would he face their consequences like a man?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I never knew him tell a lie in his life,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton,
-&ldquo;either to save his own skin or any thing else; and it was a case of
-their young skins when they got into trouble with me! Poor Tony was the most
-conscientious of them all, and I hear that&rsquo;s what they say of him at
-school.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush put one or two further questions, and then said he had a clue, though a
-very slight one, which he was rather in a hurry to follow up himself; and this
-time the ironmaster went off quietly of his own accord, with a dejected
-undertaking to be at his hotel when he was wanted.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like the look of our friend,&rdquo; remarked Thrush,
-looking hard at Mullins when at last they were alone. &ldquo;He shapes none too
-well for the strain he&rsquo;s got to bear; if he cracks up there&rsquo;ll be a
-double tragedy, if not a triple one, in that family. We must catch our hare
-quickly, Mullins, or we may catch him too late.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins turned on the disagreeable grin that Thrush had so resented a few
-minutes before; he took no notice of it now.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll find your man,&rdquo; said Mullins significantly,
-&ldquo;the very moment that I find mine, Mr. Thrush.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Meaning they&rsquo;re the same person?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;To be sure.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That this lad is the actual slayer of the man Holdaway?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Surely, sir, it&rsquo;s as plain as a pikestaff now?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not to me, Mullins&mdash;not to me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush was twinkling behind his great round goggles.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then who do you think has done it, sir?&rdquo; inquired Mullins, in
-deferential derision.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Ah! that&rsquo;s another matter, my man; but I can tell you whom I hope
-to get arrested within another hour!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mullins looked as though he could hardly believe his ears; his jaw, black as a
-crape hat-band this morning, fell in front of his grimy collar.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;re actually thinking of arresting some one else?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I am&mdash;with your permission, Mullins.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Tell me who it is, sir, for Heaven&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And with his fattest smile Thrush whispered into an ear that recoiled from his
-words as though they had been so many drops of boiling oil.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br />
-BOY AND GIRL</h2>
-
-<p>
-Pocket Upton was able to relieve his soul of one load that morning. Dr.
-Baumgartner had left the schoolboy to his soap and water, taking the newspaper
-with him; but apparently Pocket had followed him down in quicker time than the
-other anticipated. At any rate the little lady of the house was all alone in
-the dining-room, where Pocket found her boiling eggs on the gas-fire, and had
-her to himself for several seconds of which he wasted none. There was neither
-grace nor tact in what he said, and his  manner was naturally at its worst, but
-the penitential torrent came from his heart, and was only stemmed by the
-doctor&rsquo;s hasty arrival on the scene. Miss Platts had not been given time
-to say a word, but now she asked Mr. Upton how many minutes he liked his egg
-boiled, and would not let him do it himself, but smiled when he told her it was
-&ldquo;done to a shake.&rdquo; Dr. Baumgartner, on the other hand, scowled upon
-them both until observation or reflection had convinced him that no promises
-had been broken and no confidences exchanged.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The callow pair saw something more of each other during the morning; for Pocket
-hotly resented being distrusted, and showed it by making up to the young girl
-under the doctor&rsquo;s nose. He talked to her about books in the other room.
-He had the impertinence to invite her into the dining-room for a game of
-billiards, but the sense next moment to include her uncle in an amended form of
-more becoming suggestion. Baumgartner eventually countenanced a game, but spent
-most of the time with his back to the players and his eye on the street. The
-boy and girl got on very well now; they seemed frankly glad of each other,
-though he caught her more than once with a large and furtive eye on him. But
-she seemed to enjoy her baptism of schoolboy slang. And it was only when she 
-began to question him about his special vocabulary, that Baumgartner looked on
-for a little, and put in his word.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You see he still believes in his public school,&rdquo; said he to
-Phillida, in a tone which reminded their visitor of his first breakfast in the
-house.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I should think I did!&rdquo; cried Pocket, and did a little loyal
-boasting about the best of schools, and the best house in that school, until
-memory took him by the throat and filled his eyes. It was twelve o&rsquo;clock,
-and a summer&rsquo;s Saturday. School was over for the week. Only your verses
-to do in your own time, and get signed by Spearman before you went up to
-dormitory on Saturday night; but meanwhile, Saturday afternoon! A match on the
-Upper, where you could lie on your rug and watch the game you couldn&rsquo;t
-play; call-over at the match; ices and lemon-drinks in a tent on the field; and
-for Saturday supper anything you liked to buy, cooked for you in the kitchen
-and put piping hot at your place in hall, not even for the asking, but merely
-by writing your name plainly on the eggs and leaving them on the slab outside!
-It was not these simple luxuries that Pocket missed so sorely; it was the whole
-full life of ups and downs, and no yesterdays and no to-morrows, that he had
-lost for ever since last Saturday. The heavy midday meal came in smoking from 
-the Italian restaurant, and Pocket was himself again, as a boy will be; after
-all, they knew about him at home by this time, their worst fears were allayed,
-and in the end it would all come right. In the end he would be sitting in his
-own old place at home, instead of with strangers in an unknown street; telling
-them everything, instead of holding his peace; and watching even Fred and
-Horace listening to every word&mdash;much as Dr. Baumgartner was listening to
-something now.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-What was it? Phillida was listening, too, and watching her uncle as she
-listened. Pocket did both in his turn.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was the voice of newspaper hawkers, shouting in couples, coming nearer with
-their shouts. Dr. Baumgartner jumped up from the table, and ran outside without
-his hat.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His promise alone prevented Pocket from following and outstripping the doctor.
-He knew what the shouting was about before he could have sworn to a single
-raucous word. But Phillida could not know, and she resumed at once where they
-had left off before breakfast.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Of course I forgive you,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;It was I began
-it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Began what?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Our row yesterday.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida had a demure twinkle, after all; but it  was lost on Pocket now.
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;d forgotten all about it,&rdquo; he said with superfluous
-candour, his ear still on the street.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Her voice made him remember better. &ldquo;I hope to goodness I didn&rsquo;t
-hurt you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Of course you didn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you must have thought me mad!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was a slight but most significant pause.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I never shall again.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then you did!&rdquo; he gasped. Their eyes had met sharply; both young
-faces were flooded with light, and it was much the same light. There was no
-nonsense about it, but there was indignant horror on his side, and indignant
-shame on hers.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You really are at school?&rdquo; she whispered, not increduously, but as
-one seeking assurance in so many words; and in a flash he saw what she had
-thought, what she had been deliberately made to think, that his beloved school
-was not a school at all, but an Ayslum!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But at that moment Dr. Baumgartner was heard bargaining at the gate with one
-raucous voice, while the other went on roaring huskily, &ldquo;Park
-murder&mdash;arrest! &rsquo;Rest o&rsquo; de Park murderer! Park
-murder&mdash;Park murder&mdash;arrest!&rdquo; And Pocket sprang up from the
-table in a state that swept his last thoughts clean from his mind.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The girl said something; he did not hear what. He was white and trembling, in
-pitiable case even to eyes that could only see skin-deep; but the
-doctor&rsquo;s step came beating like a drum to him, and he was solidly seated
-when the doctor entered&mdash;without any paper at all.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s that murder the papers are all exploiting,&rdquo; he
-explained benignly. &ldquo;They were shouting out something about an arrest;
-you would hear them, I daresay. But it&rsquo;s the usual swindle; the police
-are merely hoping to effect an arrest. I threatened to send for them unless the
-scoundrel took his paper back!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He was in his lightest mood of sardonic gaiety. The sins of the vendors
-recalled those of &ldquo;your vermin press itself&rdquo;; the association was
-wilfully unfair, the favourite phrase a studied insult; but the English boy was
-either dense or indifferent, and Phillida&rsquo;s great eyes were in some other
-world. Baumgartner subjected them both to a jealous scrutiny, and suddenly
-cried out upon his own bad memory. It appeared there was a concert at the
-Albert Hall, where &ldquo;the most popular and handsome pair in England&rdquo;
-(the inverted commas were in the doctor&rsquo;s sneer) were being welcomed on
-their return from the ends of the earth. He had intended going to hear what
-they could do; but Phillida should go instead; she was not past the ballad
-stage.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And Phillida rose submissively, with unreal thanks which could not conceal her
-recognition of the impromptu pretext for getting rid of her; her uncle called a
-taxicab, and with harsh hilarity turned her off the premises in the frock she
-had been wearing all day.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said he, returning with a scowl, &ldquo;what the devil
-were you two talking about while my back was turned?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yesterday,&rdquo; replied Pocket, more than ready for him, though his
-heart beat fast.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What about yesterday?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Our scuffle in the other room.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No&mdash;I found out something; she didn&rsquo;t tell me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What did you find out?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That you let her think me mad!&rdquo; cried Pocket, in monstrous
-earnest. He might have laughed at himself, could he have seen his own
-reproachful face. But he could have killed Baumgartner for laughing at him; it
-did not occur to him that the laugh was partly one of pure relief.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why, my young fellow, how else can I account for you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You said she would think I was a patient.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Exactly! A mental case.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You had no business to make me out mad,&rdquo; persisted Pocket, with
-dogged valour.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Pardon me! I had all the business in the world; and I beg that
-you&rsquo;ll continue to foster the illusion as thoroughly as you did yesterday
-when I was out. It&rsquo;s no good shaking your head at me; listen to
-reason,&rdquo; continued Baumgartner, with an adroit change of tone. &ldquo;And
-try, my good young fellow, do try to think of somebody besides yourself; have
-some consideration for my niece, if you have none for me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket was mystified, but still more incensed; for he felt himself being again
-put gently but clearly in the wrong.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And I should like to know,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;what good it does her
-to think she&rsquo;s associating with a lunatic?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;She would probably prefer the idea to that of a murderer,&rdquo; was the
-suave reply. &ldquo;I speak only of ideas; otherwise I should not make use of
-such an expression, even in jest. It&rsquo;s as ugly as it&rsquo;s ridiculous
-in your case. Yet you heard for yourself that others are applying the horrid
-term in all sobriety.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I heard more than that,&rdquo; returned Pocket. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve
-arrested somebody!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I thought I told you there was no truth in that?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But Baumgartner had winced for once, and the boy had seen it, and his retort
-was a precocious inspiration.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That was only to avoid a scene at table, Dr. Baumgartner!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, my young fellow,&rdquo; said the doctor, after one of his wise
-pauses, &ldquo;and what if it was?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t sit here and let an innocent man lie in prison.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He won&rsquo;t lie long.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s absolutely wicked to let them keep him at all.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nor will they, longer than another hour or two.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, if they do, you know what I shall do!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket had never displayed such determination, nor incurred quite the same
-measure or quality of wrath that Baumgartner poured upon him without a word for
-the next few moments. It was a devouring gaze of sudden and implacable
-animosity. The ruthless lips were shut out of sight, yet working as though the
-teeth were being ground behind them; the crow&rsquo;s footed face flushed up,
-and the crow&rsquo;s feet were no more; it was as though age was swallowed in
-that flood of speechless passion till the whole man was no older than the fiery
-eyes that blazed upon the boy. And yet the most menacing thing of all was the
-complete control with which the doctor broke this pregnant silence.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You say that. I say otherwise. You had better find a book in the other
-room till you know your own mind again.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know it now, unless they release that man,&rdquo; said Pocket, through
-his teeth, although they chattered.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Give them a chance, and give yourself one! It will be time to think of
-clearing other people when they fail to clear themselves. Have more patience!
-Think of your own friends, and give them time too.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-If the last allusion was to the lad&rsquo;s letter, due in Leicestershire that
-morning, it was as happy as all Baumgartner&rsquo;s last words. If he meant
-himself to be included among Pocket&rsquo;s friends, there was food for thought
-in the suggestion that a man of the doctor&rsquo;s obvious capacity was not
-idle in the boy&rsquo;s best interests. Pocket was made to feel rather ashamed
-of himself, as usual; but he could not forget the concentrated fury of the look
-which had not been weakened by infuriate words; and the recollection remained
-as an excuse, as well as a menace, in his mind. He had time enough to think it
-over. Dr. Baumgartner smoked his meerschaum in the gathering shade at the back
-of the house. The schoolboy sulked for some time in the big chair, but
-eventually took the doctor at his word about a book.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-If it be ever true that a man may be known by his books, it was certainly so to
-some extent in the case of Dr. Otto Baumgartner. His library  was singularly
-small for an intellectual man who wrote himself, and a majority of the volumes
-were in languages which no public schoolboy could be expected to read; but of
-the English books many were on military subjects, some few anthropological;
-there were photographic year-books and Psychical Research Reports by the foot
-or yard, and there was an odd assortment of second-hand books which had
-probably been labelled &ldquo;occult&rdquo; in their last bookseller&rsquo;s
-list. Boismont on <i>Hallucinations</i> was one of these; it was the book for
-Pocket. He took the little red volume down, and read a long chapter on
-somnambulism in the big chair. In a way it comforted him. It was something to
-find that he was far from being the only harmless creature who had committed a
-diabolical deed in his sleep; here among several cases was one of another boy
-who had made an equally innocent and yet determined attempt on his own father.
-But there was something peculiar in poor Pocket&rsquo;s case, something that
-distinguished it from any of those cited in the book, and he was still
-ferreting for its absolute fellow when Phillida came in long before he expected
-her. Boismont had made the time fly wonderfully, in spite of everything; the
-girl, too, appeared to have been taken out of herself, and talked about her
-concert as any other young girl might have done, both to Pocket and her  uncle,
-who glided in at once from the garden. The doctor, however, was himself in
-mellower mood; and they were having tea, for all the world like any ordinary
-trio, the girl still making talk about sundry songs, the man quizzing them and
-her, and the boy standing up for one that his sister sang at home, when a
-metallic tattoo put a dramatic stop to the conversation.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The two young people, but not their elder, were startled quite out of their
-almost inadvertent tranquillity; and the knocker was not still before Pocket
-realised that it was the first time he had heard it. No letters were delivered
-at that house; not a soul had he seen or heard at the door before. Even in his
-excitement, however, with its stunning recrudescence of every reality, its
-instantaneous visions of his people or the police, there was room for a measure
-of disgust when the girl got up, at an ungallant nod from the German, to go to
-the door.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a huge fat man,&rdquo; whispered Phillida, on her return to
-the big room at the back of the house. &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s his card.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Thrush!&rdquo; muttered Baumgartner as though he knew the name, and he
-glowered at the two young faces on which it made no impression whatever. It was
-plain how he hated leaving them together; but for once it must be done, and
-done  quickly&mdash;with both doors open and the visitor&rsquo;s very movements
-audible on the steps. To the door the doctor must go, and went, shutting that
-one pointedly behind him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The young creatures, looking in each other&rsquo;s eyes, listened for raised
-voices and the slam of prompt expulsion; but the voices were pitched too low to
-reach their ears in words, and were only interrupted by the sound of footsteps
-in the hall, and the perfectly passive closing of an outer and an inner door in
-quick succession.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;s taken him into the dining-room,&rdquo; murmured Phillida.
-&ldquo;Who can it be?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Hasn&rsquo;t he any friends?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;None who ever come here; none of that name anywhere, I feel sure.&rdquo;
-Her great eyes, without leaving his for an instant, filled with thought as a
-blank screen takes a shadow. &ldquo;I wonder if it&rsquo;s about that!&rdquo;
-she whispered.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What they were calling out with the newspapers while we were at
-table.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was a pause. The look in her eyes had changed. It was purely penetrating
-now.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why should it be?&rdquo; asked Pocket, his own eyes falling.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s no use asking me, Mr. Upton.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t understand the question.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is that true?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No,&rdquo; he muttered; &ldquo;it isn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She was leaning over to him; he felt it, without looking up.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Mr. Upton,&rdquo; she said, speaking quickly in the undertone they were
-both instinctively adopting, &ldquo;you know now what I thought about you at
-first. I won&rsquo;t say what made me; but that was what I thought, but could
-hardly believe, and never will again. It makes it all the more a mystery, your
-being here. I can&rsquo;t ask my uncle&mdash;he tells me nothing&mdash;but
-there&rsquo;s something I can and must ask you.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket hung his head. He knew what was coming. It came.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My uncle brought you here, Mr. Upton, on the very morning that thing
-happened they were calling out about to-day. In the Park. It is to the Park he
-goes so often in the early morning with his camera! How can I say what I want
-to say? But, if you think, you will see that everything points to it;
-especially the way he ran out for that paper&mdash;and hid the truth when he
-came in!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket looked up at last.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know the truth.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;About the arrest?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes; it was quite obvious, and he admitted it when you&rsquo;d
-gone.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why not before?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t tax him about it in front of you,&rdquo; he muttered,
-looking up and down quickly, unable to face her fierce excitement.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do tell me what it is you both know about this dreadful case!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t,&rdquo; the boy said hoarsely; &ldquo;don&rsquo;t ask
-me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then you know who did it. I can see you do.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was a new anguish even in her whisper; he could hear what she thought.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was nobody you care about,&rdquo; he mumbled, hoarser than before,
-and his head lower.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She stopped aghast.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say another word&mdash;and you won&rsquo;t say another to
-me!&rdquo; he added, a bitter break in his muffled voice. He longed to tell her
-it had been an accident, to tell her all; but he had given his word to
-Baumgartner not to confide in her, and he did not think that he had broken it
-yet.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know me,&rdquo; she whispered, and for a moment her hand
-lay warm in his; &ldquo;trust me! I&rsquo;m your friend in spite of all
-you&rsquo;ve said&mdash;or done!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Dr. Baumgartner might have been ten minutes getting rid of the intruder; before
-that he had been first amazed and then relieved to hear the piano in the
-drawing-room; and that was all his anxious ear had heard of either boy or girl
-during his absence.  Yet the boy was not standing over the piano, as he might
-have been, for Phillida was trying to recall one of the concert songs he said
-his sister sang. Pocket, however, was staring out into the garden with a
-troubled face, which he turned abruptly, aggressively, and yet apprehensively
-to meet the doctor&rsquo;s.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But the doctor no longer looked suspiciously from him to Phillida, but stood
-beaming on them both, and rubbing his hands as though he had done something
-very clever indeed.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br />
-BEFORE THE STORM</h2>
-
-<p>
-Sunday in London has got itself a bad name among those who occasionally spend
-one at their hotel, and miss the band, their letters, and the theatre at night;
-but at Dr. Baumgartner&rsquo;s there was little to distinguish the seventh day
-from the other six. The passover of the postman, that boon to residents and
-grievance of the traveller, was a normal condition in the dingy house of no
-address. More motor-horns were heard in the distance, and less heavy traffic;
-the sound of church bells came as well through the open windows; then the
-street-door shut, and there was a long period  without Phillida, until it
-opened and shut again, and in she peeped with her parasol and Prayer-book, as
-though they were all quite ordinary people without a guilty secret among them!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Such was the Sunday morning. It was fine and warm. Dr. Baumgartner pottered
-about his untidy little garden, a sun-trap again as Pocket had seen it first;
-the Turk&rsquo;s head perspired from internal and external heat, but its rich
-yellow, shading into richer auburn, clashed rather with a red geranium which
-the doctor wore jauntily in the button-hole of his black alpaca jacket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was Phillida who had given him the flower at breakfast. She grew what she
-could in the neglected garden; the plants in the miniature conservatory were
-also hers, though the doctor took a perfunctory interest in them, obviously on
-her account. It was obvious at least to Pocket Upton. He saw all these things,
-and what they meant. He was not without his little gifts of observation and
-deduction. He noticed the difference in Baumgartner&rsquo;s voice when he
-addressed his niece, the humane kindling of the inexorable eyes, and to-day he
-thought he saw a reciprocal softening on the part of Phillida. There had been
-none to see yesterday or the day before. It was her uncle whom the girl had
-seemed unable to forgive for the unseemly scuffle of Friday morning.  But now
-it was as though memory and common fairness had set years of kindness against
-these days of unendurable mystery, and bidden her endure them with a better
-grace. If she felt she had been disloyal to him, she could not have made
-sweeter amends than she did by many an unobtrusive little office. And she
-exchanged no more confidences with poor Pocket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yet these two were together most of the day; all three were; and it was a
-strangely peaceful day, a day of natural hush, and the cessation of
-life&rsquo;s hostilities, such as is sometimes almost pointedly bestowed before
-or after a time of strain. It was a day on which Pocket certainly drew his
-spiritual breath more freely than on any other since the dire catastrophe.
-There were few fresh clouds; perhaps the only one before evening was the
-removal of the book on hallucinations in which Pocket had become interested on
-the Saturday afternoon. It was no longer lying about the room as he had left
-it. There was a gap in its place in the shelf. The book had been taken away
-from him; it made him feel as though he were back again at his very first
-dame&rsquo;s school.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And the church bells sent him back to the school he was at now! They were more
-mellow and sedate then the chapel bells there, that rang you down the hill at
-the double if you were late and not too  asthmatical; and Pocket saw and heard
-himself puffing up the opposite hill to take his place for chapel call-over in
-the school quad. The fellows would be forming in squads there now, all in their
-Sunday tails or Eton jackets as the case might be; of course Pocket was in
-tails, though still rather proud of them. The masters, in their silk hoods or
-their rabbit-skins were prominent in his mind&rsquo;s eye. Then came the cool
-and spacious chapel, with its marble pulpit and its brazen candelabra, and rows
-of chastened chapel faces, that he knew better than his own, giving a swing to
-chants which ran in his head at the very thought. How real it all was to him,
-and how unreal this Sunday morning, in the sunny room with the battle
-engravings over the book-cases, and the walnut chairs in front of them, and Dr.
-Baumgartner in and out in his alpaca coat! After chapel he would have gone for
-a walk with Blundell minor, most probably, or else written his letter home and
-got it over. And that chapter would have ended with cold boiled beef and
-apple-pie with cloves in it at Spearman&rsquo;s.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The Italian restaurant which sent in Dr. Baumgartner&rsquo;s meals certainly
-provided richer fare than that. There was a top-floor of soup in the portable
-contrivance, and before the meat a risotto, which the doctor praised without a
-single patriotic reservation.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Italy is a country where one can live,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Not that
-you must understand me to be altogether down on your own fatherland, my young
-fellow; there is something to be said for London, especially on a Sunday. No
-organs from my dear Italy, none of those so-called German bands which we in
-Germany would not tolerate for a moment; no postman every hour of the day, and
-no gaolbirds crying false news down the streets.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket looked for a grim twinkle in the speaker&rsquo;s eye, but found it fixed
-on Phillida, who had not looked up. Instinct prompted Pocket to say something
-quickly; that he had not seen a postman there, was the actual remark.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That is because I conduct my correspondence at my club,&rdquo; explained
-the doctor. &ldquo;I give out no other address; then you only get your letters
-when you want them.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you often go there?&rdquo; the boy ventured to inquire, devoutly
-wishing he would go that afternoon.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not when I have visitors,&rdquo; replied Baumgartner, with a smiling
-bow. &ldquo;And I look upon my patients in that light,&rdquo; he added, with
-benevolent but futile hypocrisy, embarrassing enough to Phillida, but not more
-so than if she had still believed it to be the truth.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Silence ensued until they were all in the other room; then the niece took
-refuge at her piano,  and this time Pocket hung over her for an hour or more.
-He went through her music, and asked for everything that Lettice played or
-sang. Phillida would not sing to him, but she had the makings of a pianist. The
-boy&rsquo;s enthusiasm for the things he knew made her play then as well as
-ever he had heard them played. Even the doctor, dozing in the big chair with
-eyes that were never quite shut, murmured his approval more than once; he loved
-his Mendelssohn and Schubert, and had nothing to say against the Sousas and
-others that the boy picked out as well, and mentioned with ingenuous fervour in
-the same breath. Pocket would have sung himself if the doctor had not been
-there, for he had a bit of a voice when he was free from asthma; and once or
-twice he stopped listening to wonder at himself. Could he be the boy who had
-killed a man, however innocently, three days before! Could it be he whom the
-police might come and carry off to prison at any moment? Was it true that he
-might never see his own people any more? Such questions appalled and stunned
-him; he could neither answer them nor realise their full import. They turned
-the old man in the chair, who alone could answer them, back into the goblin he
-had seemed at first. Yet they did give a certain shameful zest and excitement
-even to this quiet hour of motley music in his presence.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Besides, there was always one comfort to remember now: his letter home. Of
-course Lettice would show it to their father; of course something would be done
-at once. Shame and sorrow for the accident would be his for ever; but as for
-his present situation, there were moments when Pocket felt rather like a
-story-book cabin-boy luxuriously marooned, and already in communication with
-the mainland.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He wondered what steps had been taken so far. No doubt his father had come
-straight up to town; it was a moving thought that he might be within a mile of
-that very room at that very moment. Would all the known circumstances of his
-disappearance be published broadcast in the papers? Pocket felt he would have
-red ears all his life if that were done; and yet it had hurt him a little to
-gather from Baumgartner that so far there was nothing in the papers to say he
-had so much as disappeared. That fact must have been known since Thursday or
-Friday. Once it did cross his mind that to keep it from his mother they would
-have to keep it out of the papers. Well, as long as she did not know!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He pictured the blinds down in her room; it was the hour of her afternoon rest.
-If he were at home, he would be going about quietly. Lettice would be reading
-or writing in the morning-room,  most probably. Father would be gloating over
-his rhododendrons with a strong cigar; in his last letter the boy had heard how
-beautiful they were. Horace might be with him, smoking a cigarette, if he and
-Fred were not playing tennis. Their pocket edition had not to look very far
-ahead to see himself smoking proper cigarettes with the others, to hear his own
-voice telling them of his own experience&mdash;of this very hour at Dr.
-Baumgartner&rsquo;s. Even Fred and Horace would have to listen to that! Pocket
-looked at the long lean figure in the chair, at the eyelids never quite closed,
-and so imparting at once a softening and a sinister effect. He noted the
-drooping geranium in his buttonhole, and grey ash from the Turk&rsquo;s head
-sprinkling the black alpaca coat. It brought the very phrases of a graphic
-portrait almost to his lips.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yet if anybody had told the boy he was beginning to gloat over the silver
-lining to the cloud that he was under, and that it was not silver at all but
-one of the baser metals of the human heart, how indignantly he would have
-denied it at first, how humbly seen it in the end!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-When Phillida went off to make the tea her uncle sought his room and sponge,
-but did not neglect to take Pocket with him. Pocket was for going higher up to
-his own room; but Baumgartner said that would only make more work, in a tone
-precluding argument. It struck Pocket that the doctor really needed sleep, and
-was irritable after a continuous struggle against it. If so, it served him
-right for not trusting a fellow&mdash;and for putting Boismont in the
-waste-paper basket, by Jove!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was no mistaking the red book there; it was one of the first things
-Pocket noticed, while the doctor was stooping over his basin in the opposite
-corner; and the schoolboy&rsquo;s strongest point, be it remembered, was a
-stubborn tenacity of his own devices. He made a dive at the waste-paper basket,
-meaning to ask afterwards if the doctor minded his reading that book. But the
-question never was asked; the book was still in the basket when the doctor had
-finished drying his face; and the boy was staring and swaying as though he had
-seen the dead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why, what&rsquo;s the matter with my young fellow?&rdquo; inquired
-Baumgartner, solicitously.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nothing! I&rsquo;ll be all right soon,&rdquo; muttered Pocket, wiping
-his forehead and then his hand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You look faint. Here&rsquo;s my sponge. No, lie flat down there
-first!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But Pocket was not going to lie down on that bed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I do feel seedy,&rdquo; he said, in a stronger voice with a new note in
-it, &ldquo;but I&rsquo;m not going to faint. I&rsquo;m quite well able to go
-upstairs. I&rsquo;d rather lie down on my own bed, if you don&rsquo;t
-mind.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His own bed! The irony struck him even as he said the words. He was none the
-less glad to sit down on it; and so sitting he made his first close examination
-of two or three tiny squares of paper which he had picked out of the basket in
-the doctor&rsquo;s room instead of Boismont&rsquo;s book on hallucinations.
-There had been no hallucination about those scraps of paper; they were
-fragments of the boy&rsquo;s own letter to his sister, which Dr. Baumgartner
-had never posted at all.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br />
-A LIKELY STORY</h2>
-
-<p>
-At that moment help was as far away as it had been near the day before, when
-Eugene Thrush was closeted in the doctor&rsquo;s dining-room; for not only had
-Mr. Upton decamped for Leicestershire, without a word of warning to anybody, on
-the Saturday afternoon, but Thrush himself had followed by the only Sunday
-train.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-A bell was ringing for evening service when he landed in a market town which
-reversed the natural order by dozing all summer and waking up for the hunting
-season. And now the famous grass country was lying in its beauty-sleep, under a
-gay counterpane of buttercups and daisies, and leafy coverts,  with but one
-blot in the sky-line, in the shape of a permanent plume of sluggish smoke. But
-the works lay hidden, and the hall came first; and Thrush, having ascertained
-that this was it, abandoned the decrepit vessel he had boarded at the station,
-and entered the grounds on foot.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-A tall girl, pacing the walks with a terribly anxious face, was encountered and
-accosted before he reached the house.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I believe Mr. Upton lives here. Can you tell me if he&rsquo;s at home? I
-want to see him about something.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Lettice flushed and shrank.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know who you are! Have you found my brother?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No; not yet,&rdquo; said Thrush, after a pause. &ldquo;But you take my
-breath away, my dear young lady! How could you be so sure of me? Is it no
-longer to be kept a secret, and is that why your father bolted out of town
-without a word?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s still a secret,&rdquo; whispered Lettice, as though the
-shrubs had ears, &ldquo;only I&rsquo;m in it. Nobody else is&mdash;nobody
-fresh&mdash;but I guessed, and my mother was beginning to suspect. My father
-never stays away a Sunday unless he&rsquo;s out of England altogether; she
-couldn&rsquo;t understand it, and was worrying so about him that I wired
-begging him to come back if only for the night. So it&rsquo;s all my  fault,
-Mr. Thrush; and I know everything but what you&rsquo;ve come down to tell
-us!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s next to nothing,&rdquo; he shrugged. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
-neither good nor bad. But if you can find your father I&rsquo;ll tell you both
-exactly what I have found out.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-In common with all his sex, he liked and trusted Lettice at sight, without
-bestowing on her a passing thought as a person capable of provoking any warmer
-feeling. She was the perfect sister&mdash;that he felt as instinctively as
-everybody else&mdash;and a woman to trust into the bargain. It would be cruel
-and quite unnecessary to hide anything from that fine and unselfish face. So he
-let her lead him to a little artificial cave, lined and pungent with
-pitch-pine, over against the rhododendrons, while she went to fetch her father
-quietly from the house.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The ironmaster amplified the excuses already made for him; he had rushed for
-the first train after getting his daughter&rsquo;s telegram, leaving but a line
-for Thrush with his telephone number, in the hopes that he would use it whether
-he had anything to report or not.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;As you didn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; added Mr. Upton, in a still aggrieved voice,
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been trying again and again to ring you up instead; but of
-course you were never there, nor your man Mullins either. I was  coming back by
-the last train, however, and should have been with you late to-night.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Did you leave the motor behind?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes; it&rsquo;ll be there to meet me at St. Pancras.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It may have to do more than that,&rdquo; said Thrush, spreading his full
-breadth on the pitch-pine seat. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve found out something; how much
-or how little it&rsquo;s too soon to tell; but I wasn&rsquo;t going to discuss
-it through a dozen country exchanges as long as you wanted the thing a dead
-secret, Mr. Upton, and that&rsquo;s why I didn&rsquo;t ring you up. As for your
-last train, I&rsquo;d have waited to meet it in town, only that wouldn&rsquo;t
-have given me time to say what I&rsquo;ve got to say before one or other of us
-may have to rush off somewhere else by another last train.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do for God&rsquo;s sake say what you&rsquo;ve got to say!&rdquo; cried
-Mr. Upton.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ve seen a man who thinks he may have seen the boy!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Alive?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And perfectly well&mdash;but for his asthma&mdash;on Thursday.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The ironmaster thanked God in a dreadful voice; it was Lettice who calmed him,
-not he her. Her eyes only shone a little, but his were blinded by the first ray
-of light.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Where was it?&rdquo; he asked, when he could ask anything.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you in a minute. I want first to be convinced that it
-really was your son. Did the boy take any special interest in Australia?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rather!&rdquo; cried Lettice, the sister of three boys.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What kind of interest?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He wanted to go out there. It had just been talked about.&rdquo; She
-looked at her father. &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t let him go,&rdquo; he said.
-&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I want to know just how it came to be talked about.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A fool of a doctor in town recommended it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Lettice winced, but Thrush nodded as though that tallied.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Did he recommend any particular vessel?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes, a sailing ship&mdash;the <i>Seringapatam</i>&mdash; an old East
-Indiaman they&rsquo;ve turned into a kind of floating hospital. I
-wouldn&rsquo;t hear of the beastly tub.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you know when she was to sail?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I did know,&rdquo; said Lettice. &ldquo;I believe it was just about
-now.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;She sailed yesterday,&rdquo; said Thrush, impressively; &ldquo;and your
-brother, if it was your brother, talked a good deal about her to this man. He
-told him all about your having always been in favour of it, Miss Upton, and his
-father not. I&rsquo;m bound to say it sounds as though it may have been the
-boy.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush seemed to be keeping something back; but the prime and absorbing
-question of identity prevented the others from noticing this.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It must have been!&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton. &ldquo;Who was the man, and
-where exactly did he see him?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;First on Thursday morning, and last on Thursday night. But perhaps
-I&rsquo;d better tell you about my informant, since we&rsquo;ve only his word
-for Thursday, and only his suspicions as to what has happened since. In the
-first place he&rsquo;s a semi-public man, though I don&rsquo;t suppose you know
-his name. It&rsquo;s Baumgartner&mdash;Dr. Otto Baumgartner&mdash;a German
-scientist of some distinction.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The ironmaster made a remark which did him little credit, and Thrush continued
-with some pride: &ldquo;There was some luck in it, of course, for he was the
-very first man I struck who&rsquo;d bought d&rsquo;Auvergne Cigarettes since
-Wednesday; but I was on his doorstep well within twenty-four hours of hearing
-that your son was missing; and you may chalk that up to A. V. M.! I might have
-been with him some hours sooner still, but I preferred to spend them getting to
-know something about my man. I tried his nearest shops; perfect mines! One was
-a chemist, who didn&rsquo;t know him by sight, and had never heard of the
-cigarettes, but remembered being asked for them by an elderly gentleman last
-Thursday morning! That absolutely confirmed  my first suspicion that
-Baumgartner himself was not the asthmatic; if he had been, the nearest chemist
-would have known all about him. Yet he had gone to the nearest chemist
-first!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The nearest butcher was next door; but he was so short about Baumgartner
-that I scented a true-green vegetarian. It was a false scent, Mr. Upton; not to
-mention the baker and the candlestick-maker, there&rsquo;s a little restaurant
-in the same row, which was about the fifth place where I began by asking if
-they knew where a Dr. Baumgartner lived in that neighbourhood. The little
-Italian boss was all over me on the spot! The worthy doctor proved to be his
-most regular customer, having all his meals sent in hot from the restaurant in
-quite the Italian manner. I don&rsquo;t suppose you see how very valuable this
-was to me. Germans love Italy, the little man explained; but I said that was
-the one point on which I should never yield to Germany&mdash;and I thought I
-was going to be kissed across the counter! It seems the good doctor lives alone
-with his niece (not always even her), and keeps no servants and never
-entertains. Yet on Friday, for the first time since the arrangement was made,
-the old chap went to the restaurant himself to complain of short commons; there
-had not been enough for them to eat on the Thursday night!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Had they been alone?&rdquo; asked Mr. Upton, with a puzzled face.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the whole point! My little Florentine understood they were,
-but I deduced one extra, and then conceived a course that may astonish you. It
-was the bold course; but it nearly always pays. I lunched at my leisure (an
-excellent Chianti my little friend keeps) and afterwards went round and saw the
-doctor himself. The niece opened the door&mdash;I wish I&rsquo;d seen more of
-her&mdash;but she fetched her uncle at once and I begged for an interview on an
-urgent matter. He consented in a way that, I must say, impressed me very
-favourably; and the moment we were alone I said, &lsquo;I want to know, Doctor,
-who you bought those asthma cigarettes for last Thursday!&rsquo;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That took him aback, but not unduly; so then I added, &lsquo;I&rsquo;m
-an inquiry agent with a very delicate case in hand, and if you&rsquo;ll tell me
-it may solve at heart-breaking a mystery as I&rsquo;ve ever handled.&rsquo; Is
-was treating him like a gentleman, but I believe in that; there&rsquo;s no
-shorter cut to whether a man is one or not.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, his face had lit up, and a very fine face it is; it hadn&rsquo;t
-blackened for the fifth of a second; but I had a disappointment in store.
-&lsquo;I&rsquo;d tell you his name with all my heart,&rsquo; he said,
-&lsquo;only I don&rsquo;t really know it myself. He said it was  John
-Green&mdash;but his handkerchiefs were marked &ldquo;A. A.
-U.&rdquo;&rsquo;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Tony&rsquo;s initials!&rdquo; cried Tony&rsquo;s father.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But it never was Tony under a false name,&rdquo; his sister vowed.
-&ldquo;That settles it for me, Mr. Thrush.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not even if he&rsquo;d got into some scrape or adventure, Miss
-Upton?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He would never give a name that wasn&rsquo;t his.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Suppose he felt he had disgraced his name?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My brother Tony wouldn&rsquo;t do it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He might feel he had?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He might,&rdquo; the father agreed, &ldquo;even if he&rsquo;d done no
-such thing; in fact, he&rsquo;s just the kind of boy who would take an
-exaggerated view of some things.&rdquo; His mind went back to his last talk
-with Horace on the subject.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Or he might feel he was about to do something, shall we say, unworthy of
-you all?&rdquo; Thrush made the suggestion with much delicacy.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then I don&rsquo;t think he&rsquo;d do it,&rdquo; declared loyal
-Lettice.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Let us hear what you think he did,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s not what I think; it&rsquo;s what this man Baumgartner
-thinks, and his story that you ought to hear.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And that which they now heard at second-hand  was in fact a wonderfully true
-version&mdash;up to a point&mdash;of poor Pocket&rsquo;s condition and
-adventures&mdash;with the sleep-walking and the shooting left out&mdash;from
-the early morning of his meeting with Baumgartner until the late afternoon of
-that day.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner had actually described the boy&rsquo;s long sleep in his chair; it
-was with the conversation when he awoke that the creative work began in
-earnest.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a good man!&rdquo; said Mr. Upton, with unimaginable irony.
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to take him by the hand&mdash;and those infernal Knaggses
-by the scruff of their dirty necks&mdash;and that old hag Harbottle by the
-hair!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I think of dear darling Tony,&rdquo; said Lettice, in acute distress;
-&ldquo;lying out all night with asthma&mdash;it was enough to kill him&mdash;or
-to send him out of his mind.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I wonder if it could have done that,&rdquo; remarked Thrush, in a tone
-of serious speculation which he was instantly called upon to explain.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What are you keeping back?&rdquo; cried Lettice, the first to see that
-he had been keeping something all this time.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Only something he&rsquo;d kept back from them,&rdquo; replied Thrush,
-with just a little less than his usual aplomb. &ldquo;It was a surprise he
-sprang on them after waking; it will probably surprise you still  more, Mr.
-Upton. You may not believe it. I&rsquo;m not certain that I do myself. In the
-morning he had spoken of the Australian voyage as though you&rsquo;d opposed
-it, but withdrawn your opposition&mdash;one moment, if you don&rsquo;t mind! In
-the evening he suddenly explained that he was actually sailing in the
-<i>Seringapatam</i>, that his baggage was already on board, and he must get
-aboard himself that night!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it, Thrush.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No more do I, father, for a single instant. Tony, of all people!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush looked from one to the other with a somewhat disingenuous eye. &ldquo;I
-don&rsquo;t say I altogether accept it myself; that&rsquo;s why I kept it to
-the end,&rdquo; he explained. &ldquo;But we must balance the possibilities
-against the improbabilities, never losing sight of the one incontestable fact
-that the boy has undoubtedly disappeared. And here&rsquo;s a man, a well-known
-man, who makes no secret of the fact that he found him wandering in the Park,
-in the early morning, breathless and dazed, and drove him home to his own
-house, where the boy spent the day; they took a hansom, the doctor tells me,
-than which no statement is more quickly and easily checked. Are we to believe
-this apparently unimpeachable and disinterested witness, or are we not? He was
-most explicit about everything,  offering to show me exactly where he found the
-boy, and never the least bit vague or unsatisfactory in any way. If you are
-prepared to believe him, if only for the sake of argument, you may care to hear
-Dr. Baumgartner&rsquo;s theory as to what has happened.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Lettice shook her head in scorn, but Mr. Upton observed, &ldquo;Well, we may as
-well hear what the fellow had to say to you; we must be grateful to him for
-taking pity on our boy, and he was the last who saw him; he may have seen
-something that we shouldn&rsquo;t guess.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Exactly!&rdquo; exclaimed Eugene Thrush; &ldquo;he saw, or at any rate
-he now thinks he saw, enough to build up a pretty definite theory on the
-foundation of fact supplied by me. He didn&rsquo;t know the boy had come up to
-see a doctor and been refused a lodging for the night; he understood he had
-come up to join his ship, and suspected he had been on a sort of mild
-spree&mdash;if Miss Upton will forgive me!&rdquo; And he turned deferential
-lenses on the indignant girl.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t forgive the suggestion,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;but it
-isn&rsquo;t yours, Mr. Thrush, so please go on.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s an idea that Dr. Baumgartner continues to hold in spite of
-all I was able to tell him, and we mustn&rsquo;t forget, as Mr. Upton says,
-that he was the last to see your brother. Briefly, he believes  the boy did
-meet with some misadventure that night in town; that he had been ill-treated or
-intimidated by some unscrupulous person or persons; perhaps threatened with
-blackmail; at any rate imbued with the conviction that he is not more sinned
-against than sinning. That, I think, is only what one expects of these very
-conscientious characters, particularly in youth; he was taking something or
-somebody a thousandfold more seriously than a grown man would have done. Afraid
-to go back to school for fear of expulsion, ashamed to show his face at home!
-What&rsquo;s to be done? He thinks of the ship about to sail, the ship he hoped
-to sail in, and in his desperation he determines to sail in her
-still&mdash;even if he has to stow away!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My God!&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s just the one to think
-of it. His head was full of those trashy adventure stories!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But Lettice shook hers quietly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;To think of it, but not to do it,&rdquo; said she, with a quiet
-conviction that rather nettled Mr. Thrush.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But really, Miss Upton, he must have done something, you know! And he
-actually talked to Dr. Baumgartner about this; not of doing it himself, but of
-stowaways in general, à propos of his voyage; and how many pounds of biscuit
-and how many  ounces of water would carry one alive into blue water.
-There&rsquo;s another thing, by the way! He told Baumgartner the ship touched
-nowhere between the East India Docks and Melbourne; he would be out of the
-world for three whole months.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And she only sailed yesterday?&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton, coming furiously
-to his feet. &ldquo;And you let her get through the Straits of Dover and out to
-sea while you came down here to tell me this by inches?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush blinked blandly through his port-hole glasses.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m letting her go as far as Plymouth,&rdquo; said he,
-&ldquo;where one or both of us will board her tomorrow if she&rsquo;s up to
-time!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You said she didn&rsquo;t touch anywhere between the docks and
-Melbourne?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No; your son said that, Mr. Upton, and it was his one mistake. They
-don&rsquo;t usually touch, but a son of one of the owners happens to have gone
-round in the ship to Plymouth for the trip. I got it first from an old
-boatswain of the line who&rsquo;s caretaker at the office, and the only man
-there, of course, yesterday afternoon; but I&rsquo;ve since bearded one of the
-partners at his place down the river, and had the statement confirmed and
-amplified. One or two pasengers are only going aboard at  Plymouth, so she
-certainly won&rsquo;t sail again before to-morrow noon, even if she&rsquo;s
-there by then. You will be in ample time to board her&mdash;and I&rsquo;ve got
-a sort of search-warrant from the partner I saw&mdash;if you go down by the
-12.15 from Paddington to-night.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The ironmaster asked no more questions; that was good enough for him, he said,
-and went off to tell a last lie to his wife, with the increasing confidence of
-one gradually mastering the difficulties of an uncongenial game. He felt also
-that a happy issue was in sight, and after that he could tell the truth and
-liberate his soul. He was pathetically sanguine of the solution vicariously
-propounded by Eugene Thrush, and prepared to rejoice in a discovery which would
-have filled him with dismay and chagrin if he had not been subconsciously
-prepared for something worse. It never occurred to Mr. Upton to question the
-man&rsquo;s own belief in the theory he had advanced; but Lettice did so the
-moment she had the visitor to herself in the smoking-room, where it fell to her
-to do certain honours <i>vice</i> Horace, luckily engaged at the works.
-&ldquo;And do you believe this astounding theory, Mr. Thrush?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush eyed her over his tumbler&rsquo;s rim, but completed his draught before
-replying.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s not my province to believe or to disbelieve,  Miss Upton; my
-job is to prove things one way or the other.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll tell you just one thing for your guidance: my brother is
-absolutely incapable of the conduct you ascribe to him between you.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush did not look as though he were being guided by anybody or anything,
-beyond the dictates of his own appetites, as he sat by the window of the
-restaurant car, guzzling new potatoes and such Burgundy as could be had in a
-train. But he was noticeably less garrulous than usual, and his companion also
-had very little to say until the train was held up inexplicably outside
-Willesden, when he began to fume.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I never knew such a thing on this line before,&rdquo; he complained;
-&ldquo;it&rsquo;s all the harder luck, for I never was on such an errand
-before, and it&rsquo;ll just make the difference to me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll have time,&rdquo; said Thrush, consulting his watch as the
-train showed signs of life at last.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not for what I want to do,&rdquo; said Mr. Upton firmly. &ldquo;I want
-to shake that man&rsquo;s hand, and to hear from his own lips about my
-boy!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not sure that you&rsquo;ll find him at home,&rdquo; Thrush
-said, after a contemplative pause.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take my chance of that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He said something about their both going out of town
-to-day&mdash;meaning niece and self. I heard  her playing just before I left,
-and that seemed to remind him of it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, Thrush, I mean to risk it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And losing the train?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can motor down to Plymouth; there&rsquo;s plenty of time. I might take
-him with me, as well as you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Better,&rdquo; said Thrush, after another slight pause. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d
-rather you didn&rsquo;t count on me for that trip, Mr. Upton.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not count on you&rdquo;?
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;One of us will be quite enough.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Have you some other case to shove in front of mine, then?&rdquo; cried
-the ironmaster, touched on the old raw spot.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t put it like that, Mr. Upton.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;All right! I&rsquo;ll take your man Mullins instead; but I&rsquo;ll try
-my luck at that German doctor&rsquo;s first,&rdquo; he growled, determined to
-have his own way in something.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid you can&rsquo;t have Mullins,&rdquo; said Thrush,
-gently.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Want him yourself do you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I do; but I&rsquo;m afraid neither of us can have him just now, Mr.
-Upton.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why not? Where is he.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush leant across as they swam into the lighted terminus.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In prison.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In prison! Your man Mullins?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes, Mr. Upton, he&rsquo;s the man they arrested yesterday on suspicion
-of complicity in this Hyde Park affair!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br />
-MALINGERING</h2>
-
-<p>
-Pocket had put the fragments of his poor letter together again, and was still
-poring over those few detached and mutilated words, which were the very ones
-his tears had blotted, when there came a warning chink of tea-things on the
-stairs. He was just able to thrust the pieces back into his pocket, and to
-fling himself at full length on the bed, before Dr. Baumgartner entered with a
-tray.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There, my young fellow! This will make a man of you! Then we shall see
-you yourself again by supper-time.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not coming down again,&rdquo; said Pocket. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
-force me, please&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Force you?&rdquo; Baumgartner cocked a keen eye at the open window.
-&ldquo;What a tyrant you would make me out! On the contrary, I think you show
-your wisdom in remaining quiet. Perhaps you would be quieter still with the
-window shut&mdash;so&mdash;and  fastened to prevent it rattling. I will open it
-when I come up again. There shall not be a sound in the house to disturb
-you.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he took to tiptoes there and then, gliding about with a smiling stealth
-that set Pocket shivering on the bed; he shivered the more when an admirable
-doctor&rsquo;s hand, cool and smooth as steel, was laid upon his forehead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A little fever, I&rsquo;m afraid! I should get right into bed, if I were
-you. It&rsquo;s nothing to be alarmed about, much less astonished; you have
-been through so much, my poor young fellow.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I have indeed!&rdquo; cried Pocket, with unguarded bitterness.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And Baumgartner paused between the foot of the bed and the door.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But there&rsquo;s one consolation for you,&rdquo; he said at length, in
-a sibilant whisper. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve had that letter of yours at home quite
-a long time now&mdash;ever since yesterday morning, haven&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The bed shook under Pocket when the door was shut&mdash;he only hoped it was
-not before. Up to the last minute, he felt quite sure that Dr. Baumgartner,
-suspicious as he was, had suspected nothing of the discovery downstairs behind
-his back. If he himself had betrayed anything it was in the last few seconds,
-when it had been all that he could do to keep from screaming out his knowledge
-of  the other&rsquo;s trickery. To play such a trick upon a broken-hearted boy!
-To have the heart to play it! No wonder he felt feverish to that wicked hand;
-the wonder was that he had actually lain there listening to the smooth impostor
-gratuitously revelling in his imposition!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Rage and disappointment seized him by turns, and both together; at first they
-bit deeper even than the fear of Baumgartner&mdash;a fear felt from the
-beginning, and naturally redoubled now. Disappointment had the sharper tooth:
-his letter had ever gone, not one of his people knew a thing about him yet, his
-tears had not drawn theirs, they had not hung in anxious conclave on his words!
-Not that he had recognised any such subtle consolations as factors in his
-temporary and comparative peace of mind; now that they were gone, he could not
-have said what it was he missed; he only knew that he could least forgive
-Baumgartner for this sudden sense of cruel and crushing disappointment.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The phase passed, for the boy had the temperament that sees the other side
-eventually, and of course there was something to be said for the doctor&rsquo;s
-stratagem. He could understand it, after all; the motive was not malevolent; it
-was to relieve his mind and keep him quiet. The plan had succeeded perfectly,
-and nobody was really any the worse off. His people would have known he was
-alive and well on the Friday; but that was all, and they had no reason yet to
-assume his death. No; even Pocket came to see that his letter had been more of
-a relief to write than it could have been to read; that, indeed, it could only
-have aggravated the anxiety and suspense at home. Yet there was in him some
-fibre which the deliberate deception had fretted and frayed beyond reason or
-forgiveness. He saw all there was to be said about it; he could imagine
-Baumgartner himself putting the case with irresistible logic, with
-characteristic plausibility, and all the mesmeric wisdom of a benevolent
-serpent; but for once, the boy felt, he would not be taken in. It was not
-coming to that, however, for he had quite decided not to betray his knowledge
-of the fraud&mdash;if only he had not already done so!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-His fears on that score were largely allayed by Baumgartner&rsquo;s manner when
-at length he returned with another tray; for nothing could have been more
-considerate and sympathetic, and even fatherly, than the doctor&rsquo;s
-behaviour then. Pocket had never touched his tea; he was very gently chidden
-for that. Obstinately he declared he did not want any supper either: it was
-true he did not want to want any, or another bite of that man&rsquo;s bread,
-but he was sorry as soon as the words were out. It was against his reasoned
-policy to show  temper, and he was beginning to feel very hungry besides. The
-doctor said, &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll think better of that, my young fellow,&rdquo;
-which turned a mere remark into more than half an absolute resolution. The
-second tray was set with a lighted candle on a chair by the bedside. The boy
-eyed it wistfully with set teeth, and Baumgartner eyed the boy.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is there anything you could fancy, my young fellow?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nothing to eat.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is there any book?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Pocket, without a moment&rsquo;s premeditation.
-&ldquo;There&rsquo;s the book I was reading yesterday.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What was that?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Some Frenchman on hallucinations.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So you were reading that book!&rdquo; remarked the doctor, with
-detestable aplomb. &ldquo;I wondered who had taken it down. It is a poor book.
-I have destroyed it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry,&rdquo; said Pocket, and tried to look it rather than
-revolted.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I am not,&rdquo; rejoined Baumgartner. &ldquo;Even if it were a good
-book, it is no book for you at the present time. It is morbid to dwell on what
-is done and over.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If it is over,&rdquo; murmured the boy.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It is over!&rdquo; said Baumgartner, fiercely.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Pocket, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad I read what he&rsquo;d
-got to say about somnambulism.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket did not say it was a satisfaction to have done anything in spite of such
-a despot as his questioner. But he did say it was a comfort to know that others
-besides himself had committed terrible deeds in their sleep.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;they always seem to have dreamt the
-dreadful thing as well. Now, the funny thing is that I remember nothing until
-the shot woke me and I found myself where you saw me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad you find it funny!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The sneer seemed strangely unworthy of a keen intelligence; the increased
-asperity of Baumgartner&rsquo;s manner, and his whole conduct about a harmless
-book, altogether inexplicable.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You know what I mean,&rdquo; replied the boy, with spirit.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes, I know what you mean! You mean to go out of your mind, and to do
-your best to drive me out of mine, for the sake of a technically human life
-less precious than the average dog&rsquo;s!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And, much as it puzzled him, there was certainly something more human about
-this sudden outburst than in anything Dr. Baumgartner had said since the scene
-between them in the bedroom below. He even slammed the door behind him when he
-went. But Pocket preferred that novel exhibition, for its very heat and
-violence, to the sleek and calculated solicitude of the doctor&rsquo;s final
-visit, with pipe and candle, when the one by the bedside had burnt down almost
-to the socket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My young fellow!&rdquo; he exclaimed in unctuous distress. &ldquo;Not a
-bite eaten in all these hours! Do you know that it&rsquo;s nearly
-midnight?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not hungry,&rdquo; replied Pocket, lying gloriously for once.
-&ldquo;I told you I wasn&rsquo;t well.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be worse if you don&rsquo;t force yourself to eat.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, well!&rdquo; said the doctor, instead of the objurgation that
-seemed to tremble for an instant on his lips. He replaced between them the oval
-hook of clear amber enclosing the thin round one of black nicotine, and he
-puffed until the cruel carved face was hotter and more infuriate than ever,
-under the swirling smoke of mimic battle. To the boy it was all but a living
-face, and a vile one, capable of nameless atrocities; and the hard-frozen face
-of Baumgartner was capable of looking on.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, well! If I am to have you ill on my hands it&rsquo;s my own fault.
-I take the responsibility for everything that has happened since the very first
-moment we met. Remember that, my young fellow! I took the law into my own
-hands, and  you I took into my own house for better or worse. You were worse
-then, remember, and yet I took you in! Is it not strange that your asthma has
-entirely left you under my roof? Does it not lead you to believe in me, my
-young fellow&mdash;to trust me perhaps more than you have done?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It did not. Pocket was not going to lie about that; he held his tongue
-stubbornly instead. He still believed in his own explanation, derived from one
-of his many doctors, and moreover already mentioned to this one, of the sudden
-cessation of his chronic complaint. He hated Baumgartner for forgetting that,
-and pretending for a moment to take any credit to himself. That again was not
-worthy of so cool and keen a brain, much less of the candid character with
-which Pocket had supposed himself to be dealing. The very young are
-pathetically apt to see their own virtues in those whom they trust at all; but
-the schoolboy&rsquo;s faith in Dr. Baumgartner had been shattered to its base;
-and now (as sure a symptom of his youth) he could see no virtue at all.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You must trust me again,&rdquo; said Baumgartner, as though he knew what
-he had forfeited. &ldquo;I know what will do you good.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Pocket, out of mere incredulous curiosity.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Fresh air; some exercise; a glimpse of the  beautiful town we live in,
-before another soul is about, before the sun itself is up!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket hardly knew what made him shudder at the proposition. It might have been
-the poignant picture of that other early morning, which came before him in a
-scorching flash. But there was something also in the way the doctor was bending
-over him in bed, holding his pipe nearer still, so that the two dreadful faces
-seemed of equal size. And Baumgartner&rsquo;s had become a dreadful face in the
-boy&rsquo;s eyes now; there was none among those cruel waxworks to match it in
-cold intellectual cruelty; and its smile&mdash;its new and strange smile it
-must have been that made him shudder and shake his head.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But, my young fellow,&rdquo; urged the doctor, &ldquo;it will do you so
-much good. And not a soul will see us so early, early in the morning!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Again that insinuating smile inspired a horror of which the boy himself could
-have offered no satisfactory explanation, especially as there was much to
-commend the proposal to his mind. But his face was white enough as he moved it
-from side to side on the pillow.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I tell you I&rsquo;m ill,&rdquo; he whimpered. &ldquo;How can I go out
-with you, when you see I can&rsquo;t eat a bite?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Baumgartner gave it up for the night. He was coming back in the early, early
-lovely summer&rsquo;s  morning; then they would see, would they not? Pocket had
-a last wave from the hideous meerschaum head, and a nod from the other. He was
-alone for the night. And he meant to be alone next morning when the doctor took
-his early walk; let him prowl by himself. Pocket was not going with him. He had
-never been more determined about anything than that. It was an animal instinct
-of fear and deep revulsion, an impulse quite distinct from a further
-determination to slip away in his turn as soon as the coast was clear. On this
-course he was equally decided, but on other and more palpable grounds.
-Baumgartner had broken his side of their treaty, so the treaty was torn up with
-the letter which had never gone. And Pocket was going instead of his
-letter&mdash;going straight to his people to tell them all, and have that poor
-innocent man set free before the day was out.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The night&rsquo;s immunity was meanwhile doubly precious; but it had been
-secured, or rather its continuance could only be assured, at a price which he
-wondered even now if he could pay. He was a growing, hungry boy, no longer
-ailing in wind or limb. Distress of mind was his one remaining ill; the rest
-was sham; and distress of mind did not prevent him from feeling ravenous after
-fasting ten or eleven hours. Here was food still within his reach, even at his
-side; but he felt committed  to his declaration that he could not eat. If the
-tray were still untouched in the morning, surely there could be no further
-question of his going out with Baumgartner; but there was an &ldquo;if.&rdquo;
-The boy was not used to being very stern with himself; his strongest point was
-not self-denial. Much of his moral stamina had been expended in nightly tussles
-for mere breath; he had grit enough there. But his temperament was
-self-indulgent, and that he triumphed over positive pangs only shows the power
-of that rival instinct not to accompany the doctor a yard from his door.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Yet it meant more hours with the food beside him than he could endure lying
-still. He got up, inch by inch, for he knew who lay underneath; and he opened
-the window, which Baumgartner had broken his promise to open, by even slower
-and more laborious degrees. He leant out as he had done that first morning, it
-might have been a month ago; and this scene must have challenged comparison
-with that, had his mind been even as free from dread and terror as it had been
-then. But all he saw was the few remaining lighted windows in the backs of
-those other houses; he could not have sworn there was a moon. The moon poured
-no beam of comfort on his aching head; but the lighted windows were as the open
-eyes of honest men, who would not see him come to harm; and  the last rumble in
-the streets was a faint but cheering chorus for lonely ears.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Once a motor-horn blew a solo near at hand, and Pocket half recognised its
-note; but he did not connect it with quite another set of sounds, which grew
-but gradually on his ear out of the bowels of the house. Somebody was knocking
-and ringing at the doctor&rsquo;s door, not furiously, but with considerable
-pertinacity. Pocket was thrilled to the marrow just at first, and flew from the
-open window to the landing outside his door. The house was in perfect darkness,
-and still as death in the patient intervals between each measured attempt to
-rouse the inmates without disturbing the street. It came to Pocket that it must
-be Baumgartner himself, gone out for something without his key; and the boy was
-about to run down and let him in, when he distinctly heard the retreat of feet
-down the front steps, and then a chuckle on the next landing as the doctor
-closed his bedroom door.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Who could it have been? Baumgartner&rsquo;s chuckle suggested the police; but
-in that case it was the boy upstairs who was going to have the last laugh,
-though a grim one, and very terribly at his own expense. He could not close an
-eye for thinking of it, and listening for another knocking and ringing down
-below. But nothing happened  until the doctor returned between five and six,
-still with his meerschaum pipe, still in his alpaca jacket, but wearing also
-the goblin hat and cloak of their first meeting, to renew and intensify the
-animal fear that glued the boy to his bed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It is a pity,&rdquo; said Baumgartner, standing at the window which
-Pocket had left open. &ldquo;The air is like champagne at this hour, and not a
-cloud in the sky! It would do you more good than lying there. It is you who are
-making yourself ill. If I thought you were doing it on purpose
-&rdquo;&mdash;and his eyes blazed&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;d feed you like a
-fowl!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s so likely that I should do it on purpose,&rdquo; muttered
-Pocket, with schoolboy sarcasm. His eyes, however, were purposely closed, and
-they had missed the old daggers in Baumgartner&rsquo;s.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You know best,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;But you are missing the
-morning of your life! Not a cloud in the sky, only the golden rain in my little
-garden. I suppose you have not learnt what the golden rain is at your public
-school? You English call it laburnum; but we Germans have more imagination,
-thank God!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket did not open his eyes again till he had gone; next instant he had the
-door open too, as the doctor&rsquo;s step was creaking down the lower flight of
-stairs. Once more Pocket ventured out upon the landing, not quite to the
-banisters; he trusted to  his ears as before. They told him the doctor had gone
-into his dark-room. His heart sank. It was only for a moment. The dark-room
-door shut sharply. The steps came creaking back along the hall, went grating
-out upon the doorstep. There was another sharp shutting. Food at last!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was neither very nice nor half enough for a famishing lad, that plate of
-cold mixed meats from the restaurant, with a hard stale roll to eke them out.
-But Pocket felt he had a fresh start in life when he had eaten every crumb and
-emptied his water-bottle. Nor was he without plan or purpose any longer; he was
-only doubtful whether to knock at Phillida&rsquo;s door and shout goodbye, or
-to leave her a note explaining all. Baumgartner would be out for hours; he
-always was, on these early jaunts of his; there would almost be time to wait
-and say goodbye properly when the girl came down. She would hardly hinder him a
-second time, and he longed to see her and speak to her again, especially if
-that was to be the end between them. He did not mean it to be the end, by any
-means; but any nonsense that might have been gathering in the schoolboy&rsquo;s
-head was, at this point, more than rudely dispelled by the discovery that Dr.
-Baumgartner had removed his clothes!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket swore an oath that would have shocked him in a schoolfellow; it was a
-practice he indeed  abhorred, but decent words would not meet such a case. It
-was to be met by action, however, just as that locked door had been met, and
-the policeman&rsquo;s prohibition in the Park. He knew where his clothes must
-be. He slipped his overcoat, which he was using as a dressing-gown, over his
-pyjamas, and ran right downstairs as Dr. Baumgartner had done not many minutes
-before him. His clothes were in the dark-room. But the dark-room door had a
-Yale lock; there was no forcing it by foot or shoulder, though Pocket in his
-passion tried both. So round he went without a moment&rsquo;s hesitation to the
-dark-room window by way of the little conservatory. The blind was drawn. That
-mattered nothing. He went back for a plant-pot, and smashed both it and a sheet
-of ruby glass with one vicious blow.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Entry was simple after that; he had only to be careful not to cut his hands or
-feet. Inside, he removed the broken glass, closed the window, and let the blind
-down as he had found it, without looking twice at his clothes. There they were
-for him to carry upstairs at his leisure. They were not his only property in
-that room either. His revolver was there somewhere under lock and key. He might
-want it, waking, if Dr. Baumgartner came back before his time.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was easily located; of the lockers, built in  with the shelves on the
-folding doors, only one was actually locked, and the revolver was not in the
-others. Pocket went to his waistcoat for one of those knives beloved of
-schoolboys, with the hook for extracting stones from hoofs, among other
-superfluous implements. Pocket had never used this one, had often felt inclined
-to wrench it off because it was hard to open and in the way of the other tools.
-But he used it now with as little hesitation as he had done the other damage,
-with almost a lust for breakage; and there was his revolver, safe and sound as
-his clothes.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It had been honoured with a place beside a rack of special negatives; at least,
-there were other racks, in the other lockers, not locked up like that; and
-there was no other treasure that Pocket could see. He had his hand on his own
-treasure, was in the act of taking it, trembling a little, but more elated, as
-he stood in a ruby flood only partially diluted by the broken window behind the
-blind.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-At that moment there came such a thunder of knuckles on the door beside him
-that the revolver caught in the rack of negatives, and brought the whole lot
-crashing about his toes.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br />
-ON THE TRACK OF THE TRUTH</h2>
-
-<p>
-The unseen knuckles renewed their assault upon the dark-room door; and Pocket
-wavered between its Yale lock, which opened on this side with a mere twist of
-the handle, and the broken red window behind the drawn red blind. Escape that
-way was easy enough; and if ever one could take the streets in pyjamas and
-overcoat, with the rest of one&rsquo;s clothes in a bundle under one&rsquo;s
-arm, it was before six o&rsquo;clock in the morning. But it was not a course
-that vanity encouraged in an excited schoolboy with romantic instincts and a
-revolver which he perceived at a glance to be still loaded in most of its
-chambers. Pocket was not one of nature&rsquo;s heroes, but he had an
-overwhelming desire to behave like one, and time to feel how he should despise
-himself all his life if he bolted by the window instead of opening the door. So
-he did open it, trembling but determined. And there stood Phillida in her
-dressing-gown, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s you!&rdquo; she cried, taking the exclamation out of his
-mouth.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, with a gust of relief; &ldquo;did you think it was
-thieves?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; she demanded, pointing to the broken window
-visible through the blind. Then she saw his revolver, and drew back an inch.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He took this from me,&rdquo; said Pocket. &ldquo;I had a right to it.
-Take it if you will!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he offered it, in the best romantic manner, by the barrel. But Phillida was
-too angry to look at revolvers.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You had no business to break in to get it,&rdquo; she told him, with
-considerable severity.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t! I broke in for my clothes; he took them, too, this
-morning before he went out. They&rsquo;re what I broke in for, and I&rsquo;d a
-perfect right; you know I had! And while I&rsquo;m about it I thought I might
-as well have this thing too. I knew it was in here somewhere. It was in there.
-And I&rsquo;m glad I got it, and so should you be, because you and I are in the
-house of one of the greatest villains alive!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The words tumbled over each other with quite hereditary heat. They were all out
-in a few seconds, and the boy left panting with his indignation, the
-girl&rsquo;s eyes flashing hers.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I begin to think my uncle was right,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;This is the
-act of what he said you were, if anything could be.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He lied to you, and he&rsquo;s been lying to me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He may have been justified.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You wait till you hear all he&rsquo;s done! I don&rsquo;t mean taking my
-revolver from me; he was justified in that, if you like, after what I&rsquo;d
-done with it. He may even have been justified in taking away my clothes, if he
-couldn&rsquo;t trust me to keep my word and stay in this awful house. But that
-isn&rsquo;t the worst. He encouraged me to write a letter home, to my own poor
-people who may think me dead&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was more sympathy in her voice, more anxiety; but his was breaking with
-his great grief and grievance.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He took it out himself, to send it to the General Post Office to catch
-the country post. So he said; and I was so grateful to him! On Saturday morning
-he said they must have got it; he kept on saying so, and you don&rsquo;t know
-how thankful I was every time! But yesterday afternoon I found scraps of my
-letter in the waste-paper basket in his room; he&rsquo;d never posted it at
-all!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida looked shocked and distressed enough at this; her liquid eyes filled
-with sympathy as they gazed upon the wretched youth.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m a fool to blub about it&mdash;but&mdash;but that was the
-Limit!&rdquo; he croaked, and worked the poor word till it came distinctly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was cruel,&rdquo; she allowed. &ldquo;It must seem so,  at any rate;
-it does to me; but then I understand so little. I can&rsquo;t think why
-he&rsquo;s hiding you, or why you let yourself be hidden.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you must know what I&rsquo;ve done; you must guess?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The revolver was still in his hand; he gave it a guilty glance, and she looked
-from it to him without recoiling.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Of course I guessed on Saturday.&rdquo; There was a studious absence of
-horror in her tone. &ldquo;Yet I couldn&rsquo;t believe it, unless it was an
-accident. And if it was an accident&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was one!&rdquo; he choked. &ldquo;It was the most absolute accident
-that ever happened; he saw it; he can tell you; but he never told me till hours
-afterwards. I was nearly dead with asthma; he brought me here, he was
-frightfully good to me, I&rsquo;m grateful enough for all that. But he should
-have told me before the accident became a crime! When he did tell me I lost my
-head, and begged him to keep me here, and afterwards when I came to my senses
-he wouldn&rsquo;t let me go. I needn&rsquo;t remind you of that morning! After
-that I promised to stay on, and I&rsquo;d have kept all my promises if only my
-letter had gone to my poor people!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He told her what a guarded letter it had been, only written to let them know he
-was alive, and that with the doctor&rsquo;s expressed approval. But  now he had
-learnt his lesson, and he was going to play the game. It was more than ever the
-game with that poor fellow lying in prison for what he had never done. And so
-the whole story would be in to-morrow&rsquo;s papers, with the single exception
-of Dr. Baumgartner&rsquo;s name.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nothing shall make me give that,&rdquo; said Pocket valiantly; &ldquo;on
-your account, if not on his!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida encouraged his new resolution without comment on this last assurance.
-She had stooped, and was picking up the unbroken negatives and putting them
-back in the rack; he followed her example, and collected the broken bits, while
-she put the rack back in its place, and certain splinters in theirs, until the
-locker shut without showing much damage. Pocket was left with the fragmentary
-negatives on his hands.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I should throw those away,&rdquo; said Phillida. &ldquo;And now, by the
-time you&rsquo;re ready to go, I&rsquo;ll have a cup of tea ready for
-you.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-They faced each other in the rosy light, now doubly diluted by the open door,
-and Pocket did not move. He wanted to say something first, and he was too shy
-to say it. Shyness had come upon him all at once; hitherto they had both been
-like young castaways, finely regardless of appearances, he of his bare feet and
-throat, she of her dressing-gown and her bedroom slippers. She was  unconscious
-or careless still, as with a brother; but he had become the very embodiment of
-mauvaise honte, an awful example of the awkward age; and it was all the fault
-of what he suddenly felt he simply must say.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But&mdash;but I don&rsquo;t want to leave you!&rdquo; he blurted out at
-last.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But I want you to,&rdquo; she returned promptly and firmly, though not
-without a faint smile.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It was leaving her with a villain that he minded; but he could not get that
-out, except thus bluntly, nor could he denounce the doctor now as he had done
-when his blood was up. Besides, the man was a different man to his niece; all
-that redeemed him went out to her. Pocket did not think he was peculiar there;
-in fact, he thought romantically enough about the girl, with her dark hair all
-over her pink dressing-gown, and ivory insteps peeping out of those soft
-slippers especially when the vision was lost for ever, and he upstairs making
-himself as presentable as he could in a few minutes. But it seemed she was busy
-in the same way, and she took longer over it. He found the breakfast things on
-the table, the kettle on the gas-stove, but no Phillida to make the tea. He
-could not help wishing she would be quick; if he was going, the sooner he went
-the better, but he was terribly divided in his desires. He hated the thought of
-deserting a comrade, who was also a girl, and such a girl! He could only face
-it with the fixed intention of coming back to the rescue of his heroine, he the
-hero of their joint romance. But for his own immediate freedom he was already
-unheroically eager. And yet he could deliberately fit the broken negatives
-together, on the white tablecloth, partly to pass the time, partly out of a
-boyish bravado which involved little real risk; for the doctor had not yet been
-gone an hour; and a loaded revolver is a loaded revolver, be it brandished by
-man or boy.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The piecing of the plates was like a children&rsquo;s puzzle, only easier,
-because the pieces were not many. One of the reconstructed negatives was of
-painful interest; it reminded Pocket of the fatal one smashed to atoms by
-Baumgartner in the pink porcelain trough. There were trees again, only
-leafless, and larger, and there was a larger figure sprawling on a bench.
-Pocket felt he must have a print of this; he remembered having seen
-printing-frames and tubes of sensitised paper in the other room; and hardly had
-he filled his frame and placed it in position, than Phillida ran down stairs,
-and he told her what he had done.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I wish you hadn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she said nervously, as she made
-mechanical preparations with pot and kettle. &ldquo;It would only make matters
-worse if my uncle came in now.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But he wasn&rsquo;t back on Friday before ten or eleven.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You never know!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket spoke out with a truculence which his brothers had inherited, but not
-he, valiantly as he might try to follow a family example.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care! I can&rsquo;t help it if he does come. I&rsquo;ll
-tell him exactly what I&rsquo;ve done, and why, and exactly what I&rsquo;m
-going to do next. I give him leave to stop me if he can.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid he won&rsquo;t wait for that. But I wish you had waited
-for his leave before printing his negative.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket jumped up from table, and ran to the printing-frame in the sunny room at
-the back. He had been reminded of it only just in time. It was a rather dark
-print that he first examined, one half at a time, and then extracted from the
-frame. It was meshed with white veils, showing the joins of the broken plate.
-But it had been an excellent negative originally. And it was still good enough
-to hold Pocket rooted to the carpet in the sunny room, until Phillida came in
-after him, and stood looking over his shoulder.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know that place!&rdquo; said she at once. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s Holland
-Walk, in Kensington.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He turned to her quickly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The place where there was a suicide or something not long ago?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The very place!&rdquo; exclaimed the girl, looking up from the darkening
-print.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I remember my uncle would take me to see it next day. He&rsquo;s always
-so interested in mysteries. I&rsquo;m sure that&rsquo;s the very spot he showed
-me as the one where it must have happened.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Did he take the photograph then?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No; he hadn&rsquo;t his camera with him.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then this is the suicide, or whatever it was!&rdquo; cried Pocket, in
-uncontrollable excitement. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not only the place; it&rsquo;s the
-thing itself. Look at that man on the bench!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The girl took a long look nearer the window.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;How horrible!&rdquo; she shuddered. &ldquo;His head looks as though it
-were falling off! He might be dying.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Dying or dead,&rdquo; said Pocket, &ldquo;at the very second the plate
-was exposed!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She looked at him in blank horror. His own horror was no less apparent, but it
-was more understanding. He had Baumgartner&rsquo;s own confession of his
-attempts to secure admission to hospital death-beds, even to executions; he
-expounded Baumgartner on the whole subject, briefly, clumsily, inaccurately
-enough, and yet with a certain graphic power which brought those incredible
-theories  home to his companion as forcibly as Baumgartner himself had brought
-them home to Pocket. It was the first she had ever heard of them. But then he
-had never discussed his photography with her, never showed her plate or print.
-That it was not merely a hobby, that he was an inventor, a pioneer, she had
-always felt, without dreaming in what direction or to what extent. Even now she
-seemed unable to grasp the full significance of the print from the broken
-negative; and when she would have examined it afresh, there was nothing to see;
-the June sunshine had done its work, and blotted out the repulsive picture even
-as she held it in her hands.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then what do you think?&rdquo; she asked at last; her voice was thin and
-strained with formless terrors.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I think that Dr. Baumgartner has the strangest power of any human being
-I ever heard of; he can make you do anything he likes, whether you like it
-yourself or not. The newspapers have been raking up this case in connection
-with&mdash;mine&mdash;and I see that one theory was that the man in this broken
-negative committed suicide. Well, if he did, I firmly believe that Dr.
-Baumgartner was there and willed him to do it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He must have been there if he took the photograph.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is there another man alive who tries these  things? I&rsquo;ve told you
-all he told me about it, but I haven&rsquo;t told you all he said about the
-value of human life.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nor need you! He makes no secret of his opinion about that!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then put the two things together, and where do they lead you? To these
-murders committed with the mad idea of taking the spirit in its flight from the
-flesh; that&rsquo;s his own way of putting it, not mine.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But I thought your case was an accident pure and simple?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;On my part, certainly; but how do I know he couldn&rsquo;t get more
-power over me in my sleep than at any other time? He saw me walking in my sleep
-with this wretched revolver. He said himself I&rsquo;d given him the chance of
-a lifetime. You may be sure he meant before that poor man&rsquo;s death, not
-after it.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t possible,&rdquo; declared Phillida, as though she had
-laid hold of one solid certainty in a sea of floating hypotheses. &ldquo;And I
-know he hasn&rsquo;t a pistol of his own,&rdquo; she added, lest he should
-simplify his charge.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But there they were agreed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He hadn&rsquo;t one on him that morning; that I can swear,&rdquo; said
-Pocket, impartially disposing of the idea. &ldquo;Mine was the only one in that
-cape of his, because I once jolly nearly had it out again when he came back
-into the room. There was nothing of the sort in his other coat, or anywhere
-else about him, or I couldn&rsquo;t have helped seeing it.&rdquo; Phillida
-accepted this statement only too thankfully. She beamed on the boy, as if in
-recognition of a piece of downright magnanimity towards an enemy whom she could
-now understand his regarding in that light. If only he would go before the
-enemy returned! If her uncle had such a power over him as he himself seemed to
-feel, then that was all the more reason for him to go quickly. But Pocket was
-not the man to get up and run like that. Perhaps he enjoyed displaying his
-bravery on the point, and keeping his companion on tenter-hooks on his account;
-at any rate he insisted on finishing his breakfast, and gave further free
-expression to the wildest surmises as he did so. And yet he was even then on
-the brink of a discovery which was some excuse for the wildest of them all,
-while it demanded a fresh solution of the whole affair.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He had been fingering the recovered weapon in his pocket, almost fondling it,
-though with mingled feelings, as the Prodigal Son of his small possessions;
-suddenly it leapt out like a live thing in his hand, and clattered on the table
-between the girl and boy. It was a wonder neither of them was shot dead in his
-excitement. His whole face  was altered; but so was his whole life. She could
-not understand his incoherent outburst; she only knew that he was twisting the
-chambers round and round under her nose, and that there appeared to be live
-cartridges in all six.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you see?&rdquo; the words came pouring. &ldquo;Not one of
-them&rsquo;s been fired&mdash;it&rsquo;s as I loaded it myself the other night!
-It can&rsquo;t have been this revolver at all!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you must have known whether you fired or not?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I tell you I was walking in my sleep till the row woke me. I&rsquo;d
-only heard it once before, in a room. It sounded loud enough for the open air,
-though I do remember wondering I hadn&rsquo;t felt any kick. But I was so
-dazed, and there was this beastly thing in my hand; and he took it from me in
-such a rage that of course I believed I&rsquo;d let it off. But now I can see I
-can&rsquo;t have done. It wasn&rsquo;t my revolver and it wasn&rsquo;t
-me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yet you say yourself my uncle didn&rsquo;t carry one?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll swear he didn&rsquo;t; but there&rsquo;s another man in all
-this! There was the man they arrested on Saturday&mdash;the man I was so keen
-to set free!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy&rsquo;s laugh grated; he was beside himself with righteous joy. What
-was it to him that his innocence implied another&rsquo;s complicity? Only too
-characteristically, he saw simply the central fact from his own point of view;
-but was it such an undoubted fact as he hot-headedly supposed? There was the
-broken negative to confirm a certain suspicion, but that was not enough for
-Phillida.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She asked if he had no more cartridges, and he said he had a few loose in his
-waistcoat pocket; he had thrown away the box. &ldquo;Then my uncle might have
-put in a fresh one while you were asleep.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why should he?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, but it sounds quite as possible as the other.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll soon tell you if he did!&rdquo; cried Pocket. &ldquo;There
-were fourteen in the box to start with, because I counted them, and we only
-shot away one at the Knaggses&rsquo; before we were cobbed. That left
-thirteen&mdash;six in the revolver and seven in my pocket. There are your six,
-and here&rsquo;s one, two, three, four&mdash;and three&rsquo;s seven!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He swept them over the cloth like crumbs, for her to count them for herself,
-while he looked on with flaming cheeks and wagging tongue. He was beginning to
-see what it all meant now, but still only what it meant to him and his. He
-could look his people in the face again; that was the burden of his loud
-thanksgiving. He was as sure of his  innocence as though the dead man had risen
-to prove it.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said Phillida, briskly; &ldquo;then it&rsquo;s all the
-more reason you should go this minute, and catch the very first train
-home.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And in her sudden anxiety to see him safely off, she was for helping him on
-with the overcoat he had brought down again with his bag; but he followed her
-out slowly, and he would not turn his back.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t leave you now,&rdquo; he said; and she knew that he saw it
-from her side at last.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Because the whole thing&rsquo;s altered! I&rsquo;m not going to leave
-you with a man like that!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-So Pocket, without a moment&rsquo;s thought either for her immediate feelings
-or the ultimate consequences to himself; and yet with an unconscious air of
-sacrifice more wounding than his actual words. She would have flung open the
-door, and ordered him out, but he got his back to it first. So her big eyes
-blazed at him instead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;re very kind!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;But suppose I
-don&rsquo;t believe a word you say against my uncle behind his back?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shall wait and say it to his face. That&rsquo;s another reason for
-waiting.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you think you&rsquo;re the person to judge him&mdash;a boy like
-you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t say I am. I only say that print&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;How do you know he took the negative?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you jump to conclusions like a baby!&rdquo; cried the girl, too
-quick for him in following up a confusing advantage. &ldquo;I never heard
-anybody like you for flying from one wild notion to another; first you say he
-must have made you fire, though you own you were walking in your sleep with a
-loaded revolver, and then you&rsquo;re sure you never fired at all, simply
-because you find the revolver fully loaded after days and days! Then you find a
-photograph that needn&rsquo;t necessarily be what we thought it, that my uncle
-needn&rsquo;t have taken even if it was; but you jump to another conclusion
-about him, and you dare to speak of him to me as though you knew every horrid
-thing you chose to think! As if you knew him and I didn&rsquo;t! As if he
-hasn&rsquo;t been kind and good to me for years and years&mdash;and kind to
-you&mdash;far too kind&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The strained voice broke, tears were running down her face, and in it and them
-there was more sincerity. Grief, and not anger, was the well of those bitter
-tears. And it was in simple supplication, not imperiously any more, that she
-pointed to the door when speech failed her. The boy&rsquo;s answer was to go
-close up to her  instead. &ldquo;Will you come with me?&rdquo; he asked
-hoarsely.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She shook her head; she was past surprise as well as indignation; she could
-only shake her head.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My people would be as good to you as ever he was,&rdquo; urged Pocket
-extravagantly. &ldquo;They&rsquo;d understand, and you&rsquo;d stay with us,
-Phillida! You might live with us altogether!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She smiled very faintly at that.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Oh, Phillida, can&rsquo;t you see that they&rsquo;d do anything for you
-after all we&rsquo;ve been through together? And I, oh! there&rsquo;s nothing I
-wouldn&rsquo;t do if only you&rsquo;d come with me now this minute! I know
-there&rsquo;s a train about ten, and I know where we could borrow the money on
-the way. Come, Phillida, get on your things and come away from all this
-horror!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He had gone on, even into details, encouraged by the tolerance or apathy which
-had allowed him to go on at all. He took it for indecision; but, whatever it
-was, she shook it off and declared once for all that she would never leave Dr.
-Baumgartner, even if everything was true about him, and he as mad as that would
-make him out.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But he is!&rdquo; cried Pocket, with most eager conviction.
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the only possible explanation, and you&rsquo;d believe it
-fast enough if you&rsquo;d heard all he said to me that first night, and been
-with  me in the dark-room when he developed his negative of the man he said I
-shot! You&rsquo;d see how it all fits in, and how this other negative this
-morning simply shows he was at the bottom of that other affair as well! Of
-course he&rsquo;s mad; but that&rsquo;s the very reason why I can&rsquo;t go
-and leave you with him.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He would be as he&rsquo;s always been to me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I believe he would,&rdquo; said honest Pocket.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then why don&rsquo;t you go away and leave us?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Because I can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Because you won&rsquo;t!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Very well, because I won&rsquo;t and never will! But, mind you,
-it&rsquo;ll be your fault if anything happens to either of us after
-this!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He only meant it as a last argument, though he did resent her fatal obstinacy,
-and all the obligations which it imposed upon himself. He stood chained in
-fetters of her forging, as it were to the stake, but he was prepared to stand
-there like a man, and he did not deserve the things she said to him in a fresh
-paroxysm of unreasonable wrath. He might be a baby, but he was not a complete
-coward, or simply trying to make her miserable, as she declared; neither, on
-this occasion, was he thinking only of himself. But Phillida seemed suddenly to
-realise that, for she broke off with a despairing little cry, and ran sobbing
-up the stairs.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br />
-A THIRD CASE</h2>
-
-<p>
-In days to come, when the boy had schooled himself not to speak of these days,
-nor to let his mind dwell on their mystery and terror, it was as a day of dark
-hours and vivid moments that he remembered the one which Phillida and he began
-alone together in her uncle&rsquo;s house. Those endless hours were either
-mercifully forgotten or else contracted to an endurable minimum; but the
-unforgettable moments would light themselves up in his memory without a detail
-missing.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was their first encounter at the dark-room door, and Phillida standing
-all but barefoot in the ruby light, with her glorious hair about her shoulders,
-a picture that could never fade. Then there was the moment of the incriminating
-print, which the sun wiped out even as Phillida stood with it in her hands.
-That moment merged itself in the greater one of his discovery that the revolver
-was fully loaded, his inspiration that neither it nor he had done the fatal
-mischief in the Park. Then she was begging him to go (she who would keep him
-the time before!) and he entreating her to come with him, and neither giving
-way an inch, so that they quarrelled just when they should have stuck together,
-and she ran away in tears, and he stayed below in a glow of anger which
-dissolved his fears like snow in May.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That was the beginning of a black hour and more. Phillida was never to be
-forgiven, then; he was staying there at his peril, staying absolutely on her
-account, and so far from giving him the slightest credit for it, or a single
-word of encouragement, she said all sorts of things and was off before he could
-answer one of them. It was not for Pocket to see the many ironies of that
-moment, and not for him to recognise the tonic property of his heroic
-grievance. He could only see himself at the foot of those stairs, first
-gnashing his teeth and not sorry he had made her cry, then sitting down with
-his eye on the front door, revolver in hand, to await the click of the
-doctor&rsquo;s key. Another click was to answer it; and at the point of the
-cocked revolver Baumgartner was to have made a clean breast of his crimes, not
-only to the giant-killer at the foot of the stairs but to the girl he meant to
-call to witness with her own ears.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket saw himself a desperate character just then, and one not incapable of
-desperate action had the climax only come at once. But he had more than an hour
-of it alone at his post; he had a whole hot forenoon of unmitigated suspense,
-of sickening alarms from tradesmen&rsquo;s carts, boys  whistling past the
-house as though they were not in a wicked world at all, and then a piano-organ
-that redoubled his watchfulness, and spoilt some tunes for him for ever. Once
-he did hear shambling feet on the very steps outside. Once was quite enough,
-though it was but an advertisement for cast-off clothing (and false teeth) that
-came fluttering through the letter-box. Pocket was left in such a state that he
-would not have backed himself to hit the door from the stairs; and he put the
-chain on it, thinking to interview the doctor over that, in the manner of old
-Miss Harbottle.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-So it happened that the first significant sound was entirely lost upon him,
-because he was listening for one so much nearer at hand, until Phillida ran
-downstairs and almost over him where he sat.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He got up to make way stiffly, but a glance assured him that the quarrel was
-over on her side. The great eyes were fixed appealingly upon him, but with a
-distressing look which he had done nothing to provoke. Not before then was he
-aware of another duet between newsboys coming nearer and nearer, and shouting
-each other down as they came.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You hear that?&rdquo; she whispered, as if not to drown a note.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I do now.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you hear what it is?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket listened, and caught a word he was not likely to miss.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Something fresh about the murder,&rdquo; said he grimly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No; it&rsquo;s another one,&rdquo; she shuddered. &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you
-hear? &lsquo;Another awful murder!&rsquo; Now they&rsquo;re saying something
-else.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It is something about the Park.&rdquo; Pocket stuck to his idea.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And something else about some &lsquo;well-known&rsquo;&mdash;I
-can&rsquo;t hear what!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No more can I.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll open the door.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She opened it on the chain as he had left it. That did not help them. The
-shouting had passed the end of their quiet road. It was dying away again in the
-distance.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I must go out and get one,&rdquo; said Phillida. &ldquo;Some well-known
-man!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You&rsquo;re not thinking of the doctor, surely?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know! I can&rsquo;t think where he is.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But you&rsquo;re worse than I am, if you jump to that!&rdquo; said
-Pocket, smiling to reassure her. He did not smile when she had run out as she
-was; he had shut the door after her, and he was waiting to open it in a fever
-of impatience.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Dr. Baumgartner had left the house before six  o&rsquo;clock in the morning;
-now it was after twelve. If some tragedy had overtaken him in his turn, then
-there was an end to every terror, and for him a better end than he might meet
-with if he lived. The boy remembered Him who desireth not the death of a
-sinner, and was ashamed of his own thought; but that did not alter it. Unless
-his fears and his surmises were all equally unfounded, better for everybody,
-and best of all for Phillida, if this criminal maniac came to his end without
-public exposure of his crimes. Pocket may have misconceived his own attitude of
-mind, as his elders and betters do daily; he may have been thinking of his own
-skin more than he knew, or wanted to know. In that case he had his reward, for
-the murdered man was not Dr. Baumgartner. Phillida&rsquo;s first words on
-returning were to that effect; and yet she trembled as though they were not the
-truth.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Who was it, then?&rdquo; the schoolboy asked suspiciously.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Sir Joseph Schelmerdine.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So he was the well-known man!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He was well known even to the boy by name, but that was all. He had seen it in
-newspapers, and he thought he had heard it execrated by Baumgartner himself in
-one of his little digs at England. Pocket was not sure about this, but he
-mentioned his impression, and Phillida nodded with swimming eyes.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Did the doctor know him?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not personally; but he thought him a European danger.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you. It was something to do with politics and
-gold-mines, and some financial paper. I never understood.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;May I see the paper you&rsquo;ve brought in?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The girl held it tight in her hand, and tighter still as he held out his.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;d rather you didn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she said.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then there&rsquo;s something you haven&rsquo;t told me.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;There is!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shall know it sooner or later.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know you will, and I know what you&rsquo;ll think! You may think what
-you like, and still be wrong!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There was a pause between the sentences, and in the pause the boy found the
-paper at his feet. There was no need to open it at the place; it was so folded
-already, the news standing out in its leaded type, and more of it in the late
-corner. Sir Joseph Schelmerdine, Bart., M.P., the well-known proprietor of the
-<i>Money-maker</i>, had been shot dead in front of his house in Park Lane. The
-murder had been committed in the early hours of the morning, before anybody was
-about except  Sir Joseph and his groom, and the person whom the groom described
-as the only possible murderer. The man had just seen his master mounted for the
-early morning ride, and had left him in conversation with a photographer
-representing himself as concerned with the press, and desirous of obtaining an
-equestrian photograph for his paper. The groom thought it was to be taken in
-the Park, and was himself on his way back to the mews when the riderless horse
-overtook him. Mounting the animal, he had galloped round to find Sir Joseph
-dead in the road, and no trace of the &ldquo;photographer&rdquo; but a false
-beard and spectacles which he had evidently discarded in his flight, and which
-unfortunately precluded a close description of his appearance. But a hue and
-cry had been started, and it was believed that the criminal was still in hiding
-in the immediate neighbourhood, which was being subjected to a thorough search
-under the direction of responsible officers from Scotland Yard.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Such was the news which the young girl had shrunk from showing to her
-companion. She had left him, indeed, to read it by himself. And the next thing
-he remembered was finding her quite insensible in the big chair in the back
-room.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The afternoon was a blank broken by no more moments such as these. It was a
-period of dull misery and gnawing dread; but the pair saw  each other through
-it, they were not divided any more. Now they listened for his step no longer,
-but for more newsboys crying his capture to the world. And in the hours that
-they spent thus listening, and listening, the girl had much to say, that it did
-her good to say, about this Dr. Baumgartner as she had known and almost loved
-him in the past.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Lovable, however, he had never been, though more than good and kind to her for
-all that. He had never taken her into his life, or entered into hers, in the
-many years they had been more or less together. All she really knew of him was
-from her mother, whose elder sister he had married soon after the
-Franco-Prussian War, and lost soon after marriage. He must have been settled in
-England many years before Phillida&rsquo;s mother, herself an
-Englishman&rsquo;s widow, came to keep house for him. The girl could not
-remember her father, but her mother had lived to see her in her teens, and in
-her lifetime Dr. Baumgartner had seemed much as other men. It was only of late
-years that he had withdrawn from a world in which he was justly honoured, and
-buried himself ever deeper in his books and his photographic experiments. His
-niece had never known anything of these; he had told her nothing, and she had
-always gone in awe of him. But he had sent her to school, he was going to send
-her  to college, he had only just given her six months in Switzerland. It was
-during those months that all his eccentricities had become pronounced; that he
-had given up servants, and taken to doing half the work of the house himself,
-with the casual aid of charwomen, and saving the other half by having the meals
-in from a restaurant. Phillida had no influence with him in these or any other
-matters. She only blamed herself for not having realised the change in him and
-done more to save him from himself. He had done so much for her, whatever
-madness might have overtaken him in the end; her own kinsfolk so much less, for
-all their opulent integrity. Nothing could make her forget what he had done.
-She never could or would desert him; it was no use asking her again; but she
-took her callow champion&rsquo;s hand, and wrung it with her final answer,
-which was unaccompanied by further prayers for his departure.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And Pocket could understand her now, though it was no consecutive tale that he
-heard, but a very chaos of excuses and extenuations, regrets, suppositions, and
-not always revelant recollections, of which he had to make what he could in his
-own mind. What he made was a narrative so natural that he could not believe it
-was the life-story of a murderer. His own convictions became preposterous in
-his own eyes. What had he been thinking about all  day? Was that the way a
-murderer would behave? Was this the way a murderer would live, in these
-surroundings, with those books about him, with that little billiard-table in
-the next room? Had those waxen murderers in the garish vault lived ordinary
-lives as well? Pocket had only thought of them as committing their dreadful
-deeds, yet now he could only think of Baumgartner as living this ordinary life.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The mood passed, but it would recur as sure as Phillida thought of something
-else to be said for Dr. Baumgartner; it was the creature of her feeling for
-him, and of the schoolboy&rsquo;s feeling for her. If he could have convicted
-himself of the fatal affair in the Park, and so cleared Baumgartner of all
-blood-guiltiness whatsoever, in that or any other case, he would have done it
-for Phillida&rsquo;s sake that afternoon. But with every hour of the
-doctor&rsquo;s absence suspicions multiplied. Phillida herself was a prey to
-them. She was almost as ready to recall symptoms of incipient insanity as
-instances of personal kindness; if one lost one&rsquo;s reason, she broke a
-long silence to contend, there could be no question of regret and wrong. She
-was not so sure about crime and punishment. Pocket, of course, said there could
-be no question of that either; but in his heart he wondered how much method
-they must prove to hang a madman.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The evening meal had been taken in, but that was all. The girl and boy had no
-thought of sitting down to it; she had made tea not long before; and strong
-excitement is its own meat and drink. They were sitting silently together in
-the room at the back. The scented summer dusk was deepening every minute.
-Suddenly there was a sound of small branches breaking in the garden. Pocket
-peeped out, standing back from the window at her entreaty.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The laburnum by the wall was shaking violently, pouring its golden rain into
-both gardens, and the bush beneath it looked alive; a tall figure rose out of
-it, and came creeping towards the little conservatory, bent double, and
-brushing the soil from his clothes as he advanced with long and stealthy
-strides. It was Dr. Baumgartner, in a cap pulled down over his eyes, and the
-old alpaca jacket. He had a newspaper parcel under his arm.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The boy and girl were in the dark angle between the window and the door; but it
-was only comparative darkness, and Baumgartner might have seen them; they were
-clasping hands as they shrank away from him with one accord. But he did not
-seem to see them at all. He stretched himself, as though he found it a relief
-to stand upright, and more mould trickled from his garments in the act; he took
-off the alpaca jacket, and shook it as one shakes  a handkerchief. There could
-have been nothing in the pockets, certainly no weapon, and if he had a
-hip-pocket there was none in that, for his gaunt figure stood out plainly
-enough in the middle of the room. There was still the newspaper parcel; he had
-put it down on one of the walnut-tables. He now removed the paper; it fell at
-Pocket&rsquo;s feet, a newspaper and nothing more; and nothing had come out of
-it but the stereoscopic camera, that either watcher could detect.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he passed through the room without taking the least notice of either of
-them, whether he saw them or not; and they heard him go upstairs, and shut the
-door, and then his footsteps overhead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go up and tackle him at once,&rdquo; said Pocket, through his
-set teeth; but Phillida would not hear of it.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No! I must go first and see if there&rsquo;s nothing I can get him; he
-mayn&rsquo;t have had anything all day. There&rsquo;s no need for you to come
-at all&mdash;I believe he&rsquo;s forgotten all about us both!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not he!&rdquo; whispered Pocket, as the door opened overhead.
-&ldquo;Here he comes!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He could not help gripping his revolver as the stairs creaked again under Dr.
-Baumgartner; he had gripped it more than once already with the hand that was
-not holding Phillida&rsquo;s. The doctor was coming down in a hurry, as though
-he had indeed  forgotten something. But he passed the open drawing-room door;
-they saw him pass, jingling a bunch of keys, and never so much as glancing in
-on the way. It was the dark-room door he opened. Now he would find out
-everything! They heard a match struck, and saw the faint light turn into a
-strong deep crimson glow. The door shut. The children stood listening in the
-dark.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Running water, and the chink of glass; the tapping of a stoppered bottle; the
-opening of the dark slide; these stages the younger photographer followed as
-though he were again looking on. Then there was a long period without a sound.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;s developing now!&rdquo; whispered Pocket, close to the
-folding-doors. He caught the sound of laboured breathing on the other side.
-&ldquo;There it is&mdash;there it is&mdash;there it is!&rdquo; cried the
-doctor&rsquo;s voice in mingled ecstasy and mad excitement. A deep sigh
-announced the blackening of the plate at the conclusion of the first process. A
-tap ran for a moment; interminable minutes ensued. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s gone!
-It&rsquo;s gone again!&rdquo; cried the wild voice, with a sob;
-&ldquo;it&rsquo;s gone, gone, gone like all the rest!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-One listener waited for the passionate smashing of the negative as before; but
-that did not happen again; and then he wondered if it was being put straight
-into the rack with the others, if the damage  to the locker had been discovered
-at last. He never knew. The door opened. The red glow showed for a moment in
-the passage, then went out. The door shut behind Baumgartner, and again he
-passed the drawing-room, a bent figure, without looking in. And the flagging
-step on the stairs bore no resemblance to the one which had come hurrying down
-not many minutes before.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I must go to him!&rdquo; said Phillida in broken undertones, and her
-grief communicated itself to the other young sympathetic soul, for all the base
-fears he had to fight alone. Personal safety, little as she might think of it,
-was the essence of her position as opposed to his; and he was of the type that
-thinks of everything. She left him listening breathless in the dark. And in the
-dark she found him when at length she returned to report the doctor busy
-writing at his desk; but a pin&rsquo;s head of blue gas glimmered where there
-had been none before, and a paper which had been trodden underfoot now rustled
-in Pocket&rsquo;s hand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Does he know I&rsquo;m here?&rdquo; he asked.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think so. We never mentioned you. I believe he&rsquo;s
-forgotten your existence altogether; he began by looking at me as though
-he&rsquo;d forgotten mine. He says he wants nothing, except time to write. He
-seems so strange&mdash;so old!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Again the break in her voice, and again the  boyish sympathy in his. &ldquo;I
-wonder if something would be any comfort to you?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think so. What is it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Something I saw in the paper he brought in with him. I lit the gas while
-you were upstairs.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida turned it out again without comment.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Nothing that you saw can make any difference to me,&rdquo; she sighed.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you remember my saying there must be another man in
-these&mdash;mysteries?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I think I do. What difference does it make? Besides, the man you meant
-is in prison.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He isn&rsquo;t!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You said he was?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He was let out early this morning! Let me light the gas while you read
-it for yourself.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But Phillida had no desire to read it for herself. &ldquo;I doubt if
-there&rsquo;s anything in that,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but what if there were?
-Does it make it any better if a man has an accomplice in his crimes? If
-he&rsquo;s guilty at all, it makes it all the worse.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br />
-THE FOURTH CASE</h2>
-
-<p>
-The boy and girl sat long and late in the open window at the back of the house.
-The room would have been in darkness but for a flood of moonlight pouring over
-them. The only light in the house was in the room above, and they only saw its
-glimmer on the garden when a casual cloud hid the moon; but once Pocket had
-crept out into the garden to steal a look at the lighted window itself; and
-what he saw was the shadow of a huge bent head smoking a huge bent pipe, and
-dense clouds of shadow floating up the wall and over the ceiling.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-It seemed hours since they had heard footstep or other sound upstairs or
-anywhere. There had been a brisk interval&mdash;and then an end&mdash;of more
-or less distant hansom-bells and motor-horns. There was no longer even a
-certain minute intermittent trembling of trifles on the walnut-tables, to which
-Pocket had become subconsciously accustomed in that house, so that he noticed
-its absence more than the thing itself. It was as though the whole town was at
-rest, and the tunnels under the town, and every single soul above or below
-ground, but those two white faces in the moonlight, and perhaps one other
-overhead.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket wondered; it was so long since a single sound had come down to their
-ears. He wanted to steal out and look up again. Phillida was against it;
-perhaps she was wondering too. Pocket, as usual, saw what he did see so very
-vividly, in his mind&rsquo;s eye, that he shivered and was asked if he felt
-cold. The whispered debate that followed was the longest conversation they had
-that night. The window was not shut as a result of it, but Pocket fetched his
-overcoat on tiptoe, and it just went over both their shoulders, when the chairs
-were drawn as near together as they would go.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The ragged little garden was brimming over with moonlight from wall to wall.
-The unkempt grass looked pale and ghostly, like the skin of some monstrous
-wolf. The moon rolled high in the sky and clouds flew above and below the moon,
-varying in pace as well. Yet it was a still night, and Pocket did not think
-that he had broken the stillness, until the door burst open behind them, and
-Baumgartner stood there, holding his lamp aloft. The wick was turned too high,
-the flame ran up the chimney in the draught, and for an instant a demoniac face
-flared up behind it. Then the chimney cracked, and fell in a tinkling shower,
-and the doctor was seen whirling a naked tongue of fire about his head. The boy
-drew back as the lamp flew through the open window, within  an inch of his
-nose, and crashed upon the path outside.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The trio stood without a word in the moonbeams; but the doctor was breathing
-hard through his teeth, like a man wrestling with himself; and at last he
-laughed sardonically as though he had won.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;A lamp like that&rsquo;s a dangerous thing,&rdquo; said he, with a kind
-of forced solemnity and a shake of the head; &ldquo;you never know what may
-happen when a lamp does that! I&rsquo;m glad the window was open; it
-didn&rsquo;t go very near my young fellow, I hope?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he took Pocket playfully by the ear, but pinched it so hard that the boy
-could have screamed with pain.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It would have served you right,&rdquo; continued the doctor, before
-Pocket could find his tongue, &ldquo;for sitting up so late, and keeping a
-young lady from her bed to bear you company. Come, Phillida! I shall have
-another word with you, young fellow.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The two words to the girl were in a different key from all the rest. They were
-tolerant, conciliatory, tenderly persuasive. The rest was suavely sinister; it
-made her hesitate; but Pocket had the presence of mind to bid her a cheery
-good-night, and she went, closely followed by Baumgartner.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Posted once more at the open door, the boy heard Baumgartner on the next
-flight, soothing and affectionate still, allaying her fears; and his  own
-surged into his throat. He looked wildly about him, and an idea came. He opened
-the front door wide, and then stole back through the conservatory into the
-moonlight. He heard Baumgartner coming down before he gained the garden. He
-tore to the end of it, and cowered in the shadow of the far wall.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The doctor came running into the moonlit room, but not for a minute; it looked
-as though he had run out first into the road. In the room he lit the gas, and
-Pocket saw him have a look in all the corners, but hardly the look of a seeker
-who expects to find. Some long moments he stood out horribly at the open
-window, gazing straight at the spot where the fugitive crouched a few inches
-out of the moonlight and hugged the revolver in his pocket. He seemed to see
-nothing to bring him out that way, for he closed that window and put out the
-gas. The trembling watcher heard the front door shut soon after, and saw
-another light in Baumgartner&rsquo;s room the minute after that, and the blind
-drawn down. But on the blind there lagged a cloud-capped shadow till the
-doctor&rsquo;s pipe was well in blast.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There were no more shadows after that. The moon moved round to the right, and
-set behind the next house. The sky grew pale, and the lighted blind paler
-still, until Baumgartner drew it up  before putting out his light. Pocket was
-now too stiff to stir; but it was not necessary; the doctor had scarcely looked
-out. There was a twitter of sparrows all down the road, garden answering to
-garden. The sun came up behind Pocket&rsquo;s wall, behind the taller houses
-further back. And Baumgartner reappeared at his window for one instant in his
-cap.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The front door shut again.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Down the garden ran Pocket without the least precaution now. There was a gravel
-passage between the tradesmen&rsquo;s entrance, on the detached side of the
-house, and the garden wall. This passage was closed by a gate, and the gate was
-locked, but Pocket threw himself over it almost in his stride and darted over
-into the open road.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Just then it was a perfectly empty road, but for a gaunt black figure stalking
-away in the distance. An overwhelming curiosity urged the boy to follow, but an
-equal dread of detection kept him cowering in gateways, until Baumgartner took
-the turning past the shops without a backward glance. Pocket promptly raced to
-that corner, and got another glimpse of his leader before he vanished round the
-next. So the spasmodic chase continued over a zigzag course; but at every turn
-the distance between them was a little less. Neither looked round, and once the
-boy&rsquo;s feet were actually on the man&rsquo;s shadow; for half the streets
-were raked with  level sunlight, but the other half were ladders of dusk with
-rungs of light at the gaps between the houses. All were dustier, dirtier, and
-emptier than is ever the case by night or day, because this was neither one nor
-the other, though the sun was up to make the most of dust, dirt, and emptiness.
-It was before even the cleansing hour of the scavenger and the water-cart. A
-dead cat was sprawling horribly in one deserted reach of wood-paving. And a
-motor-car at full speed in a thoroughfare calling itself King&rsquo;s Road,
-which Pocket was about to cross, had at all events the excuse of a visible mile
-of asphalt to itself.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket drew back to let it pass, without looking twice at the car itself, which
-indeed was disguised out of knowledge in the promiscuous mire of many
-countries; but the red eyes behind the driver&rsquo;s goggles were not so slow.
-Down went his feet on clutch and brake without a second&rsquo;s interval; round
-spun the car in a skid that tore studs from the tyres, and fetched her up
-against the kerb with a shivered wheel. Pocket started forward with a cry; but
-at that moment a ponderous step fell close behind him; his arm was seized, and
-he was dragged in custody across the road.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Your boy, I think!&rdquo; cried one whom he had never seen before, and
-did not now, being locked already in the motorist&rsquo;s arms.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;When did you find him?&rdquo; the father asked when he was man enough,
-still patting Pocket&rsquo;s shoulders as if he were a dog.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Only last night when I wired.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And where?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In the house where you and I couldn&rsquo;t make ourselves heard.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The schoolboy flared up through all his emotion.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why, I never saw you before this minute!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ve had my eye on you, more or less, for a day or
-two.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then why didn&rsquo;t you wire before?&rdquo; demanded Mr. Upton, quite
-ready to mask his own emotion with a little heat. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t get it
-till after nine o&rsquo;clock&mdash;too late for the evening train&mdash;but I
-wasn&rsquo;t going to waste three hours with a forty-horser eating its head
-off! So here I am, on my way to the address you gave.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was plumb opposite Baumgartner&rsquo;s. I mounted guard there the
-very night you left. He came out twenty minutes ago, and your boy after
-him!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But what does it all mean, Thrush? What on earth were you doing there,
-my dear boy?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The notes of anger and affection were struck in ludicrously quick succession;
-but the first was repeated on the boy&rsquo;s hang-dog admission that he had
-been hiding.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Hiding, Tony?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush himself seemed surprised at the expression. &ldquo;But at all events we
-found you better employed,&rdquo; he said to Pocket, &ldquo;and the sooner we
-all take up the chase again the more chance we shall have of laying this rascal
-by the heels.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Take it up, then!&rdquo; snapped Mr. Upton. &ldquo;Jump into the motor,
-and bring the brute to me when you&rsquo;ve got him! I want to speak to my
-boy.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He did not realise the damage done to his car, or listen to a word that passed
-between Thrush and his chauffeur; he had eyes only for those of his child who
-had been lost but was found, and not a thought in his head outside the story he
-extracted piecemeal on the spot. Poor Pocket told it very volubly and ill; he
-would not confine himself to simple facts. He stated his suspicion of
-Baumgartner&rsquo;s complicity in the Hyde Park affair as though he knew it for
-a fact; cited the murders in Holland Walk and Park Lane as obvious pieces of
-the same handiwork, and yet declared his conviction that the actual hand was
-not Dr. Baumgartner&rsquo;s at all.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But why should you think he had an accomplice, Tony?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He was unarmed the other morning. I&rsquo;m quite positive of that. And
-his niece, who lives  with him, has never seen a firearm of any kind in the
-house.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, he&rsquo;s villain enough to hang, if ever there was one!
-It&rsquo;s time we laid hold of him. Where&rsquo;s Mr. Thrush? I thought
-you&rsquo;d taken him on in the car?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-This to the chauffeur, now the centre of the carrion crowd that gathers about
-the body of any disabled motor. The chauffeur, a countryman like his master,
-was enjoying himself vastly with a surreptitious cigarette and sardonic
-mutterings on the cause of his scattered spokes; the facts being that he had
-nearly fallen asleep at his wheel, which Mr. Upton had incontinently taken into
-his own less experienced hands.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The car won&rsquo;t take anybody anywhere to-day,&rdquo; explained the
-chauffeur, with his cigarette behind his back. &ldquo;I shall have to get a
-lorry to take the car.&rdquo; He held his head on one side suddenly.
-&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a bit o&rsquo; tyre trouble for somebody!&rdquo; he cried,
-grimly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Indeed, a sharp crack had come from the direction of the river, not unlike the
-bursting of a heavy tyre; but Pocket Upton did not think it was that. He caught
-his father&rsquo;s arm, and whispered in his father&rsquo;s ear, and they
-plunged together into a side street broader than the asphalt thoroughfare, but
-with scarcely a break in either phalanx of drab  mediocre dwellings, and not a
-creature stirring except themselves and a few who followed. The hog&rsquo;s
-back of a still more deserted bridge arched itself at the foot of the street,
-its suspension cables showing against the sky in foreshortened curves. As they
-ran a peculiarly shrill whistle cut the morning air like a streak of sound.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;P&rsquo;lice!&rdquo; screamed one of those bringing up the rear, and
-they easily spurted past father and son, each already contending with his own
-infirmity. Mr. Upton was dangerously scarlet in the neck, and Pocket panting as
-he had not done for days. In sad labour they drew near the suspension bridge,
-to a crescendo accompaniment on the police whistle. It was evidently being
-blown on the Embankment to the right of the bridge, and already with
-considerable effect. As the pair were about to pass an intermediate turning on
-the right, a constable flew across it on a parallel course, and they altered
-theirs with one accord. Pocket panted after the constable, and his father
-thundered after Pocket, into a narrow street debouching upon a fenced strip of
-greenery, not too dense to hide broad pavement and low parapet on its further
-side, with a strip of brown river beyond that, and a skyline of warehouses on
-the Surrey shore.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The narrow garden had not been opened for the day. There was a gate opposite
-the end of the road,  another gate leading out on the Embankment opposite that.
-Between the two gates a grimy statue rose upon a granite pedestal, a meditative
-figure clad to the heels in some nondescript garment, and gazing across the
-river as he sat with a number of discarded volumes under his chair. It was a
-peculiarly lifelike monument, which Pocket would have been just the boy to
-appreciate at any other time; even now it struck him for an instant, before his
-attention was attracted to the group of commonplace living people on the
-Embankment beyond the narrow garden. They were standing together on the far
-side of one of the fixed seats. There was the policeman who had blown the
-whistle, and a small but motley crew who had answered to the call. Conspicuous
-units were a gentleman in dressing-gown and pyjamas, a couple of chimneysweeps,
-and a labouring cyclist on his way to work. They had formed a circle about some
-hidden object on the ground; and long before the new-comers could run round and
-join them, the schoolboy had steeled himself to look upon another murdered man.
-He was in no hurry to look; apart from a natural dread of death, which he had
-seen for the first time, and then unwittingly, only the other morning, it was
-the murderer and not his victim of whom the boy was thinking as he arrived last
-upon the scene. It was Dr. Baumgartner whom he half expected to  see swimming
-the river or hiding among the bushes in the enclosed garden; for he was not one
-of the group on the Embankment; and how else could he have made his escape? The
-point was being discussed as Pocket came into earshot; all he could see of the
-fallen man was the soles of his boots upright among living legs.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Is he dead?&rdquo; he asked of one of the chimneysweeps, who was
-detaching himself from the group with the air of a man who had seen the best of
-the fun.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Dead as an &rsquo;erring,&rdquo; replied the sweep cheerfully.
-&ldquo;Sooicide in the usual stite o&rsquo; mind.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Rats!&rdquo; said the other sweep over a sooty shoulder; &ldquo;unless
-&rsquo;e shot &rsquo;isself first an&rsquo; swallered the shooter afterwards!
-Some&rsquo;un&rsquo;s done &rsquo;im in.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket set his teeth, and shouldered his way into the group. His father was
-already in the thick of it, talking to the stout man in spectacles, who had
-risen miraculously from the ground and was busy brushing his trouser-knees.
-Pocket forced himself on with much the same nutter he had taken into the
-Chamber of Horrors, but with an equal determination to look just once upon Dr.
-Baumgartner&rsquo;s latest victim. A loud cry escaped him when he did look; for
-the murdered man, and not the murderer, was Dr. Baumgartner himself.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br />
-WHAT THE THAMES GAVE UP</h2>
-
-<p>
-Phillida was prepared for anything when she beheld a motor-car at the gate, and
-the escaped schoolboy getting out with a grown man of shaggy and embarrassed
-aspect; but she was not prepared for the news they brought her. She was
-intensely shocked and shaken by it. Her grief and horror were not the less
-overwhelming for the shame and fear which they replaced in her mind. Yet she
-remained instinctively on her guard, and a passionate curiosity was the only
-emotion she permitted herself to express in words.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But have they no idea who did it? Are they quite sure he didn&rsquo;t do
-it himself?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton broke through his heavy embarrassment with no little relief, to
-dispose of the question of suicide once and for all.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the one thing they are sure about,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;In
-the first place no weapon was to be found, and we saw no sign of a camera
-either, though this boy tells me your uncle had his with him when he went out.
-That&rsquo;s more or less conclusive in itself. But there was a doctor on the
-spot before we left, and I heard him say the shot couldn&rsquo;t have been
-fired at very close quarters, and that death must have  been instantaneous. So
-it&rsquo;s no more a suicide than the case in Park Lane yesterday or the one in
-Hyde Park last week; there&rsquo;s evidently some maniac prowling about at
-dawn, and shooting down the first person he sees and then vanishing into thin
-air as maniacs seem to have a knack of doing more effectually than sane men.
-But the less we jump to conclusions about him&mdash;or anybody else&mdash;the
-better.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The girl was grateful for the covert sympathy of the last remark, and yet it
-startled her as an index of what must have passed already between father and
-son. It was a new humiliation that this big bluff man should know as much as
-the boy whom she had learnt to look upon as a comrade in calamity. Yet she
-could not expect it to be otherwise.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What must you think!&rdquo; she cried, and her great eyes filled and
-fell again. &ldquo;Oh! what must you think?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s no good thinking,&rdquo; he rejoined, with almost a jovial
-kindness. &ldquo;We&rsquo;re all three on the edge of a mystery; we must see
-each other through before we think. Not that I&rsquo;ve had time to hear
-everything yet, but I own I can&rsquo;t make head or tail of what I have heard.
-I&rsquo;m not sure that I want to. I like a man&rsquo;s secrets to die with
-him; it&rsquo;s enough for me to have my boy back again, and to know that you
-stood by him as you did. It&rsquo;s our turn to stand by you, my dear! He says
-it wasn&rsquo;t your fault he didn&rsquo;t come away long ago; and it
-shan&rsquo;t be mine if you stay another hour alone in this haunted house.
-You&rsquo;ve got to come straight back with us to our hotel.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-They happened to be all three standing in the big back room, a haunted chamber
-if there was one in the house. With his battle-pictures on the walls, his tin
-of tobacco on the chimney-piece, and the scent of latakia rising from the
-carpet, the whole room remained redolent of the murdered man; and the window
-still open, the two chairs near it as they had been overnight, and the lamp
-lying in fragments on the path outside, brought the last scene back to the
-boy&rsquo;s mind in full and vivid detail. Yet the present one was in itself
-more desolate and depressing than any in which Dr. Baumgartner had figured. It
-might be that the constant menace of that portentous presence had thrown his
-simple middle-class surroundings, at the time, into a kind of reassuring
-relief. But it was the case that the morning had already clouded over; the
-sunshine of the other mornings was sadly missing; and Phillida looked only too
-eager to fly from the scene, until she declared she never could.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But that&rsquo;s absurd!&rdquo; cried Mr. Upton bluntly.
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not going to leave a young girl like you alone  in the day of
-battle, murder and sudden death! You needn&rsquo;t necessarily come with us, as
-long as you don&rsquo;t stay here. Have you no other relatives in
-London?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;None anywhere that I know much about.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t matter. It&rsquo;s time they knew more about you.
-I&rsquo;ll hunt them up in the motor, if they&rsquo;re anywhere within a
-hundred miles, but you simply must let me take their place meanwhile.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He was a masterful man enough; it did not require the schoolboy&rsquo;s added
-supplications to bring about an eventual compromise. The idea had indeed been
-Pocket&rsquo;s originally, but his father had taken it up more warmly than he
-could have hoped. It was decided that they should return to their hotel without
-Phillida, but to send the car back for her later in the morning, as it would
-take her some time to pack her things and leave the deserted house in some
-semblance of order.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But her packing was a very small matter, and she left it to the end; most of
-the time at her disposal was spent in a hurried investigation of the dead
-man&rsquo;s effects, more especially of his store of negatives in the
-dark-room. The only incriminating plates, however, were the one she had already
-seen on its discovery by Pocket the day before and another of a man lying in a
-heap in the middle of a road. This one had been put to dry openly  in the rack,
-the wood of which was still moist from the process. Phillida only held it up to
-the light an instant, and then not only smashed both these negatives, but
-poured boiling water on the films and floated them down the sink. The bits of
-glass she put in the dust-bin with those of the broken lamp, and had hardly
-done so when the first policeman arrived to report the fatality. He was
-succeeded by a very superior officer, who gained admittance and asked a number
-of questions concerning the deceased, but in a perfunctory manner that
-suggested few if any expectations from the replies. Neither functionary made
-any secret of his assumption that the latest murder was but another of the
-perfectly random series which had already thrilled the town, but on which no
-light was likely to be shed by the antecedents of the murdered men. A third
-official came to announce that the inquest was to be opened without delay, at
-two o&rsquo;clock that afternoon, and to request Phillida to accompany him to
-the mortuary for the formal identification of the deceased.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-That was a dread ordeal, and yet she expected a worse. She had steeled herself
-to look upon a debased image of the familiar face, and she found it startlingly
-ennobled and refined. Death had taken away nothing here, save the furrows of
-age and the fires of madness, and it had given back the  look of fine courage
-and of sane integrity which the girl was just old enough to associate with the
-dead man&rsquo;s prime. She was thankful to have seen him like this for the
-last time. She wished that all the world could see him as he was, so noble and
-so calm, for then nobody would ever suspect that which she herself would find
-it easier to disbelieve from this hour.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You do identify him, I suppose, miss?&rdquo; the officer whispered,
-impressed by her strange stare.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; said Phillida. &ldquo;But he looks as I have not seen
-him look for years. There are worse things than death!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She said the same thing to Mr. Upton at luncheon in his private sitting-room at
-the hotel, whereupon he again assured her that he had no desire to know a dead
-man&rsquo;s secrets. He had found his boy; that was quite enough for him, and
-he was able to deliver himself the more freely on the subject since Pocket was
-not at table, but in bed making up for lost sleep. Not only had he succeeded in
-finding his son, but he had found him without the aid of police or press, and
-so not more than a dozen people in the world knew that he had ever disappeared.
-Mr. Upton explained why he had deemed it essential to keep the matter from his
-wife&rsquo;s ears, and added almost equally good reasons for continuing to hush
-it up on the boy&rsquo;s account  if only it were possible to do so; but would
-it be possible to Phillida to exclude from her evidence at the inquest all
-mention of so recent a visitor at her uncle&rsquo;s house? Phillida promised to
-do her best, and it proved not only possible but easy. She was questioned as to
-the habits of the deceased so far as they explained his presence on the
-Embankment at such a very early hour, but that was all. Asked if she knew of a
-single person who could conceivably have borne such a grudge against Dr.
-Baumgartner as to wish to take his life, the witness answered in the negative,
-and the coroner bowed as much as to say that of course they all knew the
-character of the murder, but he had put the question for form&rsquo;s sake. The
-only one which caused her a moment&rsquo;s hesitation arose from a previous
-answer, which connected the doctor&rsquo;s early ramblings with his hobby of
-instantaneous photography. Had he his camera with him that morning? Phillida
-thought so. Why? Well, he always did take it out, and it certainly was not in
-the house. Mr. Upton wiped his forehead, for he knew that his boy&rsquo;s name
-had been on the tip of the witness&rsquo;s tongue. And there was a sensation in
-court as well; for here at last was a bone for the detectives, who obtained a
-minute description of the missing camera, but grumbled openly that they had not
-heard of it before.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They never told me they hadn&rsquo;t got it,&rdquo; explained Phillida
-to the coroner, who made her his courteous bow, and permitted her to leave the
-court on the conclusion of her evidence.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-On the stairs Mr. Upton paid her compliments that made her wince as much as the
-crude grip of his hand; but he was tact itself compared with his friend Mr.
-Thrush, who sought an interview in order to ply the poor girl there and then
-with far more searching questions than she had been required to answer upon
-oath. She could only look at Mr. Upton in a way that secured his peppery
-intervention in a moment. The two men had scarcely seen each other since the
-morning, and the ironmaster thought they had enough to say to each other
-without bothering Miss Platts just then; they accordingly adjourned to
-Glasshouse Street, and Phillida was to have gone on to the hotel; but she made
-them drop her at a shop near Sloane Square on the pretext of seeing about her
-mourning.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida had promised to drive straight back to Trafalgar Square and order tea
-for herself if Tony had not appeared; but she did not drive straight back. She
-had a curious desire to see the place where the murder had been committed. It
-had come upon her at the inquest, while listening to the constable who had
-found the body, her predecessor  in the witness-box. She had failed to follow
-his evidence. He had described that portion of his beat which had brought him
-almost on the scene of the murder, almost at the moment of its commission. It
-included only the short section of Cheyne Walk between Oakley Street and Cheyne
-Row. The houses at this point are divided from the Embankment by the narrow
-garden which contains the Carlyle statue. He had turned up Cheyne Row, at the
-back of the statue, but before turning he had noticed a man on the seat facing
-the river on the far side of the garden. The man was sitting down, but he was
-said to have turned round and watched the policeman as he passed along Cheyne
-Walk. There might have been a second man lying on that seat, or crouching on
-the flags between the seat and the parapet, but he would have been invisible
-from the beat. Not another creature was in sight anywhere. Yet the policeman
-swore that he had not proceeded a dozen yards up Cheyne Row before the shot was
-fired. He had turned round actually in time to see the puff of smoke dispersing
-over the parapet. It was all he saw. He had found the deceased lying in a heap,
-nearer the seat than the parapet, but between the two. Not another soul did he
-see, or had he seen. And he had not neglected to look over the parapet into the
-river, and along the foreshore in both  directions, without discovering sign or
-trace of human being.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Such was the story which Phillida found so hard to credit that she proceeded to
-the spot in order to go over the ground for her own satisfaction. This did not
-make it easier to understand. It had come on to rain heavily while she was in
-the shop; the shining Embankment was again practically deserted, and she was
-able to carry out her experiment without exciting observation. She took a dozen
-steps up Cheyne Row, pretended she heard the shot, turned sharp round, and
-quite realised that from where she was the body could not have been seen,
-hidden as it must have been by the seat, which itself was almost hidden by the
-long and narrow island of enclosed garden. But a running man could have been
-seen through the garden, even if he stooped as he ran, and the murderer must
-have run like the wind to get away as he had done. The gates through the
-garden, back and front of the statue, had not been opened for the day when the
-murder took place, so Phillida in her turn made a half-circuit of the island to
-get to the spot where the body had been found, but without taking her eyes off
-the spot until she reached it. No! It was as she had thought all along; by
-nothing short of a miracle could the assassin have escaped observation if the
-policeman had eyes in his head and had acted  as he swore he had done. He might
-have dashed into the garden, when the policeman was at his furthest point
-distant, if the gates had been open as they were now; but they had been locked,
-and he could not have scaled them unobserved. Neither would it have been
-possible to take a header into the river with the foreshore as described by the
-same witness. Yet the murderer had either done one of these things, or the
-flags of the Embankment had opened and swallowed him.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The girl stood on the very spot where the murdered man must have fallen, and in
-her utter perplexity it was no longer the tragedy but the problem which
-engrossed her mind. What had happened, had happened; but how could it have
-happened? She raised her umbrella and peered through the rain at a red pile of
-many-windowed flats; had that Argus of the hundred eyes been sleeping without
-one of them open at the time? Her own eyes fell as far as the black statue in
-the narrow garden, standing out hi the rain, like the greenery about its
-granite base, as though the blackened bronze were polished marble. How lifelike
-the colossal scholar in his homely garb! How scornful and how shrewd the fixed
-eternal gaze across his own old Father Thames! It assumed another character as
-the girl gazed in her turn, she seemed to intercept that stony stare, to
-distract it from the river to herself, and to  her fevered fancy the grim lips
-smiled contemptuously on her and her quandary. He knew&mdash;<i>he</i>
-knew&mdash;those grim old eyes had seen it all, and still they stared and
-smiled as much as to say: &ldquo;You are looking the wrong way! Look where I am
-looking; that way lies the truth you are poor fool enough to want to
-know!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And Phillida turned her back towards the shiny statue, and looked over the wet
-parapet, almost expecting to see something, but never dreaming of what she
-actually saw. The tide, which must have been coming in that early morning, was
-now going out, and between the Embankment masonry and the river there was again
-a draggled ribbon of shelving foreshore, black as on some volcanic coast; and
-between land and water, at a point that would necessarily have been submerged
-for the last eight or nine hours, a small object was being laid more bare by
-every receding wavelet. It was black and square, perhaps the size of two large
-cigar-boxes side by side; and it had one long, thin, reddish tentacle,
-finishing in a bulb that moved about gently in the rain-pocked water.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida felt the parapet strike cold and wet through her rain-coat sleeves as
-she leant far over to make doubly sure what she object was; but indeed she had
-not a moment&rsquo;s doubt but that it was the missing camera of the murdered
-man.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br />
-AFTER THE FAIR</h2>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton was dumfoundered when the top-floor door in Glasshouse Street was
-opened before Eugene Thrush could insert his key; for it was the sombre Mullins
-who admitted the gentleman as though nothing had happened to him except a
-fairly recent shave.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I thought he was in prison?&rdquo; exclaimed the ironmaster when the two
-were closeted.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Do you ever read your paper?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t looked at one since Plymouth.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I howked him out first thing yesterday morning.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;<i>You</i> did, Thrush?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why not? I had need of the fellow, and that part of the game was
-up.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton showed symptoms of his old irritability under the Thrush mannerism.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;My good fellow, I wish to goodness you&rsquo;d explain yourself!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If I cared to be profane,&rdquo; returned Thrush, mixing drinks in the
-corner, &ldquo;I should refer you to the first chapter of the Book of Job. I
-provided the prisoner, and I&rsquo;d a perfect right to take him away again.
-Blessed be the song of the Thrush!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You say you provided him?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;In other words, I laid the information against my own man, but only with
-his own consent.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, well, you must have your joke, I suppose. I can afford to put up
-with it now.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t meant as a joke,&rdquo; returned Thrush, and drank deep
-while his client sipped. &ldquo;If it had come off it would have been the coup
-of my career; as it didn&rsquo;t&mdash;quite&mdash;one must laugh it off at
-one&rsquo;s own expense. Your son has told you what that poor old sinner made
-him think he&rsquo;d done?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Of course.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Would it surprise you to hear that one or two others thought the same
-thing?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not you, Thrush?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Not I to quite the same positive extent as my rascal Mullins. He jumped
-to it from scratch!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He connected Tony with the Park murder?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;From the word &lsquo;go.&rsquo; &rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;On the strength of an asthma cigarette and my poor wife&rsquo;s
-dream?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No; he didn&rsquo;t know about the dream. But he refused to believe in
-two independent mysteries at one time and on one spot. The eternal unities was
-too many measles for Mullins, though he never heard tell of &rsquo;em in his
-life.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton was no longer irritated by the other&rsquo;s  flippancy. He looked at
-Thrush with a shining face.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And you never told me what was in your minds!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It was poison even in mine; it would have been deadly poison to you, in
-the state you were in. I say! I&rsquo;ll wear batting-gloves the next time we
-shake hands!&rdquo; and Thrush blew softly on his mangled fingers.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You believed he&rsquo;d done it, and you kept it to yourself,&rdquo;
-murmured Mr. Upton, still much impressed. &ldquo;Tell me, my dear
-fellow&mdash;did you believe it after that interview with Baumgartner in his
-house?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush emptied his glass at once.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t remind me of that interview, Mr. Upton; there was the lad on
-the other side of so much lath-and-plaster, and I couldn&rsquo;t scent him
-through it! But he never made a sound, confound him!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Tony&rsquo;s told me about that; they were whispering, for reasons of
-their own.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I ought to have seen that old man listening! His ears must have grown
-before my purblind eyes! But his story was an extraordinarily interesting and
-circumstantial effort. And to come back to your question, it did fit in with
-the theory of a fatal accident on your boy&rsquo;s part; he was frightened to
-show his face at school after sleeping in the Park,  let alone what he was
-supposed to have done there; and that, he believed, would break his
-mother&rsquo;s heart in any case.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;By Jove, and so it might! It wouldn&rsquo;t take much just now,&rdquo;
-said Mr. Upton, sadly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;So he thought of the ship you wouldn&rsquo;t let him go out in&mdash;and
-the whole thing fitted in! Of course he had told the old ruffian&mdash;saving
-his presence elsewhere&mdash;all about the forbidden voyage; and that gentleman
-of genius had it ready for immediate use. I&rsquo;m bound to say he used it on
-me with excellent effect.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Same here,&rdquo; said the ironmaster&mdash;&ldquo;though I&rsquo;d no
-idea what you suspected. I thought it a conceivable way out of any bad scrape,
-for that particular boy.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It imposed upon us all,&rdquo; said Thrush, &ldquo;but one. I was
-prepared to believe it if you did, and you believed it because you didn&rsquo;t
-know your boy as well as you do now. But Miss Upton, who seems to know him
-better than anybody else&mdash;do you remember how she wouldn&rsquo;t hear of
-it for a moment?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I do <i>so</i>, God bless her!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That shook me, or rather it prevented me from accepting what I never had
-quite accepted in my heart. That&rsquo;s another story, and you&rsquo;re only
-in the mood for one at present; but after seeing  Baumgartner on Saturday, I
-thought I&rsquo;d like to know a little more about him, not from outsiders but
-from the inside of his own skull. So I went to the British Museum to have a
-look at his books. It was after hours for getting books, but I made such
-representations that they cut their red tape for once; and I soon read enough
-to wonder whether my grave and reverend seignior was quite all there.
-Spiritualism one knows, but here was spiritualism with a difference; psychic
-photography one had heard about, but here was a psychical photographer gone mad
-or bad! When a gifted creature puts into admirable English his longing to
-snap-shoot the souls of murderers coming up through the drop, like the clown at
-Drury Lane, you begin to want him elected to a fauteuil in Broadmoor. Will you
-believe me when I tell you that I stumbled mentally on the very thing I shall
-presently prove to have been the truth, and that I dismissed it from my mind as
-the wildest impossibility?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see how you&rsquo;re going to prove it now,&rdquo;
-remarked Mr. Upton, who hoped there would be no such proof, for the sake of the
-girl who had been good to his boy; but that was a private consideration which
-there was no necessity to express.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I shall want another chat with your lad when he&rsquo;s had his sleep
-out,&rdquo; replied Thrush, significantly; &ldquo;he&rsquo;s told me quite
-enough to make me eager for  more. But you haven&rsquo;t told me anything about
-your own adventures?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And he got another drink to help him listen; for as a rule the ironmaster was
-only succinct when thoroughly irate. But now for once he was both brief and
-amiable.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What have I to tell compared with you?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Those
-damned old wooden walls only cleared the Thames on Sunday morning, and they
-weren&rsquo;t near Plymouth when I left last night; but my little aluminium lot
-broke all her records before I broke one of her wheels. What I want to know is
-what you did from the time I left on Sunday night to that great moment this
-morning.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I sat down to watch Baumgartner, his house,&rdquo; replied Thrush.
-&ldquo;The merit of those quiet little streets is that there are always
-apartments of sorts, though not always the most admirable sort, to be had in
-half the houses. There was quite a choice bang opposite Baumgartner&rsquo;s,
-and I&rsquo;d taken a front room before you were through Hammersmith. Of course
-I explained that I had lost a last train, and the landlady&rsquo;s son
-embarrassed me with pyjamas of inadequate dimensions. Well, I sat at the front
-window all night, for no better reasons than my strong feeling about the
-doctor&rsquo;s writings, and your daughter&rsquo;s disbelief in his yarn about
-her brother. Soon after five in the morning the old bird came out,  and I was
-after him like knife. I tracked him to Knightsbridge without much difficulty,
-excepting the one of avoiding being spotted, but there that happened by the
-merest accident. He was passing under the scaffolding outside the church
-they&rsquo;re pulling down there, and he&rsquo;s so tall he knocked his hat
-off. I admit I was too close. He saw, and must have recognised me; but I
-shouldn&rsquo;t have recognised him if I hadn&rsquo;t seen him start out. He
-was wearing a false beard and spectacles!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s proof positive,&rdquo; said ingenuous Mr. Upton, under his
-breath.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, I confess it&rsquo;s something like it in this case; but it was a
-very awkward moment for me. I hadn&rsquo;t to let him see I knew him, nor yet
-that I was following him, and the only way was to abandon the chase as openly
-as possible. It was then I decided that it was no use leaving poor old Mullins
-in pawn to the police. I redeemed him without delay. We went back to my new
-rooms together, which I needn&rsquo;t tell you I liked so much that I brought a
-suit-case and took them for a week. Of course, as we had lost the run of
-Baumgartner, the next best thing was to watch for his return. Mullins took that
-on while I got some sleep; when I awoke the Park Lane murder was the latest,
-and I won&rsquo;t say I didn&rsquo;t suspect who&rsquo;d done it. Perhaps I
-didn&rsquo;t tell you he had his camera with him as  well as beard and goggles,
-and all three figured in the first reports.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But all this time you had no idea my boy was in the house?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;None whatever; we saw the girl once or twice, but that was all until I
-wired last night. What I never saw myself was Baumgartner&rsquo;s return; but
-in the afternoon I sent Mullins round to another road to try and get a room
-overlooking the place from the back. Well, the houses were too much class for
-that; but one was empty, and he got the key and risked going back to prison for
-the cause! Suffice it that he set eyes on both man and boy before I sent that
-wire.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And you left my son in that murderer&rsquo;s clutches a minute longer
-than you could help?&rdquo; It was a previous incarnation of Pocket&rsquo;s
-father that broke in with this.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You must remember in the first place that I couldn&rsquo;t be in the
-least sure it was your son; in the second, if murder had been intended, murder
-would have been done with as little delay in his case as in the others;
-thirdly, that we&rsquo;ve nothing to show that Dr. Baumgartner is an actual
-murderer at all, but, fourthly, that to raid his place was the way to make him
-one. Poor Mullins, too, as the original Sherlock of the show, was desperately
-against calling in the police under any circumstances.  He assured me there was
-no sign of bad blood about the house, until the small hours, and then he saw
-your son make his escape. I told him he should have collared the lad, but he
-lost sight of him in the night and preferred to keep an eye on that poor
-desperate doctor.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Thrush treated this part of his narrative with the peculiar confidence which
-most counsel reserve for the less satisfactory aspects of their case. But Mr.
-Upton was not in a mood to press a point of grievance against anybody. And the
-name of Mullins reminded him that his curiosity on a very different point had
-not been gratified.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why on earth did you have Mullins run in?&rdquo; he inquired, with
-characteristic absence of finesse.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not very proud of it,&rdquo; replied Thrush. &ldquo;It
-didn&rsquo;t come off, you see.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But whatever could the object have been?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I must have a damn-it if I&rsquo;m to tell you that,&rdquo; said Thrush;
-and the ironmaster concluded that he meant a final drink, from the action which
-he suited to the oath. &ldquo;It was one way that occurred to me of putting
-salt on the lad.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Tony?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You puzzle me more and more.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, you see, I gathered that he was a particularly honourable boy, of
-fine sensibilities, and  yet Mullins thought he had shot this man by accident
-and was lying low. I only thought that, if that were so, the news of an
-innocent man&rsquo;s arrest would bring him into the open as quick as anything.
-Mullins proving amenable to terms, and having really been within a hundred
-miles of both murders at the time they were committed, the rest was elementary.
-But what&rsquo;s the good of talking about it? It didn&rsquo;t come off.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It very nearly did! I can tell you that straight from Tony; he was going
-to give himself up yesterday morning, if he hadn&rsquo;t accidentally satisfied
-himself of his own innocence.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Mr. Upton said more than this, but it was the explicit statement of fact that
-alone afforded Thrush real consolation. His spectacled eyes blinked keenly
-behind their flashing lenses; the button of a nose underneath twitched as
-though it scented battle once again; and the drink with the opprobrious name
-was suddenly put down unfinished.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;If only I could find that camera!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the
-touchstone of the whole thing, mark my words. If it&rsquo;s an accomplice who
-did this thing, he&rsquo;s got it; even if not&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He stood silenced by a sudden thought, a gleam of light that illumined his
-whole flushed face.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Mullins!&rdquo; he roared. Mullins was on the spot with somewhat
-suspicious alacrity. &ldquo;Get the  almanac, Mullins, and look up Time of High
-Water at London Bridge to-day!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He himself flopped down behind the telephone to ring up the cab-office in
-Bolton Street. But it takes time even for a Eugene Thrush to consume all but
-three large whiskies and sodas; and the afternoon was already far advanced.
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div class="chapter">
-
-<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br />
-THE SECRET OF THE CAMERA</h2>
-
-<p>
-The camera had been placed upon a folded newspaper, for the better preservation
-of the hotel table-cloth. Its apertures were still choked with mud; beads of
-slime kept breaking out along the joints. And Phillida was still explaining to
-Pocket how the thing had come into her possession.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The rain was the greatest piece of luck, though another big slice was an
-iron gangway to the foreshore about a hundred yards up-stream. It was coming
-down so hard at the time that I couldn&rsquo;t see another creature out in it
-except myself. I don&rsquo;t believe a single soul saw me run down that gangway
-and up again; but I dropped my purse over first for an excuse if anybody did. I
-popped the camera under my waterproof, and carried it up to the King&rsquo;s
-Road before I could get a cab. But I never expected to find you awake and about
-again; next to the rain that&rsquo;s the best luck of all!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Because you know all about photography and I don&rsquo;t. Suppose he
-took a last photograph, and suppose that led directly to the murder!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That&rsquo;s an idea.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The man threw the camera into the river, but the plate would be in it
-still, and you could develop it!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-The ingenious hypothesis had appealed to the eager credulity of the boy; but at
-the final proposition he shook a reluctant head.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid there&rsquo;s not much chance of there being anything
-to develop; the slide&rsquo;s been open all this time, you see.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I know. I tried to shut it, but the wood must have swollen in the water.
-Yet the more it has swollen, the better it ought to keep out the light,
-oughtn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid there isn&rsquo;t a dog&rsquo;s chance,&rdquo; he
-murmured, as he handled the camera again. Yet it was not of the folding-bellows
-variety, but was one of the earlier and stronger models in box form, and it had
-come through its ordeal wonderfully on the whole. Nothing was absolutely
-broken; but  the swollen slide jammed obstinately, until in trying to shut it
-by main force, Pocket lost his grip of the slimy apparatus, and sent it flying
-to the floor, all but the slide which came out bodily in his hand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;That settles it,&rdquo; remarked Phillida, resignedly. The exposed plate
-stared them in the face, a sickly yellow in the broad daylight. It was cracked
-across the middle, but almost dry and otherwise uninjured.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I am sorry!&rdquo; exclaimed Pocket, as they stood over the blank sheet
-of glass and gelatine; it was like looking at a slate from which some
-infinitely precious message had been expunged unread. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not sure
-that you weren&rsquo;t right after all; what&rsquo;s water-tight must be more
-or less light-tight, when you come to think of it. I say, what&rsquo;s all
-this? The other side oughtn&rsquo;t to bulge like that!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He picked the broken plate out of the side that was already open, and weighed
-the slide in his hand; it was not heavy enough to contain another plate, he
-declared with expert conviction; yet the side which had not been opened was a
-slightly bulging but distinctly noticeable convexity. Pocket opened it at a
-word from Phillida, and an over-folded packet of MS. leapt out.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s his writing!&rdquo; cried the girl, with pain and awe in her
-excitement. She had dropped the document at once.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It&rsquo;s in English,&rdquo; said Pocket, picking it up.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It must be what he was writing all last night!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;It is.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You see what it is!&rdquo; urged Phillida, feebly. But she watched him
-closely as he read to himself:&mdash;
-</p>
-
-<p class="right">
-&ldquo;<i>June</i> 20, 190&mdash;.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p class="letter">
-&ldquo;It is a grim coincidence that I should sit down to reveal the secret of
-my latter days on what is supposed to be the shortest night of the year; for
-they must come to an end at sunrise, viz., at 3.44 according to the almanac,
-and it is already after 10 p.m. Even if I sit at my task till four I shall have
-less than six hours in which to do justice to the great <i>ambition</i> and the
-crowning folly of my life. I used the underlined word advisedly; some would
-substitute &lsquo;monomania,&rsquo; but I protest I am as sane as they are,
-fail as I may to demonstrate that fact among so many others to be dealt with in
-the very limited time at my disposal. Had I more time, or the pen of a readier
-writer, I should feel surer of vindicating my head if not my heart. But I have
-been ever deliberate in all things (excepting, certainly, the supreme folly
-already mentioned), and I would be as deliberate over the last words I shall
-ever write, as in my final preparations for death&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked Phillida, for his eyes had dilated as he read,
-and he was breathing hard.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He practically says he was going to commit suicide at daybreak!
-He&rsquo;s said so once already, but now he says it in so many words!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, we know he didn&rsquo;t do it,&rdquo; said Phillida, as though she
-found a crumb of comfort in the thought.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so sure about that.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Go on reading it aloud. I can bear it if that&rsquo;s the worst.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;But it isn&rsquo;t, Phillida. I can see it isn&rsquo;t!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Then let us read it together. I&rsquo;d rather face it with you than
-afterwards all by myself. We&rsquo;ve seen each other through so much, surely
-we can&mdash;surely&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Her words were swept away in a torrent of tears, and it was with dim eyes but a
-palpitating heart that Pocket looked upon the forlorn drab figure of the slip
-of a girl; for as yet, despite her pretext to Mr. Upton, she had taken no
-thought for her mourning, that unfailing distraction to the normally bereaved,
-but had put on anything she could find of a neutral tint; and yet it was just
-her dear disdain of appearance, the intimate tears gathering in her great eyes,
-unchecked, and streaming down the fresh young face, the very shabbiness of her
-coat and skirt, that made her what she was  in his sight. Outside, the rain had
-stopped, and Trafalgar Square was drying in the sun, that streamed in through
-the open window of the hotel sitting-room, and poured its warm blessing on the
-two young heads bent as one over the dreadful document.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-This was the part they read together, now in silence, now one and now the other
-whispering a few sentences aloud:&mdash;.
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-&ldquo;What I have called my life&rsquo;s ambition demands but little
-explanation here. I have never made any secret of it, but, on the contrary, I
-have given full and frank expression to my theories in places where they are
-still accessible to the curious. I refer to my signed articles on spirit
-photography in <i>Light Human Nature</i>, <i>The Occult Review</i> and other
-periodicals, but particularly to the paper entitled &lsquo;The Flight of the
-Soul,&rsquo; in <i>The Nineteenth Century and After</i> for January of last
-year. The latter article contains my last published word on the matter which
-has so long engrossed my mind. It took me some months to prepare and to write,
-and its reception did much to drive me to the extreme measures I have since
-employed. Treated to a modicum of serious criticism by the scientific press,
-but more generally received with ignorant and intolerant derision, which is the
-Englishman&rsquo;s attitude towards whatsoever is without his own contracted
-ken, my article, the work of months, was dismissed and forgotten in a few days.
-I had essayed the stupendous feat of awaking the British nation to a new idea,
-and the British nation had responded with a characteristic snore of
-unfathomable indifference. My name has not appeared in its vermin press from
-that day to this; it was not mentioned in the paragraph about the psychic
-photographer which went the rounds about a year ago. Yet I was that
-photographer. I am the serious and accredited inquirer to whom the London
-hospitals refused admittance to their pauper deathbeds, thronged though those
-notoriously are by the raw material of the British medical profession. Begin at
-the bottom of the British medical ladder, and you are afforded the earliest and
-most frequent opportunities of studying (if not accelerating) the phenomena of
-human dissolution; but against the foreign scientist the door is closed,
-without reference either to the quality of his credentials or the purity of his
-aims. I can conceive no purer and no loftier aim than mine. It is as high above
-that of your ordinary physician as heaven itself is high above this earth. Your
-physician wrestles with death to lengthen life, whereas I would sacrifice a
-million lives to prove that there is no such thing as death; that this human
-life of ours, by which we set such childish store, is but a fleeting phase of
-the permanent life of the spirit. One shrinks from setting down so trite a
-truism; it is the common ground of all religion, but I have reached it from the
-opposite pole. Religion is to me the unworthy triumph of instinct over
-knowledge, a lazy substitution of invention for discovery. Religion invites us
-to take her postulates on trust; but a material age is deserving of material
-proofs, and it is these proofs I have striven to supply. Surely it is a higher
-aim, and not a lower, to appeal to the senses that cannot deceive, rather than
-to the imagination which must and does? But I am trenching after all upon
-ground which I myself have covered before to-day; it is my function to-night to
-relate a personal narrative rather than to reiterate personal views. Suffice it
-that to me, for many years, the only path to the Invisible has been the path of
-so-called spiritualism; the only lamp that illumined that path, so that all who
-saw might follow it for themselves, the lamp of spirit photography. It is a
-path with a bad name, a path infested with quacks and charlatans, and by false
-guides who rival the religious fanatics in the impudence of their appeal to
-man&rsquo;s credulity. Even those who bear the lamp I hold aloft are too often
-jugglers and rogues, to whose wiles, unfortunately, the simple science of
-photography lends itself all too readily. Nothing is  easier than the
-production of impossible pictures by a little manipulation of film or plate; if
-the spiritual apparition is not to be enticed within range of the lens, nothing
-easier than to fabricate an approximate effect. And what spiritualist has yet
-succeeded in summoning spirits at will? It is the crux of the whole problem of
-spiritualism, to establish any sort or form of communication with disembodied
-spirits at the single will of the embodied; hence the periodical exposure of
-the paid medium, the smug scorn of the unbeliever, and the discouragement of
-genuine exploration beyond the environment of the flesh. There is one moment,
-and only one, at which a man may be sure that he stands, for however brief a
-particle of time, in the presence of a disembodied soul. It is the moment at
-which soul and body part company in what men call death. The human watcher sees
-merely the collapse of the human envelope; but many a phenomenon invisible to
-the human eye has been detected and depicted by that of the camera, as
-everybody knows who has the slightest acquaintance with the branch of physics
-known as &lsquo;fluorescence.&rsquo; The invisible spirit of man surely falls
-within this category. To the crystal eye of science it is not so much invisible
-as elusive and intractable. Once it has fled this earth, the sovereign
-opportunity is gone; but photography may often intercept the actual flight of
-the soul.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I say no more than &lsquo;often&rsquo; because there are special
-difficulties into which I need not enter here; but they would disappear, or at
-least be minimised, if the practice received the encouragement it deserves,
-instead of the forbidding ban of a sentimental generation. It would hurt
-nobody; it would comfort and convince the millions who at present have only
-their Churches&rsquo; word for the existence of an eternal soul in their
-perishable bodies. It would prove more, in the course of a few experiments,
-than all the Churches have proved between them in nineteen centuries. Yet how
-are my earnest applications received, in hospitals where men die daily, in
-prisons where they are still occasionally put to death? I am refused, rebuffed,
-gratuitously reprimanded; in fact, I am driven ultimately to the extreme course
-of taking human life, on my own account, in order to prove the life eternal.
-Call it murder, call it what you will; in a civilisation which will not hear of
-a lethal chamber for congenital imbeciles it would be waste of time to urge the
-inutility of a life as an excuse for taking it, or the misery of an individual
-as a reason for sending him to a world which cannot use him worse than this
-world. I can only say that I have not deprived the State of one conceivably
-profitable servant, or cut short a single life of promise or repute. I have
-picked my few victims with infinite care from  amid the moral or material
-wreckage of life; either they had nothing to live for, or they had no right to
-live. Charlton, the licensed messenger, had less to live for than any man I
-ever knew; in the course of our brief acquaintance he frequently told me how he
-wished he was dead. I came across him in Kensington, outside a house to which
-an unseemly fracas had attracted my attention as I passed. Charlton had just
-been ejected for being drunk and insolent, and refusing to leave without an
-extra sixpence. I befriended him. He was indeed saturated with alcohol and
-honeycombed with disease; repulsive in appearance, and cantankerous in
-character, his earnings were so slender that he was pitifully clad, and without
-a night&rsquo;s lodging oftener than not. He had not a friend in the world, and
-was suffering from an incurable malady of which the end was certain agony. I
-resolved to put him out of his misery, and at the same time to try to
-photograph the escape of his soul. A favourable opportunity did not present
-itself for some time, during which Charlton subsisted largely on my bounty; at
-last one morning I found him asleep on a bench in Holland Walk, and not another
-being in sight, and I shot him with a cheap pistol which I had purchased
-second-hand for the purpose, and which I left beside him on the seat. Yet the
-weapon it was that cast a doubt upon the  authenticity of the suicide, despite
-my final precaution of stuffing a number of cartridges into the dead
-man&rsquo;s pocket; pot-house associates came forward to declare that he could
-never have possessed either the revolver or its price without their knowledge.
-Hence the coroner&rsquo;s repudiation of the verdict at the inquest. Yet it is
-to be feared that the fate of such as poor Charlton excites but little public
-interest in its explanation, and that the police themselves never took more
-than an academic interest in the case.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;To me it was a bitter disappointment on other grounds. I had lost very
-few seconds between pulling the revolver trigger and pressing the bulb of my
-pneumatic shutter; but one had to get back into position for this, and the fact
-remains that I was too late. The result may be found among my negatives. It is
-dreadfully good of the dead man, if not a unique photograph of actual death;
-but it lacks the least trace of the super-normal. The flight of the soul had
-been too quick for me; it would be too quick again unless I hit upon some new
-method. I had not only failed to leave convincing evidence of suicide, but the
-fatal pause between pistol-shot and snap-shot was due entirely to my elaborate
-attempt in that direction. It was not worth making again. The next case should
-be a more honest breach of the Sixth  Commandment; the shot to be fired, and
-the photograph taken, at the same range and all but at the same instant. There
-would be no further point in leaving the weapon behind, so I was free to choose
-the one best suited to my purpose, and to adapt it at my leisure to my peculiar
-needs. Eventually I evolved the ingenious engine which, no doubt, has already
-explained itself better than I could possibly explain it; if not, the
-discoverer of the camera need not hesitate to experiment with the pistol, as it
-will not be loaded when found.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-There was a brief discussion here. The children could not understand about the
-pistol; but only one of them cared what had become of it. For Phillida it was
-enough to know that the writer of this shameless rigmarole, with its pompous
-periods and its callous gusto, must long ago have lost his reason. She had no
-doubt whatever about that, and already it had brought a new light into her
-eyes. She would pause to discuss nothing else. It was her finger that pointed
-the way through the next passages.
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-&ldquo;The perfection or completion of my device was the secret work of many
-weeks; it brings me down almost to the other day, and to what I have described
-as the supreme folly of my life. I had everything in readiness for another
-attempt to  liberate and photograph a human soul in consecutive fractions of a
-second. But the right man was never in the right place at the right time; one
-saw him by the dozen in a crowd, but the people one met all by themselves, in
-the early summer mornings, stayed one&rsquo;s hand repeatedly by the eager
-brightness of their eyes or a happy elasticity of step. Once an out-patient at
-the Brompton Hospital, whom I had dogged all the way down to Richmond Park, was
-cheated of a merciful end by dusk falling just as I had him to myself. No; the
-dawn and the drunkard were still my best chance. So it was that the wretch
-whose name I forget met with his death in Hyde Park last Tuesday morning. I
-knew him by sight as a pot-house loafer of the Charlton circle, but it was
-quite by chance that I followed his uncertain footsteps through the Park, and
-saw him go deliberately to bed in the drenching dew. His face filled in his
-tale; it was another farrago of privation and excess. This was the type that
-caused me no compunction: having aimed and focussed at the same time, as my
-invention provides, I despatched the poor devil as he lay on his side, with his
-hat over his eyes, and exposed my plate as he rolled over on his face. It may
-be reckoned an offensive detail, but the click of my instantaneous shutter
-coincided with the last clutter in his throat.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I need hardly say that I had looked about me pretty thoroughly before
-firing, and my first act after taking the photograph was to make another wary
-survey of the scene. It had the advantage that one could see a considerable
-distance in three directions, and in none of these, neither right nor left
-along the path, nor yet straight ahead across the grass on the edge of which my
-victim lay, was a living creature to be seen. This was very reassuring, as I
-felt that I could see a good deal farther than the report of my small automatic
-pistol was likely to be heard; for it is a remarkable feature of most shooting
-cases, especially where a pistol has been used, and in the open air, how seldom
-it is that a witness can be found who has actually heard the fatal shot. In the
-fourth quarter, where there was a bank of shrubbery behind some iron palings, I
-looked last, for I was standing with my back that way. How shall I describe my
-sensations on turning round? There was a young lad within a few feet of me, on
-the other side of the palings; and this young lad was flourishing a revolver in
-his right hand!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;At first I made certain he had seen everything; but his blank and frank
-bewilderment was more reassuring at a second glance, and at a third I guessed
-what had happened to him. His crumpled clothes were dank with dew. His eyes
-were puddles  of utter stupefaction. He had been sleeping in the Park, and
-walking in his sleep, and in all probability it was my shot which had brought
-him to himself; of this, however, I was less sure, and in my doubt I was
-disastrously inspired to accuse him of having fired the shot himself. It never
-struck me that he could mistake the body behind me for a living man; it was
-with a wild idea of being the first to accuse the other, that I asked him if he
-knew what he had done, and seized his revolver at the same moment. I had the
-wit to grasp it in my hot hand until the barrel was just warm enough to help me
-convince the child that he really had fired the shot; but, since he could not
-see it for myself, I was not going out of my way just then to tell him it was a
-fatal shot. Already I regretted that I had gone so far, and yet already I saw
-myself committed to a course of action as rash as it was now inevitable. The
-boy became convulsed with asthma; I could not leave him there, to tell his
-story when the body was discovered, to have it disproved perhaps on the spot,
-at the latest on a comparison of bullets, and the truth brought home to me
-through his description. Again, when I had taken him to my house, with all
-sorts of foolish precautions, and still more foolish risks, I had to keep him
-there. How could I let him loose to blurt out his story and implicate  me more
-readily than ever after what he had seen of me at home? I had to keep him
-there&mdash;I repeat it&mdash;alive or dead. And I was not the kind of murderer
-(if I am one at all) to take a young and innocent life, if I could help it, to
-preserve my own; on the contrary, I had, and I hope I always should have had,
-humanity enough at least to do what I could for a fellow-creature battling with
-an attack which almost threatened to remove him from my path without my
-aid.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-There followed a few remarks on Pocket&rsquo;s character as the writer read it.
-They were not uncomplimentary to Pocket personally, but they betrayed a
-profound disdain for the typically British institution of which Pocket was too
-readily accepted as a representative product. His general ignorance and
-credulity received a grim tribute; they were the very qualities the doctor
-would have demanded in a chosen dupe. Yet he appeared to have enjoyed the
-youth&rsquo;s society, his transparent honesty, his capacity for enthusiastic
-interest, whether in the delights of photography or in the horrors of war.
-Baumgartner seemed aware that he had been somewhat confidential on both
-subjects, and that either his contempt of human life, or his ambitions in the
-matter of psychic photography, would have been better kept to himself; but, on
-the other hand,  he &ldquo;greatly doubted whether they taught boys to put two
-and two together, at these so-called public schools&rdquo;; and, after all, it
-was not detection by the boy, but through the boy, that he had to fear.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The madness of keeping him prisoner, as he had been from the beginning,
-in spite of all pretences and persuasions to the contrary, was another thing to
-which Baumgartner had been thoroughly alive all along. He had regarded it from
-the first as &lsquo;the certain beginning of the end&rsquo;; from the first,
-he had been prepared with specious explanations for any such inquisitor as the
-one who had actually arrived no later than the Saturday afternoon. He wrote
-without elation of his interview with Thrush, whose name he knew; the doctor
-had not been deceived as to the transitory character of his own deception. It
-was the same with the letter which he had pretended to post, which could only
-have kept the boy quiet for a day or two, if he had posted it, but which the
-boy himself had discovered never to have been posted at all. There was a
-sufficiently cool description of the desperate mood into which
-Baumgartner&rsquo;s intuition of the boy&rsquo;s discovery had thrown him on
-the Sunday night.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-&ldquo;It was then,&rdquo; he wrote, &ldquo;that I formed a  project which I
-should have been sorry indeed to carry out, though I should certainly have done
-so if he had given me the chance I sought. It must be understood that my second
-attempt to photograph the flight of the soul had proved as great a fiasco as
-the first. Suddenly I hit upon a perfectly conceivable (even though it seem a
-wilfully grotesque) explanation of my failure. What if the human derelicts I
-had so far chosen for my experiments had no souls to photograph? Sodden with
-drink, debauched, degraded, and spiritually blurred or blunted to the last
-degree, these after all were the least likely subjects to yield results to the
-spirit photographer. I should have chosen saints instead of sinners such as
-these, entities in which the soul was a major and not a minor factor. I thought
-of the saintliest men I knew in London, of some Jesuit Fathers of my
-acquaintance, of a &lsquo;light&rsquo; specialist I know of who is destroying
-himself by inches in the cause of science, of certain missioners in the slums;
-but I did not think twice of any one of them; their lives are much too valuable
-for me to cut them short on the mere chance of a compensating benefit to
-mankind at large. Last, and longest, I thought of the boy upstairs. I had not
-meant to sacrifice him; a young life, of some promise, is only less sacred to
-me than a mature life rich in beneficent activities. But this young  fellow was
-going to be my ruin. I could see it in his eyes. He had found me out about the
-letter; he would be the means of my being found out and stopped for ever in the
-work of my life. It was his life or mine; it should be his; but I was not going
-to take it there in the house, for reasons I need not enter into here, and I
-intended to take more than his life while I was about it. But he never gave me
-the chance. I did my best to get him to go out with me this morning. But he
-refused, as a horse refuses a jump, or a dog the water. He said he was ill; he
-looked ill. But I have no doubt he was well enough to make his escape soon
-after my back was turned. I see he has broken into my dark-room for the clothes
-I took away from him before I went out; he would scarcely remain after that;
-but, to tell the truth, I have hardly given him a thought since my
-return.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-The readers shuddered over this long paragraph. More than once the boy broke in
-with his own impulsive version of the awful moments on the Sunday night and the
-Monday morning, in his bedroom at the top of the doctor&rsquo;s house. He
-declared that nothing short of main force would have dragged him out-of-doors
-that morning, that he felt it in his bones that he would never come back alive.
-Then he would be sorry he had said so much. It only increased his
-companion&rsquo;s anguish. She was reading every word religiously, with a most
-painful fascination; it was as though every word drew blood. There was a brief
-but terrible account of the murder of Sir Joseph Schelmerdine outside his own
-house in Park Lane. It was the rashest of all the crimes; but, apparently, the
-one occasion on which the doctor had disguised himself before hand; and that
-only because Sir Joseph and he knew and disliked each other so intensely that a
-&ldquo;straight&rdquo; interview was out of the question. As it was he had
-escaped by a miracle, after lying all day in a straw-loft, creeping into a
-carriage at nightfall, and getting out on the wrong side when it drove round to
-its house. Baumgartner described the incident with a callous relish, as perhaps
-the most exciting in his long career; he was going on to explain his subsequent
-return, in propria persona, and yet by stealth, when he paused in the middle of
-a sentence which was never finished. And his statement concluded as follows, in
-less careful language and a more flowing hand:&mdash;
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-&ldquo;I thought the fool had cleared out long ago. The day&rsquo;s excitement
-must have driven him clean out of my head. I never thought of him when I got
-back, never till I saw the damage to the darkroom window and missed his
-clothes. I didn&rsquo;t  waste two thoughts upon him then. I had my negative to
-develop. A magnificent negative it was, too, yet another absolute failure from
-the practical point of view, perhaps from the same reason as its predecessors.
-South African mines may produce gold and diamonds (licit and illicit!) but
-their yield in souls is probably the poorest to the square mile anywhere on
-earth. Schelmerdine never had one in his gross carcass. So there was an end of
-him, and a good riddance to rotten clay. I have not thought of him again all
-night. I have thought of nothing but this perhaps passionately dispassionate
-statement that I have made up my mind to leave behind me. It has given me
-strange pleasure to write, a satisfaction which I have no longer the time to
-attempt to analyse; all night long my pen has scarcely paused, and I not
-conscious of a moment&rsquo;s weariness of mind, body, or hand. Only sometimes
-have I paused to light my pipe. I had made such a pause, perhaps half an hour
-ago, when in the terrible stillness of the night I heard a footstep in the
-hall. My nerves were somewhat on edge with all this writing; it might be my
-imagination. I stole to my door, and as I opened it the one below shut softly.
-I waited some time, heard nothing more, went down with my lamp, and threw open
-the drawing-room door. There was my young fellow, not gone at all, but  sitting
-in the dark with one whose name there is no need to mention. I do not wish to
-be misunderstood. It was all innocent enough, even I never doubted that. But
-somehow the sight of that boy and girl, sitting there in the dark without a
-word, afraid to go to bed&mdash;afraid of me&mdash;made the blood boil over in
-my veins. I could have trampled on that lad, my Jonah whom I had pictured
-overboard at last, and I did hurl the lamp at his head. I am glad it missed
-him. I am glad he made good his escape while I was seeing his companion safe
-upstairs. If I had found him where I left him, God knows what violence I might
-not have done him after all. The boy has good in him, and more courage than he
-knows himself; again I say that I am glad he has escaped unscathed. His life
-was not safe, but now I shall only take my own.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Yes! I have made up my mind; it is better than leaving it to the common
-hangman of this besotted country. I know what to expect in enlightened England:
-either a death unfit for a dog, or existence worse than death in a criminal
-lunatic asylum. I prefer my own peculiar quietus; it has stood on my table all
-night long, ready and pointed at my heart; a hand upon the door, a step behind
-me, and I should have rolled over dead at their feet. So it will be if even now
-they are waiting for me outside; but, if not, I know where to go,  where
-already it is broad daylight, where the wide open space will quicken and
-enhance every ray, and the broad river multiply the sun by a million facets of
-living fire. It is not the light that will fail me, there; and as I have served
-others, so also will I serve myself, and it may be with better fortune than
-they have brought me. Who knows? It would be in keeping with the poetic ironies
-of this existence. At all events, unless waylaid at once, I am giving it a
-chance. I shall place the camera on the parapet of the Embankment. I have
-fitted the shutter with a specially long pneumatic tube, and the bulb will do
-its double work as usual when my fingers relax. I have long had it all in my
-mind. I have written full instructions on the envelope which I shall stick by
-the flap to the open slide; if we are found by a reasonably intelligent person,
-the slide will be shut, and the camera handed over bodily to the police. They,
-I think, may be trusted to honour one&rsquo;s last instructions, if only out of
-curiosity; their eyes will be the first to read what I fear they will describe
-as my &lsquo;full confession.&rsquo; Well, it is &lsquo;full,&rsquo; and the
-substantive must be left to them. So long as the document does not fall into
-one little pair of gentle hands, I shall lie easy in whatever ignominious grave
-they lay me. That is why I hide it where I do: since, if it fell first into
-those hands, it would never see the light at all.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p class="p2">
-There was a little more, but Phillida suddenly snatched the MS. away, and wept
-over the end, bitterly, and yet not altogether in bitterness, while Pocket
-picked up the camera and set it back in its place on the muddy newspaper.
-Phillida folded up the packet, and after a moment&rsquo;s hesitation went away
-with it, jingling keys in her other hand. On her return she stood petrified on
-the threshold.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket was seated at the table, the red bulb of the pneumatic shutter between
-his finger and thumb; he pressed the bulb, and there was a loud metallic snap
-inside the camera; he released the pressure, and the shutter snapped like a
-shutter and nothing else. Phillida came forward with a cry. Pocket had taken
-the top off the camera; it was like a box without the lid, and on the one side
-there was nothing between the lens and the grooved carrier for the slide, but
-on the other there was an automatic pistol, fixed down with wires, as a wild
-beast might be lashed, and its muzzle pointing through the orifice intended for
-the second lens of the stereoscopic camera.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket pressed again, and again the mild clash of the shutter was preceded by
-the vicious one that would have been an explosion if there had been another
-cartridge in the pistol.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;And we never guessed it!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why he went
-in for this sort of double camera,  and rigged it up to take both kinds of shot
-in quick succession. It&rsquo;s the cleverest thing I ever heard of in my
-life.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He spoke as if it were only clever! Phillida stared at it and him without a
-word.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The cleverest part is the way you aim. I do believe he relied altogether
-on that spot about the middle of the focussing screen. I&rsquo;ve been trying
-it against the window, and where that spot comes the pistol&rsquo;s pointing
-every time. It&rsquo;s a fixed focus, about ten to fifteen feet, I fancy, and
-the spot isn&rsquo;t quite in the middle of the screen, but just enough to the
-left to allow. I don&rsquo;t quite see how the one bulb works everything, but
-these springs and things are a bit confusing. We shan&rsquo;t understand
-everything till we take it to pieces.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;You mean the police won&rsquo;t!&rdquo; said Phillida, bitterly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;The police! I never thought of them.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What do you mean to do with this&mdash;this infernal machine?&rdquo; the
-girl asked, her voice breaking over the perfectly applicable term.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;What do <i>you</i> mean to do with&mdash;the writing?&rdquo; demanded
-Pocket in his turn.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Burn it! I&rsquo;ve asked for a fire in my room; it&rsquo;s locked away
-meanwhile.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, this is yours, too,&rdquo; said Pocket, deliberately, &ldquo;to do
-what you like with as well.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They wouldn&rsquo;t think so!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;They&rsquo;ll never know.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida shook her head, and not without some scorn. &ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t
-keep it to yourself,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You would <i>have</i> to
-tell.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Well, but not everybody,&rdquo; said poor Pocket. &ldquo;Only my father,
-if you like!&rdquo; he added, valiantly.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Mr. Upton would feel bound to tell.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see that. Didn&rsquo;t you hear what he said about a
-man&rsquo;s secrets dying with him?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;He&rsquo;s so kind! He says that; he said it again to me; but this is
-the mystery of the day. It&rsquo;ll be the talk for months, if not years. And
-as yet only you and I, in all the world, have found it out!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She looked at him so wistfully, so sweetly and sadly and confidentially, that
-he would have been either more or less than human boy if he had failed to see
-her heart&rsquo;s desire, and how it was still in his power to save her the
-supreme humiliation and distress of sharing their secret with the world. He
-made up his mind on the spot; and yet it was a mind that looked both ways at
-every turn of affairs, and even then he saw what he was going to lose. Fred and
-Horace would not sit nearly so spellbound as they might have done, would
-probably back their penetration of the mystery against his! There would be no
-boasting about it in front of the  hall fire at school, no breathing it even to
-Smith minor out for a walk; no adventure to recount all his days; and Pocket
-was one to whom the salt of an adventure would always be its subsequent
-recital. But he could &ldquo;play the game&rdquo; as well as Horace himself,
-when he happened to have no doubt as to the game to play. And now he had none
-whatever.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Phillida, if you wish it, I&rsquo;ll never breathe a syllable of all
-this to a single soul on earth, I don&rsquo;t care who they are, or what they
-do to me!&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-He wanted them to put him on the rack that moment.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Oh, Tony, do you mean it?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Her eyes had filled.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Of course I mean it! I&rsquo;ll swear it more solemnly than I&rsquo;ve
-ever sworn anything in my life so far.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;No, no! Your word&rsquo;s enough. Don&rsquo;t I know what that&rsquo;s
-worth, after this terrible week?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And she cried again at its hideous memories, so that Pocket turned away and put
-the camera together again, and wrapped it up in her waterproof, so that he
-might not see her tears.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll never breathe a single word to a single soul,&rdquo; he
-vowed, &ldquo;except yourself.&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She caught at that through her tears. He could talk to her about it, always, as
-much as ever he  liked; it would be a bond between them all their lives. And
-not until she said it, to be just to Pocket, did he think of a reward or look
-beyond those days.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-But what were they to do with a stereoscopic camera containing an automatic
-pistol? It was not to be burnt in a grate like a sheaf of MS. They thought
-about it for some time with anxious faces; for it was getting on towards
-evening now, though the sun was out again, and it was lighter than the early
-afternoon; but Mr. Upton might be back any minute. It was Phillida who at last
-said she knew. She would not tell him what she meant to do; but she put on her
-waterproof again, little as it was wanted now, and the camera under it as
-before; and together they sallied forth into the noisy and crowded Strand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Pocket did not know where he was, and Phillida would not tell him where she was
-going, neither could he question her in that alarming throng. He felt a
-frightful sense of guilt and danger, not so much to himself as to her, with
-that lethal weapon concealed about her; every man who looked at them was a
-detective in his eyes, and past the policemen at the corners he wanted to run.
-But they gained the middle of Waterloo Bridge undetected and ensconced
-themselves in a recess without creating a sensation.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-&ldquo;Now, then,&rdquo; said Phillida, &ldquo;will you focus Westminster
-Bridge and the Houses of Parliament, or shall I?&rdquo;
-</p>
-
-<p>
-There they were before them against the sunset, the long lithe bridge, the
-stately towers. But Pocket could not see Phillida&rsquo;s drift until she aimed
-herself, and, aiming, let the square black box slip clean through her fingers
-into the depths of the river from which she had only retrieved it a couple of
-hours before, as a body is committed to the deep.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-She bewailed her stupidity; he had the wit to echo her then, and in a loud
-voice, that any eye-witness or passer-by might be struck with the genuine
-severity of their loss. But there had been no eye-witness who thought it worth
-while to rally them on the occurrence, and the busy townsfolk hastening past
-were all too much engrossed in their own affairs to take any interest in those
-of the boy and girl who seemed themselves in something of a hurry to get back
-to the Strand.
-</p>
-
-<p>
-And in the Strand the first thing they saw was a yellow poster bearing but four
-words in enormous black letters:&mdash;
-</p>
-
-<p class="center">
-CHELSEA INQUEST<br />
-CAMERA CLUE!
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Phillida slipped her hand within Pocket&rsquo;s arm. Pocket was man enough to
-press it to his side.
-</p>
-
-<p class="center">
-THE END
-</p>
-
-<p>
-Printed in Great Britain by Wyman &amp; Sons, Ltd., London and Reading
-</p>
-
-</div><!--end chapter-->
-
-<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAMERA FIEND ***</div>
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