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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/23988-8.txt b/23988-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81c91d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/23988-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9131 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Man Who Lost Himself, by H. De Vere +Stacpoole + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + + + + +Title: The Man Who Lost Himself + + +Author: H. De Vere Stacpoole + + + +Release Date: December 23, 2007 [eBook #23988] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF*** + + +E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) + + + +THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF + +by + +H. DE VERE STACPOOLE + +Author of "Sea Plunder," "The Gold Trail," +"The Blue Lagoon," Etc. + + + + + + + +New York: John Lane Company +Toronto: S. B. Gundy :: MCMXVIII + +Copyright, 1917-1918 +by Street & Smith + +Copyright, 1918 +by John Lane Company + +The Plimpton Press +Norwood Mass U.S.A. + + + + +CONTENTS + +PART I + + CHAPTER PAGE + I. Jones 9 + II. The Stranger 14 + III. Dinner and After 18 + IV. Carlton House Terrace 20 + V. The Point of the Joke 38 + +PART II + + VI. The Net 45 + VII. Luncheon 52 + VIII. Mr. Voles 61 + IX. More Intruders 74 + X. Lady Plinlimon 85 + XI. The Coal Mine 94 + XII. The Girl in the Victoria 104 + XIII. Teresa 119 + +PART III + + XIV. The Attack 125 + XV. The Attack (Continued) 131 + XVI. A Wild Surprise 136 + XVII. The Second Honeymoon 148 + XVIII. The Mental Trap 158 + XIX. Escape Closed 164 + XX. The Family Council 179 + XXI. Hoover's 200 + XXII. An Interlude 212 + XXIII. Smithers 222 + XXIV. He Runs to Earth 230 + XXV. Moths 234 + XXVI. A Tramp, and Other Things 241 + XXVII. The Only Man in the World Who Would Believe Him 264 + XXVIII. Pebblemarsh 274 + XXIX. The Blighted City 283 + XXX. A Just Man Angered 289 + XXXI. He Finds Himself 294 + + + + + + +THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF + +PART I + +CHAPTER I + +JONES + + +It was the first of June, and Victor Jones of Philadelphia was seated in +the lounge of the Savoy Hotel, London, defeated in his first really +great battle with the thing we call life. + +Though of Philadelphia, Jones was not an American, nor had he anything +of the American accent. Australian born, he had started life in a bank +at Melbourne, gone to India for a trading house, started for himself, +failed, and become a rolling stone. Philadelphia was his last halt. + +With no financial foundation, Victor and a Philadelphia gentleman had +competed for a contract to supply the British Government with Harveyised +steel struts, bolts, and girders; he had come over to London to press +the business; he had interviewed men in brass hats, slow moving men who +had turned him over to slower moving men. The Stringer Company, for so +he dubbed himself and Aaron Stringer, who had financed him for the +journey, had wasted three weeks on the business, and this morning their +tender had been rejected. Hardmans', the Pittsburg people, had got the +order. + +It was a nasty blow. If he and Stringer could have secured the contract, +they could have carried it through all right, Stringer would have put +the thing in the hands of Laurenson of Philadelphia, and their +commission would have been enormous, a stroke of the British +Government's pen would have filled their pockets; failing that they were +bankrupt. At least Jones was. + +And justifiably you will say, considering that the whole business was a +gigantic piece of bluff--well, maybe, yet on behalf of this bluffer I +would put it forward that he had risked everything on one deal, and that +this was no little failure of his, but a disaster, naked and complete. + +He had less than ten pounds in his pocket and he owed money at the +Savoy. You see he had reckoned on doing all his business in a week, and +if it failed--an idea which he scarcely entertained--on getting back +third class to the States. He had not reckoned on the terrible expenses +of London, or the three weeks delay. + +Yesterday he had sent a cable to Stringer for funds, and had got as a +reply: "Am waiting news of contract." + +Stringer was that sort of man. + +He was thinking about Stringer now, as he sat watching the guests of the +Savoy, Americans and English, well to do people with no money worries, +so he fancied. He was thinking about Stringer and his own position, +with less than ten pounds in his pocket, an hotel bill unreceipted, and +three thousand miles of deep water between himself and Philadelphia. + +Jones was twenty-four years of age. He looked thirty. A serious faced, +cadaverous individual, whom, given three guesses you would have judged +to be a Scotch free kirk minister in mufti; an actor in the melodramatic +line; a food crank. These being the three most serious occupations in +the world. + +In reality, he had started life, as before said, in a bank, educated +himself in mathematics and higher commercial methods, by correspondence, +and, aiming to be a millionaire, had left the bank and struck out for +himself in the great tumbling ocean of business. + +He had glimpsed the truth. Seen the fact that the art of life is not so +much to work oneself as to make other people work for one, to convert by +one's own mental energy, the bodily energy of others into products or +actions. Had this Government contract come off, he would have, and to +his own profit, set a thousand hammers swinging, a dozen steel mills +rolling, twenty ships lading, hammers, mills and ships he had never +seen, never would see. + +That is the magic of business, and when you behold roaring towns and +humming wharves, when you read of raging battles, you see and read of +the work of a comparatively small number of men, gentlemen who wear +frock coats, who have never handled a bale, or carried a gun, or steered +a ship with their own hands. Magicians! + +He ordered a whisky and soda from a passing attendant, to help him +think some more about Stringer and his own awful position, and was +taking the glass from the salver when a very well dressed man of his own +age and build who had entered by the passage leading up from the +American bar drew his attention. + +This man's face seemed quite familiar to him, so much so that he started +in his chair as though about to rise and greet him. The stranger, also, +seemed for a second under the same obsession, but only for a second; he +made a half pause and then passed on, becoming lost to sight beyond the +palm trees at the entrance. Jones leaned back in his chair. + +"Now, _where_ did I see that guy before?" asked he of himself. "Where on +earth have I met him? and he recognised me--where in the--where in +the--where in the--?" + +His memory vaguely and vainly searching for the name to go with that +face was at fault. He finished his whisky and soda and rose, and then +strolled off not heeding much in what direction, till he reached the +book and newspaper stand where he paused to inspect the wares, turning +over the pages of the latest best seller without imbibing a word of the +text. + +Then he found himself downstairs in the American bar, with a champagne +cocktail before him. + +Jones was an abstemious man, as a rule, but he had a highly strung +nervous system and it had been worked up. The unaccustomed whiskey and +soda had taken him in its charge, comforting him and conducting his +steps, and now the bar keeper, a cheery person, combined with the +champagne cocktail, the cheeriest of drinks, so raised his spirits and +warmed his optimism, that, having finished his glass he pushed it across +the counter and said, "Give me another." + +At this moment a gentleman who had just entered the bar came up to the +counter, placed half a crown upon it and was served by the assistant bar +keeper with a glass of sherry. + +Jones, turning, found himself face to face with the stranger whom he had +seen in the lounge, the stranger whose face he knew but whose name he +could not remember in the least. + +Jones was a direct person, used to travel and the forming of chance +acquaintanceships. He did not hang back. + +"'Scuse me," said he. "I saw you in the lounge and I'm sure I've met you +somewhere or another, but I can't place you." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE STRANGER + + +The stranger, taking his change from the assistant bar tender, laughed. + +"Yes," said he, "you have seen me before, often, I should think. Do you +mean to say you don't know where?" + +"Nope," said Jones--he had acquired a few American idioms--"I'm clear +out of my reckoning--are you an American?" + +"No, I'm English," replied the other. "This is very curious, you don't +recognise me, well--well--well--let's sit down and have a talk, maybe +recollection will come to you--give it time--it is easier to think +sitting down than standing up." + +Now as Jones turned to take his seat at the table indicated by the +stranger, he noticed that the bar keeper and his assistant were looking +at him as though he had suddenly become an object of more than ordinary +interest. + +The subtlety of human facial expression stands unchallenged, and the +faces of these persons conveyed the impression to Jones that the +interest he had suddenly evoked in their minds had in it a link with the +humorous. + +When he looked again, however, having taken his seat, they were both +washing glasses with the solemnity of undertakers. + +"I thought those guys were laughing at me," said Jones, "seems I was +wrong, and all the better for them--well, now, let's get to the bottom +of this tangle--who are you, anyway?" + +"Just a friend," replied the other, "I'll tell you my name presently, +only I want you to think it out for yourself. Talk about yourself and +then, maybe, you'll arrive at it. Who are you?" + +"Me," cried Jones, "I'm Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm the partner of +a skunk by name of Stringer. I'm the victim of a British government that +doesn't know the difference between tin plate and Harveyised steel. I'm +a man on the rocks." + +The flood gates of his wrath were opened and everything came out, +including the fact of his own desperate position. + +When he had finished the only remark of the stranger was: + +"Have another." + +"Not on your life," cried Jones. "I ought to be making tracks for the +consul or somewhere to get my passage back to the States--well--I don't +know. No--no more cocktails. I'll have a sherry, same as you." + +The sherry having been despatched, the stranger rose, refusing a return +drink just at that moment. + +"Come into the lounge with me," said he, "I want to tell you something I +can't tell you here." + +They passed up the stairs, the stranger leading the way, Jones +following, slightly confused in his mind but full of warmth at his +heart, and with a buoyancy of spirit beyond experience. Stringer was +forgotten, the British Government was forgotten, contracts, hotel bills, +steerage journeys to the States, all these were forgotten. The warmth, +the sumptuous rooms, and the golden lamps of the Savoy were sufficient +for the moment, and as he sank into an easy chair and lit a cigarette, +even his interest in the stranger and what he had to say was for a +moment dimmed and diminished by the fumes that filled his brain, and the +ease that lapped his senses. + +"What I have to say is this," said the stranger, leaning forward in his +chair. "When I saw you here some time ago, I recognised you at once as a +person I knew, but, as you put it, I could not place you. But when I got +into the main hall a mirror at once told me. You are, to put it frankly, +my twin image." + +"I beg your pardon," said Jones, the word image shattering his +complacency. "Your twin which do you say?" + +"Image, likeness, counterpart--I mean no offence--turn round and glance +at that mirror behind you." + +Jones did, and saw the stranger, and the stranger was himself. Both men +belonged to a fairly common type, but the likeness went far beyond +that--they were identical. The same hair and colour of hair, the same +features, shape of head, ears and colour of eyes, the same serious +expression of countenance. + +Absolute likeness between two human beings is almost as rare as +absolute likeness between two pebbles on a beach, yet it occurs, as in +the case of M. de Joinville and others well known and confirmed, and +when I say absolute likeness, I mean likeness so complete that a close +acquaintance cannot distinguish the difference between the duplicates. +When nature does a trick like this, she does it thoroughly, for it has +been noticed--but more especially in the case of twins--the likeness +includes the voice, or at least its timbre, the thyroid cartilage and +vocal chords following the mysterious law that rules the duplication. + +Jones' voice and the voice of the stranger might have been the same as +far as pitch and timbre were concerned, the only difference was in the +accent, and that was slight. + +"Well, I'm d-d-d--," said Jones. + +He turned to the other and then back to the mirror. + +"Extraordinary, isn't it?" said the other. "I don't know whether I ought +to apologise to you or you to me. My name is Rochester." + +Jones turned from the mirror, the two champagne cocktails, the whisky +and the sherry were accommodating his unaccustomed brain to support this +most unaccustomed situation. The thing seemed to him radiantly humorous, +yet if he had known it there was very little humour in the matter. + +"We must celebrate this," said Jones, calling an attendant and giving +him explicit orders as to the means. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +DINNER AND AFTER + + +A small bottle of Böllinger was the means, and the celebration was +mostly done by Jones, for it came about that this stranger, Rochester, +whilst drinking little himself, managed by some method to keep up in +gaiety and in consequence of mind with the other, though every now and +then he would fall away from the point, as a ship without a steersman +falls away from the wind, and lapse for a moment into what an acute +observer might have deemed to be the fundamental dejection of his real +nature. + +However, these lapses were only momentary, and did not interfere at all +with the gay spirits of his companion, who having found a friend in the +midst of the loneliness of London, and his twin image in the person of +that friend, was now pouring out his heart on every sort of subject, +always returning, and with the regularity of a pendulum to the fact of +the likeness, and the same question and statement. + +"What's this, your name? Rochester! well, 'pon my soul this beats me." + +Presently, the Bollinger finished, Jones found himself outside the Savoy +with this new found friend, walking in the gas lit Strand, and then, +without any transition rememberable, he found himself seated at dinner +in a private room of a French restaurant in Soho. + +Afterwards he could remember parts of that dinner quite distinctly. He +could remember the chicken and salad, and a rum omelette, at which he +had laughed because it was on fire. He could remember Rochester's +gaiety, and a practical joke of some sort played on the waiter by +Rochester and ending in smashed plates--he could remember remonstrating +with the latter over his wild conduct. These things he could remember +afterwards, and also a few others--a place like Heaven--which was the +Leicester Lounge, and a place like the other place which was Leicester +Square. + +A quarrel with a stranger, about what he could not tell, a taxi cab, in +which he was seated listening to Rochester's voice giving directions to +the driver, minute directions as to where he, Jones, was to be driven. + +A lamp lit hall, and stairs up which he was being led. + +Nothing more. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE + + +He awoke from sleep in bed in the dark, with his mind clear as crystal +and hot shame clutching at his throat. Rochester was the first +recollection that came to him, and it was a recollection tinged with +evil. He felt like a man who had supped with the devil. Led by Rochester +he had made a fool of himself, he had made a brute of himself, how would +he face the hotel people? And what had he done with the last of his +money? + +These thoughts held him motionless for a few terrific moments. Then he +clapped his hand to his unfortunate head, turned on his side, and lay +gazing into the darkness. It had all come back to him clearly. +Rochester's wild conduct, the dinner, the smashed plates, the quarrel. +He was afraid to get up and search in his pockets, he guessed their +condition. He occupied himself instead, trying to imagine what would +become of him without money and without friends in this wilderness of +London. With ten pounds he might have done something; without, what +could he do? Nothing, unless it were manual labour, and he did not know +where to look for that. + +Then Rochester, never from his mind, came more fully before him--that +likeness, was it real, or only a delusion of alcohol? And what else had +Rochester done? He seemed mad enough to have done anything, plum +crazy--would he, Jones, be held accountable for Rochester's deeds? He +was fighting with this question when a clock began to strike in the +darkness and close to the bed, nine delicate and silvery strokes, that +brought a sudden sweat upon the forehead of Jones. + +He was not in his room at the Savoy. There was no clock in the Savoy bed +room, and no clock in any hotel ever spoke in tones like these. On the +sound, as if from a passage outside, he heard a voice: + +"Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap's clothes." + +Then came the sound of a soft step crossing the carpet, the sound of +curtain rings moving--then a blind upshrivelled letting the light of day +upon a room never before seen by Jones, a Jacobean bed room, severe, but +exquisite in every detail. + +The man who had pulled the blind string, and whose powerful profile was +silhouetted against the light, showed to the sun a face highly but +evenly coloured, as though by the gentle painting of old port wine, +through a long series of years and ancestors. The typical colour of the +old fashioned English Judge, Bishop, and Butler. + +He was attired in a black morning coat, and his whole countenance, make, +build and appearance had something grave and archiepiscopal most holding +to the eye and imagination. + +It terrified Jones, who, breathing now as though asleep, watched +through closed eyelids whilst the apparition, with pursed lips, dealt +with the blind of the other window. + +This done, it passed to the door, conferred in muted tones with some +unseen person, and returned bearing in its hands a porcelain early +morning tea service. + +Having placed this on the table by the bed, the apparition vanished, +closing the door. + +Jones sat up and looked around him. + +His clothes had disappeared. He always hung his trousers on the bed post +at the end of his bed and placed his other things on a chair, but +trousers or other things were nowhere visible, they had been spirited +away. It was at this moment that he noticed the gorgeous silk pyjamas he +had got on. He held out his arm and looked at the texture and pattern. + +Then, in a flash came comfort and understanding. He was in Rochester's +house. Rochester must have sent him here last night. That apparition was +Rochester's man servant. The vision of Rochester turned from an evil +spirit to an angel, and filled with a warm sensation of friendliness +towards the said Rochester he was in the act of pouring out a cup of +tea, when the words he had heard spoken in the passage outside came back +to him. + +"Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap's clothes." + +What did that mean? + +He finished pouring out the tea and drank it; there was thin bread and +butter on a plate but he disregarded it. Whose money had been taken, +and who had been sent home in another chap's clothes? + +Did those words apply to him or to Rochester? Had Rochester been robbed? +Might he, Jones, be held accountable? + +A deep uneasiness and a passionate desire for his garments begotten of +these queries, brought him out of bed and on to the floor. He came to +the nearer window and looked out. The window gave upon the Green Park, a +cheerful view beneath the sky of a perfect summer's morning. He turned +from the window, and crossing the room opened the door through which the +apparition had vanished. A thickly carpeted corridor lay outside, a +corridor silent as the hypogeum of the Apis, secretive, gorgeous, with +tasseled silk curtains and hanging lamps. Jones judged these lamps to be +of silver and worth a thousand dollars apiece. He had read the Arabian +Nights when a boy, and like a waft now from the garden of Aladdin came a +vague something stirring his senses and disturbing his practical nature. +He wanted his clothes. This silent gorgeousness had raised the desire +for his garments to a passion. He wanted to get into his boots and face +the world and face the worst. Swinging lamps of silver, soft carpets, +silken curtains, only served to heighten his sensitiveness as to his +apparel and whole position. + +He came back into the room. His anger was beginning to rise, the nervous +anger of a man who has made a fool of himself, upon whom a jest is being +played, and who finds himself in a false position. + +Seeing an electric button by the fire place he went to it and pressed it +twice, hard, then he opened the second door of the room and found a bath +room. + +A Pompeian bath room with tassellated floor, marble walls and marble +ceiling. The bath was sunk in the floor. Across hot water pipes, plated +with silver, hung towels of huck-a-back, white towels with cardinal red +fringes. Here too, most un-Pompeian stood a wonderful dressing table, +one solid slab of glass, with razors set out, manicure instruments, +brushes, powder pots, scent bottles. + +Jones came into this place, walked round it like a cat in a strange +larder, gauged the depth of the bath, glanced at the things on the +table, and was in the act of picking up one of the manicure implements, +when a sound from the bed room drew his attention. + +Someone was moving about there. + +Someone who seemed altering the position of chairs and arranging things. + +He judged it to be the servant who had answered the bell; he considered +that it was better to have the thing out now, and have done with it. He +wanted a full explanation, and bravely, but with the feelings of a man +who is entering a dental parlour, he came to the bath room door. + +A pale faced, agile-looking young man with glossy black hair, a young +man in a sleeved waistcoat, a young man carrying a shirt and set of pink +silk undergarments over his left arm, was in the act of placing a pair +of patent leather boots with kid tops upon the floor. A gorgeous +dressing gown lay upon the bed. It had evidently been placed there by +the agile one. + +Jones had intended to ask explanations. That intention shrivelled, +somehow, in the act of speech. What he uttered was a very mildly framed +request. + +"Er--can I have my clothes, please?" said Jones. + +"Yes, my Lord," replied the other. "I am placing them out." + +The instantaneous anger raised by the patent fact that he was being +guyed by the second apparition was as instantly checked by the +recollection of Rochester. Here was another practical joke. This house +was evidently Rochester's--the whole thing was plain. Well, he would +show that tricky spirit how he could take a joke and turn it on the +maker. Like Brer Rabbit he determined to lie low. + +He withdrew into the bath room and sat down on the rush bottomed chair +by the table, his temper coiled, and ready to fly out like a spring. He +was seated like this, curling his toes and nursing his resolve, when the +Agile One, with an absolute gravity that disarmed all anger, entered +with the dressing gown. He stood holding it up, and Jones, rising, put +it on. Then the A. O. filled the bath, trying the temperature with a +thermometer, and so absorbed in his business that he might have been +alone. + +The bath filled, he left the room, closing the door. + +He had thrown some crystals into the water, scenting it with a perfume +fragrant and refreshing, the temperature was just right, and as Jones +plunged and wallowed and lay half floating, supporting himself by the +silver plated rails arranged for that purpose, the idea came to him +that if the practical joke were to continue as pleasantly as it had +begun, he, for one, would not grumble. + +Soothed by the warmth his mind took a clearer view of things. + +If this were a jest of Rochester's, as most certainly it was, where lay +the heart of it? Every joke has its core, and the core of this one was +most evidently the likeness between himself and Rochester. + +If Rochester were a Lord and if this were his house, and if Rochester +had sent him--Jones--home like a bundle of goods, then the extraordinary +likeness would perhaps deceive the servants and maybe other people as +well. That would be a good joke, promising all sorts of funny +developments. Only it was not a joke that any man of self respect would +play. But Rochester, from those vague recollections of his antics, did +not seem burdened with self respect. He seemed in his latter +developments crazy enough for anything. + +If he had done this, then the servants were not in the business; they +would be under the delusion that he, Jones, was Rochester, doped and +robbed and dressed in another man's clothes and sent home. + +Rochester, turning up later in the morning, would have a fine feast of +humour to sit down to. + +This seemed plain. The born practical joker coming on his own twin image +could not resist making use of it. This explanation cleared the +situation, but it did not make it a comfortable one. If the servants +discovered the imposition before the arrival of Rochester things would +be unpleasant. He must act warily, get downstairs and escape from the +place as soon as possible. Later on he would settle with Rochester. The +servants, if they were not partners in the joke, had taken him on his +face value, his voice had evidently not betrayed him. He felt sure on +this point. He left the bath and, drying himself, donned the dressing +gown. Tooth paste and a tooth brush stood on a glass tray by a little +basin furnished with hot and cold water taps, and now, so strangely are +men constituted, the main facts of his position were dwarfed for a +second by the consideration that he had no tooth brush of his own. + +Just that little thing brought his energies to a focus and his growing +irritation. + +He, opened the bed-room door. The glossy haired one was putting links in +the sleeves of a shirt. + +"Get me a tooth brush--a new one," said Jones, brusquely, almost +brutally. "Get it quick." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +He dropped the shirt and left the room swiftly, but not hurriedly, +taking care to close the door softly behind him. + +It was the first indication to Jones of a method so complete and a +mechanism so perfectly constituted, that jolts were all but eliminated. + +"I believe if I'd asked that guy for an elephant," he said to himself, +"he'd have acted just the same--do they keep a drug store on the +premises?" + +They evidently kept a store of tooth brushes, for in less than a minute +and a half Expedition had returned with the tooth brush on a little +lacquered tray. + +Now, to a man accustomed to dress himself it comes as a shock to have +his underpants held out for him to get into as though he were a little +boy. + +This happened to Jones--and they were pink silk. + +A pair of subfusc coloured trousers creased and looking absolutely new +were presented to him in the same manner. He was allowed to put on his +own socks, silk and never worn before, but he was not allowed to put on +his own boots. The perfect valet did that kneeling before him, shoe horn +and button hook in hand. + +Having inducted him into a pink silk under vest and a soft pleated +shirt, with plain gold links in the sleeves, each button of the said +links having in its centre a small black pearl, a collar and a subfusc +coloured silk tie were added to him, also a black morning vest and a +black morning coat, with rather broad braid at the edges. + +A handkerchief of pure white cambric with a tiny monogram also in white +was then shaken out and presented. + +Then his valet, intent, silent, and seeming to move by clockwork, passed +to a table on which stood a small oak cabinet. Opening the cabinet he +took from it and placed on the table a watch and chain. + +His duties were now finished, and, according to some prescribed rule, he +left the room carefully and softly, closing the door behind him. + +Jones took up the watch and chain. + +The watch was as thin as a five shilling piece, the chain was a mere +thread of gold. It was an evening affair, to be worn with dress +clothes, and this fact presented to the mind of Jones a confirmation of +the idea that, not only was he literally in Rochester's shoes, but that +Rochester's ordinary watch and chain had not returned. + +He sat down for a moment to consider another point. His own old +Waterbury and rolled gold chain, and the few unimportant letters in his +pockets--where were they? + +He determined to clear this matter at once, and boldly rang the bell. + +The valet answered it. + +"When I came back last night--er--was there anything in my pockets?" +asked he. + +"No, my Lord. They had taken everything from the pockets." + +"No watch and chain?" + +"No, my Lord." + +"Have you the clothes I came back in?" + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"Go and fetch them." + +The man disappeared and returned in a minute with a bundle of clothes +neatly folded on his arm. + +"Mr. Church told me to keep them careful, lest you'd want to put the +matter in the hands of the police, my Lord, shockin' old things they +are." + +Jones examined the clothes. They were his own. Everything he had worn +yesterday lay there, and the sight of them filled his mind with a +nostalgia and a desire for them--a home sickness and a clothes +sickness--beyond expression. + +He was absolutely sure from the valet's manner that the servants were +not "in the know." A wild impulse came on him to take the exhibitor of +these remnants of his past into his confidence. To say right out: "I'm +Jones. Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm no Lord. Here, gimme those +clothes and let me out of this--let's call it quits." + +The word "police" already dropped held him back. He was an impostor. If +he were to declare the facts before Rochester returned, what might be +the result? Whatever the result might be one thing was certain, it would +be unpleasant. Besides, he was no prisoner, once downstairs he could +leave the house. + +So instead of saying: "I'm Victor Jones of Philadelphia," he said: "Take +them away," and finding himself alone once more he sat down to consider. + +Rochester must have gone through his pockets, not for loot, but for the +purpose of removing any article that might cast suspicion, or raise the +suspicion that he, Jones, was not Rochester. That seemed plain enough, +and there was an earnestness of purpose in the fact that was disturbing. + +There was no use in thinking, however. He would go downstairs and make +his escape. He was savagely hungry, but he reckoned the Savoy was good +enough for one more meal--if he could get there. + +Leaving the watch and chain--unambitious to add a charge of larceny to +his other troubles, should Fate arrest him before the return of +Rochester, he came down the corridor to a landing giving upon a flight +of stairs, up which, save for the gradient, a coach and horses might +have been driven. + +The place was a palace. Vast pictures by gloomy old artists, pictures of +men in armour, men in ruffs, women without armour or ruffs, or even a +rag of chiffon, pictures worth millions of dollars no doubt, hung from +the walls of the landing, and the wall flanking that triumphant +staircase. + +Jones looked over into the well of the hall, then he began to descend +the stairs. + +He had intended, on finding a hat in the hall, to clap it on and make a +clean bolt for freedom and the light of heaven, get back to the Savoy, +dress himself in another suit, and once more himself, go for Rochester, +but this was no hall with a hat-rack and umbrella-stand. Knights in +armour were guarding it, and a flunkey, six feet high, in red plush +breeches, and with calves that would have made Victor Jones scream with +laughter under normal conditions. + +The flunkey, seeing our friend, stepped to a door, opened it, and held +it open for him. Not to enter the room thus indicated would have been +possible enough, but the compelling influence of that vast flunkey made +it impossible to Jones. + +His volition had fled, he was subdued to his surroundings, for the +moment conquered. + +He entered a breakfast room, light and pleasantly furnished, where at a +breakfast table and before a silver tea urn sat a lady of forty or so, +thin faced, high nosed, aristocratic and rather faded. + +She was reading a letter, and when she saw the incomer she rose from +the table and gathered some other letters up. Then she, literally, swept +from the room. She looked at him as she passed, and it seemed to Jones +that he had never known before the full meaning of the word "scorn." + +For a wild second he thought that all had been discovered, that the +police were now sure to arrive. Then he knew at once. Nothing had been +discovered, the delusion held even for this woman, that glance was meant +for Rochester, not for him, and was caused by the affair of last night, +by other things, too, maybe, but that surely. + +Uncomfortable, angry, nervous, wild to escape, and then yielding to +caution, he took his seat at the table where a place was laid--evidently +for him. + +The woman had left an envelope on the table, he glanced at it. + + THE HONBLE: VENETIA BIRDBROOK, + 10A Carlton House Terrace, + London, S. W. + +Victor read the inscription written in a bold female hand. + +It told him where he was, he was in the breakfast-room of 10A Carlton +House Terrace, but it told him nothing more. + +Was the Honble: Venetia Birdbrook his wife, or at least the wife of his +twin image? This thought blinded him for a moment to the fact that a +flunkey--they seemed as numerous as flies in May--was at his elbow with +a _menu_, whilst another flunkey, who seemed to have sprung from the +floor, was fiddling at the sideboard which contained cold edibles, +tongue, ham, chicken and so forth. + +"Scrambled eggs," said he, looking at the card. + +"Tea or coffee, my Lord?" + +"Coffee." + +He broke a breakfast roll and helped himself mechanically to some +butter, which was instantly presented to him by the sideboard fiddler, +and he had just taken a mechanical bite of buttered roll, when the door +opened and the Archiepiscopal gentleman who had pulled up his window +blind that morning entered. Mr. Church, for Jones had already gathered +that to be his name, carried a little yellow basket filled with letters +in his right hand, and in his left a great sheaf, The Times, Daily +Telegraph, Morning Post, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Chronicle, and Daily +News. These papers he placed on a side table evidently intended for that +purpose. The little letter basket he placed on the table at Jones' left +elbow. + +Then he withdrew, but not without having spoken a couple of murmured +words of correction to the flunkey near the sideboard, who had omitted, +no doubt, some point in the mysterious ritual of which he was an +acolyte. + +Jones glanced at the topmost letter. + + THE EARL OF ROCHESTER, + 10A, Carlton House Terrace, + London, S. W. + +Ah! now he knew it. The true name of the juggler who had played him this +trick. It was plain, too, now, that Rochester had sent him here as a +substitute. + +But the confirmation of his idea did not ease his mind. On the contrary +it filled him with a vague alarm. The feeling of being in a trap came +upon him now for the first time. The joke had lost any semblance of +colour, the thing was serious. Rochester ought to have been back to put +an end to the business before this. Had anything happened to him? Had he +got jailed? + +He did not touch the letters. Without raising suspicion, acting as +naturally as possible the part of a peer of the realm, he must escape as +swiftly as possible from this nest of flunkeys, and with that object in +view he accepted the scrambled eggs now presented to him, and the +coffee. + +When they were finished, he rose from the table. Then he remembered the +letters. Here was another tiny tie. He could not leave them unopened and +untouched on the table without raising suspicion. He took them from the +basket, and with them in his hand left the room, the fellow in waiting +slipping before to open the door. + +The hall was deserted for a wonder, deserted by all but the men in +armour. A room where he might leave the infernal letters, and find a +bell to fetch a servant to get him a hat was the prime necessity of the +moment. + +He crossed to a door directly opposite, opened it, and found a room half +library, half study, a pleasant room used to tobacco, with a rather +well worn Turkey carpet on the floor, saddle bag easy chairs, and a +great escritoire in the window, open and showing pigeon holes containing +note paper, envelopes, telegraph forms, and a rack containing the A. B. +C. Railway Guide, Whitakers Almanac, Ruffs' Guide to the Turf, Who's +Who, and Kelly. + +Pipes were on the mantel piece, a silver cigar box and cigarette box on +a little table by one of the easy chairs, matches--nothing was here +wanting, and everything was of the best. + +He placed the letters on the table, opened the cigar box and took from +it a Ramon Alones. A blunt ended weapon for the destruction of +melancholy and unrest, six and a half inches long, and costing perhaps +half-a-crown. A real Havana cigar. Now in London there are only four +places where you can obtain a real and perfect Havana cigar. That is to +say four shops. And at those four shops--or shall we call them +emporiums--only known and trusted customers can find the sun that shone +on the Vuelta Abajos in such and such a perfect year. + +The Earl of Rochester's present representative was finding it now, with +little enough pleasure, however, as he paced the room preparatory to +ringing the bell. He was approaching the electric button for this +purpose, when the faint and far away murmuring of an automobile, as if +admitted by a suddenly opened hall door, checked his hand. Here was +Rochester at last. He waited listening. + +He had not long to wait. + +The door of the room suddenly opened, and the woman of the breakfast +table disclosed herself. She was dressed for going out, wearing a hat +that seemed a yard in diameter, and a feather boa, from which her +hen-like face and neck rose to the crowning triumph of the hat. + +"I am going to Mother," said she. "I am not coming back." + +"Um-um," said Jones. + +She paused. Then she came right in and closed the door behind her. + +Standing with her back close to the door she spoke to Jones. + +"If you cannot see your own conduct as others see it, who can make you? +I am not referring to the disgrace of last night, though heaven knows +that was bad enough, I am talking of _everything_, of your poor wife who +loves you still, of the estate you have ruined by your lunatic conduct, +of the company you keep, of the insults you have heaped on people--and +now you add drink to the rest. That's new." She paused. + +"That's new. But I warn you, your brain won't stand _that_. You know the +taint in the family as well as I do, it has shewn itself in your +actions. Well, go on drinking and you will end in Bedlam instead of the +workhouse. They call you 'Mad Rochester'; you know that." She choked. "I +have blushed to be known as your sister--I have tried to keep my place +here and save you. It's ended." She turned to the door. + +Jones had been making up his mind. He would tell the whole affair. This +Rochester was a thoroughly bad lot evidently; well, he would turn the +tables on him now. + +"Look here," said he. "I am not the man you think I am." + +"Tosh!" cried the woman. + +She opened the door, passed out, and shut it with a snap. + +"Well, I'm d----d," said Jones, for the second time in connection with +Rochester. + +The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter to eleven; the faint +sound of the car had ceased. The lady of the feather boa had evidently +taken her departure, and the house had resumed its cloistral silence. + +He waited a moment to make sure, then he went into the hall where a huge +flunkey--a new one, more curious than the others, was lounging near the +door. + +"My hat," said Jones. + +The thing flew, and returned with a glossy silk hat, a tortoiseshell +handled cane, and a pair of new suede gloves of a delicate dove colour. +Then it opened the door, and Jones, clapping the hat on his head, walked +out. + +The hat fitted, by a mercy. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE POINT OF THE JOKE + + +Out in the open air and sunshine he took a deep satisfying breath. He +felt as though he had escaped from a cage full of monkeys. Monkeys in +the form of men, creatures who would servilely obey him as Rochester, +but who, scenting the truth, would rend him in pieces. + +Well, he was clear of them. Once back in the Savoy he would get into his +own things, and once in his own things he would strike. If he could not +get a lawyer to take his case up against Rochester, he would go to the +police. Yes, he would. Rochester had doped him, taken his letters, taken +his watch. + +Jones was not the man to bring false charges. He knew that in taking his +belongings, this infernal jester had done so, not for plunder, but for +the purpose of making the servants believe that he, Rochester, had been +stripped of everything by sharks, and sent home in an old suit of +clothes; all the same he would charge Rochester with the taking of his +things, he would teach this practical joker how to behave. + +To cool himself and collect his thoughts before going to the Savoy, he +took a walk in the Green Park. + +That one word "Tosh!" uttered by the woman, in answer to what he had +said, told him more about Rochester than many statements. This man +wanted a cold bath, he wanted to be held under the tap till he cried for +mercy. + +Walking, now with the stick under his right arm and his left hand in his +trousers pocket, he felt something in the pocket. It was a coin. He took +it out. It was a penny, undiscovered evidently, and unremoved by the +valet. + +It was also a reminder of his own poverty stricken condition. His +thoughts turned from Rochester and his jokes, to his own immediate and +tragic position. The whole thing was his own fault. It was quite easy to +say that Rochester had led him along and tempted him; he was a full +grown man and should have resisted temptation. He had let strong drink +get hold of him; well, he had paid by the loss of his money, to say +nothing of the way his self-respect had been bruised by this jester. + +Near Buckingham Palace he turned back, walking by the way he had come, +and leaving the park at the new gate. + +He crossed the plexus of ways where Northumberland Avenue debouches on +Trafalgar Square. It was near twelve o'clock, and the first evening +papers were out. A hawker with a bundle of papers under his arm and a +yellow poster in front of him like an apron, drew his attention; at +least the poster did. + +"Suicide of an American in London!" were the words on the poster. + +Jones, remembering his penny, produced it and bought a paper. + +The American's suicide did not interest him, but he fancied vaguely that +something of Rochester's doings of the night before might have been +caught by the Press through the Police news. He thought it highly +probable that Rochester, continuing his mad course, had been gaoled. + +He was rewarded. Right on the first page he saw his own name. He had +never seen it before in print, and the sight and the circumstances made +his tongue cluck back, as though checked by a string tied to its root. + +This was the paragraph: + +"Last night, as the 11.35 Inner Circle train was entering the Temple +Station, a man was seen to jump from the platform on to the metals. +Before the station officials could interfere to save him, the +unfortunate man had thrown himself before the incoming engine. Death was +instantaneous. + +"From papers in possession of deceased, his identity has been verified +as that of Mr. V. A. Jones, an American gentleman of Philadelphia, +lately resident at the Savoy Hotel, Strand." + +Jones stood with the paper in his hand, appalled. Rochester had +committed suicide! + +This was the Jest--the black core of it. All last evening, all through +that hilarity he had been plotting this. Plotting it perhaps from the +first moment of their meeting. Unable to resist the prompting of the +extraordinary likeness, this joker, this waster, done to the world, had +left life at the end of a last jamboree, and with a burst of +laughter--leaving another man in his clothes, nay, almost one might say +in his body. + +Jones saw the point of the thing at once. + + + + +PART II + +CHAPTER VI + +THE NET + + +He saw something else. He was automatically barred from the Savoy, and +barred from the American Consul. And on top of that something else. He +had committed a very grave mistake in accepting for a moment his +position. He should have spoken at once that morning, spoken to "Mr. +Church," told his tale and made explanations, failing that he should +have made explanations before leaving the house. He had left in +Rochester's clothes, he had acted the part of Rochester. + +He rolled the paper into a ball, tossed it into the gutter, and entered +Charing Cross to continue his soliloquy. + +He had eaten Rochester's food, smoked one of his cigars, accepted his +cane and gloves. All that might have been explainable with Rochester's +aid, but Rochester was dead. + +No one knew that Rochester was dead. To go back to the Savoy and +establish his own identity, he would have to establish the fact of +Rochester's death, tell the story of his own intoxication, and make +people believe that he was an innocent victim. + +An innocent victim who had gone to another man's house and palpably +masqueraded for some hours as that other man, walking out of the house +in his clothes and carrying his stick, an innocent victim, who owed a +bill at the Savoy. + +Why, every man, the family included you may be sure, would be finding +the innocent victim in Rochester. + +What were Jones' letters doing on Rochester? That was a nice question +for a puzzle-headed jury to answer. + +By what art did Jones, the needy American Adventurer--that was what they +would call him--impose himself upon Rochester, and induce Rochester to +order him to be taken to Carlton House Terrace? + +Oh, there were a lot more questions to be asked at that phantom court of +Justice, where Jones beheld himself in the dock trying to explain the +inexplicable. + +The likeness would not be any use for white-washing; it would only +deepen the mystery, make the affair more extravagant. Besides, the +likeness most likely by this time would be pretty well spoiled; by the +time of the Assizes it would be only verifiable by photographs. + +Sitting on a seat in Charing Cross station, he cogitated thus, chasing +the most fantastic ideas, yet gripped all the time by the cold fact. + +The fact that the only door in London open to him was the door of 10A, +Carlton House Terrace. + +Unable to return to the Savoy, he possessed nothing in the world but the +clothes he stood up in and the walking stick he held in his hand. +Dressed like a lord, he was poorer than any tramp, for the simple reason +that his extravagantly fine clothes barred him from begging and from +the menial work that is the only recourse of the suddenly destitute. + +Given time, and with his quick business capacity, he might have made a +fight to obtain a clerk-ship or some post in a store--but he had no +time. It was near the luncheon hour and he was hungry. That fact alone +was an indication of how he was placed as regards Time. + +He was a logical man. He saw clearly that only two courses lay before +him. To go to the Savoy and tell his story and get food and lodging in +the Police Station, or to go to 10A, Carlton House Terrace and get food +and lodging as Rochester. + +Both ideas were hateful, but he reckoned, and with reason, that if he +took the first course, arrest and ignominy, and probably imprisonment +would be certain, whereas if he took the second he might be able to +bluff the thing out till he could devise means of escape from the net +that surrounded him. + +He determined on the second course. The servants, and even that +scarecrow woman in the feather boa had accepted him as good coin; there +was no reason why they should not go on accepting him for a while. For +the matter of that, there was no reason why they should not go on +accepting him forever. + +Even in the midst of his disturbance of mind and general tribulation, +the humour of the latter idea almost made him smile. The idea of living +and dying as Lord Rochester, as a member of the English Aristocracy, +always being "My Lorded," served by flunkeys with big calves, and +inducted every morning into his under pants by that guy in the sleeved +jacket! + +This preposterous idea, more absurd than any dream, was yet based on a +substantive foundation. In fact he had that morning put it in practice, +and unless a miracle occurred he would have to continue putting it in +practice for some days to come. + +However, Jones, fortunately or unfortunately for himself, was a man of +action and no dreamer. He dismissed the ideas and came to practical +considerations. + +If he had to hold on to the position, he would have to make more sure of +his ground. + +He rose, found his way into Charing Cross Station Hotel, and obtained a +copy of "Who's Who" from the hotel clerk. + +He turned the pages till he found the R's. Here was his man. + +Rochester. 21st Earl of (cr. 1431) Arthur Coningsby Delamere. Baron +Coningsby of Wilton, ex Lieut. Rifle Brigade, m. Teresa, 2d daughter of +Sir Peter Mason Bart. 9 v. Educ. Heidelberg. Owns about 21,000 acres. +Address 10A, Carlton House Terrace. Rochester Court, Rochester. The +Hatch, Colney, Wilts. Clubs, Senior Conservative, National Sporting, +Pelican. + +That was only a part of the sayings of "Who's Who" regarding Rochester, +Arthur Coningsby, Delamere. The last decadent descendant of a family +that had been famous in long past years for its power, prodigality and +prolificacy. + +If Jones could have climbed up his own family tree he might have found +on some distaff branch the reason of his appalling likeness to +Rochester, Arthur Coningsby, Delamere, but this was a pure matter of +speculation, and it did not enter the mind of Jones. + +He closed the book, returned it, and walked out. + +Now that his resolve was made, his fighting spirit was roused. In other +words he felt the same recklessness that a man feels who is going into +battle, the regardlessness of consequence which marks your true +explorer. For Stanley on the frontier of Darkest Africa, Scott on the +ice rim of the Beardmore Glacier, had before them positions and +districts simple in comparison to those that now fronted Jones, who had +before him the Western and South Western London Districts, with all they +contained in the way of natives in top hats, natives painted and +powdered, tribes with tribal laws of which he knew little, tricks of +which he knew less, convenances, ju-pu's and fetishes. And he was +entering this dark and intricate and dangerous country, not as an +explorer carrying beads and bibles, but disguised as a top man, a chief. + +Burton's position when he journeyed to Mecca disguised as a Mohammedan +was easy compared to the position of Jones. Burton knew the ritual. He +made one mistake in it it is true, but then he was able to kill the man +who saw him make that mistake. Jones could not protect himself in this +way, even if the valet in the sleeved jacket were to discover him in a +position analogous to Burton's. + +He was not thinking of any of these things at the present moment, +however; he was thinking of luncheon. If he were condemned to play the +part of a Lord for awhile, he was quite determined to take his salary in +the way of everything he wanted. Yet it seemed that to obtain anything +he wanted in his new and extraordinary position, he would have to take +something he did not want. He wanted luncheon but he did not want to go +back to Carlton House Terrace, at least not just now. Those +flunkeys--the very thought of them gave him indigestion--more than that, +he was afraid of them. A fear that was neither physical nor moral, but +more in the nature of the fear of women for mice, or the supposed fear +of the late Lord Roberts for cats. + +The solemn Church, the mercurial valet, the men with calves, belonged to +a tribe that maybe had done Jones to death in some past life: either +bored him to death or bludgeoned him, it did not matter, the antipathy +was there, and it was powerful. + +At the corner of Northumberland Avenue an idea came to him. This +Rochester belonged to several clubs, why not go and have luncheon at one +of them on credit? It would save him for the moment from returning to +the door towards which Fate was shepherding him, and he might be able to +pick up some extra wrinkles about himself and his position. The idea was +indicative of the daring of the man, though there was little enough +danger in it. He was sure of passing muster at a club, since he had done +so at home. He carried the names of two of Rochester's clubs in his +mind, the Pelican and the Senior Conservative. The latter seemed the +more stodgy, the least likely to offer surprises in the way of shoulder +clapping, irresponsible parties who might want to enter into general +conversation. + +He chose it, asked a policeman for directions, and made for Pall Mall. + +Here another policeman pointed out to him the building he was in search +of. + +It stood on the opposite side of the way, a building of grey stone, vast +and serious of feature, yet opulent and hinting of the best in all +things relative to comfort. + +It was historical. Disraeli had come down those steps, and the great +Lord Salisbury had gone up them. Men, to enter this place, had to be +born, not made, and even these selected ones had to put their names down +at birth, if they wished for any chance of lunching there before they +lost their teeth and hair. + +It took twenty-one years for the elect to reach this place, and on the +way they were likely to be slain by black balls. + +Victor Jones just crossed the road and went up the steps. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +LUNCHEON + + +He had lunched at the Constitutional with a chance acquaintance picked +up on his first week in London, so he knew something of the ways of +English clubs, yet the vast hall of this place daunted him for a moment. + +However, the club servants seeming to know him, and recognising that +indecision is the most fatal weakness of man, he crossed the hall, and +seeing some gentlemen going up the great staircase he followed to a door +in the first landing. + +He saw through the glass swing doors that this was the great luncheon +room of the club, and having made this discovery he came downstairs +again where good fortune, in the form of a bald headed man without hat +or stick, coming through a passage way, indicated the cloak room to him. + +Here he washed his hands and brushed his hair, and looking at himself in +a glass judged his appearance to be conservative and all right. He, a +democrat of the Democrats in this hive of Aristocracy and old crusted +conservatism, might have felt qualms of political conscience, but for +the fact that earthly politics, social theories, and social instincts +were less to him now than to an inhabitant of the dark body that +tumbles and fumbles around Sirius. Less than the difference between the +minnow and the roach to the roach in the landing net. + +Leaving the place he almost ran into the arms of a gentleman who was +entering, and who gave him a curt "H'do." + +He knew that man. He had seen his newspaper portrait in America as well +as England. It was the leader of His Majesty's Opposition, the Queen bee +of this hive where he was about to sit down to lunch. The Queen bee did +not seem very friendly, a fact that augured ill for the attitude of the +workers and the drones. + +Arrived at the glass swing doors before mentioned, he looked in. + +The place was crowded. + +It looked to him as though for the space of a mile and a half or so, lay +tables, tables, tables, all occupied by twos and threes and fours of +men. Conservative looking men, and no doubt mostly Lords. + +It was too late to withdraw without shattering his own self respect and +self confidence. The cold bath was before him, and there was no use +putting a toe in. + +He opened the door and entered, walking between the tables and looking +the luncheon parties in the face. + +The man seated has a tremendous advantage over the man standing in this +sort of game. One or two of the members met by the newcomer's glance, +bowed in the curious manner of the seated Briton, the eyes of others +fell away, others nodded frigidly, it seemed to Jones. Then, like a +pilot fish before a shark leading him to his food, a club waiter +developed and piloted him to a small unoccupied table, where he took a +seat and looked at a menu handed to him by the pilot. + +He ordered fillet of sole, roast chicken, salad, and strawberry ice. +They were the easiest things to order. He would have ordered roast +elephant's trunk had it been easier and on the menu. + +A man after the storming of Hell Gate, or just dismounted after the +Charge of the Light Brigade, would have possessed as little instinct for +menu hunting as Jones. + +He had pierced the ranks of the British Aristocracy; that was +nothing--he was seated at their camp fire, sharing their food, and they +were all inimical towards him; that was everything. + +He felt the draught. He felt that these men had a down on him; felt it +by all sorts of senses that seemed newly developed. Not a down on him, +Jones, but a down on him, Rochester, Arthur Coningsby Delamere, 21st +Earl of. + +And the extraordinary thing was that he felt it. What on earth did it +matter to him if these men looked coldly upon another man? It did. It +mattered quite a lot, more than perhaps it ever mattered to the other +man. Is the soul such a shallow and blind thing that it cannot sort the +true from the false, the material from the immaterial, cannot see that +an insult levelled at a likeness is not an insult levelled at _it_? + +Surely not, and yet the soul of Victor Jones resented the coolness of +others towards the supposed body of Rochester, as though it were a +personal insult. + +It was the first intimation to Jones that when the actor puts on his +part he puts on more than a cloak or trunk hose, that the personality he +had put on had nerves curiously associated with his own nerves, and +that, though he might say to himself a hundred times with respect to the +attitudes of other people, "Pah! they don't mean me," that formula was +no charm against disdain. + +The wine butler, a gentleman not unlike Mr. Church, was now at his +elbow, and he found himself contemplating the wine card of the Senior +Conservative, a serious document, if one may judge by the faces of the +men who peruse it. + +It is in fact the Almanach de Gotha of wines. The old kings of wine are +here, the princess and all the aristocracy. Unlike the Almanach de +Gotha, however, the price of each is set down. Unlike the Almanach de +Gotha, the names of a few commoners are admitted. + +Macon was here, and even Blackways' Cyder, the favourite tipple of the +old Duke of Taunton. + +Jones ran his eye over the list without enthusiasm. He had taken a +dislike to alcohol even in its mildest guise. + +"Er--what minerals have you got?" asked he. + +"Minerals!" + +The man with the wine card was nonplussed. Jones saw his mistake. + +"Soda water," said he. "Get me some soda water." + +The fillet of sole with sauce Tartare was excellent. Nothing, not even +the minerals could dim that fact. As he ate he looked about him, and +with all the more ease, because he found now that nobody was looking at +him; his self consciousness died down, and he began speculating on the +men around, their probable rank, fortune, and intellect. It seemed to +Jones that the latter factor was easier of determination than the other +two. + +What struck him more forcibly was a weird resemblance between them all, +a phantom thing, a link undiscoverable yet somehow there. This tribal +expression is one of the strangest phenomena eternally comforting and +battering our senses. + +Just as men grow like their wives, so do they grow like their fellow +tradesmen, waiters like waiters, grooms like grooms, lawyers like +lawyers, politicians like politicians. More, it has been undeniably +proved that landowners grow like landowners, just as shepherds grow like +sheep, and aristocrats like aristocrats. + +A common idea moulds faces to its shape, and a common want of ideas +allows external circumstances to do the moulding. + +So, English Conservative Politicians of the higher order, being worked +upon by external circumstances of a similar nature, have perhaps a +certain similar expression. Radical Politicians on the other hand, shape +to a common idea--evil--but still an idea. Jones was not thinking this, +he was just recognising that all these men belonged to the same class, +and he felt in himself that, not only did he not belong to that class, +but that Rochester also, probably, had found himself in the same +position. + +That might have accounted for the wildness and eccentricity of +Rochester, as demonstrated in that mad carouse and hinted at by the +woman in the feather boa. The wildness of a monkey condemned to live +amongst goats, hanging on to their horns, and clutching at their scuts, +and playing all the tricks that contrariness might suggest to a contrary +nature. + +Something of this sort was passing through Jones' mind, and as he +attacked his strawberry ice, for the first time since reading that +momentous piece of news in the evening newspaper his mental powers +became focussed on the question that lay at the very heart of all this +business. It struck him now so very forcibly that he laid down his spoon +and stared before him, forgetful of the place where he was and the +people around him. + +"Why did that guy commit suicide?" + +That was the question. + +He could find no answer to it. + +A man does not as a rule commit suicide simply because he is eccentric +or because he has made a mess of his estates, or because being a +practical joker he suddenly finds his twin image to defraud. Rochester +had evidently done nothing to bar him from society. Though perhaps +coldly received by his club, he was still received by it. Had he done +something that society did not know of, something that might suddenly +obtrude itself? + +Jones was brought back from his reverie with a snap. One of the +confounded waiters was making off with his half eaten ice. + +"Hi," cried he. "What you doing? Bring that back." + +His voice rang through the room, people turned to look. He mentally +cursed the ice and the creature who had snapped it from him, finished +it, devoured a wafer, and then, rising to his feet, left the room. It +was easier to leave than to come in, other men were leaving, and in the +general break up he felt less observed. + +Downstairs he looked through glass doors into a room where men were +smoking, correct men in huge arm chairs, men with legs stretched out, +men smoking big cigars and talking politics no doubt. He wanted to +smoke, but he did not want to smoke in that place. + +He went to the cloak room, fetched his hat and cane and gloves and left +the club. + +Outside in Pall Mall he remembered that he had not told the waiter to +credit him with the luncheon, but a trifle like that did not bother him +now. They would be sure to put it down. + +What did trouble him was the still unanswered question, "Why did that +guy commit suicide?" + +Suppose Rochester had murdered some man and had committed suicide to +escape the consequences? This thought gave him a cold grue such as he +had never experienced before. For a moment he saw himself hauled before +a British Court of Justice; for a moment, and for the first time in his +life, he found himself wondering what a hangman might be like. + +But Victor Jones, though a visionary sometimes in business, was at base +a business man. More used to his position now, and looking it fairly in +the face, he found that he had little to fear even if Rochester had +committed a murder. He could, if absolutely driven to it, prove his +identity. Driven to it, he could prove his life in Philadelphia, bring +witnesses and relate circumstances. His tale would all hang together, +simply because it was the truth. This inborn assurance heartened him a +lot, and, more cheerful now, he began to recognise more of the truth. +His position was very solid. Every one had accepted him. Unless he came +an awful bump over some crime committed by the late defunct, he could go +on forever as the Earl of Rochester. He did not want to go on forever as +the Earl of Rochester; he wanted to get back to the States and just be +himself, and he intended so to do having scraped a little money +together. But the idea tickled him just as it had done in Charing Cross +Station, and it had lost its monstrous appearance and had become +humorous, a highly dangerous appearance for a dangerous idea to take. + +Jones was a great walker, exercise always cleared his mind and +strengthened his judgment. He set off on a long walk now, passing the +National Gallery to Regent Circus, then up Regent Street and Oxford +Street, and along Oxford Street towards the West. He found himself in +High Street Kensington, in Hammersmith, and then in those dismal regions +where the country struggles with the town. + +Oh, those suburbs of London! Within easy reach of the city! Those +battalions of brick houses, bits of corpses, of what once were fields; +those villas, laundries---- + +The contrast between this place and Pall Mall came as a sudden +revelation to Jones, the contrast between the power, ease, affluence and +splendour of the surroundings of the Earl of Rochester, and the +surroundings of the bank clerks and small people who dwelt here. + +The view point is everything. From here Carlton House Terrace seemed +almost pleasing. + +Jones, like a good Democrat, had all his life professed a contempt for +rank. Titles had seemed as absurd to him as feathers in a monkey's cap. +It was here in ultra Hammersmith that he began to review this question +from a more British standpoint. + +Tell it not in Gath, he was beginning to feel the vaguest antipathetic +stirring against little houses and ultra people. + +He turned and began to retrace his steps. It was seven o'clock when he +reached the door of 10A, Carlton House Terrace. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +MR. VOLES + + +The flunkey who admitted him, having taken his hat, stick and gloves, +presented him with a letter that had arrived by the midday post, also +with a piece of information. + +"Mr. Voles called to see you, my Lord, shortly after twelve. He stated +that he had an appointment with you. He is to call again at quarter past +seven." + +Jones took the letter and went with it to the room where he had sat that +morning. Upon the table lay all the letters that he had not opened that +morning. He had forgotten these. Here was a mistake. If he wished to +hold to his position for even a few days, it would be necessary to guard +against mistakes like this. + +He hurriedly opened them, merely glancing at the contents, which for the +most part were unintelligible to him. + +There was a dinner invitation from Lady Snorries--whoever she might +be--and a letter beginning "Dear old Boy" from a female who signed +herself "Julie," an appeal from a begging letter writer, and a letter +beginning "Dear Rochester" from a gentleman who signed himself simply +"Childersley." + +The last letter he opened was the one he had just received from the +servant. + +It was written on poor paper, and it ran: + + "Stick to it--if you can. You'll see why I couldn't. There's a + fiver under the papers of the top right hand drawer of bureau in + smoke room. + + "ROCHESTER." + +Jones knew that this letter, though addressed to the Earl of Rochester, +was meant for him, and was written by Rochester, written probably on +some bar counter, and posted at the nearest pillar box just before he +had committed the act. + +He went to the drawer in the bureau indicated, raised the papers in it +and found a five pound note. + +Having glanced at it he closed the drawer, placed the note in his +waistcoat pocket and sat down again at the table. + +"Stick to it--if you can." The words rang in his ears just as though he +had heard them spoken. + +Those words, backed by the five pound note, wrought a great change in +the mind of Jones. He had Rochester's permission to act as he was +acting, and a little money to help him in his actions. + +The fact of his penury had been like a wet blanket upon him all day. He +felt that power had come to him with permission. He could think clearly +now. He rose and paced the floor. + +"Stick to it--if you can." + +Why not--why not--why not? He found himself laughing out loud, a great +gush of energy had come to him. Jones was a man of that sort, a new and +great idea always came to him on the crest of a wave of energy; the +British Government Contract idea had come to him like that, and the wave +had carried him to England. + +Why not be the Earl of Rochester, make good his position finally, stand +on the pinnacle where Fate had placed him, and carry this thing through +to its ultimate issue? + +It would not be all jam. Rochester must have been very much pressed by +circumstances; that did not frighten Jones, to him the game was +everything, and the battle. + +He would make good where Rochester had failed, meet the difficulties +that had destroyed the other, face them, overcome them. + +His position was unassailable. + +Coming over from New York he had read Nelson's shilling edition of the +Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of +British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a +butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as +Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education. + +He contrasted his own position with Orton's. + +He was absolutely unassailable. + +He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it. + +There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, +confronting his newly formed plans. He would have to sign cheques, +write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as +for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester's, and would have +to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his +thumb--that excuse would last for some time. "There's one big thing +about the whole business," said he to himself, "and that is the chap's +eccentricity. Why, if I'm shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my +memory or my wits--there's not a blessed card I haven't either in my +hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my +identity and tell my story." He was engaged with thoughts like these +when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, +announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the +day, had arrived. + +"Bring him in," said Victor. The servant retired and returned +immediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him. +The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frock +coat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat with +silk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, the +hair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of the +gazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner. + +The card announced: + + MR. A. S. VOLES + 12B. Jermyn Street + +Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things. + +Victor Jones had a sharp instinct for men, well whetted by experience. + +He nodded to the newcomer, curtly, and without rising from his chair; +the servant shut the door and the two men were alone. + +Just as a dog's whole nature livens at the smell of a pole cat, so did +Jones' nature at the sight of Voles. He felt this man to be an enemy. + +Voles came to the table and placed his hat upon it. Then he turned, went +to the door and opened it to see if the servant was listening. + +He shut the door. + +"Well," said he, "have you got the money for me?" + +Another man in Jones' position might have asked, and with reason. "What +money?" + +Jones simply said "No." + +This simple answer had a wonderful effect. Voles, about to take a seat, +remained standing, clasping the back of the chair he had chosen. Then he +burst out. + +"You fooled me yesterday, and gave me an appointment for to-day. I +called, you were out." + +"Was I?" + +"Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me--well, here I +am now, I've got a cab outside ready to take it." + +"And suppose I don't give it to you?" asked Jones. + +"We won't suppose any nonsense like that!" replied Voles taking his +seat, "not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute's +notice." + +"That's true," said the other, "we don't want the police." + +"You don't," replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl of +Rochester's voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more spring +in it and vitality--altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of the +truth. Passed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from any +man or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear of +Voles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller's scales. + +"True," said Jones. "I don't--well, let's talk about this money. +Couldn't you take half to-night, and half in a week's time?" + +"Not me," replied the other. "I must have the two thousand to-night, +same as usual." + +Jones had the whole case in his hands now, and he began preparing the +toast on which to put this most evident blackmailer when cooked. + +His quick mind had settled everything. Here was the first obstacle in +his path, it would have to be destroyed, not surmounted. He determined +to destroy it. If the worst came to the worst, if whatever crime +Rochester had committed were to be pressed home on him by Voles, he +would declare everything, prove his identity by sending for witnesses +from the States, and show Rochester's letter. The blackmailing would +account for Rochester's suicide. + +But Jones knew blackmailers, and he knew that Voles would never +prosecute. Rochester must indeed have been a weak fool not to have +grasped this nettle and torn it up by the roots. He forgot that +Rochester was probably guilty--that makes all the difference in the +world. + +"You shall have the money," said he, "but see here, let's make an end of +this. Now let's see. How much have you had already?" + +"Only eight," said Voles. "You know that well enough, why ask?" + +"Eight thousand," murmured the other, "you have had eight thousand +pounds out of me, and the two to-night will make ten. Seems a good price +for a few papers." He made the shot on spec. It was a bull's eye. + +"Oh, those papers are worth a good deal more than that," said Voles, "a +good deal more than that." + +So it was documents not actions that the blackmailer held in suspense +over the head of Rochester. It really did not matter a button to Jones, +he stood ready to face murder itself, armed as he was with Rochester's +letter in his pocket, and the surety of being able to identity himself. + +"Well," said he, "let's finish this business. Have you a cheque book on +you?" + +"I have a cheque book right enough--what's your game now?" + +"Just an idea of mine before I pay you--bring out your cheque book, +you'll see what I mean in a minute." + +Voles hesitated, then, with a laugh, he took the cheque book from the +breast pocket of his overcoat. + +"Now tear out a cheque." + +"Tear out a cheque," cried the other. "What on earth are you getting +at--one of my cheques--this is good." + +"Tear out a cheque," insisted the other, "it will only cost you a penny, +and you will see my meaning in a moment." + +The animal, before the insistent direction of the other, hesitated, then +with a laugh he tore out a cheque. + +"Now place it on the table." + +Voles placed it on the table. + +Jones going to the bureau fetched a pen and ink. He pushed a chair to +the table, and made the other sit down. + +"Now," said Jones, "write me out a cheque for eight thousand pounds." + +Voles threw the pen down with a laugh--it was his last in that room. + +"You won't?" said Jones. + +"Oh, quit this fooling," replied the other. "I've no time for such +stuff--what are you doing now?" + +"Ringing the bell," said Jones. + +Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to find +himself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twig +crack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses like +that over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat. + +The door opened and a servant appeared, it was the miracle with calves. + +"Send out at once, and bring in an officer--a policeman," said Jones. + +"Yes, my Lord." + +The door shut. + +Voles jumped up, and seized his hat. Jones walked to the door and locked +it, placing the key in his pocket. + +"I've got you," said he, "and I'm going to squeeze you, and I'm going to +make you squeal." + +"You're going to--you're going to--you're going to--" said Voles. He was +the colour of old ivory. + +"I'm going to make you go through this--" + +"Here, d--n this nonsense--stop it--you fool, I'll smash you," said +Voles. "Here, open that door and stop this business." + +"I told you I was going to make you squeal," said Jones, "but that's +nothing to what's coming." + +Voles came to the table and put down his hat. Then, facing Jones, he +rapped with the knuckles of his right hand on the table. + +"You've done it now," said he, "you've laid yourself open to a nice +charge, false imprisonment, that's what you've done. A nice thing in the +papers to-morrow morning, and intimidation on top of that. Over and above +those there's the papers. _I'll_ have no mercy--those papers go to Lord +Plinlimon to-morrow morning, you'll be in the divorce court this day +month, and so will she. Reputation! she won't have a rag to cover +herself with." + +"Oh, won't she?" said Jones. "This is most interesting." He felt a great +uplift of the heart. So this blackmail business had to do with a woman. +The idea that Rochester was some horrible form of criminal had weighed +upon him. It had seemed to him that no man would pay such a huge sum as +eight thousand pounds in the way of blackmail unless his crime were in +proportion. Rochester had evidently paid it to shield not only his own +name, but the name of a woman. + +"Most interesting," said Voles. "I'm glad you think so--" Then in a +burst, "Come, open that door and stop this nonsense--take that key out +of your pocket and open the door. You always were a fool, but this is +beyond folly--the pair of you are in the hollow of my hand, you know +it--I can crush you like that--like that--like that!" + +He opened and shut his right hand. A cruel hand it was, hairy as to the +back, huge as to the thumb. + +Jones looked at him. + +"You are wasting a lot of muscular energy," said he. "My determination +is made, and it holds. You are going to prison, Mr. Filthy Beast, Voles. +I'm up against you, that's the plain truth. I'm going to cut you open, +and show your inside to the British Public. They'll be so lost in +admiration at the sight, they won't bother about the woman or me. +They'll call us public benefactors, I reckon. You know men, and you know +when a man is determined. Look at me, look at me in the face, you +sumph--" + +A knock came to the door. + +Jones took the key from his pocket and opened the door. + +"The constable is here, my Lord," said the servant. + +"Tell him to come in," said Jones. + +Voles had taken up his hat again, and he stood now by the table, hat in +hand, looking exactly what he was, a criminal on his defence. + +The constable was a fresh-looking and upstanding young man; he had +removed his helmet and was carrying it by the chin strap. He had no +bludgeon, no revolver, yet he impressed Jones almost as much as he +impressed the other. + +"Officer," said Jones. "I have called you in for the purpose of giving +this man in charge for attempting--" + +"Stop," cried Voles. + +Then something Oriental in his nature took charge of him. He rushed +forward with arms out, as though to embrace the policeman. + +"It is all a mistake," cried he, "constable, one moment, go outside one +moment, leave me with his lordship. I will explain. There is nothing +wrong, it is all a big mistake." + +The constable held him off, glancing for orders at Jones. + +Jones felt no vindictiveness towards Voles now; disgust, such as he +might have felt towards a vulture or a cormorant, but no vindictiveness. + +He wanted that eight thousand pounds. + +He had determined to make good in his new position, to fight the world +that Rochester had failed to fight, and overcome the difficulties sure +to be ahead of him. Voles was the first great difficulty, and lo, it +seemed, that he was about not only to destroy it, but turn it to a +profit. He did not want the eight thousand for himself, he wanted it for +the game; and the fascination of that great game he was only just +beginning to understand. + +"Go outside, officer," said he to the constable. + +He shut the door. "Sit down and write," said he. Voles said not a word. + +He went to the table, sat down and picked up the pen. The cheque was +still lying there. He drew it towards him. Then he flung the pen down. +Then he picked it up, but he did not write. He waved it between finger +and thumb, as though he were beating time to a miniature orchestra +staged on the table before him. Then he began to write. + +He was making out a cheque to the Earl of Rochester for the sum of eight +thousand pounds, no shillings, no pence. + +He signed it A. S. Voles. + +He was about to cross it, but Jones stopped him. "Leave it open," said +he, "and now one thing more, I must have those papers to-morrow morning +without fail. And to make certain of them you must do this." + +He went to the bureau and took a sheet of note paper, which he laid +before the other. + +"Write," said he. "I will dictate. Begin June 2nd." + +Voles put the date. + + "'My Lord,'" went on the dictator. "'This is to promise you that + to-morrow morning I will hand to the messenger you send to me + all the papers of yours in my possession. I confess to having + held those papers over you for the purpose of blackmail, and of + having obtained from you the sum of eight thousand pounds, and I + promise to amend my ways, and to endeavour to lead an honest life. + + Signed. A. S. VOLES.'" + To The Earl of Rochester. + +That was the letter. + +Three times the rogue at the table refused to go on writing, and three +times his master went to the door, the rattle of the door handle always +inspiring the scribe to renewed energy. + +When the thing was finished Jones read it over, blotted it, and put it +in his pocket with the cheque. + +"Now you can go," said he. "I will send a man to-morrow morning at eight +o'clock to your home for the papers. I will not use this letter against +you, unless you give trouble--Well, what do you want?" + +"Brandy," gasped Voles. "For God's sake some brandy." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +MORE INTRUDERS + + +The little glass that had held the _fin champagne_ stood on the table, +the door was shut, Voles was gone, and the incident was ended. + +Jones, for the first time in his life, felt the faintness that comes +after supreme exertion. He could never have imagined that a thing like +that would have so upset him. He was unconscious during the whole of the +business that he was putting out more energy than ordinary, he knew it +now as he contemplated the magnitude of his victory, sitting exhausted +in the big saddle-bag chair on the left of the fire place and facing the +door. + +He had crushed the greatest rogue in London, taken from him eight +thousand pounds of ill gotten money, and freed himself of an incubus +that would have made his position untenable. + +Rochester could have done just the same, had he possessed daring, and +energy, and courage enough. He hadn't, and there was an end of it. + +At this moment a knock came to the door, and a flunkey--a new +one--appeared. + +"Dinner is served, my Lord." + +Jones sat up in his chair. + +"Dinner," said he. "I'm not ready for it yet. Fetch me a whisky and +soda--look here, tell Mr. Church I want to see him." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +Jones, as stated before, possessed that very rare attitude--an eye for +men. It was quite unknown to him; up to this he had been condemned to +take men as he found them; the pressure of circumstances alone had made +him a business partner with Aaron Stringer. He had never trusted +Stringer. Now, being in a position of command, he began to use this +precious gift, and he selected Church for a first officer. He wanted a +henchman. + +The whisky and soda arrived, and, almost immediately on it, Church. + +Jones, placing the half empty glass on the table, nodded to him. + +"Come in," said he, "and shut the door." + +Church closed the door and stood at attention. This admirable man's face +was constructed not with a view to the easy interpretation of emotions. +I doubt if an earthquake in Carlton House Terrace and the vicinity could +have altered the expression of it. + +He stood as if listening. + +Jones began: "I want you to go to-morrow at eight o'clock to No. 12B +Jermyn Street to get some documents for me. They will be handed to you +by A. S. Voles." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"You will bring them back to me here." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"I have just seen the gentleman, and I've just dealt with him. He is a +very great rogue and I had to call an officer--a constable in. I settled +him." + +Mr. Church opened his mouth as though he were going to speak. Then he +shut it again. + +"Go on," said Jones. "What were you going to say?" + +"Well, your Lordship, I was going to say that I am very glad to hear +that. When you told me four months ago, in confidence, what Voles was +having out of you, you will remember what advice I gave your Lordship. +'Don't be squeezed,' I said. 'Squeeze him.' Your Lordship's solicitor, +Mr. Mortimer Collins, I believe, told you the same." + +"I have taken your advice. I find it so good that I am going to ask your +advice often again--Do you see any difference in me, Mr. Church?" + +"Yes, my Lord, you have changed. If your Lordship will excuse me for +saying so." + +"How?" + +"You have grown younger, my Lord, and more yourself, and you speak +different--sharper, so to say." + +These words were Balm of Gilead to Jones. He had received no opinion of +himself from others till now; he had vaguely mistrusted his voice, +unable to estimate in how much it differed from Rochester's. The +perfectly frank declaration of Church put his mind at rest. He spoke +sharper--that was all. + +"Well," said he. "Things are going to be different all round; better +too." + +He turned away towards the bureau, and Church opened the door. + +"You don't want me any longer, my Lord?" + +"Not just now." + +He opened Kelly's directory, and looked up the solicitors, till he came +to the name he wanted. + + Mortimer Collins, 10, Sergeant's Inn, Fleet Street. + +"That's my man," said he to himself, "and to-morrow I will see him." He +closed the book and left the room. + +He did not know the position of the dining room, nor did he want to. A +servant seeing him, and taking it for granted that at this late hour he +did not want to dress, opened a door. + +Next minute he was seated alone at a large table, stared at by defunct +Rochesters and their wives, and spreading his table napkin on his knees. + +The dinner was excellent, though simple enough. English society has +drifted a long way from the days when Lord Palmerston sat himself down +to devour two helpings of turtle soup, the same of cod and oyster sauce, +a huge plateful of York ham, a cut from the joint, a liberal supply of +roast pheasant, to say nothing of kickshaws and sweets; the days when +the inside of a nobleman after dinner was a provision store floating in +sherry, hock, champagne, old port, and punch. + +Nothing acts more quickly upon the nervous system than food; before the +roast chicken and salad were served, Jones found himself enjoying his +dinner, and, more than that, enjoying his position. + +The awful position of the morning had lost its terrors, the fog that had +surrounded him was breaking. Wrecked on this strange, luxuriant, yet +hostile coast, he had met the natives, fed with them, fought them, and +measured their strength and cunning. + +He was not afraid of them now. The members of the Senior Conservative +Club Camp had left him unimpressed, and the wild beast Voles had +bequeathed to him a lively contempt for the mental powers of the man he +had succeeded. + +Rightly or wrongly, all Lords caught a tinge of the lurid light that +shewed up Rochester's want of vim and mental hitting power. + +But he did not feel a contempt for Lords as such. He was longing to +appreciate the fact that to be a Lord was to be a very great thing. Even +a Lord who had let his estates run to ruin--like himself. + +A single glass of iced champagne--he allowed himself only +one--established this conviction in his mind, also the recognition that +the flunkeys no longer oppressed him, they rather pleased him. They knew +their work and performed it perfectly, they hung on his every word and +movement. + +Yesterday, sitting where he was, he would have been feeling out of +place, and irritable and awkward. Even a few hours ago he would have +felt oppressed and wanting to escape somewhere by himself. What lent him +this new magic of assurance and sense of mastery of his position? +Undoubtedly it was his battle with Voles. + +Coffee was served to him in the smoking room, and there, sitting alone +with a cigar, he began clearly and for the first time to envisage his +plans for the future. + +He could drop everything and run. Book a passage for the United States, +enter New York as Lord Rochester, just as a diver enters the sea, and +emerge as Jones. He could keep the eight thousand pounds with a clear +conscience--or couldn't he? + +This point seemed a bit obscure. + +He did not worry about it much. The main question had not to do with +money. The main question was simply this, shall I be Victor Jones for +the future, or shall I be the Earl of Rochester? The twenty-first Earl +of Rochester? + +Shall I clear out, or stick to my guns? Remain boss of this show and try +and make something of the wreckage, or sneak off with nothing to show +for the most amazing experience man ever underwent? + +Rochester had sneaked off. He was a quitter. Jones had once read a story +in the Popular Magazine, in which a Railway Manager had cast scorn on a +ne'er-do-well. "God does surely hate a quitter," said the manager. + +These words always remained with him. They had crystallised his +sentiments in this respect: the quitter ranked in his mind almost with +the sharper. + +All the same the temptation to quit was strong, even though the +temptation to stay was growing. + +A loophole remained open to him. It was not necessary to decide at once; +he could throw down his cards at any moment and rise from the table if +the game was getting too much for him, or if he grew tired of it. + +He saw difficult times ahead for him in the mess in which Rochester had +left his affairs--that was, perhaps, his strongest incentive to remain. + +He was roused from his reverie by voices in the hall. Loud cheery +voices. + +A knock came to the door and a servant announced: "Sir Hugh Spicer and +Captain Stark to see you, my Lord." Jones sat up in his chair. "Show +them in," said he. + +The servant went out and returned ushering in a short bibulous looking +young man in evening dress covered with a long fawn coloured overcoat; +this gentleman was followed by a half bald, evil looking man of fifty or +so, also in evening attire. + +This latter wore a monocle in what Jones afterwards mentally called, +"his twisted face." + +"Look at him!" cried the young man, "sitting in his blessed arm chair +and not dressed. Look at him!" + +He lurched slightly as he spoke, and brought up at the table where he +hit the inkstand with the cane he was carrying, sending inkpot and pens +flying. Jones looked at him. + +This was Hughie. Pillar of the Criterion bar, President of the Rag Tag +Club, baronet and detrimental--and all at twenty three. + +"Leave it alone, Hughie," said Stark, going to the silver cigar box and +helping himself. "Less of that blessed cane, Hughie--why, Jollops, what +ails you?" + +He stared at Jones as he lit a cigar. Jones looked at him. + +This was Spencer Stark, late Captain in His Majesty's Black Hussars, +gambler, penniless, always well dressed, and always well fed--Terrible. +Just as beetles are beetles, whether dressed in tropical splendour or +the funereal black of the English type, so are detrimentals +detrimentals. Jones knew his men. + +"I beg your pardon," said he, "did you mean that name for me?" + +He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought he +was speaking in jest and ringing for drinks; they laughed, and Hughie +began to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to what +he was yelling. + +This beast, who was never happy unless smashing glasses, making a noise +or tormenting his neighbours, who had never been really sober for the +space of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate, and broken +his mother's heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his wanghee cane on +the table. + +The noise was terrific. + +The door opened and calves appeared. + +"Throw that ruffian out," said Jones. + +"Out with him," cried Hughie, throwing away his cane at this joke. "Come +on, Stark, let's shove old Jollops out of doors." + +He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened up by the other, +closed in, receiving a blow on the midriff that seated him in the +fender. + +The next moment Hughie found himself caught by a firm hand, that had +somehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and his +neck, gripping the collar. + +Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall to +the front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened and +he was flung into the street. + +The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats were +flung out and the door shut finally. + +"If either of those guys comes here again," said Jones to the acolyte, +"call an officer--I mean a constable." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"I wonder how many more people I will have to fling out of this house," +said he to himself, as he returned to the smoking room. "My God, what a +mess that chap Rochester must have made all round. Bar bummers like +those! Heu!" + +He ordered the ink to be cleared up, and then he sent for Mr. Church. He +was excited. + +"Church," said he. "I've shot out two more of that carrion. You know all +the men I have been fool enough to know. If they come here again tell +the servants not to let them in." + +But he had another object in sending for Church. "Where's my cheque +book?" he asked. + +Church went to the bureau and opened a lower drawer. + +"I think you placed it here, my Lord." He produced it. + +When he was gone Jones opened the book; it was one of Coutt's. + +He knew his banker now as well as his solicitor. Then he sat down, and +taking Rochester's note from his pocket began to study the handwriting +and signature. + +He made a hundred imitations of the signature, and found for the first +time in his life that he was not bad at that sort of work. + +Then he burnt the sheets of paper he had been using, put the cheque book +away and looked at the clock; it pointed to eleven. + +He switched out the lights and left the room, taking his way upstairs. + +He felt sure of being able to find the bed-room he had left that morning, +and coming along the softly lit corridor he had no difficulty in +locating it. He had half dreaded that the agile valet in the sleeved +jacket might be there waiting to tuck him up, but to his relief the room +was vacant. + +He shut the door, and going to the nearest window pulled the blind up +for a moment. + +The moon was rising over London, and casting her light upon the Green +Park. A huge summer moon. The sort of moon that conjures up ideas about +guitars and balconies. + +Jones undressed, and putting on the silk pyjamas that were laid out for +him, got into bed, leaving only the light burning by the bedside. + +He tried to recall the details of that wonderful day, failed utterly, +switched out the light, and went to sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +LADY PLINLIMON + + +The most curious thing in the whole of Jones' extraordinary experiences +was the way in which things affecting Rochester affected him. The +coldness of the club members was an instance in point. He knew that +their coldness had nothing to do with him, yet he resented it +practically just as much as though it had. + +Then again, the case of Voles. What had made him fight Voles with such +vigour? It did not matter to him in the least whether Voles gave +Rochester away or not, yet he had fought Voles with all the feeling of +the man who is attacked, not of the man who is defending another man +from attack. + +The attitude of Spicer and the other scamp had roused his ire on account +of its want of respect for him, the supposed Earl of Rochester. +Rochester's folly had inspired that want of respect, why should he, +Jones, bother about it? He did. It hit him just as much as though it +were levelled against himself. He had found, as yet to a limited degree, +but still he had found that anything that would hurt Rochester would +hurt him, that his sensibility was just as acute under his new guise, +and, wonder of wonders, his dignity as a Lord just as sensitive as his +dignity as a man. + +If you had told Jones in Philadelphia that a day would come when he +would be angry if a servant did not address him as "my Lord," he would +have thought you mad. Yet that day had come, or was coming, and that +change in him was not in the least the result of snobbishness, it was +the result of the knowledge of what was due to Rochester, Arthur +Coningsby Delamere, 21st Earl of, from whom he could not disentangle +himself whilst acting his part. + +He was awakened by Mr. Church pulling up his window blinds. + +He had been dreaming of the boarding-house in Philadelphia where he used +to live, of Miss Wybrow, the proprietress, and the other guests, Miss +Sparrow, Mr. Moese--born Moses--Mr. Hoffman, the part proprietor of +Sharpes' Drug Store, Mrs. Bertine, and the rest. + +He watched whilst Mr. Church passed to the door, received the morning +tea tray from the servant outside, and, placing it by the bed, withdrew. +This was the only menial service which Mr. Church ever seemed to +perform, with the exception of the stately carrying in of papers and +letters at breakfast time. + +Jones drank his tea. Then he got up, went to the window, looked out at +the sunlit Green Park, and then rang his bell. He was not depressed nor +nervous this morning. He felt extraordinarily fit. The powerful good +spirits natural to him, a heritage better than a fortune, were his +again. Life seemed wonderfully well worth living, and the game before +him the only game worth playing. + +Then the Mechanism came into the room and began to act. James was the +name of this individual. Dumb and serious and active as an insect, this +man always filled Jones' mind with wonderment; he seemed less a man than +a machine. But at least he was a perfect machine. + +Fully dressed now, he was preparing to go down when a knock came to the +door and Mr. Church came in with a big envelope on a salver. + +"This is what you requested me to fetch from Jermyn Street, my Lord." + +"Oh, you've been to Jermyn Street?" + +"Yes, my Lord, directly I had served your tea at quarter to eight, I +took a taxi." + +"Good!" said Jones. + +He took the envelope, and, Church and the Mechanism having withdrawn, he +sat down by the window to have a look at the contents. + +The envelope contained letters. + +Letters from a man to a woman. Letters from the Earl of Rochester to +Sapphira Plinlimon. The most odiously and awfully stupid collection of +love letters ever written by a fool to be read by a wigged counsel in a +divorce court. + +They covered three months, and had been written two years ago. + +They were passionate, idealistic in parts, drivelling. He called her his +"Ickle teeny weeny treasure." Baby language--Jones almost blushed as he +read. + +"He sure was moulting," said he, as he dropped letter after letter on +the floor. "And he paid eight thousand to hold these things back--well, +I don't know, maybe I'd have done the same myself. I can't fancy seeing +myself in the _Philadelphia Ledger_ with this stuff tacked on to the end +of my name." + +He collected the incriminating documents, placed them in the envelope, +and came downstairs with it in his hand. + +Breakfast was an almost exact replica of the meal of yesterday; the pile +of letters brought in by Church was rather smaller, however. + +These letters were a new difficulty, they would all have to be answered, +the ones of yesterday, and the ones of to-day. + +He would have to secure the services of a typist and a typewriter: that +could be arranged later on. He placed them aside and opened a newspaper. +He was accustomed enough now to his situation to be able to take an +interest in the news of the day. At any moment his environment might +split to admit of a new Voles or Spicer, or perhaps some more dangerous +spectre engendered from the dubious past of Rochester; but he scarcely +thought of this, he had gone beyond fear, he was up to the neck in the +business. + +He glanced at the news of the day, reading as he ate. Then he pushed the +paper aside. The thought had just occurred to him that Rochester had +paid that eight thousand not to shield a woman's name but to shield his +own. To prevent that gibberish being read out against him in court. + +This thought dimmed what had seemed a brighter side of Rochester, that +obscure thing which Jones was condemned to unveil little by little and +bit by bit. He pushed his plate away, and at this moment Mr. Church +entered the breakfast room. + +He came to the table and, speaking in half lowered voice said: + +"Lady Plinlimon to see you, your Lordship." + +"Lady Plinlimon?" + +"Yes, your Lordship. I have shown her into the smoking room." + +Jones had finished breakfast. He rose from the table, gathered the +letters together, and with them in his hand followed Church from the +breakfast room to the smoking room. A big woman in a big hat was seated +in the arm chair facing the door. + +She was forty if an hour. She had a large unpleasant face. A dominating +face, fat featured, selfish, and made up by art. + +"Oh, here you are," said she as he entered and closed the door. "You see +I'm out early." + +Jones nodded, went to the cigarette box, took a cigarette and lit it. + +The woman got up and did likewise. She blew the cigarette smoke through +her nostrils, and Jones, as he watched, knew that he detested her. Then +she sat down again. She seemed nervous. + +"Is it true what I hear, that your sister has left you and gone to live +with your mother?" + +"Yes," said Jones, remembering the bird woman of yesterday morning. + +"Well, you'll have some peace now, unless you let her back--but I +haven't come to talk of her. It's just this, I'm in a tight place." + +"Oh!" + +"A very tight place. I've got to have some money--I've got to have it +to-day." + +"Oh!" + +"Yes. I ought to have had it yesterday, but a deal I had on fell +through. You've got to help me, Arthur." + +"How much do you want?" + +"Fifteen hundred. I'll pay it back soon." + +"Fifteen hundred pounds?" + +"Yes, of course." + +A great white light, cold and clear as the dawn of Truth, began to steal +across the mind of Jones. Why had this woman come to him this morning so +quickly after the defeat of Voles who held her letters? How had Voles +obtained those letters? This question had occurred to him before, and +this question seemed to his practical mind pregnant now with +possibilities. + +"What do you want the money for?" asked he. + +"Good heavens, what a question, what does a woman want money for? I want +it, that's enough--What else will you ask?" + +"What was the deal you expected money from yesterday?" + +"A stock exchange business." + +"What sort of business?" + +She crimsoned with anger. + +"I haven't come to talk of that. I came as a friend to ask you for help. +If you refuse, well, there that ends it." + +"Oh, no, it doesn't," said he. "I want to ask you a question." + +"Well, ask it." + +"It's just a simple question." + +"Go on." + +"You expected to receive fifteen hundred pounds yesterday?" + +"I did." + +"Did you expect to receive it from Mr. A. S. Voles?" + +He saw at once that she was guilty. She half rose from her chair, then +she sat down again. + +"What on earth do you mean?" she cried. + +"You know quite well what I mean," replied he, "you would have had +fifteen hundred of Voles' takings on those letters. You heard last night +I had refused to part. He was only your agent. There's no use in denying +it. He told me all." + +Her face had turned terrible, white as death, with the rouge showing on +the white. + +"It is all untrue," she stuttered. "It is all untrue." She rose +staggering. He did not want to pursue the painful business, the pursuit +of a woman was not in his line. He went to the door and opened it for +her. + +"It is all untrue. I'll write to you about this--untrue." + +She uttered the words as she passed out. He reckoned she knew the way to +the hall door, and, shutting the door of the room, he turned to the fire +place. + +He was not elated. He was shocked. It seemed to him that he had never +touched and handled wickedness before, and this was a woman in the +highest ranks of life! + +She had trapped Rochester into making love to her, and used Voles to +extort eight thousand pounds from him on account of his letters. + +She had hypnotized Rochester like a fowl. She was that sort. Held the +divorce court over him as a threat--could Humanity descend lower? He +went to "Who's Who" and turned up the P's till he found the man he +wanted. + +Plinlimon: 3rd Baron, created 1831, Albert James, b. March 10th 1862. O. +S. of second Baron and Julia d. of J. H. Thompson, of Clifton, m. +Sapphira. d. of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. privately. Address The Roost, +Tite Street, Chelsea. + +Thus spake, "Who's Who." + +"I bet my bottom dollar that chap's been in it as well as she," said +Jones, referring to Plinlimon, Albert James. Then a flash of humour lit +the situation. Voles had returned eight thousand pounds; as an agent he +had received twenty five per cent., say, therefore, he stood to lose at +least six thousand. This pleased Jones more even than his victory. He +had a racial, radical, soul-rooted antipathy to Voles. Not an anger +against him, just an antipathy. "Now," said he, as he placed "Who's +Who" back on the bureau, "let's get off and see Mortimer Collins." + +He left the house, and, calling a taxi cab, ordered the driver to take +him to Sergeant's Inn. He had no plan of campaign as regards Collins. He +simply wanted to explore and find out about himself. Knowledge to him in +his extraordinary position was armour, and he wanted all the armour he +could get, fighting, as he was, not only the living present, but also +another man's past--and another man's character, or want of character. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE COAL MINE + + +Sergeant's Inn lies off Fleet Street, a quiet court surrounded with +houses given over to the law. The law has always lived there ever since +that time when, as Stow quaintly put it, "There is in and about the city +a whole University as it were, of students, practicers, and pleaders, +and judges of the laws of this realm, not living of common stipends, as +in other universities it is for the most part done, but of their own +private maintenance, as being fed either by their places or practices, +or otherwise by their proper revenue, or exhibition of parents or +friends--of their houses, there be at this day fourteen in all; whereof +nine do stand within the liberties of this city, and five in the suburbs +thereof." + +Sergeant's Inn stood within the liberties, and there to-day it still +stands, dusty, sedate, once the abode of judges and sergeants, now the +home of solicitors. On the right of entrance lay the offices of Mortimer +Collins, an elderly man, quiet, subfusc in hue, tall, sparsely bearded, +a collector of old prints in his spare hours, and one of the most +respected members of his profession. + +His practice lay chiefly amongst the nobility and landed gentry, a fact +vaguely hinted at by the white or yellow lettering on the tin deed +boxes that lined the walls of his offices, setting forth such names and +statements as: "The Cave Estate," "Sir Jardine Jardine," "The Blundell +Estate," and so forth and so on. He knew everyone, and everything about +everyone, and terrible things about some people, and he was to be met +with at the best houses. People liked him for himself, and he inspired +the trust that comes from liking. + +It was to this gentleman that Jones was shown in, and it was by this +gentleman that he was received coldly, it is true, but politely. + +Jones, with his usual directness, began the business. + +"I have come to have a serious talk with you," said he. + +"Indeed," said the lawyer, "has anything new turned up?" + +"No. I want to talk about my position generally. I see that I have made +a fool of myself." + +The man of law raised his hands lightly with fingers spread, the gesture +was eloquent. + +"But," went on the other, "I want to make good, I want to clear up the +mess." + +The lawyer sighed. Then he took a small piece of chamois leather from +his waistcoat pocket and began to polish his glasses. + +"You remember what I told you the day before yesterday," said he; "have +you determined to take my advice? Then you had nothing to offer me but +some wild talk about suicide." + +"What advice?" + +Collins made an impatient gesture. + +"Advice--why to emigrate and try your luck in the Colonies." + +"H'm, h'm," said Jones. "Yes, I remember, but since then I have been +thinking things out. I'm going to stay here and make good." + +Again the lawyer made a gesture of impatience. + +"You know your financial position as well as I do," said he. "How are +you to make good, as you express it, against that position? You can't, +you are hopelessly involved, held at every point. A month ago I told you +to reduce your establishment and let Carlton House Terrace; you said you +would and you didn't. That hurt me. I would much sooner you had refused +the suggestion. Well, the crash if it does not come to-day will come +to-morrow. You are overdrawn at Coutts', you can raise money on nothing, +your urgent debts to tradesmen and so forth amount, as you told me the +day before yesterday, to over two thousand five hundred pounds. See for +yourself how you stand." + +"I say again," said Jones, "that I am going to make good. All these +affairs seem to have gone to pieces because--I have been a fool." + +"I'm glad you recognise that." + +"But I'm a fool no longer. You know that business about Voles?" + +The man of affairs nodded. + +"Well, what do you think of that?" He took Voles' cheque from his pocket +and laid it before the lawyer. + +"Why, what is this?" said the other. "Eight thousand pounds." + +"He called on me for more blackmail," replied Jones, "and I squeezed +him, called in a--policeman, made him disgorge, and there's his cheque. +Do you, think he has money enough to meet it?" + +"Oh, yes, he is very wealthy, but you told me _distinctly_ he had only +got a thousand out of you." + +Jones swore mentally. To take up the life and past of a rogue is bad, to +take up the life and past of a weak-kneed and shifty man is almost +worse. + +"I told you wrong," said he. + +Collins suppressed a movement of irritation and disgust. He was used to +dealing with Humanity. + +"What can a doctor do for a patient who holds back essential facts?" +asked he. "Nothing. How can I believe what you say?" + +"I don't know," replied the other. "But I just ask you to. I ask you to +believe I'm changed. I've had a shock that has altered my whole nature. +I'm not the same man who talked to you the day before yesterday." + +Collins looked at him curiously. + +"You have altered," said he, "your voice is different, somehow, too. I +am not going to ask you _what_ has brought about this change in your +views. I only trust it may be so--and permanent." + +"Bedrock," said Jones. "I'm going to begin right now. I'm going to let +that caravan--" + +"Caravan!" + +"The Carlton House place, your idea is good, will you help me through +with it? I don't know how to start letting places." + +"I will certainly assist you. In fact I believe I can get you a tenant +at once. The Bracebridges want just such a house, furnished. I will get +my clerk to write to them--if you really mean it." + +"I mean it." + +"Well, that's something. I pressed the point about your really meaning +it, because you were so violently opposed to such a course when I spoke +of it before. In fact you were almost personal, as though I had proposed +something disgraceful--though it was true you came to agree with me at +last." + +"I guess the only disgrace is owing money and not being able to pay," +said the present Lord Rochester. "I've come to see that now." + +"Thank God!" said Collins. + +"I'll take rooms at a quiet hotel," went on the other, "with this eight +thousand and the rent from that Gazabo, I ought to tide over the rocks." + +"I don't see why not, I don't really see why not," replied Collins +cheerfully, "if you are steadfast in your purpose. Fortunately your +wife's property is untouched, and how about her?" + +"Yes," said Jones, with a cold shiver. + +"The love of a good wife," went on the other, "is a thing not to be +bought, and I may say I have very good reason to believe that, despite +all that has occurred, you still have your wife's affection. Leaving +everything else aside I think your greatest mistake was having your +sister to live with you. It does not do, and, considering Miss +Birdbrook's peculiar temper, it especially did not do in your case. Now +that things are different would you care to see your wife, and have a +quiet talk over matters?" + +"No," said Jones, hurriedly. "I don't want to see her--at least, not +yet." + +"Well, please yourself," replied the other. "Perhaps later on you will +come to see things differently." + +The conversation then closed, the lawyer promising to let him know +should he secure an offer for the house. + +Jones, so disturbed by this talk about his wife that he was revolving in +his mind plans to cut the whole business, said good-bye and took his +departure. But he was not destined to leave the building just yet. + +He was descending the narrow old stairs when he saw some people coming +up, and drew back to let them pass. + +A stout lady led the way and was followed by an elderly gentleman and a +younger lady in a large hat. + +"Why it is Arthur," cried the stout woman. "How fortunate. Arthur, we +have come to see Mr. Collins, such a terrible thing has happened." + +The unfortunate Jones now perceived that the lady with the huge hat was +the bird woman, the elderly gentleman he had never seen before, but the +elderly gentleman had evidently often seen him, was most probably a near +relative, to judge by the frigidity and insolence of his nod and general +demeanour. This old person had the Army stamp about him, and a very +decided chin with a cleft in it. + +"Better not talk out here," said he, "come in, come in and see Collins." + +Jones did not want in the least to go in and see Collins, but he was +burning to know what this dreadful thing was that had happened. He half +dreaded that it had to do with Rochester's suicide. He followed the +party, and next moment found himself again in Collins' room, where the +lawyer pointed out chairs to the ladies, closed the door, and came back +to his desk table where he seated himself. + +"Oh, Mr. Collins," said the elderly lady, "such a dreadful thing has +happened--coal--they have found coal." She collapsed. + +The old gentleman with the cleft chin took up the matter. + +"This idiot," said he, indicating Jones, "has sold a coal mine, worth +maybe a million, for five thousand. The Glanafwyn property has turned up +coal. I only heard of it last night, and by accident. Struthers said to +me straight out in the club, 'Do you know that bit of land in Glamorgan, +Rochester sold to Marcus Mulhausen?' Yes, I said. 'Well,' said he, 'it's +not land, it's the top of the biggest coal mine in Wales, steam coal, +and Mulhausen is going to work it himself. He was offered two hundred +and fifty thousand for the land last week, they have been boring there +for the last half year,' that's what he told me, and I verified it this +morning. Of course Mulhausen spotted the land for what it was worth, and +laid his trap for this fool." + +Jones restrained his emotions with an effort, not knowing in the least +his relationship to the violent one. Mr. Collins made it clear. + +"Your nephew has evidently fallen into a trap, your Grace," said he. +Then turning to Jones: + +"I warned you not to sell that land--Heaven knows I knew little enough +of the district and less of its mineral worth; still, I was adverse from +parting with land--always am--and especially to such a sharp customer as +Mulhausen. I told you to have an expert opinion. I had not minerals in +my mind. I thought, possibly, it might be some railway extension in +prospect--and it was your last bit of property without mortgage on it. +Yes, I told you not to do it, and it's done." + +"Oh, Arthur," sighed the elderly woman. "Your last bit of land--and to +think it should go like that. I never dreamed I should have to say those +words to my son." Then stiffening and turning to Collins. "But I did not +come to complain, I came to see if justice cannot be done. This is +robbery. That terrible man with the German name has robbed Arthur. It is +quite plain. What can be done?" + +"Absolutely nothing," replied Collins. + +"Nothing?" + +"Your ladyship must believe me when I say nothing can be done. What +ground can we have for moving? The sale was perfectly open and above +board. Mulhausen made no false statement--I am right in saying that, am +I not?" turning to Jones. + +Jones had to nod. + +"And that being the case we are helpless." + +"But if it can be proved that he knew there was coal in the land, and if +he bought it concealing that knowledge, surely, surely the law can make +him give it back," said the simple old lady, who it would seem stood in +the place of Rochester's unfortunate mother. + +Mr. Collins almost smiled. + +"Your ladyship, that would give no handle to the law. Now, for instance, +if I knew that the Canadian Pacific Railway, let us say, had discovered +large coal bearing lands, and if I used that private knowledge to buy +your Canadian Pacific stock at, say, one hundred, and if that stock rose +to three hundred, could you make me give you your stock back? Certainly +not. The gain would be a perfectly legitimate product of my own +sharpness." + +"Sharpness," said the bird woman, "that's just it. If Arthur had had +even sense, to say nothing of sharpness, things would have been very +different all round--all round." + +She protruded her head from her boa and retracted it. Jones, furious, +dumb, with his hands in his pockets and his back against the window, +said nothing. + +He never could have imagined that a baiting like this, over a matter +with which he had nothing to do, could have made him feel such a fool, +and such an ass. + +He saw at once how Rochester had been done, and he felt, against all +reason, the shame that Rochester might have felt--but probably wouldn't. +His uncle, the Duke of Melford, for that was the choleric one's name, +his mother, the dowager Countess of Rochester, and his sister, the Hon. +Venetia Birdbrook, now all rose up and got together in a covey before +making their exit, and leaving this bad business and the fool who had +brought it about. + +You can fancy their feelings. A man in Rochester's position may be +anything, almost, as long as he is wealthy, but should he add the crime +of poverty to his other sins he is lost indeed. And Rochester had not +only flung his money away, he had flung a coal mine after it. + +No wonder that his uncle did not even glance at him again as he left the +room, shepherding the two women before him. + +"It's unfortunate," said Collins, when they found themselves alone. It +was the mildest thing he could say, and he said it. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +THE GIRL IN THE VICTORIA + + +When Jones found himself outside the office at last, and in the bustle +of Fleet Street, he turned his steps west-wards. + +He had almost forgotten the half formed determination to throw down his +cards and get up from this strange game, which he had formed when +Collins had asked him whether he would not have an interview with his +wife. This coal mine business pushed everything else aside for the +moment; the thought of that deal galvanized the whole business side of +his nature, so that, as he would have said himself, bristles stood on +it. A mine worth a million pounds, traded away for twenty five thousand +dollars! + +He was taking the thing to heart, as though he himself had been tricked +by Mulhausen, and now as he walked, a block in the traffic brought him +back from his thoughts, and suddenly, a most appalling sensation came +upon him. For a moment he had lost his identity. For a moment he was +neither Rochester nor Jones, but just a void between these two. For a +moment he could not tell which he was. For a moment he was neither. That +was the terrible part of the feeling. It was due to over taxation of the +brain in his extraordinary position, and to the intensive manner in +which he had been playing the part of Rochester. It lasted perhaps, only +a few seconds, for it is difficult to measure the duration of mental +processes, and it passed as rapidly as it had come. + +Seeing a bar he entered it, and a small glass of brandy closed the +incident and made him forget it. He asked the way to Coutts' Bank, which +in 1692 was situated at the "Three Crowns" in the Strand, next door to +the Globe Tavern, and which still holds the same position in the world +of commerce, and nearly the same in the world of bricks and mortar. + +He reached the door of the bank and was about to enter, when something +checked him. It was the thought that he would have to endorse the cheque +with Rochester's signature. + +He had copied it so often that he felt competent to make a fair +imitation, but he had begun life in a bank and he knew the awful eye a +bank has for a customer's signature. His signature--at least +Rochester's--must be well known at Coutts'. It would never do to put +himself under the microscope like that, besides, and this thought only +came to him now, it might be just as well to have his money in some +place unknown to others. Collins and all that terrible family knew that +he was banking at Coutts', events might arise when it would be very +necessary too for him to be able to lay his hands on a secret store of +money. + +He had passed the National Provincial Bank in the Strand, the name +sounded safe and he determined to go there. + +He reached the bank, sent his name into the manager, and was at once +admitted. The manager was a solid man, semi-bald, with side whiskers, +and an air of old English business respectability delightful in these +new and pushing days, he received the phantom of the Earl of Rochester +with the respect due to their mutual positions. + +Jones, between Coutts' and the National Provincial, had done a lot of +thinking. He foresaw that even if he were to give in a passable +imitation of Rochester's signature, all cheques signed in future would +have to tally with that signature. Now a man's handwriting, though +varying, has a personality of its own, and he very much doubted as to +whether he would be able to keep up that personality under the +microscopic gaze of the bank people. He decided on a bold course. He +would retain his own handwriting. It was improbable that the National +Provincial had ever seen Rochester's autograph; even if they had, it was +not a criminal thing for a man to alter his style of writing. He +endorsed the cheque Rochester, gave a sample of his signature, gave +directions for a cheque book to be sent to him at Carlton House Terrace, +and took his departure. + +He had changed Rochester's five pound note before going to Collins, and +he had the change in his pocket, four pounds sixteen and sixpence. Five +pounds, less the price of a cigar at the tobacconist's where he had +changed his note, the taxi to Sergeants' Inn, and the glass of liqueur +brandy. He remembered that he still owed for his luncheon yesterday at +the Senior Conservative, and he determined to go and pay for it, and +then lunch at some restaurant. Never again would he have luncheon at +that Conservative Caravanserai, so he told himself. + +With this purpose in mind, he was standing waiting to cross the road +near Southampton Street, when a voice sounded in his ear and an arm took +his. + +"Hello, Rochy," said the voice. + +Jones turned, and found himself arm in arm with a youth of eighteen--so +he seemed, a gilded youth, if there ever was a gilded youth, +immaculately dressed, cheery, and with a frank face that was entirely +pleasing. + +"Hello," said Jones. + +"What became of you that night?" asked the cheery one, as they crossed +the road still arm in arm. + +"Which night?" + +"Which night? Why the night they shot us out of the Rag Tag Club. Are +you asleep, Rawjester--or what ails you?" + +"Oh, I remember," said Jones. + +They had unlinked now, and walking along together they passed up +Southampton Street and through Henrietta Street towards Leicester +Square. The unknown doing all the talking, a task for which he seemed +well qualified. + +He talked of things, events, and people, absolutely unknown to his +listener, of horses, and men, and women. He talked Jones into Bond +Street, and Jones went shopping with him, assisting him in the choice of +two dozen coloured socks at Beale and Inmans. Outside the hosier's, the +unknown was proposing luncheon, when a carriage, an open Victoria, +going slowly on account of the traffic, drew Jones' attention. + +It was a very smart turn out, one horsed, but having two liveried +servants on the box. A coachman, and a footman with powdered hair. + +In the Victoria was seated one of the prettiest girls ever beheld by +Jones. A lovely creature, dark, with deep, dreamy, vague blue-grey +eyes--and a face! Ah, what pen could describe that face, so mobile, +piquante, and filled with light and inexpressible charm. + +She had caught Jones' eye, she was gazing at him curiously, half +mirthfully, half wrathfully, it seemed to him, and now to his amazement +she made a little movement of the head, as if to say, "come here." At +the same moment she spoke to the coachman. + +"Portman, stop please." + +Jones advanced, raising his hat. + +"I just want to tell you," said the Beauty, leaning a little forward, +"that you are a silly old ass. Venetia has told me all--It's nothing to +me, but don't do it--Portman, drive on." + +"Good Lord!" said Jones, as the vehicle passed on its way, bearing off +its beautiful occupant, of whom nothing could now be seen but the lace +covered back of a parasol. + +He rejoined the unknown. + +"Well," said the latter, "what has your wife been saying to you?" + +"My _wife_!" said Jones. + +"Well, your late wife, though you ain't divorced yet, are you?" + +"No," said Jones. + +He uttered the word mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was saying. + +That lovely creature his wife! Rochester's wife! + +"Get in," said the unknown. He had called a taxi. + +Jones got in. + +Rochester's wife! The contrast between her and Lady Plinlimon suddenly +arose before him, together with the folly of Rochester seen gigantically +and in a new light. + +The taxi drew up in a street off Piccadilly; they got out; the unknown +paid and led the way into a house, whose front door presented a modest +brass door plate inscribed with the words: + + "MR. CARR" + +They passed along a passage, and then down stairs to a large room, where +small card tables were set out. An extraordinary room, for, occupying +nearly half of one side of it stood a kitchen range, over which a cook +was engaged broiling chops and kidneys, and all the other elements of a +mixed grill. Old fashioned pictures of sporting celebrities hung on the +walls, and opposite the range stood a dresser, laden with priceless old +fashioned crockery ware. Off this room lay the dining room, and the +whole place had an atmosphere of comfort and the days gone by when days +were less laborious than our days, and comfort less allied to glitter +and tinsel. + +This was Carr's Club. + +The unknown sat down before the visitor's book, and began to write his +own name and the name of his guest. + +Jones, looking over his shoulder, saw that his name was Spence, Patrick +Spence. Sir Patrick Spence, for one of the attendants addressed him as +Sir Patrick. A mixed grill, some cheese and draught beer in heavy pewter +tankards, constituted the meal, during which the loquacious Spence kept +up the conversation. + +"I don't want to poke my nose into your affairs," said he, "but I can +see there's something worrying you; you're not the same chap. Is it +about the wife?" + +"No," said Jones, "it's not that." + +"Well, I don't want to dig into your confidences, and I don't want to +give you advice. If I did, I'd say make it up with her. You know very +well, Rochy, you have led her the deuce of a dance. Your sister got me +on about it the other night at the Vernons'. We had a long talk about +you, Rochy, and we agreed you were the best of chaps, but too much given +to gaiety and promiscuous larks. You should have heard me holding forth. +But, joking apart, it's time you and I settled down, old chap. You can't +put old heads on young shoulders, but our shoulders ain't so young as +they used to be, Rochy. And I want to tell you this, if you don't hitch +up again in harness, the other party will do a bolt. I'm dead serious. +It's not the thing to say to another man, but you and I haven't any +secrets between us, and we've always been pretty plain one to the +other--well, this is what I want to say, and just take it as it's meant. +Maniloff is after her. You know that chap, the _attaché_ at the Russian +Embassy, chap like a billiard marker, always at the other end of a +cigarette--other name's Boris. Hasn't a penny to bless himself with. I +know he hasn't, for I've made kind enquiries about him through Lewis, +reason why--he wanted to buy one of my racers for export to Roosia. +Seven hundred down and the balance in six months. Lewis served up his +past to me on a charger. The chap's rotten with debt, divorced from his +wife, and a punter at Monte Carlo. That's his real profession, and card +playing. He's a sleepy Slav, and if he was told his house was on fire +he'd say, "nichévo," meaning it don't matter, it's well insured--if he +had a house to insure, which he hasn't. But women like him, he's that +sort. But Heaven help the woman that marries him. He'd take her money +and herself off to Monte, and when he'd broken her heart and spoiled her +life and spent her coin, he'd leave her, and go off and be Russian +_attaché_ in Japan or somewhere. I know him. Don't let her do it, +Rochy." + +"But how am I to help it?" asked the perplexed Jones, who saw the +meaning of the other. It did not matter in reality to him, whether a +woman whom he had only seen once were to "bolt" with a Russian and find +ruination at Monte Carlo, but this world is not entirely a world of +reality, and he felt a surprisingly strong resentment at the idea of +the girl in the Victoria "bolting" with a Russian. + +It will be remembered that in Collins' office, the lawyer's talk about +his "wife" had almost decided him to throw down his cards and quit. This +shadowy wife, first mentioned by the bird woman, had, in fact, been the +one vaguely felt insuperable obstacle in the way of his grand +determination to make good where Rochester had failed, to fight +Rochester's battles, to be the Earl of Rochester permanently maybe, or, +failing that, to retire and vanish back to the States with honourable +pickings. + +The sight of the real thing had, however, altered the whole position. +Romance had suddenly touched Victor Jones; the gorgeous but sordid veils +through which he had been pushing had split to some mystic wand, and had +become the foliage of fairy land. + +"I want to tell you--you are an old ass." + +Those words were surely enough to shatter any dream, to turn to pathos +any situation. In Jones' case they had acted as a most potent spell. He +could still hear the voice, wrathful, but with a tinge of mirth in it, +golden, individual, entrancing. + +"How are you to help it?" said Spence. "Why, go and make up with her +again, kick old Nichévo. Women like chaps that kick other chaps; they +pretend they don't, but they do. Either do that or take a gun and shoot +her, she'd be better shot than with that fellow." + +He lit a cigarette and they passed into the card room, where Spence, +looking at his watch, declared that he must be off to keep an +appointment. They said good-bye in the street, and Jones returned to +Carlton House Terrace. + +He had plenty to think about. + +The pile of letters waiting to be answered on the table in the smoking +room reminded him that he had forgotten a most pressing necessity--a +typist. He could sign letters all right, with a very good imitation of +Rochester's signature, but a holograph letter in the same hand was +beyond him. Then a bright idea came to him, why not answer these letters +with sixpenny telegrams, which he could hand in himself? + +He found a sheaf of telegraph forms in the bureau, and sat down before +the letters, dealing with them one by one, and as relevantly as he +could. It was a rather interesting and amusing game, and when he had +finished he felt fairly satisfied. "Awfully sorry can't come," was the +reply to the dinner invitations. The letter signed "Childersley" worried +him, till he looked up the name in "Who's Who" and found a Lord +answering to it at the same address as that on the note paper. + +He had struck by accident on one of the alleviations of a major misery +of civilized life, replying to Letters, and he felt like patenting it. + +He left the house with the sheaf of telegrams, found the nearest post +office--which is situated directly opposite to Charing Cross +Station--and returned. Then lighting a cigar, he took the friendly and +indefatigable "Who's Who" upon his knee, and began to turn the pages +indolently. It is a most interesting volume for an idle moment, full of +scattered romance, tales of struggle and adventure, compressed into a +few lines, peeps of history, and the epitaphs of still living men. + +"I want to tell you--you are an old ass." + +The words still sounding in his ears made him turn again to the name +Plinlimon. The contrast between Lady Plinlimon and the girl, whose +vision dominated his mind, rose up again sharply at sight of the printed +name. + +Ass! That name did not apply to Rochester. To fit him with an +appropriate pseudonym would be impossible. Fool, idiot, sumph--Jones +tried them all on the image of the defunct, but they were too small. + +"Plinlimon: 3rd Baron," read Jones, "created 1831, Albert James, b. +March 10th, 1862. O. S. of second Baron and Julia d. of J. H. Thompson +of Clifton, m. Sapphira, d. of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. privately. +Address The Roost, Tite Street, Chelsea." + +Mulhausen! He almost dropped the book. Mulhausen! Collins, his office, +and that terrible family party all rose up before him. Here was the +scamp who had diddled Rochester out of the coal mine, the father of the +woman who had diddled him out of thousands. The paragraph in "Who's Who" +turned from printed matter to a nest of wriggling vipers. He threw the +book on the table, rose up, and began to pace the floor. + +The girl-wife in the Victoria, his own position--everything was +forgotten, before the monstrous fact half guessed, half seen. + +Rochester had been plucked right and left by these harpies. He had +received five thousand pounds for land worth a million from the father, +he had paid eight thousand, or a good part of eight thousand to the +daughter. Fine business that! + +I compared Jones, when he was fighting Voles, to a terrier. He had a +good deal of the terrier in his composition, the honesty, the rooting +out instinct, and the fury before vermin. Men run in animal groups, and +if you study animals you will be surprised by nothing so much as the old +race fury that breaks out in the most civilized animal before the old +race quarry or enemy. + +For a few seconds, as he paced the floor, Jones was in the mental +condition of a dog in proximity to a hutched badger. Then he began to +think clearly. The obvious fact before him was that Voles, the +Plinlimons and Mulhausen were a gang; the presumptive fact was that the +money paid in blackmail had gone back to Mulhausen, or at least a great +part of it. + +Was Mulhausen the spider of the web? Were all the rest his tools and +implements? + +Jones had a good deal of instinctive knowledge of women. He did not in +his heart believe that a woman could be so utterly vile as to use love +letters directed to her for the purpose of extracting money from the man +who wrote them. Or rather that, whilst she might use them, it was +improbable that she would invent the method. The whole business had the +stamp of a mind masculine and utterly unscrupulous. Even at first he had +glimpsed this vaguely, when he considered it probable that Lord +Plinlimon had a hand in the affair. + +"Now," thought Jones, "if I could bring this home to Mulhausen, I could +squeeze back that coal mine from him. I could sure." + +He sat down and lit another cigar to assist him in dealing with this +problem. + +It was very easy to say "squeeze Mulhausen," it was a different thing to +do it. He came to this conclusion after a few minutes' earnest +concentration of mind on that problematical person. Hitherto he had been +dealing with small men and wasters. Voles was a plain scoundrel, quite +easily overthrown by direct methods. But Marcus Mulhausen he guessed to +be a big man. The first thing to be done was to verify this supposition. +He rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church. + +"Come in," said he, when the latter appeared, "and shut the door. I want +to ask you something." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"It's just this. I want you to tell me what you think of Lord Plinlimon, +and what you have heard said about him. I have my own opinions--I want +yours." + +"Well, my Lord," began Church. "It's not for me to say anything against +his Lordship, but since you ask me I will say that it's generally the +opinion that his Lordship is a bit--soft." + +"Do you think he's straight?" + +"Yes, my Lord--that is to say--" + +"Spit it out," said Jones. + +"Well, my Lord, he owes money, that's well known; and I've heard it said +a good deal of money has been lost at cards in his house, but not +through his fault. Indeed, you yourself said something to me to that +effect, my Lord." + +"Yes, so I did--But what I want to get at is this. Do you think he's a +man who would do a scoundrelly thing--that's plain?" + +"Oh, no, my Lord, he's straight enough. It's the other party." + +"Meaning his wife?" + +"No, my Lord--her brother, Mr. Julian." + +"Ah!" + +Church warmed a bit. "He's always about there, lives with them mostly. +You see, my Lord, he has no what you may call status of his own, but he +manages to get known to people through her Ladyship." + +"Kind of sucker," said Jones. + +Mr. Church assented. The expression was new to him, but it seemed to +apply. + +Then Jones dismissed him. + +The light was becoming clearer and clearer. Here was another member of +the gang, another instrument of Marcus Mulhausen. + +"To-morrow," said Jones to himself, "I will go for these chaps. Voles is +the key to the lot of them, and I have Voles completely under my thumb." + +Then he put the matter from his mind for a while, and fell to thinking +of the girl--his wife--Rochester's wife. + +The strange thought came to him that she was a widow and did not know +it. + +He dined out that night, going to a little restaurant in Soho, and he +returned to bed early, so as to be fresh for the business of the morrow. + +He had looked himself up again in "Who's Who," and found that his wife's +name was Teresa. Teresa. The name pleased him vaguely, and now that he +had captured it, it stuck like a burr in his mind. If he could only make +good over the Mulhausen proposition, re-capture that mine, prove +himself--would she, if he told her all--would she--? + +He fell asleep murmuring the word Teresa. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +TERESA + + +He woke up next morning, to find the vision of Teresa, Countess of +Rochester--so he called her--standing by his bedside. + +Have you ever for a moment considered the influence of women? Go to a +public meeting composed entirely of men and see what a heavy affair it +can be, especially if you are a speaker; sprinkle a few women through +the audience, and behold the livening effect. At a party or a public +meeting in the Wheat Pit or the battlefield, women, or the recollection +of a woman, form or forms one of the greatest liveners to conversation, +speech, or action. Most men fight the battle of life for a woman. Jones, +as he sat up and drank his morning tea, gazing the while at the vision +of Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had found, almost unknown to himself, +a new incentive to action. + +The position yesterday had begun to sag, very little would have made him +"quit," take a hundred pounds from the eight thousand and a passage by +the next boat to the States; but that girl in the Victoria, those eyes, +that voice, those words--they had altered everything. + +Was he in love? Perhaps not, but he was fascinated, held, dazzled. + +More than that, the world seemed strange--brighter; he felt younger, +filled with an energy of a new brand. He whistled as he crossed the +floor to look out of the window, and as he tubbed he splashed the water +about like a boy. + +It was easy to see that the unfortunate man had tumbled into a position +more fantastic and infinitely more dangerous than any position he had +hitherto occupied since setting foot in the house of Rochester. + +That vanished and fantastic humourist would have found plenty to feed +his thoughts could he have returned. + +The cheque book from the National Provincial Bank arrived by the first +post, and after breakfast he put it aside in a drawer of the bureau in +the smoking room. He glanced through the usual sheaf of letters from +unknown people, tradesmen, whose accounts were marked "account rendered" +and gentlemen who signed themselves with the names of counties. One of +the latter seemed indignant. + + "I take this d--d bad of you, Rochester," said he. "I've found + it out at last, you are the man responsible for that telegram. I + lost three days and a night's sleep rushing up to Cumberland on + a wild goose chase, and I'm telling people all about it. Some + day you'll land yourself in a mess. Jokes that may be funny + amongst board school boys are out of place amongst men. + + "LANGWATHBY." + +Jones determined to send Langwathby a telegram of apology when he had +time to look his name up in "Who's Who"; then he put the letters aside, +called for his hat and cane and left the house. + +He was going to Voles first. + +Voles was his big artillery. He guessed that the fight with Marcus +Mulhausen would be a battle to the death. He reckoned a lot on Voles. In +Trafalgar Square he called a taxi and told the driver to take him to +Jermyn Street. + + + + +PART III + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE ATTACK + + +A. S. Voles, money lender and bill discounter, lived over his business. +That is to say his office was his dining room. He owned the house in +Jermyn Street. Jones, dismissing the taxi, rang the bell and was +admitted by a man servant, who, not sure whether Mr. Voles was in or +not, invited the visitor into a small room on the right of the entrance +hall and closed the door on him. + +The room contained a desk table, three chairs, a big scale map of +London, a Phoenix Insurance Almanac, and a photogravure reproduction of +Mona Lisa. The floor was covered with linoleum, and the window gave upon +a blank wall. + +This was the room where creditors and stray visitors had to wait. Jones +took a chair and looked about him. + +Humanity may be divided into three classes: those who, having seen, +adore, those who tolerate, and those who detest Mona Lisa. Jones +detested her. That leery, sleery, slippery, poisonous face was hateful +to him as the mask of a serpent. + +He was looking at the lady when the door opened and in came Voles. + +Voles looked yellower and older this morning, but his face showed +nothing of resentment. The turning of the Earl of Rochester upon him had +been the one great surprise of his life. He had always fancied that he +knew character, and his fancy was not ill founded. His confidence in +himself had been shaken. + +"Good morning," said Jones. "I have come to have a little talk with +you." + +"Sit down," said Voles. + +They seated themselves, Voles before the desk. + +"I haven't come to fight," said Jones, "just to talk. You known that +Marcus Mulhausen has got that Welsh land from me for five thousand, and +that it is worth maybe a million now." + +Voles nodded. + +"Well, Mulhausen has to give that property back." + +Voles laughed. + +"You needn't laugh. You have seen my rough side. I'm holding the smooth +towards you now--but there is no occasion to laugh. I'm going to skin +Mulhausen." + +"Well," said Voles. "What have I to do with that?" + +"You are the knife." + +"Oh!" + +"Yes, indeed. Let's talk. When you got that eight thousand from me, you +were only the agent of the Plinlimon woman, and she was only the agent +of Marcus. She got something, you got something, but Marcus got the +most. Julian got something too, but it was Marcus got the joints. He +gave you three the head, and the hoofs, and the innards, and the tail. +I've had it out with the Plinlimon woman and I know. You were a gang." + +Voles heaved up in his chair. + +"What more have you to say?" asked he thickly. + +"A lot. There is nothing more difficult to get at than a gang, because +they cover each other's traces. I pay you a certain sum in cash, you +deduct your commission and hand the remainder over to the Plinlimon +woman, she pays her Pa, and gets a few hundred to pay her milliner. +Who's to prove anything? No cheques have passed." + +"Just so," said Voles. + +"I'm glad you see my point," replied Jones. "Now if you can't untie a +knot, you can always cut it if you have a knife--can't you?" + +Voles shrugged his shoulders. + +"Well, I said you were a knife, didn't I, and I'm going to cut this knot +with you, see my point?" + +"Not in the least." + +"I'm sorry, because that makes me speak plain, and that's unpleasant. +This is my meaning. I have to get that property back, or else I will go +to the police and rope in the whole gang. Tell the whole story. I will +accuse Marcus. Do you understand that? Marcus, and Marcus' daughter, and +Marcus' son, and you. And I won't do that to-morrow, I'll do it to-day. +To-night the whole caboodle of you will be in jail." + +"You said you hadn't come to fight," cried Voles. "What do you want? +Haven't you had enough from me? Yet you drive me like this. It's +dangerous." + +"I have not come to fight. At least not you. On the contrary, when I get +this property back, if it turns out worth a million, I'll maybe pay you +your losses. You've been paying the piper for Marcus, it seems to me." + +"I have," groaned Voles. + +The two words proved to Jones that he was right all through. + +"Well, it's Marcus I'm up against, and you have to help me." + +Then Voles began to speak. The something Oriental in his nature, the +something that had driven him rushing with outspread arms at the +constable that evening, began now to talk. + +Help against Marcus! What could he do against Marcus? Why Marcus +Mulhausen held him in the hollow of his hand. Marcus held everyone: his +daughter, her husband, his own son Julian, to say nothing of A. S. Voles +and others. + +Jones listened with patient attention to all this, and when the other +had finished and wiped the palms of his hands on his handkerchief, said: + +"But all the same, Marcus is held by the fact that he forms one of a +gang." + +Voles made a movement with his hand. + +"Don't interrupt me. The head of a shark is the cleverest part of it, +but it has to suffer with the body when the whole shark is caught; +that's the fix Marcus is in. When I close on the lot of you, Marcus +will be the first to go into the jug. Now, see here, you have got to +take my orders; they won't be hard." + +"What are they?" + +"You have got to write me a note, which I will take to Marcus, telling +him the game's up, the gang's burst, and to deliver." + +"Why d--n it, what ails you?" said Voles. + +"What ails me?" + +"You aren't talking like yourself--you have never been like yourself +since you've taken this line." + +Jones felt himself changing colour. In his excitement he had let his +voice run away with him. + +"It doesn't matter a button whether I'm like myself or not," said he, +"you've got to write that note, and do it now while I dictate." + +Voles drummed on the desk with his fingers, then he took a sheet of +paper and an envelope from a drawer. + +"Well," said he, "what is it to be?" + +"Nothing alarming," said the other. "Just three words. 'It's all +up'--how do you address him?" + +Without reply Voles wrote. + + "Dear M. + + "It's all up." + +"That'll do," said Jones, "now sign your name and address the envelope." + +Voles did so. + +Jones put the letter in his pocket. + +"Well," said he, "that ends the business. I hope, with this, and what I +have to say to him, Marcus will part, and as I say, if things turn out +as I hope, maybe I'll right your losses--I have no quarrel with +you--only Marcus." + +Suddenly Voles spoke. + +"For God's sake," said he, "mind how you deal with that chap; he's never +been got the better of, curse him. Go cautiously." + +"You never fear," said Jones. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE ATTACK (Continued) + + +Jones had already obtained Marcus Mulhausen's address from the +invaluable Kelly. + +Mulhausen was a financier. A financier is a man who makes money without +a trade or profession, and Mulhausen had made a great deal of money, +despite this limitation, during his twenty years of business life, which +had started humbly enough behind the counter of a pawnbroker's in the +Minories. + +His offices were situated in Chancery Lane. They consisted of three +rooms: an outer waiting room, a room inhabited by three clerks, that is +to say a senior clerk, Mr. Aaronson, and two subordinates, and an inner +room where Mulhausen dwelt. + +Jones, on giving his name, was shown at once into the inner room where +Mulhausen was seated at his desk. + +Mulhausen was a man of sixty or so, small, fragile looking, with grey +side whiskers and drowsy heavy-lidded eyes. + +He nodded to Jones and indicated a chair. Then he finished his work, the +reading of a letter, placed it under an agate paper weight, and turned +to the newcomer. + +"What can I do for you this morning?" asked Mulhausen. + +"You can just read this letter," said Jones. + +He handed over Voles' letter. + +Mulhausen put on his glasses, opened the letter, and read it. Then he +placed the open letter on top of the one beneath the agate paper weight, +tore up the envelope, and threw the two fragments into the waste paper +basket behind him. + +"Anything more?" asked he. + +"Yes," replied the other, "a lot more. Let us begin at the beginning. +You have obtained from me a piece of real estate worth anything up to a +million pounds; you paid five thousand for it." + +"Yes!" + +"You have got to hand me that property back." + +"I beg your pardon," said Mulhausen. "Do you refer to the Glanafwyn +lands?" + +"Yes." + +"I see. And I have to hand those back to you--anything more?" + +"No, that's all. I received your daughter's letters back from Voles +yesterday--Let's be plain with one another. Voles has confessed +everything. I have his confession under his own handwriting, you are all +in a net, the whole gang of you--you, your daughter, your son and Voles. +You plucked me like a turkey. You know the whole affair as well as I do, +and if I do not receive that property back before five o'clock to-day, I +shall go to the nearest police office and swear an information against +you." + +"I see," said Mulhausen, without turning a hair, "you will put us all in +prison, will you not? That would be very unpleasant. Very unpleasant +indeed." + +He rose, went to some tin boxes situated on a ledge behind him, took out +his keys and opened one. + +Jones, fancying that he was going to produce the title deeds, felt a +little jump at his thyroid cartilage. This was victory without a battle. +But Mr. Marcus Mulhausen took no title deeds from the box. He produced a +letter case, came back with it to the table, and sat down. + +Then holding the letter case before him he looked at Jones over his +glasses. + +"You rogue," said Mulhausen. + +That was the most terrific moment in Jones' life. Mulhausen from a +criminal had suddenly become a judge. He spoke with such absolute +conviction, ease, sense of power and scorn, that there could be no +manner of doubt he held the winning cards. He opened the letter case and +produced a paper. + +"Here is the bill of exchange for two hundred and fifty pounds, to which +you forged Sir Pleydell Tuffnell's name," said Marcus Mulhausen, +spreading the paper before him. "That was two years ago. We all know Sir +Pleydell and his easy going ways. He is so careless you thought he would +never find out; so good, he would never prosecute. But it came into my +hands, it is my property, and I have no hesitation in dealing with +rogues. Now do you suppose for a moment that if I were moving against +you in any unlawful way--which I deny--I would have done so without a +protector? Could you find a better protection than this? The punishment +for forgery let me remind you, is five years penal servitude at the +least." He looked down at the document with a cold smile, and then he +glanced up again at his victim. Jones saw that he was done; done not by +Marcus Mulhausen, but by Rochester. He had tripped over a kink in +Rochester's character, just as a man trips over a kink in a carpet. Then +rage came to him. The sight of the horrible scoundrel with whiskers, +triumphant and gloating, roused the dog in his nature, and all the craft +that lay hidden in him. + +He heaved a sigh, rose brokenly, and approached the desk, and the +creature behind it. + +"You are a cleverer man than I am," said he, "shake hands and call it +quits." + +Next moment he had snatched the paper from the fingers that held it, +crumpled it, crammed it into his mouth. He rushed to the door and locked +it, whilst Mulhausen, screaming like a woman, reached him and clutched +him by the shoulders. + +Then, swiftly turning, Jones gripped the financier by both arms and held +him so, chewing, chewing, chewing, mute and facing the shouting other +one. + +They were hammering at the door outside. Mr. Aaronson and the clerks, +useless people for breaking-down-door purposes, were assisting their +employer with their voices--mainly, the whole block of offices was +raised, and boys and telephones were summoning the police. + +Meanwhile, Jones was chewing, and the bill was slowly being converted +into what the physiologist terms a bolus. It took three minutes before +the bolus, properly salivated and raised by the tongue, passed the +anterior pillars of the fauces, then the epiglottis shut down, and the +bolus slipping over it and seized by the muscles of the esophagus passed +to its destined abode. + +Jones had swallowed Rochester's past, or at least a most important part +of it. The act accomplished, he sat down as a boa constrictor recoils +itself, still gulping. Marcus Mulhausen rushed to the door and opened +it. A vast policeman stood before him, behind the policeman crowded Mr. +Aaronson and the clerks, and behind these a dozen or two of the block +dwellers, eager for gory sights at a distance. + +Marcus looked round. + +"What's all this?" said he. "There is nothing wrong, just a little +dispute with a gentleman. It is all over--Mr. Aaronson, clear the +office. Constable, here is two shillings for your trouble. Good day." + +He shut the door on the disappointed crowd and turned to Jones. + +The battle was over. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +A WILD SURPRISE + + +At five o'clock that day the transference of the property was made out +and signed by Marcus Mulhausen in Mortimer Collins' office, and the +Glanafwyn lands became again the property of the Earl of Rochester--"for +the sum of five thousand pounds received and herewith acknowledged," +said the document. + +Needless to say no five thousand pounds passed hands. Collins, +mystified, asked no questions in the presence of Mulhausen. When the +latter had taken his departure, however, he turned to Jones. + +"Did you pay him five thousand?" asked the lawyer. + +"Not a cent," replied the other. + +"Well, how have you worked the miracle, then?" + +Jones told. + +"You see how I had them coopered," finished he. "Well, just as I was +going to grab the kitty he played the ace of spades, produced an old +document he held against me." + +"Yes?" + +"I pondered for a moment--then I came to a swift conclusion--took the +doc from him and ate it." + +"You ate the document?" + +"Sure." + +Jones rubbed his stomach and laughed. + +"Well, well," said the solicitor with curious acquiescence and want of +astonishment after the first momentary start caused by this surprising +statement, "we have the property back, that's the main thing." + +"You remember," said Jones, "I talked to you about letting that place." + +"Carlton House Terrace?" + +"Yes--well, that's off. I've made good. Do you see?" + +"M--yes," replied Collins. + +"I'll have enough money now to pay off the mortgages and things." + +"Undoubtedly," said Collins, "but, now, don't you think it would be a +good thing if you were to tie this property up, so that mischance can't +touch it. You have no children, it is true, but one never knows. +Honestly, I think you would be well advised if you were to take +precautions." + +"Don't worry," said Jones brightly. "I'll give the whole lot to--my +wife--when I can come to terms with her." + +"That's good hearing," replied the other. Then Jones took his departure, +leaving the precious documents in the hands of the lawyer. + +He was elated. He had proved the facts which he had only guessed by +instinct up to this, that a rogue is the weakest person in the world +before a plain dealer, if the plain dealer has a weapon in his hand. The +almost instantaneous collapse of Voles and Mulhausen was due to the +fact that they stood on rotten foundations. He told himself now as he +walked along homeward that he need not have eaten that document. +Mulhausen would never have used it. If he had just gone out and called +in a policeman, Mulhausen, seeing him in earnest, would have collapsed. + +However the thing was eaten and done with and there was no use in +troubling any more on the matter. He had other things to think of. He +had made good. He had saved the Rochester name and estates, he had +recaptured one million, eight thousand pounds, reckoning that the coal +bearing lands were worth a million, and, more than that; he was a sane +man, able to look after what he had recaptured. + +The Rochester family, if they knew, would have no cause to grumble at +the interloper and the substitution of new brains and push in the place +of decadence, craziness and sloth. The day when he had changed places +with Rochester was the best day that had ever dawned for them. + +He was thinking this when all of a sudden that horrible, unreal feeling +he had suffered from once before, came upon him again. This time it was +not a question of losing his identity, it was a shuffle of his own taxed +brain between two identities. Rochester--Jones--Jones--Rochester. It +seemed to him for the space of a couple of seconds that he could not +tell which of those two individuals he was, then the feeling passed and +he resumed his way, reaching Carlton House Terrace shortly after six. + +He gave his hat and cane and gloves to the flunkey who opened the door +for him--He had obtained a latch-key from Church that morning but forgot +to use it--and was crossing the hall when a strain of music brought him +to a halt. The tones of a piano came from a door on the right. Someone +was playing Chaminade's _Valse Tendre_ and playing it to perfection. + +Jones turned to the man-servant. + +"Who is that?" he asked. + +"It is her ladyship, my Lord, she arrived half an hour ago. Her luggage +has gone upstairs." + +Her ladyship! + +Jones thrown off his balance hesitated for a moment, _what_ ladyship +could it be. Not, surely, that awful mother! + +He crossed to the door, opened it, found a music-room, and there, seated +at a piano, the girl of the Victoria. + +She was in out-door dress and had not removed her hat. + +She looked over her shoulder at him as he came in, her face wore a half +smile, but she did not stop playing. Anything more fascinating, more +lovely, more distracting than that picture it would be hard to imagine. + +As he crossed the room she suddenly ceased playing and twirled round on +the music-stool. + +"I've come back," said she. "Ju-ju, I couldn't stand it. You are bad but +you are a lot, lot better than your mother--and Venetia. I'm going to +try and put up with you a bit longer--_Ju-Ju_, what makes you look so +stiff and funny?" + +"I don't know," said Jones, passing his hand across his forehead. "I've +had a hard day." She looked at him curiously for a moment, then +pityingly, then kindly. + +Then she jumped up, made him sit down on a big couch by the wall, and +took her seat beside him. + +Then she took his hand. + +"Ju-Ju--why will you be such a fool?" + +"I don't know," said Jones. + +The caress of the little jewelled hand destroyed his mental powers. He +dared not look at her, just sat staring before him. + +"They told me all about the coal mine," she went on, "at least Venetia +did, and how they all bully-ragged you--Venetia was great on that. +Venetia waggled that awful gobbly-Jick head of hers while she was +telling me--they're _mad_ over the loss of that coal thing--oh, Ju-Ju, +I'm so glad you lost it. It's wicked, I suppose, but I'm glad. That's +what made me come back, the way they went on about you. I listened and +listened and then I broke out. I said all I've wanted to say for the +last six months to Venetia. You know she told me how you came home the +other night. I said nothing then, just listened and stored it up. Then, +last night, when they all got together about the coal mine I went on +listening and storing it up. Blunders was there as well as your mother +and Venetia. Blunders said he had called you an ass and that you were. +Then I broke out. I said a whole lot of things--well, there it is. So I +came back--there were other reasons as well. I don't want to be alone. I +want to be cared for--I want to be cared for--when I saw you in Bond +Street, yesterday--I--I--I--Ju-Ju, do you care for me?" + +"Yes," said Jones. + +"I want to confess--I want to tell you something." + +"Yes." + +"If you didn't care for me--if I felt you didn't, I'd--" + +"Yes." + +"Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn't go on as I have been +going, lonely, like a lost dog." + +She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips. + +"You will not be lonely," said the unfortunate man in a muted voice. +"You need not be afraid of that." The utter inadequacy of the remark +came to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as a +rule only in Dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mind +perhaps being engaged elsewhere. + +"What would you have said if I had run away from you for good?" asked +she. "Would you have been sorry?" + +"Yes--dreadfully." + +"Are you glad I've come back?" + +"I am." + +"Honestly glad?" + +"Yes." + +"Really glad?" + +"Yes." + +"Truthfully, really, honestly glad?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, so am I," said she. She released his hand. + +"Now go and play me something. I want something soothing after +Venetia--play me Chopin's Spianato--we used to be fond of that." + +Now the only thing that Jones had ever played in his life was the Star +Spangled Banner and that with one finger--Chopin's Spianato! + +"No," he said. "I'd rather talk." + +"Well, talk then--mercy! There's the first gong." + +A faint and far away sound invaded the room, throbbed and ceased. She +rose, picked up her gloves, which she had cast on a chair, and then +peeped at herself in a mirror by the piano. + +"You have never kissed me," said she, speaking as it were half to +herself and half to him, seeming to be more engaged in a momentary +piercing criticism of the hat she was wearing than in thoughts of +kisses. He came towards her like a schoolboy, then, as she held up her +face he imprinted a chaste kiss upon her right cheek bone. + +Then the most delightful thing that ever happened to mortal man happened +to him. Two warm palms suddenly took his face between them and two moist +lips met his own. + +Then she was gone. + +He took his seat on the music stool, dazed, dazzled, delighted, shocked, +frightened, triumphant. + +The position was terrific. + +Jones was no Lothario. He was a straight, plain, common-sensical man +with a high respect for women, and the position of leading character in +a bad French comedy was not for him. Jones would just as soon have +thought of kissing another man's wife as of standing on his head in the +middle of Broadway. + +To personate another man and to kiss the other man's wife under that +disguise would have seemed to him the meanest act any two-legged +creature could perform. + +And he had just done it. And the other man's wife had--heu! his face +still burned. + +She had done it because of his deception. + +He found himself suddenly face to face with the barrier that Fate had +been cunningly constructing and had now placed straight before him. + +There was no getting over it or under it, he would have to declare his +position _at once_--and what a position to declare! + +She loved Rochester. + +All at once that terrific fact appeared before him in its true +proportions and its true meaning. + +She loved Rochester. + +He had to tell her the truth. Yet to tell her the truth he would have to +tell her that the man she loved was dead. + +Then she would want proofs. + +He would have to bring up the Savoy Hotel people, fetch folk from +America--disinter Rochester. Horror! He had never thought of that. What +had become of Rochester? Up to this he had never thought once of what +had become of the mortal remains of the defunct jester, nor had he cared +a button--why should he? + +But the woman who loved Rochester would care. And he, Jones, would +become in her eyes a ghoul, a monstrosity, a horror. + +He felt a tinge of that feeling towards himself now. Up to this +Rochester had been for him a mechanical figure, an abstraction, but the +fact of this woman's love had suddenly converted the abstraction into a +human being. + +He could not possibly tell her that he had left the remains of this +human being, this man she loved, in the hands of unknown strangers, +callously, as though it were the remains of an animal. + +He could tell her nothing. + +The game was up, he would have to quit. Either that, or to continue the +masquerade which was impossible; or to tell her all, which was equally +impossible. + +Yet to quit would be to hit her cruelly. She loved Rochester. + +Rochester, despite all his wickedness, frivolity, shiftlessness and +general unworthiness--or perhaps because of these things--had been able +to make this woman love him, take his part against his family and return +to him. + +To go away and leave her now would be the cruelest act. Cruel to her and +just as cruel to himself, fascinated and held by her as he was. Yet +there was no other course open to him. So he told himself--so he tried +to tell himself, knowing full well that the only course open to him as a +man of honour was a full confession of the facts of the case. + +To sneak away would be the act of a coward; to impose himself on her as +Rochester, the act of a villain; to tell her the truth, the act of a +man. + +The result would be terrific, yet only by facing that result could he +come clear out of this business. For half an hour he sat, scarcely +moving. He was up against that most insuperable obstacle, his own +character. Had he been a crook, everything would have been easy; being a +fairly straight man, everything was impossible. + +He had got to this bed-rock fact when the door opened and a servant made +his appearance. + +"Dinner is served, my Lord." + +Dinner! + +He rose up and came into the hall. Standing there for a moment, +undecided, he heard a laugh and looked up. She was standing in evening +dress looking over the balustrade of the first landing. + +"Why, you are not dressed!" she said. + +"I--I forgot," he answered. + +Something fell at his feet, it was a rose. She had cast it to him and +now she was coming down the stairway towards him, where he stood, the +rose in his hand and distraction at his heart. + +"It is perfectly disgraceful of you," said she, looking him up and down +and taking the rose from him, "and there is no time to dress now; you +usen't to be as careless as that," she put the rose in his coat. "I +suppose it's from living alone for a fortnight with Venetia--what would +a month have done!" She pressed the rose flat with her little palm. + +Then she slipped her fingers through the crook of his elbow and led him +to the breakfast-room door. + +She entered and he followed her. + +The breakfast table had been reduced in size and they dined facing one +another across a bowl of blush roses. + +That dinner was not a conversational success on the part of Jones, a +fact which she scarcely perceived, being in high spirits and full of +information she was eager to impart. + +It did not seem to matter to her in the least whether the flunkeys in +waiting were listening or not, she talked of the family, of "your mater" +and "Blunders" and "V" and other people, touching, it seemed on the most +intimate matters and all with a lightness of tone and spirit that would +have been delightful, no doubt, had he known the discussed ones more +intimately, and had his mind been open to receive pleasurable +impressions. + +He would have to tell her directly after dinner the whole of his +terrible story. It was as though Fate were saying to him, "You will have +to kill her directly after dinner." + +All that light-hearted chatter and new found contentment, all that +brightness would die. Grief for the man she loved, hatred of the man who +had supplanted him, anguish, perplexity, terror, would take their +places. + +When the terrible meal was over, she ordered coffee to be served in the +music-room. He lingered behind for a moment, fiddling with a cigarette. +Then, when he came into the hall with the sweat standing in beads upon +his forehead, he heard the notes of the piano. + +It was a Mazurka of Chopin's, played with gaiety and brilliancy, yet no +funeral march ever sounded more fatefully in the ears of mortal. + +He could not do it. Then--he turned the handle of the music-room door +and entered. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE SECOND HONEYMOON + + +Only three of the electric lights were on in the music-room. In the rosy +light and half shadows the room looked larger than when seen in +daylight, and different. + +She had wandered from the Mazurka into Paderewski's Mélodie Op. 8. No. +3, a lonesome sort of tune it seemed to him, as he dropped into a chair, +crossed his legs and listened. + +Then as he listened he began to think. Up to this his thoughts had been +in confusion, chasing one another or pursued by the monstrosity of the +situation. Now he was thinking clearly. + +She was his, that girl sitting there at the piano with the light upon +her hair, the light upon her bare shoulders and the sheeny fabric of her +dress. He had only to stretch out his hand and take her. Absolutely his, +and he had only met her twice. She was the most beautiful woman in +London, she had a mind that would have made a plain woman attractive, +and a manner delightful, full of surprises and contrarieties and +tendernesses--and she loved him. + +The Arabian Nights contained nothing like this, nor had the brain that +conceived Tantalus risen to the heights achieved by accident and +coincidence. + +She finished the piece, rose, turned over some sheets of music and then +came across the room--floated across the room, and took her perch on the +arm of the great chair in which he was sitting. Then he felt her fingers +on his hair. + +"I want to feel your bumps to see if you have improved--Ju-ju, your head +isn't so flat as it used to be on top. It seems a different shape +somehow, nicer. Blunders is as flat as a pancake on top of his head. +Flatness runs in families I suppose. Look at Venetia's feet! Ju-ju, have +you ever seen her in felt bath slippers?" + +"No." + +"I have--and a long yellow dressing gown, and her hair on her shoulders +all wet, in rat tails. I'm not a cat, but she makes me feel like one and +talk like one. I want to forget her. Do you remember our honeymoon?" + +"Yes." + +She had taken his hand and was holding it. + +"We were happy then. Let's begin again and let this be our second +honeymoon, and we won't quarrel once--will we?" + +"No, we won't," said Jones. + +She slipped down into the chair beside him, pulled his arm around her +and held up her lips. + +"Now you're kissing me really," she murmured; "you seemed half +frightened before--Ju-ju, I want to make a confession." + +"Yes?" + +"Well--somebody pretended to care for me very much a little while ago." + +"Who was that?" + +"Never mind. I went last night to a dance at the Crawleys' and he was +there." + +"Yes." + +"Yes--is that all you have to say? You don't seem to be very much +interested." + +"I am though." + +"I don't want you to be too much interested, and go making scenes and +all that--though you couldn't for you don't know his name. Suffice to +tell you--as the books say--he is a very handsome man, much, much +handsomer than you, Ju--Well, listen to me. He asked me to run off with +him." + +"Run off with him?" + +"Yes--to Spain. We were to go to Paris first and then to Spain--Spain, +at this time of year!" + +"What did you say?" + +"I said: 'Please don't be stupid.' I'd been reading a novel where a girl +said that to a man who wanted to run off with her--she died at the +end--but that's what she said at first--Fortunate I remembered it." + +"Why?" + +"Because--because--for a moment I felt inclined to say 'yes.' I know it +was dreadful, but think of my position, you going on like that, and me +all alone with no one to care for me--It's like a crave for drink. I +must have someone to care for me and I thought you didn't--so I nearly +said 'yes.' Once I had said what I did I felt stronger." + +"What did he say?" + +"He pleaded passionately--like the man in the book, and talked of roses +and blue seas--he's not English--I sat thinking of Venetia in her felt +bath room slippers and yellow wrapper. You know she reads St. Thomas à +Kempis and opens bazaars. She opened one the other day, and came back +with her nose quite red and in a horrid temper--I wonder what was inside +that bazaar?--Well, I knew if I did anything foolish Venetia would +exult, and that held me firm. She's not wicked. I believe she is really +good as far as she knows how, and that's the terrible thing about her. +She goes to church twice on Sunday, she takes puddings and things to old +women in the country, she opens bazaars and subscribes to ragged +schools--yet with one word she sets everyone by the ears--Well, when I +got home from the dance I began to think, and to-day, when they were all +out, I had my boxes packed and came right back here. I'd have given +anything to see their faces when they got home and found me gone." + +She sprang up suddenly. A knock had come to the door, it opened and a +servant announced Miss Birdbrook. + +Venetia had not changed that evening, she was still in her big hat. She +ignored Jones, and, standing, spoke tersely to Teresa. + +"So you have left us?" + +"Yes," replied the other. "I have come back here, d'you mind?" + +"I?" said Venetia. "It's not a question of my minding in the least, only +it was sudden, and as you left no word as to where you were going we +thought it best to make sure you were all right." + +She took her seat uncomfortably on a chair and the Countess of Rochester +perched herself again by Jones. + +"Yes, I am all right," said she, with her hand resting on his shoulder. + +Venetia gulped. + +"I am glad to know it," she said. "We tried to make you comfortable--I +cannot deny that mother feels slightly hurt at having no word from you +before leaving, and one must admit that it cannot but seem strange to +the servants your going like that--but of course that is entirely a +question of taste." + +"You mean," said Teresa, "that it was bad taste on my part--well, I +apologise. I am sorry, but the sudden craving to get--back here was more +than I could resist. I would have written to-night." + +"Oh, it does not matter," said Venetia, "the thing is done. Well, I must +be going--but have you both thought over the future and all that it +implies?" + +"Have we, Ju-ju?" asked the girl, caressingly stroking Jones' head. + +"Yes," said Jones. + +"I'm sure," went on Venetia with a sigh, "I have always done my best to +keep things together. I failed. Was it my fault?" + +"No," said Teresa, aching for her to be gone. "I am sure it was not." + +"I am glad to hear you say that. I always tried to avoid interfering in +your life. I never did--or only when ordinary prudence made me speak, as +for instance, in that baccarat business." + +"Don't rake up old things," said Teresa suddenly. + +"And the Williamson affair," got in Venetia. "Oh, I am the very last to +rake up things, as you call it. I, for one, will say no more of things +that have happened, but I _must_ speak of things that affect myself." + +"What is affecting you?" + +"Just this. You know quite well the financial position. You know what +the upkeep of this house means. You can't do it. You plainly can't do +it. Your income is not sufficient." + +"But how does that affect you?" + +"When tradespeople talk it affects me; it affects us all. Why not let +this house and live quietly, somewhere in the country, 'til things blow +over?" + +"What do you mean by things blowing over?" asked Teresa. "One would +think that you were talking of some disgrace that had happened." + +Venetia pulled up her long left hand glove and moved as though about to +depart. She said nothing but looked at her glove. + +During the whole of this time she had neither looked at nor spoken to +Jones, nor included him by word in the conversation. Her influence had +been working upon him ever since she entered the room. He began now +more fully to understand the part she had played in the life of +Rochester. He felt that he wanted to talk to Venetia as Rochester had, +probably, never talked. + +"A man once said to me that the greatest mistake a fellow can make is to +have a sister to live with him after his marriage," said Jones. + +Venetia pulled up her right hand glove. + +"A sister that has had to face mad intoxication and _worse_, can endorse +that opinion," said she. + +"What do you mean by worse?" fired Teresa. + +"I mean exactly what I say," replied Venetia. + +"That is no answer. Do you mean that Arthur has been unfaithful to me?" + +"I did not say that." + +"Well, what can be worse than intoxication--that is the only thing worse +that I know of--unless murder. Do you mean that he has murdered +someone?" + +"I will not let you drag me into a quarrel," said Venetia; "you are +putting things into my mouth. I think mad extravagance is worse than +intoxication, inasmuch as it is committed by reasonable people +uninfluenced by drugs or alcohol. I think insults levelled at +inoffensive people are worse than the wildest deeds committed under the +influence of that demon alcohol." + +"Who are the inoffensive people who have been insulted?" + +"Good gracious--well, of course you don't know--you have not had to +interview people." + +"What people?" + +"Sir Pleydell Harcourt for instance, who had sixteen pianos sent to him +only last week, to say nothing of pantechnicon vans and half the +contents of Harrods' and Whiteleys', so that Arlington Street was +blocked, simply blocked, the whole of last Friday." + +"Did he say Arthur had sent them?" + +"He had no direct proof--but he knew. There was no other man in London +would have done such a thing." + +"Did you send them, Ju-ju?" + +"No," said Jones. "I did not." + +Venetia rose. + +"You admitted to me, yourself, that you did," said she. + +"I was only joking," he replied. + +Teresa went to the bell and rang it. + +"Good night," said Venetia, "after that I have nothing more to say." + +"Thank goodness," murmured Teresa when she was gone. "She made me shiver +with her talk about extravagance. I've been horribly extravagant the +last week--when a woman is distracted she runs to clothes for +relief--anyhow I did. I've got three new evening frocks and I want to +show you them. I've never known your taste wrong." + +"Good," said Jones, "I'd like to see them." + +"Guess what they cost?" + +"Can't." + +"Two hundred and fifty--and they are a bargain. You're not shocked, are +you?" + +"Not a bit." + +"Well, come and look at them--what's the time? Half past ten." She led +the way upstairs. + +On the first landing she turned to the left, opened a door and disclosed +a bed-room where a maid was moving about arranging things and unpacking +boxes. + +A large cardboard box lay open on the floor, it was filled with snow +white lingerie. The instinct to bolt came upon Jones so strongly that he +might have obeyed it, only for the hand upon his arm pressing him down +into a chair. + +"Anne," said the Countess of Rochester, "bring out my new evening gowns, +I want to show them." + +Then she turned to the cardboard box. "Here's some more of my +extravagance. I couldn't resist them, Venetia nearly had a fit when she +saw the bill--Look!" + +She exhibited frilled and snow white things, delicate and diaphanous and +fit to be worn by angels. Then the dresses arrived, and were laid out on +the bed and inspected. There was a black gown and a grey gown and a +confection in pale blue. If Jones had been asked to price them he would +have said a hundred dollars. Like most men he was absolutely unconscious +of the worth of a woman's dress. To a woman a Purdy and a ten guinea +Birmingham gun are just the same, and to a man, a ten guinea Bayswater +dress is little different, if worn by a pretty girl, from a seventy +guinea Bond Street--is it Bond Street--rig out. Unless he is a man +milliner. + +Jones said "beautiful," gave the palm to the blue, and watched them +carried off again by the maid. + +He had left his cigarettes down stairs; there were some in a box on a +table, she made him take one and lit it for him, then she disappeared +into a room adjoining, returning in a few minutes dressed in a kimono +covered with golden swallows and followed by the maid. Then she took her +seat before a great mirror and the maid began to take down her hair and +brush it. + +As the brushing went on she talked to the maid and to Jones +upon all sorts of subjects. To the maid about the condition of +her--Teresa's--hair, and a new fashion in hair dressing, to Jones about +the Opera, the stoutness of Caruso, and kindred matters. + +The hair having been arranged in one great gorgeous plait, Jones +suddenly breaking free from a weird sort of hypnotism that had held him +since first entering the room, rose to his feet. + +"I'll be back in a minute," said he. + +He crossed the room, reached the door, opened it and passed out closing +the door. In the corridor he stood for half a moment with his hand to +his head. + +Then he came down the stairs, crossed the hall, seized a hat and +overcoat, put them on and opened the hall door. + +All the way down the stairs and across the hall, he felt as though he +were being driven along by some viewless force, and now, standing at the +door, that same force pushed him out of the house and on to the steps. + +He closed the door, came down the steps, and turned to the right. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE MENTAL TRAP + + +It was a beautiful night, warm and starlit, the waning moon had just +begun to rise in the east and as he turned into the green Park a breath +of tepid wind, grass-scented and balmy blew in his face. + +He walked in the direction of Buckingham Palace. + +Where was he to go? He had no ideas, no plans. + +He had failed in performing the Duty that Fate had arranged for him to +perform. He had failed, but not through cowardice, or at least not +through fear of consequences to himself. + +The man who refuses to cut a lamb's throat, even though Duty calls him +to the act, has many things to be said for him. + +His distracted mind was not dealing with this matter, however. What held +him entirely was the thought of her waiting for him and how she would +feel when she found he had deserted her. He had acted like a brute and +she would hate him accordingly. Not him, but Rochester. + +It was the same thing. The old story. Hatred, obloquy, disdain levelled +against Rochester affected him as though it were levelled against +himself. He could not take refuge in his own personality. Even on the +first day of his new life he had found that out at the club. Since then +the struggle to maintain his position and the battles he had fought had +steadily weakened his mental position as Jones, strengthened his +position as Rochester. + +The strange psychological fact was becoming plain, though not to him, +that the jealousy he ought to have felt on account of this woman's love +for Rochester was not there. + +This woman had fascinated him, as women had perhaps never fascinated a +man before; she had kissed him, she loved him, and though his reason +told him quite plainly that he was Victor Jones and that she loved and +had kissed another man, his heart did not resent that fact. + +Rochester was dead. It seemed to him that Rochester had never lived. + +He left the Park and came along Knightsbridge still thinking of her +sitting there waiting for him, his mind straying from that to the kiss, +the dinner, the bowl of roses that stood between them--her voice. + +Then all at once these considerations vanished, all at once, and like an +extinguisher, fell on him that awful sensation of negation. + +His mind pulled this way and that between contending forces, became a +blank written across with letters of fire forming the question: + +"Who am I?" + +The acutest physical suffering could not have been worse than that +torture of the over-taxed brain, that feeling that if he did not clutch +at _himself_ he would become nothing. + +He ran for a few yards--then it passed and he found himself beneath a +lamp-post recovering and muttering his own name rapidly to himself like +a charm to exorcise evil. + +"Jones--Jones--Jones." + +He looked around. + +There were not many people to be seen, but a man and woman a few yards +away were standing and looking at him. They had evidently stopped and +turned to see what he was about and they went on when they saw him +observing them. + +They must have thought him mad. + +The hot shame of the idea was a better stimulant than brandy. He walked +on. He was no longer thinking of the woman he had just left. He was +thinking of himself. + +He had been false to himself. + +The greatest possession any man can have in the world is himself. Some +men let that priceless property depreciate, some improve it, it is given +to few men to tamper with it after the fashion of Jones. + +He saw this now, and just as though a pit had opened before him he drew +back. He must stop this double life at once and become his own self in +reality; failing to do that he would meet madness. He recognised this. +No man's brain could stand what he had been going through for long; had +he been left to himself he might have adapted his mind gradually to the +perpetual shifting from Jones to Rochester and vice versa. The woman had +brought things to a crisis. The horror that had now suddenly fallen on +him, the horror of the return of that awful feeling of negation, the +horror of losing himself, cast all other considerations from his mind. + +He must stop this business at once. + +He would go away, return straight to America. + +That was easy to be done--but would that save him? Would that free him +from this horrible clinging personality that he had so lightly cast +around himself? + +Nothing is stranger than mind. From the depth of his mind came the +whisper, "No." Intuition told him that were he to go to Timbuctoo, +Rochester would cling to him, that he would wake up from sleep fancying +himself Rochester and then that feeling would return. What he required +was the recognition by other people that he was himself, Jones, that the +whole of this business was a deception, a stage play in real life. Their +abuse, their threats would not matter. Their blows would be welcome, so +he thought. Anything that would hit him back firmly into his real +position in the scheme of things and save him from the dread of some day +losing himself. + +After a while the exercise and night air calmed his mind. He had come to +the great decision. A decision immutable now, since it had to do with +the very core of his being. He would tell her everything. To-morrow +morning he would confess all. Her fascination upon him had loosened its +hold, the terror had done that. He no longer loved her. Had he ever +loved her? That was an open question, or in other words, a question no +man could answer. He only knew now that he did not crave for her regard, +only for her recognition of himself as Jones. + +She was the door out of the mental trap into which his mind had +blundered. + +These considerations had carried him far into a region of mean streets +and suburban houses. It was long after twelve o'clock and he fell to +thinking what he should do with himself for the rest of the night. It +was impossible to walk about till morning and he determined to return to +Carlton House Terrace, let himself in with his latch key and slip +upstairs to his room. If by any chance she had not retired for the night +and he chanced to meet her on the stairs or in the hall then the +confession must be made forthwith. + +It was after two o'clock when he reached the house. He opened the door +with his key and closing it softly, crossed the hall and went up the +stairs. One of the hall lamps had been left burning, evidently for him: +a lamp was burning also, in the corridor. He switched on the electric +light in his room and closed the door. + +Then he heaved a sigh of relief, undressed and got into bed. + +All across the hall, up the stairs, and along the corridor he had been +followed by the dread of meeting her and having to enter on that +terrible explanation right away. + +The craving to tell her all had been supplanted for the moment by the +dread of the act. + +In the morning it would be different. He would be rested and have more +command over himself, so he fancied. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +ESCAPE CLOSED + + +He was awakened by Mr. Church--one has always to give him the +prefix--pulling up the blinds. His first thought was of the task before +him. + +The mind does a lot of quiet business of its own when the blinds are +down and the body is asleep, and during the night, his mind, working in +darkness, had cleared up matters, countered and cut off all sorts of +fears and objections and drawn up a definite plan. + +He would tell her everything that morning. If she would not take his +word for the facts, then he would have a meeting of the whole family. He +felt absolutely certain that explaining things bit by bit and detail by +detail he could convince them of the death of Rochester and his own +existence as Jones; absolutely certain that they would not push matters +to the point of publicity. He held a trump card in the property he had +recovered from Mulhausen, were he to be exposed publicly as an impostor, +all about the Plinlimon letters, Voles and Mulhausen would come out. +Mulhausen, that very astute practitioner, would not be long in declaring +that he had been forced to return the title deeds to protect his +daughter's name. Voles would swear anything, and their case would stand +good on the proved fact that he, Jones, was a swindler. No, assuredly +the family would not press the matter to publicity. + +Having drunk his tea, he arose, bathed, and dressed with a calm mind. + +Then he came down stairs. + +She was not in the breakfast-room, where only one place was laid, and, +concluding that she was breakfasting in her own room, he sat down to +table. + +After the meal, and with another sheaf of the infernal early post +letters in his hand, he crossed to the smoking-room, where he closed the +door, put the letters on the table and lit a cigar. Then, having smoked +for a few minutes and collected his thoughts, he rang the bell and sent +for Mr. Church. + +"Church," said he when that functionary arrived, "will you tell--my wife +I want to see her?" + +"Her ladyship left last night, your Lordship, she left at ten o'clock, +or a little after." + +"Left! where did she go to?" + +"She went to the South Kensington Hotel, your Lordship." + +"Good heavens! what made her--why did she go--ah, was it because I did +not come back?" + +"I think it was, your Lordship." + +Mr. Church spoke gravely and the least bit stiffly. It could easily be +seen that as an old servant and faithful retainer he was on the woman's +side in the business. + +"I had to go out," said the other. "I will explain it to her when I see +her--It was on a matter of importance--Thanks, that will do, Church." + +Alone again he finished his cigar. + +The awful fear of the night before, the fear of negation and the loss of +himself had vanished with a brain refreshed by sleep and before this +fact. + +What a brute he had been! She had come back forgiving him for who knows +what, she had taken his part against his traducers, kissed him. She had +fancied that all was right and that happiness had returned--and he had +coldly discarded her. + +It would have been less cruel to have beaten her. She was a good sweet +woman. He knew that fact, now, both instinctively and by knowledge. He +had not known it fully till this minute. + +Would it, after all, have been better to have deceived her and to have +played the part of Rochester? That question occurred to him for a moment +to be at once flung away. It was not so much personal antagonism to such +a course nor the dread of madness owing to his double life that cast it +out so violently, but the recognition of the goodness and lovableness of +the woman. Leaving everything else aside to carry on such a deception +with her, even to think of it, was impossible. + +More than ever was he determined to clear this thing up and tell her +all, and, to his honour be it said, his main motive now was to do his +best by her. + +He finished his cigar, and then going into the hall obtained his hat and +left the house. + +He did not know where the South Kensington Hotel might be, but a taxi +solved that question and shortly before ten o'clock he reached his +destination. + +Yes, Lady Rochester had arrived last night and was staying in the hotel, +and whilst the girl in the manager's office was sending up his name and +asking for an interview Jones took his seat in the lounge. + +A long time--nearly ten minutes--elapsed, and then a boy brought him her +answer in the form of a letter. + +He opened it. + + "Never again. This is good-bye." + "T." + +That was the answer. + +He sat with the sheet of paper in his hand, contemplating the shape and +make of an armchair of wicker-work opposite him. + +What was he to do? + +He had received just the answer he might have expected, neither more nor +less. It was impossible for him to force an interview with her. He had +overthrown Voles, climbed over Mulhausen, but the flight of stairs +dividing him now from the private suite of the Countess of Rochester was +an obstacle not to be overcome by courage or direct methods, and he knew +of no indirect method. + +He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel +and took his way back to Carlton House Terrace. + +If she would not see him she could not refuse to read a letter. He +would write to her and explain all. He would write in detail giving the +whole business, circumstance by circumstance. It would take him a long +while; he guessed that, and ordinary note-paper would not do. He had +seen a stack of manuscript paper, however, in one of the drawers of the +bureau, and having shut the door and lit a cigarette he took some of the +sheets of long foolscap, ruled thirty four lines to the page, and sat +down to the business. This is what he said: + + "Lady Rochester, + + "I want you to read what follows carefully and not to form any + opinion on the matter till all the details are before you. This + document is not a letter in the strict sense of the term, it's more + in the nature of an invoice of the cargo of stupidity and bad luck, + which I, the writer, Victor Jones of Philadelphia, have been + freighted with by an all-wise Providence for its own + incomprehensible ends." + +Providence held him up for a moment. Was Providence neuter or +masculine?--he risked it and left it neuter and continued. + +When the servant announced luncheon he had covered twenty sheets of +paper and had only arrived at the American bar of the Savoy. + +He went to luncheon, swallowed a whiting and half a cutlet, and +returned. + +He sat down, read what he had written, and tore it across. + +That would never do. It was like the vast prelude to a begging letter. +She would never read it through. + +He started again, beginning this time in the American bar of the Savoy, +writing very carefully. He had reached, by tea-time, the reading of +Rochester's death in the paper. + +Well satisfied with his progress he took afternoon tea, and then sat +down comfortably to read what he had written. + +He was aghast with the result. The things that had happened to him were +believable because they had happened to him, but in cold writing they +had an air of falsity. She would never believe this yarn. He tore the +sheets across. Then he burned all he had written in the grate, took his +seat in the armchair and began to think of the devil. + +Surely there was something diabolical in the whole of this business and +the manner in which everything and every circumstance headed him off +from escape. After dinner he was sitting down to attempt a literary +forlorn hope, when a sharp voice in the hall made him pause. + +The door opened, and Venetia Birdbrook entered. She wore a new hat that +seemed bigger than the one he had last beheld and her manner was wild. + +She shut the door, walked to the table, placed her parasol on it and +began peeling off a glove. + +"She's gone," said Venetia. + +Jones had risen to his feet. + +"Who's gone?" + +"Teresa--gone with Maniloff." + +He sat down. Then she blazed out. + +"Are you going to do nothing--are you going to sit there and let us all +be disgraced? She's gone--she's going--to Paris. It was through her maid +I learned it; she's gone from the hotel by this--gone with Maniloff--are +you deaf or simply stupid? You _must_ follow her." + +He rose. + +"Follow her now, follow her and get her back, there is just a chance. +They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything--I will go with +you. There is a train at nine o'clock from Victoria, you have only just +time to catch it." + +"I have no money," said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly, +"only about four pounds." + +"I have," replied she, "and our car is at the door--are you afraid, or +is it that you don't mind?" + +"Come on," said Jones. + +He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute was +buried in a stuffy limousine with Venetia's sharp elbow poking him in +the side. + +He was furious. + +There are people who seem born for the express purpose of setting other +people by the ears. Venetia was one of them. Despite Voles, Mulhausen, +debts and want of balance one might hazard the opinion that it was +Venetia who had driven the unfortunate Rochester to his mad act. + +The prospect of a journey to Paris with this woman in pursuit of another +man's wife was bad enough, but it was not this prospect that made Jones +furious, though assisting. No doubt, it was Venetia herself. + +She raised the devil in him, and on the journey to the station, though +she said not a word, she managed to raise his exasperation with the +world, herself, himself and his vile position to the limit just below +the last.--The last was to come. + +At the station they walked through the crowd to the booking-office where +Venetia bought the tickets. Reminiscences of being taken on journeys as +a small boy by his mother flitted across the mind of Jones and did not +improve his temper. + +He looked at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes of the starting time +and he was in the act of evading a barrow of luggage when Venetia +arrived with the tickets. + +It had come into the mind of Jones that not only was he travelling to +Paris with the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook, in pursuit of the wife of another +man, but that they were travelling without luggage. If, in Philadelphia, +he had dreamt of himself in such a position he would have been disturbed +as to the state of his health and the condition of his liver, yet now, +in reality, the thing did not seem preposterous, he was concerned as to +the fact about the want of luggage. + +"Look here," said he, "what are we to do--I haven't even a night-suit +of pyjamas. I haven't even a toothbrush. No hotel will take us in." + +"We don't want an hotel," said Venetia, "we'll come back straight if we +can save Teresa. If not, if she insists in pursuing her mad course, you +had better not come back at all. Come on and let us take our places in +the train." + +They moved away and she continued. + +"For if she does you will never be able to hold up your head again, +everyone knows how you have behaved to her." + +"Oh, stop it," said he irritably. "I have enough to think about." + +"You ought to." + +Only just those three words, yet they set him off. + +"Ought I? Well, what of yourself? She told me last night things about +_you_." + +"About me. What things?" + +"Never mind." + +"But I do," she stopped and he stopped. + +"I mind very much. What things did she tell you?" + +"Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and that +though I was bad you were worse." + +Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train +when she stopped dead like a pointer. + +"That's them," she said, in a hard, tense whisper. + +Jones looked. + +A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella under +his arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were +making their way through the crowd towards the train. + +The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she. + +It was then that Venetia's effect upon him acted as the contents of the +white-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the +blue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder. + +Venetia saw his face. + +"Don't make a scene," she cried. + +That was the stirring of the spoon. + +He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded +one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a +powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the +part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their "power" and +manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips. + +Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe +Hennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, +Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger. + +He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right +under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella--and then--swift +as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the +jaw. + +The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under +them, then, shouting for help--that was the humorous and pitiable part +of it--scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again. + +Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally +injured. + +The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds. + +You can fancy the scene. + +Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the +display--and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to +see worse--were moving away together through the throng, the floored one +with arms still out, was murmuring: "Brandee--brandee," into the ear of +a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones' side. + +Jones took him apart a few steps. + +"I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, in a half whisper. "That guy has +got what he wanted--never mind what he was doing--kick the beast awake +and ask him if he wants to prosecute." + +The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who was +now leaning on one arm. + +"Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?" asked the constable. + +"Nichévo," murmured the other. "No. Brandee." + +"Thought so," said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with +the constable. + +"My address is Carlton House Terrace," said he. "When you get that chap +on his pins you can tell him to come there and I'll give him another +dose. Here's a sovereign for you." + +"Thanks, your Lordship," said the guardian of the Peace, "you landed him +fine, I will say. I didn't see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw the +knock out--you won't have any more bother with him." + +"I don't think so," said Jones. + +He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind, all his +evil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting +jaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circumstance and +the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when +someone ran up from behind. + +It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering. + +"Teresa is in the car--You have done it now--you have done it now. What +_made_ you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open +station--before everyone--you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace on +us--on _me_." + +"Oh, shut up," said Jones. + +He sighted the car, ran to it and opened the door. A whimpering bundle +in the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off. + +"Oh! oh! oh!" sighed and murmured the bundle. + +Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in and kissed it. Then he turned +to Venetia who had followed him. + +"Get in," he said. + +She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put her +head out of the window: + +"Home," cried she to the chauffeur. + +Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then he +began to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in a +weird sort of monologue. + +"All this is nothing," said he, "you must both forget it. When you hear +what I have to tell you to-morrow you won't bother to remember all this. +No one that counts saw that, they were all strangers and making for the +cars--I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this--I must +have a meeting of the whole family to-morrow, to-morrow morning. Not +about this affair, about something else, something entirely to do with +me. I have been trying to explain all day--tried to write it out but +couldn't. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you all +out of time." + +Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate. + +"I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it--I hate him--oh, Ju-Ju, +if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it, +never, never, never." + +"I know," he replied, "but it was not my fault leaving you like that. I +had to go. You will know everything to-morrow--when you hear all you +will very likely never speak to me again--though I am innocent enough, +Lord knows." + +Then came Venetia's voice: + +"This is new--Heaven _knows_ we have had disgrace enough--what else is +going to fall on us?--Why put it off till to-morrow--what new thing have +you done?" + +Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceased +sniffing and turned on Venetia. + +"No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right to +accuse him." + +"Accuse him!" cried the outraged Venetia. + +"Yes, accuse him; you don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd be +glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible." + +Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen. + +Teresa had put her finger on the spot. + +Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, a +Righteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of other +people's sins gave her pleasure. + +Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had +suddenly entered his practical mind. + +"Good heavens," said he, "what has become of your luggage?" + +"I don't know and I don't care," replied the roused one, "let it go with +the rest." + +The car drew up. + +"You will stay with us to-night, I suppose," said Venetia coldly. + +"I suppose so," replied the other. + +Jones got out. + +"I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock," said he. "I want +the whole family present."--Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct +Rochester--"Don't worry about what took place this evening. It was all +my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the +morning." + +She sighed and passed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in a +dream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house, +then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It was +Curzon street. Then he walked home. + +Come what might he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did he +feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love. + +What a woman! and what a fate! + +It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace, +that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and +lurid light. + +Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, but +up to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman +showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual +likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have +a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never +thought of her, or he had not cared. + +And such a wife! + +"That fellow ought to be dug up and--cremated," said Jones to himself as +he opened the door with his latch key. "He ought, sure. Well, I hope +I'll cremate his reputation to-morrow." + +Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed. + +He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the +morrow, of what he would say to start with--then he gave up the attempt, +determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE FAMILY COUNCIL + + +He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, +and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his +seat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best he +could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to +the sounds of the house and the street outside. + +He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices. + +Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, +for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though two +servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words. + +One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs +lightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door opened +and the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff +waistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing his +eye glasses. + +He nodded at Jones. + +"Morning," said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. "The +women will be up in a moment." He took his seat and spread open the +paper as if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles, +"Glad to hear from Collins you've got that land back. I was in there +just after you left and he told me." + +"Yes," said Jones, "I've got it back." He had no time to say more as at +that moment the door opened and the "women" appeared, led by the Dowager +Countess of Rochester. + +Venetia shut the door and they took their seats about the room whilst +Jones, who had risen, reseated himself. + +Then, with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began: + +"I have asked you all to come here this morning--I asked you to meet me +this morning because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruder +into your family--" + +"An intruder," cried the mother of the defunct. "Arthur, what _are_ you +saying?" + +"One moment," he went on. "I want to begin by explaining what I have +done for you all and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest man +even though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have got +back one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mine +property and other money as well, one million and eight thousand pounds +that would have been a dead loss only for me." + +"You have acted like a man," said the Duke of Melford, "go on--what do +you mean about intrusion?" + +"Let me tell the thing in my own way," said Jones irritably. "The late +Lord Rochester got dreadfully involved owing to his own stupidity with a +woman--I call him the late Lord Rochester because I have to announce now +the fact of his death." + +The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat like +frozen corpses for a moment, then they moved, casting terrified eyes at +one another. It was the Duke of Melford who spoke. + +"We will leave your father's name alone," said he; "yes, we know he is +dead--what more have you to say?" + +"I was not talking of my father," said Jones, beginning to get bogged +and slightly confused, also angry, "he was not my father. If you will +only listen to me without interrupting I will make things plain. I am +talking of myself--or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earl +of Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester, he is dead--" +He turned to Rochester's wife. "I _hate_ to have to tell you this right +out and in such a manner, but it has to be told. I am not your husband. +I am an American. My name is Victor Jones, and I come from +Philadelphia." + +The Dowager Countess of Rochester who had been leaning forward in her +chair, sank back, she had fainted. + +Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife of +Rochester who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner ran from +the room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread. + +Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned +to consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from +the room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused in +lamentation: + +"My boy--my poor boy." + +Venetia had said nothing. + +Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was something +in all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, +seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially. + +The Duke of Melford shut the door. + +"Your mother--I mean Lady Rochester's heart is not strong," said he, +going to the bell and touching it. "I must send for the doctor to see +her." + +Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat down +again. + +"Look here," said he, "I can't make you all out--you've called me no +names--you haven't let me fully explain, the old lady is the only one +that seems to have taken the news in. Can't you understand what I have +told you?" + +"Perfectly," said the old gentleman, "and it's the most extraordinary +thing I have ever heard--and the most interesting--I want to have a long +talk about it.--James," to the servant who had answered the bell, +"telephone for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack." + +"Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. +Simms." + +"That will do," said his grace. + +"Yes, 'pon my soul, it's quite extraordinary," he took a cigar case from +his pocket, proffered a cigar which Jones took, and then lit one +himself. + +"Look here," said Jones suddenly alarmed by a new idea, "you aren't +guying me, are you?--you haven't taken it into your heads that I've gone +dotty--mad?" + +"Mad!" cried the old gentleman with a start. "Never--such an idea never +entered my mind. Why--why should it?" + +"Only you take this thing so quietly." + +"Quietly--well, what would you have? My dear fellow, what is the good of +shouting--ever? Not a bit. It's bad form. I take everything as it +comes." + +"Well, then, listen whilst I tell you how all this happened. I came over +here some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Government +over some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. +Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than ten +pounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy lounge when in came a +man whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn't place his name on him. +We had drinks together in the American bar, then we went upstairs to the +lounge. He would not tell me who he was. 'Look in the looking-glass +behind you,' said he, 'and you will see who I am.' I looked and I saw +him. I was his twin image. I must tell you first that I had been having +some champagne cocktails and a whisky and soda. I'm not used to drink. +We had a jamboree together and dinner at some place, and then he sent +me home as himself--I was blind. + +"When I woke up next morning I said nothing but lay low, thinking it was +all a joke. I ought to have spoken at once, but didn't, one makes +mistakes in life--" + +"We all do that," said the other; "yes--go on." + +"And later that day I opened a newspaper and saw my name and that I had +committed suicide. It was Rochester, of course, that had committed +suicide; did it on the underground.--Then I was in a nice fix. There I +was in Rochester's clothes, with not a penny in my pockets; couldn't go +to the hotel, couldn't go anywhere--so I determined to be Rochester, for +a while, at least. + +"I found his affairs in an awful muddle. You know that business about +the coal mine. Well, I've managed to right his affairs. I wasn't +thinking of any profit to myself over the business, I just did it +because it was the right thing to do. + +"Now I want to be perfectly plain with you. I might have carried on this +game always and lived in Rochester's shoes only for two things, one is +his wife, the other is a feeling that has been coming on me that if I +carried on any longer I might go dotty. Times I've had attacks of a +feeling that I did not know who I was. It's leading this double life, +you know. Now I want to get right back and be myself and cut clear of +all this. You can't think what it has been, carrying on this double +life, hearing the servants calling me 'your lordship.' I couldn't have +imagined it would have acted on the brain so. I've been simply crazy to +hear someone calling me by my right name--well, that's the end of the +matter, I want to settle up and get back to the States--" + +The door opened and a servant appeared. + +"Dr. Simms has arrived, your grace." + +The Duke of Melford rose from his chair. + +"One moment," said he to Jones. He left the room closing the door. + +Jones tipped the ash of his cigar into a jardinière near by. + +He was astonished and a bit disturbed by the cool manner in which his +wonderful confession had been received. "Can it be they are laying low +and sending for the police?" thought he. + +He was debating this question when the door opened and the Duke walked +in, followed by a bald, elderly, pleasant-looking man; after this latter +came a cadaverous gentleman, wearing glasses. + +The bald man was Dr. Simms, the cadaverous, Dr. Cavendish. + +Simms nodded at Jones as though he knew him. + +"I have asked these gentlemen as friends of the family to step in and +talk about this matter before seeing Lady Rochester," said the Duke. +"She has been taken to her room, and is not yet prepared for visitors." + +"I shall be delighted to help in any way," said Simms; "my services, +professional or private, are always at your disposal, your grace." He +sat down and turned to Jones. "Now tell us all about it," said he. + +Cavendish took another chair and the Duke remained standing. + +Jones felt irritated, felt somewhat as a maestro would feel who, having +finished that musical obstacle race The Grand Polonnaise, finds himself +requested to play it again. + +"I've told the whole thing once," said he, "I can't go over it +again--the Duke knows." + +Suddenly Cavendish spoke: + +"I understand from what his grace said on the stairs, that there is some +trouble about identity?" + +"Some trouble," said Jones; "I reckon you are right in calling it some +trouble." + +"You are Mr. Jones, I think," said Simms. + +"Victor Jones was the name I was christened by," answered Jones. + +"Quite so, American?" + +"American." + +"Now, Mr. Jones, as a matter of formality, may I ask where you live in +America?" + +"Philadelphia." + +"And in Philadelphia what might be your address?" + +"Number one thousand, one hundred and one, Walnut Street," replied +Jones. + +Cavendish averted his head for a moment and the Duke shifted his +position on the hearthrug, leaving his elbow on the mantel and caressing +for a moment his chin. + +Simms alone remained unmoved. + +"Just so," said Simms. "Have you any family?" + +"Nope." + +"I beg your pardon." + +"No." + +"I thought you said nope--my mistake." + +"Not a bit, I did say nope--it's short for no." + +"_Short_ for no--I see, just so." + +Cavendish interposed with an air of interest. + +"How would you spell that word?" asked he. Jones resented Cavendish +somehow. + +"I don't know," said he, "this isn't a spelling bee. N-o-p-e I suspect. +You gentlemen have undertaken to question me on behalf of the family as +to my identity, I think we had better stick to that point." + +"Just so," said Simms, "precisely--" + +"Excuse me," said the Duke of Melford, "I think if Mr. er--Jones wishes +to prove his identity as Mr. Jones he will admit that his actions will +help. Now Lord Rochester was a very, shall we say, fastidious person, +quiet in his actions." + +"Oh, was he," said Jones, "that's news." + +"Quiet, that is to say, in his movements--let it stand at that. Now my +friend Collins said to me something about the eating of a document--" + +Jones bristled. "Collins had no right to tell you that," said he, "I +told him that privately. When did he tell you that?" + +"When I called, just after his interview with you--he did not say it in +anyway offensively. In fact he seemed to admire you for your--energy and +so forth." + +"Did you, in fact, eat a document?" asked Simms, with an air of bland +interest. + +"I did--and saved a very nasty situation, _and_ a million of money." + +"What was the document?" asked Cavendish. + +"A bill of exchange." + +"Now may I ask why you did that?" queried Simms. + +"No, you mayn't," replied Jones, "it's a private affair affecting the +honour of another person." + +"Quite so," said Simms, "but just one more question. Did you hear a +voice telling you to--er--eat this paper?" + +"Yes." + +"What sort of voice was it?" + +"It was the sort of voice that belongs to common-sense." + +"Ha, ha," laughed Cavendish. "Good, very good,--but there is just +something I want to ask. How was it, Mr.--er--Jones, that you turned +into your present form, exchanged your position as it were with the Earl +of Rochester?" + +"O Lord," said Jones. Then to the Duke of Melford, "Tell them." + +"Well," said the Duke. "Mr. Jones was sitting in the lounge of an hotel +when a gentleman entered whom he knew but could not recognize." + +"Couldn't place his name," cut in Jones. + +"Precisely. The gentleman said 'turn round and look in that mirror'--" + +"You've left the drinks out," said Jones. + +"True. Mr. Jones and the gentleman had partaken of certain drinks." + +"What were the drinks?" put in Simms. + +"Champagne cocktails, whisky and soda, then a bottle of +Bollinger--after," said Jones. + +"Mr. Jones looked into the mirror," continued the Duke, "and saw that he +was the other gentleman, that is to say, Lord Rochester." + +"No, the twin image," put in Jones. + +"The twin image--well, after that more liquor was consumed--" + +"The chap doped me with drink and sent me home as himself," cut in +Jones, "and I woke up in a strange bed with a guy pulling up the window +blinds." + +"A guy?" put in Cavendish. + +"A chap. Church is his name--I thought I was being bamboozled, so I +determined to play the part of Lord Rochester--you know the rest." +Turning to the Duke of Melford. + +"Well," said Cavendish, "I don't think we need ask any more questions of +Mr. Jones; we are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones and--er--the Earl +of Rochester are different." + +"Quite so," said Simms, "we are sure of his _bonafides_ and of course it +is for the family to decide how to meet this extraordinary situation. I +am sure they will sympathize with Mr. Jones and make no trouble. It is +quite evident he had no wrong intent." + +"Now you are talking," said Jones. + +"Quite so--One more question, does it seem to you I have not been +talking at all up to this?" + +Jones laughed. "It seems to me you have uttered _one_ word or two--ask a +bee in a bottle, has it been buzzing." + +The cadaverous Cavendish, who, from his outward appearance presented no +signs of a sense of humour, exploded at this hit, but Simms remained +unmoved. + +"Quite so," said he. "Well, that's all that remains to be said--but, now +as a professional man, has not all this tried you a good deal, Mr. +Jones?--I should think it was enough to try any man's health." + +"Oh, my health is all right," said Jones. "I can eat and all that, but, +times, I've felt as if I wasn't one person or the other, that's one of +my main reasons for quitting, leaving aside other things. You see I had +to carry on up to a certain point, and, if you'll excuse me blowing my +own horn, I think I've not done bad. I could have put my claws on all +that money--If I hadn't been a straight man, there's a lot of things I +could have done, 'pears to me. Well, now that everything is settled, I +think that ought to be taken into consideration. I don't ask much, just +a commission on the money salved." + +"Decidedly," said Simms. "In my opinion you are quite right. But as a +professional man my concern just a moment ago was about your health." + +"Oh, the voyage back to the States will put that right." + +"Quite so, but you will excuse my professional instinct--and I am giving +you my services for nothing, if you will let me--I notice signs of nerve +exhaustion--Let's look at your tongue." + +Jones put out his tongue. + +"Not bad," said Simms. "Now just cross your legs." + +Jones crossed his legs, right over left, and Simms, standing before him, +gave him a little sharp tap just under the right knee cap. The leg flew +out. + +Jones laughed. + +"Exaggerated patella reflex," said Simms. "Nerve fag, nothing more. A +pill or two is all you want. You don't notice any difficulty in speech?" + +"Not much," said Jones, laughing. + +"Say--'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.'" + +"'Peter Peter piped a pick--'" began Jones, then he laughed. + +"You can't say it," said Simms, cocking a wise eyebrow. + +"You bet I can," said the patient. "'Peter Piper pucked a pick'"-- + +"Nerve exhaustion," said Simms. + +"Say, Doc," cut in Jones, beginning to feel slight alarm. "What are you +getting at, you're beginning to make me feel frightened, there's not +anything really wrong with me, is there?" + +"Nothing but what can be righted by care," replied Simms. + +"Let me try Mr. Jones with a lingual test," said Cavendish. "Say: 'She +stood at the door of the fish-sauce shop in the Strand welcoming him +in.'" + +"She stood at the door of the fish shauce shop in the Strand welcom-om +ming im," said Jones. + +"H'm, h'm," said Cavendish. + +"That's crazy," said Jones, "nobody could say that--Oh, I'm all right--I +reckon a little liver pill will fix me up." + +The two doctors withdrew to a window and said a few words together. Then +they both nodded to the Duke of Melford. + +"Well," said the Duke, "that's settled and now, Mr. Jones, I hope you +will stay here for luncheon." + +Jones had had enough of that house. + +"Thanks," said he, "but I think I'll be getting back. I want a walk. +You'll find me at Carlton House Terrace where we can finish up this +business. It's a weight off my mind now everything is over--whew! I can +tell you I'm hungry for the States." + +He rose and took his hat which he had placed on the floor, nodded to the +Duke of Melford and turned to the door. + +Simms was standing in front of the door. + +"Excuse me," said Simms, "but I would not advise you to go out in your +condition, much better stay here till your nerves have recovered." + +Jones stared at him. + +"My nerves are all right," said he. + +"Don't, my dear fellow," said Cavendish. + +Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door. + +Simms was barring the way still. + +"Don't talk nonsense," said Jones, "think I was a baby. I tell you I'm +all right--what on earth do you mean--upon my soul, you're like a lot +of children." + +He tried to pass Simms. + +"You must not leave this room yet," said Simms. "Pray quiet yourself." + +"You mean to say you'll stop me?" + +"Yes." + +Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend the +Dowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they considered +him to be Rochester--Rochester gone mad. + +Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a mad +man, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old lady +had fainted, that was why his wife--at least Rochester's wife, had run +from the room like a blind woman. + +He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then he +spoke: + +"Open that door--get away from that door." + +"Sit down and _quiet_ yourself," said Simms, staring him full in the +eye, "you--will--not--leave-this--house." + +It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones. + +Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouted +directions, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free of +Cavendish, the rough and tumble began. + +They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinières, little +tables, costly china. + +Jones' foot went into a china cabinet carrying destruction amongst a +concert party of little Dresden figures; Simms' portly behind bumped +against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess +of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust, and the Duke of +Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business with +the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin that +recalled Eton across a long vista of years. + +Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back +with the Duke's bandanna handkerchief. + +Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping and +banging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came to +the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it. + +"Nothing," said he, "nothing wrong. Off with you." + +He shut the door and turned to the couch. + +Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily un-smashed, +caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and towsled with Simms beside +him and Cavendish standing by, re-fixing his glasses. + +He recognised a terrible fact; though he had smashed hundreds of pounds' +worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, now +that the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. +Simms was patting his shoulder. + +He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, to +fight without raising ire in one's antagonists, to smash with +impunity--to murder without being brought to justice. + +Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like a +mad-man--that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and +madness have awful similarities. + +He moved slightly away from Simms. + +"I reckon I've been a fool," said he, "three to one is not fair play. +Come, let my hands free, I won't fight any more." + +"Certainly," said Simms. "But let me point out that we were not fighting +you in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimental +to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd +handkerchief?" + +Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists. + +"What are you going to do now?" asked he. + +"Nothing," said Simms, "you are perfectly free, but we don't want you to +go out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say that +you feel all right. No matter, take a physician's advice and just remain +here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you can +amuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a little +prescription for you?" + +"Look here," said Jones. "Let's talk quietly for a moment--you think I'm +mad." + +"Not in the least!" said Simms. "You are only suffering from a nerve +upset." + +"Well, if I'm not mad you have no right to keep me here." + +This was cunning, but, unfortunately, cunning like anger, is an +attribute of madness as well as of sanity. + +"Now," said Simms, with an air of great frankness, "do you think that it +is for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are not +keeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library and +I will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have considered +matters a bit you can use your own discretion about going." + +Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight this +man with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His tale +was such that no man would believe it, and, persisting in that tale, he +would be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester's bad +reputation for sanity. They called him mad Rochester. + +Then as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspiration +seized him. + +He stopped at the drawing-room door. + +"Look here," said he, "one moment. I can prove what I say. You send out +a man to Philadelphia and make enquiries, fetch some of the people over +that knew me. You'll find I'm--myself and that I've told you no lie." + +"We will do anything you like," said Simms, "but first let us go down to +the library." + +They went. It was a large, pleasant room lined with books. + +Simms sat down at the writing-table, whilst the others took chairs. He +wrote a prescription, and the Duke, ringing the bell, ordered a servant +to take the prescription to the chemists. + +Then during the twenty minutes before the servant returned they talked. +Jones, giving again his address, that fantastic address which was yet +real, and the names and descriptions of people he knew and who would +know him. + +"You see, gentlemen," said he, "it's just this, I have only one crave in +life just now, to be myself again. Not exactly that, but to be +recognized as myself. You can't imagine what that feeling is. You +needn't tell me. I know exactly what you think, you think I'm Rochester +gone crazy. I know the yarn I've slung you sounds crazy, but it's the +truth. The fact is I've felt at times that if I didn't get someone to +recognize me as myself I'd _go_ crazy. Just one person to believe in me, +that's all I want and then I'd feel free of this cursed Rochester. Put +yourself in my place. Imagine that you have lost touch with everything +you ever were, that you were playing another man's part and that +everyone in the world kept on insisting you were the other guy. Think of +that for a position. Why, gentlemen, you might open that door wide. I +wouldn't want to go out, not till I had convinced one of you at all +events that my story was true. I wouldn't want to go back to the States, +not till I had convinced you that I am who I am. It seems foolish but +it's a bed-rock fact. I have to make good on this position, convince +someone who knows the facts, and so get myself back. It wouldn't be any +use my going to Philadelphia. I'd say to people I know there, 'I'm +Jones.' They'd say, 'Of course you are,' and believe me. But then, do +you see, they wouldn't know of this adventure and their belief in me +wouldn't be a bit of good. Of course I _know_ I'm Jones, all the same +I've been playing the part of Rochester so hard that times I've almost +believed I'm him, times I've lost myself, and I have a feeling at the +back of my mind that if I don't get someone to believe me to be who I +am, I may go dotty in earnest. It's a feeling without reason, I know. +It's more like having a grit in the eye than anything else. I want to +get rid of that grit, and I can't take it out myself, someone else must +do it. One person would be enough, just one person to believe in what I +say and I would be myself again. That's why I want you to send to +Philadelphia. The mind is a curious thing, gentlemen, the freedom of the +body is nothing if the mind is not free, and my mind can never be free +till another person who knows my whole story believes in what I say. I +could not have imagined anyone being trapped like this--I've heard of an +actor guy once playing a part so often he went loony and fancied himself +the character. I'm not like that, I'm as sane as you, it's just this +uneasy, uncomfortable feeling--this want to get absolutely clean out of +this business, that's the trouble." + +"Never mind!" said Simms cheerfully, "we will get you out only you must +_not_ worry yourself. I admit that your story is strange, but we will +send to Philadelphia and make all enquiries--come in." + +The servant had knocked at the door. He entered with the medicine. Simms +sent him for a wine glass and when it arrived he poured out a dose. + +"Now take a dose of your medicine like a man," said the kindly +physician, jocularly, "and another in four hours' time, it will re-make +your nerves." + +Jones tossed the stuff off impatiently. + +"Say," said he, "there's another point I've forgot. You might go to the +Savoy and get the clerk there, he'd recognize me, the bar tender in the +American bar, he'd maybe be able to recognise me too, he saw us +together--I say I feel a bit drowsy, you haven't doped me, have you?" + +Simms and Cavendish, leaving the house together five minutes later, had +a moment's conversation on the steps. + +"What do you think of him?" said Simms. + +"Bad," said Cavendish. "He reasons on his own case, that's always bad, +and did you notice how cleverly he worked that in about wanting someone +to believe in him." + +They walked down the street together. + +"That smash has been coming for a long time," said Simms--"it's an +heirloom. It's a good thing it has come, he was getting to be a +bye-word--I wonder what it is that introduces the humorous element into +insanity; that address, for instance, one thousand one hundred and +ninety one Walnut Street, could never have strayed into a sane person's +head." + +"Nor a luncheon on bills of exchange," said Cavendish. "Well, he will be +all right at Hoover's. What was the dose you gave him?" + +"Heroin, mostly," replied the other. "Well, so long." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +HOOVER'S + + +Jones, after the magic draught administered by Simms, entered into a +blissful condition of twilight sleep, half sleep, half drowsiness, +absolute indifference. He walked with assistance to the hall door and +entered a motor car, it did not matter to him what he entered or where +he went, he did not want to be disturbed. + +He roused himself during a long journey to take a drink of something +held to his lips by someone, and sank back, tucking sleep around him +like a warm blanket. + +In all his life he had never had such a gorgeous sleep as that, his +weary and harassed brain revelled in moments of semi-consciousness, and +then sank back into the last abysms of oblivion. + +He awoke a new man, physically and mentally, and with an absolutely +clear memory and understanding. He awoke in a bed-room, a cheerful +bed-room, lit by the morning sun, a bed-room with an open window through +which came the songs of birds and the whisper of foliage. + +A young man dressed in a black morning coat was seated in an armchair by +the window, reading a book. He looked like a superior sort of servant. + +Jones looked at this young man, who had not yet noticed the awakening of +the sleeper, and Jones, as he looked at him, put facts together. + +Simms, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where he +was, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, +whatever it was; they had thought him mad--they had carted him off to a +mad-house, this was a mad-house, that guy in the chair was an attendant. +He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger and +little surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed by +profound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light. + +It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in a +mad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because he +knew that he was sane. The situation was amusing, it was also one to get +free from--but there was plenty of time, and there was no room for +making mistakes. + +Curiously enough, now, the passionate or almost passionate desire to +recover his own personality had vanished, or at least, was no longer +active in his mind; his brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was no +longer tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curious +craving to have others believe in his story and to have others recognize +him as Jones. + +No, it did not matter to him just now whether he recovered his +personality in the eyes of others; what did matter to him was the +recovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution. Like Brer Rabbit, he +determined to "lie low." + +"Say," said Jones. + +The young man by the window started slightly, rose, and came to the +bedside. + +"What o'clock?" said the patient. + +"It has just gone half past eight, sir," replied the other. "I hope you +have slept well." + +Jones noticed that this person did not "my Lord" him. + +"Not a wink," said he, "tossed and tumbled all night--oh, say--what do +_you_ think--" + +The young man looked puzzled. + +"And would you like anything now, sir?" + +"Yes--my pants. I want to get up." + +"Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready," replied the other. + +He went to the fire-place and touched an electric button, then he +bustled about the room getting Jones' garments together. + +The bed-room had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to a +bath-room; in a minute the bath-room door opened and a voice queried, +"Hot or cold?" + +"Hot," said Jones. + +"Hot," said the attendant. + +"Hot," said the unseen person in the bath-room, as if registering the +order in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple of +minutes the voice: + +"Gentleman's bath ready." + +Jones bathed, and though the door of the bath-room had been shut upon him +and there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone was +watching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the other +door, and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid on +a small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and bacon +and sausages, he chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by the +pleasant summery sound of croquet balls knocking together, he looked out +of the window. + +Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet; stout elderly +gentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flannel +trousers and a grey tweed coat was seated watching the game and smoking +cigarettes. + +He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happy +enough, and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast. + +He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poor +quality--of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heed +much. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given him +a shock. Instinctively he knew them to be "inmates." He had never +considered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vague +recollections of Edgar Allan Poe and the works of Charles Reade had +surrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of feather beds +and brutality; the word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of a +man obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quite +ordinary and pleasant in appearance, and these sane looking gentlemen +lunatics, gave him a grue. + +The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisoner +was beginning to steal upon him, that a man might be able to play +croquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life and +yet, just because of some illusion, be held as a prisoner. + +He did not fully realise this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But he +did fully realise that he had lost his liberty. + +Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute. + +The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly; all that +haunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, he +would go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in the +National Provincial Bank; no one knew that it was there. He could seize +it with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow of +Rochester--oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actual +fact of lost liberty--so he told himself. + +A servant brought up the _Times_ and he opened it, and lit a cigarette. + +Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, an +extraordinary feeling came upon him; all this printed matter was +relative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk down +the street, if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the world +through bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things had +been removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bed-room +adjoining. + +Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carried +away the things, and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor lay +outside, and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made him +turn. + +"Do you require anything, sir?" + +It was the attendant. + +"Nothing," said Jones. "I was just looking to see where this place led +to." He came back into the room. + +He knew now that every movement of his was watched, and he accepted the +fact without comment. He sat down and took up the _Times_ whilst the +attendant went back to the bed-room. + +He had said to himself on awaking, that a sane man, held as insane, +could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line of +reasoning now and casting about him for a method. + +He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that had all +at once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor. +Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called the +attendant. + +"I want to see the gentleman who runs this place." + +"Dr. Hoover, sir?" + +"Yes." + +"Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for." + +He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message. + +Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutes +passed and then the door opened and a gentleman entered. + +A pleasant faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue serge and +with a rose in his button-hole, such was Doctor Hoover. But the eye of +the man held him apart from others; a blue grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, +for all the smile upon the pleasant face. + +Jones rose up. + +"Dr. Hoover, I think," said he. + +"Good morning," said the other in a hearty voice. "Fine day, isn't it? +Well, how are we this morning?" + +"Oh, I'm all right," said Jones. "I want to have a little talk with +you." He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closed +it. + +"For your sake," said Jones, "it's just as well we have no one +listening, the attendant is in there--you are sure he cannot hear what +we say, even with the door shut?" + +"Quite," said Hoover, with a benign smile. + +He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications +concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food. + +He did not expect what followed. + +"I am not going to grumble at your having me here," said Jones; "it's my +fault for playing practical jokes. I didn't think they'd go the length +of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them." + +"And what name was that?" asked Hoover kindly. + +"Jones." + +"Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?" + +"Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I'm the Earl of Rochester." + +This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman's face shewed +nothing. + +"Indeed," said he, "then why did you call yourself Jones?" + +"For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me +a draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty, +and I drank it--you must have seen the condition I was in when I got +here." + +"Hum, hum," said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways of +gentlemen off their balance, and he had a profound belief in Simms and +Cavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he had +received with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones. + +"Well," he said, with an air of absolute frankness, "this takes me by +surprise; a practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke?" + +"I know," said Jones, "it was stupid, just a piece of tom-foolery--but +you see how I am landed." + +Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst noting it. + +Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions seemingly irrelevant +enough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying out +such a practical joke? Why did he not say at once it was a practical +joke after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory as +good as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl of +Rochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochester he could hold that +title against a claim that he was not the Earl? Give details and so +forth? + +"Now suppose," said Dr. Hoover, "I were to contest the title with you +and say 'you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester,' how would +you establish your claim. I am simply asking, to find out whether what +you consider to be a practical joke was in fact a slight lapse of memory +on your part, a slight mind disturbance such as is easily caused by +fatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeks +or months. + +"Now I must point out to you that, as--practical joke or not--you came +here calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you for +proof that you are _not_ Mr. Jones. See my point?" + +"Quite." + +"Well, then, prove your case," said the physician jovially. + +"How can I?" + +"Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is +your banker?" + +"Coutts." + +Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester's banker might be, but the +promptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth, the promptness was +also an index of sanity. He passed at a venture to a subject on which he +was acquainted. + +"And how many brothers and sisters have you?" + +That was fatal. + +Jones' eye fell under the pressure of Hoover's. + +"There is no use in going on with these absurd questions," said he, "a +thing everyone knows." + +"But I just want to prove to you," said Hoover, gently, "that your mind, +which in a week from now, will have quite recovered, is still a little +bit shaky--now how long is it since you succeeded to the title? It's +just a test memory question." + +Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained an +appreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Simms and the cadaverous +Cavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense. + +Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was a +blind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questions +of which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came to +the grand determination to try back. + +"Look here," said he, "let's be straight with one another. I can't +answer your questions. Now if you are a man of sense, as I take you to +be, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselves +is mad, you will recognize _why_ I can't answer your questions. I'm not +Rochester. I thought I'd get out of here by pretending that I'd played a +practical joke on those guys; it was a false move, I acknowledge it, but +when I fixed on the idea, I didn't know the man I had to deal with. If +you will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all this +business came about." + +"Go on," said Hoover. + +Jones told, and Hoover listened and when the tale was over, at the end +of a quarter of an hour or so, Jones scarcely believed it himself. It +sounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke of +Melford and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There was +something in Hoover's eye, something in his make up and personality, +something veiled and critical, that destroyed confidence. + +"I have asked them to make enquiries," finished Jones, "if they will +only do that everything will be cleared up." + +"And you may rest content we will," said Hoover. + +"Now for another thing," said Jones. "Till I leave this place, which +will be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendant +not to be always watching me. I don't know whether you think me mad or +sane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me, I'm not going to do +anything foolish, but if anything would drive me crazy, it would be +feeling that I am always watched like a child." + +Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Then +he said: + +"You will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as you +like. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuse +yourself. I'll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds till +your health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it's a +sanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstowe for +neuritis, got it in India. You will like them. There are several others +who make up my household--you can come on down with me now--are you a +billiard player?" + +"Yes, I can play--but, see here, before we go down, where is this +place?--I don't even know what part of the country it's in." + +"Sandbourne-on-sea," replied Hoover, leading the way from the room. + +Now in London on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Simms, at +a dinner-party, given by Doctor Took of Bethlem Hospital had, relative +to the imagination of lunatics, given an instance: + +"Only to-day," said Simms, "I had a case in point. A man gave me as his +supposed address, one thousand one hundred and ninety one, Walnut +Street, Philadelphia." + +"But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia," said Took, "and it's ten +miles long, and the numbers run up well towards that." + +Half an hour later, Simms got into his carriage. + +"Savoy Hotel, Strand," said he to the coachman. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +AN INTERLUDE + + +Simms in his electric brougham passed through the gas-lit streets in the +direction of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, but +seeing nothing. + +I love to linger over Simms, but what pages of description could +adequately describe him; buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with the +appearance of having been born and bred in a frock-coat, above all +things discreet; you can fancy him stepping out of his brougham, passing +into the hall of the hotel and presenting his card to the clerk with a +request for an interview with the manager. The manager being away, his +deputy supplied his place. + +"Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hotel +and on the night of the first of June had met with 'an accident' on the +underground railway. The police had taken charge of the business. What +address had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. +Walnut Street, Philadelphia." + +"Thanks," said Simms, "I came to enquire because a patient of mine +fancied, seeing the report, that it might be a relative. She must have +been mistaken, for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thank +you--quite so--good evening." + +In the hall Simms hesitated for a moment, then he asked a page boy for +the American bar, found it and ordered a glass of soda water. + +There were only one or two men in the bar and as Simms paid for his +drink he had a word with the bar tender. + +"Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who were +very much alike?" + +The bar tender did, and as an indication how in huge hotels dramatic +happenings may pass unknown to the staff not immediately concerned, he +had never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappy +demise he had read in the papers. + +He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, +never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, but +still like. His assistant had seen them too. + +"Quite so," said Simms; "they are friends of mine and I hoped to see +them again here this evening--perhaps they are waiting in the lounge." + +He finished his soda water and walked off. He sought the telephone +office and rang up Curzon Street. + +The Duke of Melford had dined at home but had gone out. He was at the +Buffs' Club in Piccadilly. + +Simms drove to the Club. + +The Duke was in the library. + +His Grace had literary leanings. His "History of the Siege of +Bundlecund," of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remained +unsold, had not deterred him from attempting the "Siege of Jutjutpore." +He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and to-night he was in +the act of taking down some notes on the character of Fooze Ali, the +leader of the besiegers, when Simms was announced. + +The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting together +into a cosy corner, the two men talked. + +"Your Grace," said Simms, "we have made a mistake. Your nephew is dead +and that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himself +to be." + +"What! What! What!" cried the Duke. + +"There can be no doubt at all," said Simms. "I have made enquiries." + +He gave details. The Duke listened, his narrow brain incensed at this +monstrous statement that had suddenly risen up to confront it. + +"I don't believe a word of it," said he, when the recital was over, "and +what's more, I won't believe it. Do you mean to tell me I don't know my +own nephew?" + +"It's not a question of that," said Simms. "It's just a question of the +facts of the case. There is no doubt at all that a man exactly like the +late--your nephew, in fact, stayed at this hotel, that he there met +the--your nephew. There is no doubt that this man gave the address to +the hotel people he gave to us, and there is no doubt in my mind that he +could make out a very good case if he were free. That there would be a +very great scandal--a world scandal. Even if he were not to prove his +case, the character of--your nephew--would be held up for inspection. +Then again, he would have very powerful backers. Now you told me of this +man Mulhausen. How would that property stand were this man to prove his +claim and prove that Lord Rochester was dead when the transfer of the +property was made to him? I am not thinking of my reputation," finished +the ingenuous Simms, "but of your interests, and I tell you quite +plainly, your Grace, that were this man to escape we would all be in a +very unpleasant predicament." + +"Well, he won't escape," said the Duke. "I'll see to that." + +"Quite so, but there is another matter. The Commissioners in Lunacy." + +"Well, what about them?" + +"It is the habit of the Commissioners to visit every establishment +registered under the act and unfortunately, they are men--I mean of +course that, fortunately, they are men of the most absolute probity, but +given to over-riding, sometimes, the considered opinion of those in +close touch with the cases they are brought in contact with. They would +undoubtedly make strict enquiries into the truth of the story that Lord +Rochester has just put up, and the result--I can quite see it--would +drift us into one of those _exposés_, those painful and interminable +lawsuits, destructive alike to property, to dignity, and that ease of +mind inseparable from health and the enjoyment of those positions to +which my labours and your Grace's lineage entitle us." + +"Damn the Commissioners," suddenly broke out his Grace. "Do you mean to +say they would doubt my word?" + +"Unfortunately, it is not a question of that," said Simms. "It is a +question of what they call the liberty of the subject." + +"Damn the liberty of the subject--liberty of the subject. When a man's +mad what right has he to liberty--liberty to cut people's throats maybe. +Look at that fool Arthur, liberty! Look at the use he made of his +liberty when he had it. Look what he did to Langwathby: sent a telegram +leading him to believe that his wife had broken out again--you know how +she drinks--and had been gaoled in Carlisle. And the thing was so +artfully constructed, it said almost nothing. You couldn't touch him on +it. Simply said, 'Go at once to police court Carlisle.' See the art of +it? Never mentioned the woman's name. There was no libel. Langwathby, to +prosecute, would have to explain all about his wife. He went. What +happened! You know his temper. He went to Langwathby Castle before going +to the police court, and the first person he saw was his wife. Before +all the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, he said to her, 'So +they have let you out of prison and now you'd better get out of my +house.' You know her temper. Before all the servants. Before all the +servants, mind you, she accused him of that disgraceful affair in Pont +Street when he was turned out in his pyjamas--and they half ripped off +him--by Lord Tango's brother. Tango never knew anything of it. Never +would, but he knows now, for Lucy Jerningham was at Langwathby when the +scene occurred and she's told him. The result is poor Langwathby will +find himself in the D. C. Liberty! What right has a man like that to +talk of liberty?" + +"Quite so," said Simms, utterly despairing of pressing home the truth of +the horrible situation upon this brain in blinkers. "_Quite_ so. But +facts are facts and the fact remains that this man--I mean--er--Lord +Rochester, possesses on your own shewing great craft and subtlety. And +he will use that with the Commissioners in Lunacy when they call." + +"When do they call?" + +"Ah, that's just it. They visit asylums and registered houses at their +own will, and the element of surprise is one of their methods. They may +arrive at Hoover's any time. I say, literally, any time. Sometimes they +arrive at a house in the middle of the night; they may leave an asylum +unvisited for a month and then come twice in one week, and they hold +everyone concerned literally in the hollows of their hands. If denied +admittance they would not hesitate to break the doors down. Their power +is absolute." + +"But, good God, sir," cried the Duke, "what you tell me is monstrous. +It's un-English. Break into a man's house, spy upon him in the middle of +the night! Why, such powers vested in a body of men make for +terrorisation. This must be seen to. I will speak about it in the +House." + +"Quite so, but, meanwhile, there is the danger, and it must be faced." + +"I'll take him away from Hoover's." + +"Ah," said Simms. + +"I'll put him somewhere where these fellows won't be able to interfere. +How about my place at Skibo?" + +Simms shook his head. + +"He is under a certificate," said he. "The Commissioners call at +Hoover's, inspect the books, find that Lord Rochester has been there, +find him gone, find you have taken him away. They will simply call upon +you to produce him." + +"How about my yacht?" asked the other. + +"A long sea voyage for his health?" + +"Ah," said Simms, "that's better, but voyages come to an end." + +"How about my villa at Naples? Properly looked after there he will be +safe enough." + +"Of course," said Simms, "that will mean he will always have to be +there--always." + +"Of course, always. D'you think now I have got him in safety I will let +him out?" + +Simms sighed. The business was drifting into very dangerous waters. He +knew for a matter of fact and also by intuition that Jones was Jones and +that Rochester was dead and his unfortunate position was like this: + +1. If Jones escaped from Hoover's unsoothed and furious he might find +his way to the American Consul or, _horror!_ to some newspaper office. +Then the band would begin to play. + +2. If Jones were transferred on board the Duke's yacht and sequestrated, +the matter at once became _criminal_, and the prospect of long years of +mental distress and dread lest the agile Jones should break free stood +before him like a nightmare. + +3. It was impossible to make the Duke believe that Jones was Jones and +that Rochester was dead. + +The only thing to be done was to release Jones, soothe him, bribe him +and implore of him to get back to America as quick as possible. + +This being clear before the mind of Simms, he at once proceeded to act. + +"It is not so much the question of your letting him out," he said, "as +of his escaping. And now I must say this. My professional reputation is +at stake and I must ask you to come with me to Curzon Street and put the +whole matter before the family. I wish to have a full consultation." + +The Duke demurred for a moment. Then he agreed and the two men left the +club. + +At Curzon Street they found the Dowager Countess and Venetia Birdbrook +about to retire for the night. Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had +already retired, and, though invited to the conference, refused to leave +her room. + +Then, in the drawing-room with closed doors, Simms, relying on the +intelligence of the women as a support, began, for the second time, his +tale. + +He convinced the women, and by one o'clock in the morning, still +standing by his guns after the fashion of the defenders of Bundlecund, +the Duke had to confess that he had no more ammunition. Surrendered in +fact. + +"But what is to be done?" asked the distracted mother of the defunct. +"What will this terrible man do if we release him?" + +"Do," shouted the Duke. "Do--why the impostor may well ask what will we +do to him." + +"We can do nothing," said Venetia. "How can we? How can we expose all +this before the servants--and the public? It is all entirely Teresa's +fault. If she had treated Arthur properly none of this would ever have +happened. She laughed and made light of his wickedness, she--" + +"Quite so," said Simms, "but, my dear lady, what we have to think of now +is the man, Jones. We must remember that whilst being an extremely +astute person, inasmuch as he recovered for you that large property from +the man Mulhausen, he seems honest. Indeed, yes, it is quite evident +that he is honest. I would suggest his release to-morrow and the +tendering to him of an adequate sum, say one thousand pounds, on the +condition that he retires to the States. Then, later, we can think of +some means to account for the demise of the late Earl of Rochester or +simply leave it that he has disappeared." + +The rest of this weird conclave remains unreported, Simms, however, +carrying his point and departing next day, after having seen his +patients, for Sandbourne-on-Sea, where he arrived late in the afternoon. + +When the hired fly that carried him from Sandbourne Station arrived at +the Hoover establishment, it found the gate wide open, and at the gate +one of the attendants standing in an expectant attitude glancing up and +down the road as though he were looking for something, or waiting for +somebody. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +SMITHERS + + +Hoover, leading the way downstairs, shewed Jones the billiard-room on +the first floor, the dining-room, the smoke-room. All pleasant places, +with windows opening on the gardens. Then he introduced him to some +gentlemen. To Colonel Hawker, just come in from an after breakfast game +of croquet, to Major Barstowe, and to a young man with no chin to speak +of, named Smithers. There were several others, very quiet people, the +three mentioned are enough for consideration. + +Colonel Hawker and Major Barstowe were having an argument in the +smoking-room when Hoover and Jones entered. + +"I did not say I did not believe you," said Barstowe, "I said it was +strange." + +"Strange," cried the Colonel, "what do you mean by strange--it's not the +word I object to, it's the tone you spoke in." + +"What's the dispute?" asked Hoover. + +"Why," said Barstowe, "the Colonel was telling me he had seen pigs in +Burmah sixteen feet long, and sunflowers twenty feet in diameter." + +"Oh, that story," said Hoover; "yes, there's nothing strange in that." + +"I'll knock any man down that doubts my word," said the Colonel, "that's +flat." + +Hoover laughed, Jones shivered. + +Then the disputants went out to play another game of croquet, and Jones, +picking up with Smithers, played a game of billiards, Hoover going off +and leaving them alone. + +After playing for about five minutes, Smithers, who had maintained an +uncanny silence, broke off the game. + +"Let's play something better than this," said he. "Did you know I was +rich?" + +"No," said Jones. + +"Well, I'm very rich--Look here," he took five sovereigns from his +pocket and shewed them with pride. "I play pitch and toss with these," +said he. "Hoover doesn't mind so long as I don't lose them. Pitch and +toss with sovereigns is fine fun, let's have a game?" + +Jones agreed. + +They sat on the divan and played pitch and toss. At the end of ten +minutes, Jones had won twenty pounds. + +"I think I will stop now," said Smithers. "Give me back that sovereign I +lent you to toss with." + +"But you owe me twenty pounds," said Jones. + +"I'll pay you that to-morrow," said Smithers; "these sovereigns are not +to be spent, they are only for playing with." + +"Oh, that doesn't matter," said Jones, handing back the coin, and +recognising that, penniless as he was, here was a small fund to be +drawn upon by cunning, should he find a means of escape. "I'm rich. I'm +worth ten millions." + +"Ten million sovereigns?" + +"Yes." + +"Golden ones, like these?" + +"Yes." + +"I say," said Smithers, "could you lend me one or two?" + +"Yes, rather." + +"But you mustn't tell Hoover." + +"Of course I won't." + +"When will you lend me them?" + +"When I get my bag of sovereigns from London. They are coming down +soon." + +"I like you," said Smithers. "We'll be great friends, won't we?" + +"Rather, come out in the garden." + +They went out. + +The garden encircled the house, big wrought iron gates, locked, gave +upon the road. + +The tennis and croquet lawns lay at the back of the house, brick walls, +covered in part with fruit trees, surrounded the whole place. The wall +on the left of the house struck Jones as being practicable, and he +noticed that none of the walls were spiked or glassed. Hoover's patients +were evidently not of the dangerous and agile type. + +"What's at the other side of this wall?" asked Jones, as they passed +along by the left hand barrier. Smithers giggled. + +"Girls," said he. + +"Girls! what sort of girls?" + +"Little ones with long hair and bigger ones; they learn their lessons +there, it's a school. The gardener left his ladder there one day and I +climbed up. There were a lot of girls there. I nodded to them, and they +all came to the wall. I made them all laugh. I asked them to come over +the wall and toss for sovereigns--then a lady came and told me to go +away. She didn't seem to like me." + +Jones, all during luncheon--the meal was served in his own +apartments--revolved things in his mind, Smithers amongst others. +Smithers' mania for handling gold had evidently been satisfied by giving +him these few coins to play with. They were real ones, Jones had +satisfied himself of that. Smithers, despite his want of chin, was +evidently not a person to be put off with counterfeit coin. Jones had +come down from London dressed just as he had called at Curzon Street. +That is to say in a black morning coat and grey trousers. His tall hat +had evidently been forgotten by his deporters. After luncheon he asked +for a cap to wear in the garden, and was supplied with a grey tweed +shooting cap of Hoover's. + +With this on his head he took his seat in an arbour, an arbour which, he +noticed, had its opening facing the house. + +Here, smoking, he continued revolving his plans, and here afternoon tea +was served to him. + +Ten minutes later the colonel and the major began another game of +croquet, and five minutes after that, came from the house Smithers, +with a butterfly net in his hand. + +Jones left the arbour and joined Smithers. + +"The sovereigns have come," said Jones. + +"The bag of sovereigns?" + +"Yes, with a big red seal from the bankers. I'm going to give you +fifty." + +"Oh, Lord," said Smithers, "but you haven't said anything to Hoover?" + +"Not a word--but you must do something for me before I give you them." + +"What's that?" + +"I want you to go up to Colonel Hawker and take him aside." + +"Yes?" + +"And tell him that Major Barstowe says he's a liar." + +"Yes." + +"That's all." + +"That's easy enough," said Smithers. + +"I'll stand by the wall here, and if any of the girls look over, as they +probably will, for I'm going to whistle to them, I'll make them come +over and toss for sovereigns." + +"That would be a lark," said the unfortunate. + +"Bother," said Jones, "I've forgot." + +"What?" + +"All my sovereigns are upstairs in the bag--I know--lend me yours whilst +I'm waiting." + +"I--I never lend sovereigns," said Smithers. + +"Why, I'm going to _give_ you fifty--and I only ask you to lend me five +for a moment in case those girls--" + +Smithers put his hand in his pocket and produced the coins; they were in +a little chamois leather bag. "Don't open the bag," said he, "just shake +it and they'll know there are sovereigns in it by the noise." + +"Right," said Jones. "Now go and tell Colonel Hawker that Major Barstowe +says he's a liar." + +Smithers went off, butterfly net in hand. + +Jones was under no delusion. He reckoned that the garden was always +under surveillance, and that a man getting over a wall would have little +chance of reaching the street, unless he managed to distract the +attention of watchers. He thought it probable that his conversation with +Smithers had been watched, and possibly the handing over of some article +noted. + +There was a seat just here, close to the wall. He sat down on it, pulled +his cap over his eyes, and stretched out his legs. Then under the peak +of the cap, he watched Smithers approaching Colonel Hawker, interrupt +him just as he was on the point of making a stroke, and lead him aside. + +The effect on the colonel's mind of the interruption to his stroke, +followed by the sudden information that his veracity had been impeached, +was miraculous and sudden as the slap on the side of the face that sent +the butterfly hunter flying. The attack on Barstowe, who seemed to fight +well, the cries, the shouts, the imprecations, the fact that half a +dozen people, inmates and attendants, joined in the confusion as if by +magic, all this was nothing to Jones, nor was the subsidiary fact that +one of the inmates, a quiet mannered clergyman, with a taste for arson, +had taken advantage of the confusion and was patiently and sedulously at +work, firing the thatch of the summer house in six different places, +with a long concealed box of matches. + +Jones, on the stroke of the Colonel, had risen from the seat, and with +the aid of a wall-trained plum tree, had reached the top of the wall and +dropped on the other side into a bed of mignonette. It was a hockey day +at the school, and there were no girls in the garden. He ran across it +to the open front gate and reached the road, ran down the road, which +was deserted, and burning in the late afternoon sunshine, reached a side +road and slackened his pace. All the roads were of the same pattern, +broad, respectable, and lined with detached and semi-detached houses set +in gardens, and labelled according to the owner's fancy. Old +Anglo-Indian colonels and majors lived here, and one knew their houses +by such names as "Lucknow," "Cawnpore," etc., just as one knows azaleas +by their blossoms. Jones, like an animal making for cover, pushed on +till he reached a street of shops. A long, long street, running north +and south with the shop fronts on the eastern side, sun-blinded and +sunlit. A peep of blue and perfect sea shewed at the end of the street, +and on the sea the white sail of a boat. Sandbourne-on-Sea is a pleasant +place to stay at, but Jones did not want to stay there. + +His mind was working feverishly. There was sure to be a railway station +somewhere, and, as surely, the railway station would be the first place +they would hunt for him. + +London was his objective. London and the National Provincial Bank, but +of the direction or the distance to be travelled, he knew no more than +the man in the moon. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +HE RUNS TO EARTH + + +As the fox seeks an earth, he was seeking for a hole to hide in. Across +the road a narrow house, set between a fishmonger's shop and a sea-side +library, displayed in one of its lower windows a card with the word +"Apartments." Jones crossed the road to this house and knocked at the +hall door. He waited a minute and a half, ninety seconds, and every +second a framed vision of Hoover in pursuit, Hoover and his assistants +streaming like hounds on a hot scent. Then he found a decrepit bell and +pulled it. + +Almost on the pull the door opened, disclosing a bustless, sharp-eyed +and cheerful-looking little woman of fifty or so, wearing a cameo brooch +and cornelian rings. She wore other things but you did not notice them. + +"Have you rooms to let?" asked Jones. + +"Well, sir, I have the front parlour unoccupied," replied the landlady, +"and two bed-rooms on the top floor. Are there any children?" + +"No," said Jones. "I came down here alone for a holiday. May I see the +rooms?" + +She took him to the top front bed-room first. It was clean and tidy, just +like herself, and gave a cheery view of the shop fronts on the opposite +side of the street. + +Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a +moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion. +Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked +like a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about them +as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse +or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He +turned to the landlady. + +"I like this room," said he, "it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of +place I want. Now let's see the parlour." + +The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to +match, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday +Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida's "Moths" in the +old, yellow-back, two shilling edition. + +"Very nice indeed," said Jones. "What do you charge?" + +"Well, sir," said the landlady--her name was Henshaw--"it's a pound a +week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with." + +"Any extras?" asked the artful Jones. + +"No, sir." + +"Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, +and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labelled for here, and +the porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to the +station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing +I haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance." + +She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. + +When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have for +supper, or would he prefer late dinner. + +"Supper," replied Jones, "oh, anything. I'm not particular." + +Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think. +Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, that +was highly improbable. Hoover's was a high class establishment, he would +avoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to use +the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act +with caution. + +Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtful +point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed. + +One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from +Sandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover +was a logical man. + +There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this +thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and +horsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow. +Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk without +creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get +out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweed +hanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat all +day in his room in the face of such weather, would create a most +unhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whatever +else he might do he could not lurk. + +The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things +that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet +that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run +away with all your money, and left you with seven children to look +after, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose in +her hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was under +the obsession of _the_ picture of the room, whose place was above the +mantelpiece. + +It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince +Consort, correct, sane, urbane--a terrible comparison for a man in an +insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or +its productions--though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in +both. + +A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He +heard the door answered, a voice outside saying "N'k you" and the door +shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending +the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened +it, inspected the contents, and chose "Moths." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +MOTHS + + +In ill-health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinary +mind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons of +Charles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few classics that will stand the test +of a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, or +a minor tragedy. Here the writer of "light fiction" stands firm. + +Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two, +but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to the +uplands where the grass is improving. + +Colour, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, and +now--he suddenly found himself on the beach at Trouville. + +On the beach at Trouville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in the +sea. + +He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to the +wicked Russian Prince, when the door opened and the supper tray entered, +followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honour and her own initiative she had +produced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dull +looking jam tarts on a willow pattern plate. + +When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on with +the book. The lovely heroine had become for him Teresa, Countess of +Rochester, the Opera singer himself, and the Russian Prince Maniloff. + +Then the deepening dusk tore him from the book. Work had to be done. + +He rang the bell, told Mrs. Henshaw that he was going to the railway +station to see after his luggage, took his cap, and went out. Strangely +enough he did not feel nervous. The first flurry had passed, and he had +adapted himself to the situation, the deepening darkness gave him a +sense of security, and the lights of the shops cheered him somehow. + +He turned to the left towards the sea. + +Fifty yards down the street he came across a Gentlemen's Outfitters, in +whose windows coloured neckties screamed, and fancy shirts raised their +discordant voices with Gent's summer waistcoats and those panama hats, +adored in the year of this story by the river and sea-side youth. + +Jones, under the hands of Rochester's valet, and forced by circumstances +to use Rochester's clothes, was one of the best dressed men in London. +Left to himself in this matter he was lost. He had no idea of what to +wear or what not to wear, no idea of the social damnation that lies in +tweed trousers not turned up at the bottom, fancy waistcoats, made +evening ties, a bowler worn with a black morning coat, or dog-skin +gloves. Heinenberg and Obermann of Philadelphia had dressed him till +Stultz unconsciously took the business over. He was barely conscious of +the incongruity of his present get-up topped by the tweed shooting cap +of Hoover's, but he was quite conscious of the fact that some alteration +in dress was imperative as a means towards escape from +Sandbourne-on-Sea. + +He entered the shop of Towler and Simpkinson, bought a six and +elevenpenny panama, put it on and had the tweed cap done up in a parcel. +Then a flannel coat attracted him, a grey flannel tennis coat price +fifteen shillings. It fitted him to a charm, save for the almost +negligible fact that the sleeves came down nearly to his knuckles. Then +he bought a night shirt for three and eleven, and had the whole lot done +up in one parcel. + +At a chemist's next door he bought a tooth brush. In the mirror across +the counter he caught a glimpse of himself in the panama. It seemed to +him that not only had he never looked so well in any other head gear, +but that his appearance was completely altered. + +Charmed and comforted he left the shop. Next door to the chemist's and +at the street corner was a public house. + +Jones felt certain from his knowledge of Hoover that the very last place +to come across one of his assistants would be a public house. He entered +the public bar, took a seat by the counter and ordered a glass of beer +and a packet of cigarettes. The place was rank with the fumes of cheap +tobacco and cigarettes and the smell of beer. Hard gas light shewed no +adornment, nothing but pitch pine panelling, spittoons, bottles on +shelves and an almanac. The barmaid, a long-necked girl with red hands, +and cheap rings and a rose in her belt, detached herself from earnest +conversation with a youth in a bowler inhabiting the saloon bar, pulled +a handle, dumped a glass of beer before Jones and gave him change +without word or glance, returning to her conversation with the bowlered +youth. She evidently had no eyes at all for people in the public bar. +There are grades, even in the tavern. + +Close to where Jones had taken his seat was standing a person in broken +shoes, an old straw hat, a coat, with parcels evidently in the tail +pockets, and trousers frayed at the heels. He had a red unshaven face, +and was reading the _Evening Courier_. + +Suddenly he banged the paper with the tips of the fingers of his right +hand and cast it on the counter. + +"Govinment! Govinment! nice sort of govinment, payin' each other four +hundred a year for followin' Asquith and robbin' the landowners to get +the money--God lumme." + +He paused to light a filthy clay pipe. He had his eyes on Jones, and +evidently considered him, for some occult reason, of the same way of +political thinking as himself, and he addressed him in that impersonal +way in which one addresses an audience. + +"They've downed and outed the House o' Lords, an' now they're scraggin' +the Welsh Church, after that they'll go for the Landed Prepriotor and +finish _him_. And who's to blame? the Radicals--no, they ain't to +blame, no more than rats for their instincts; we're to blame, the +Conservatives is to blame, we haven't got a fightin' man to purtect us. +The Radicals has got all the tallant--you look at the fight Bonna Lor's +been makin' this week. Fight! A blind Tom cat with his head in an old +t'marter tin would make a better fight than Bonna Lor's put up. Look at +Churchill, that chap was one of us once, he was born to lead the +clarses, an' now look at him leadin' the marses, up to his neck in +Radical dirt and pretendin' he likes it. He doesn't, but he's a man with +an eye in his head and he knows what we are, a boneless lot without +organisation. I say it myself, I said it only larst night in this here +bar, and I say it again, for two pins I'd chuck my party. I would so. +For two pins I'd chuck the country, and leave the whole lot to stew in +their own grease." + +He addressed himself to his beer, and Jones, greatly marvelling, lit a +cigarette. + +"Do you live here?" asked he. + +"Sh'd think I did," replied the other. "Born here and bred here, and +been watchin' the place going down for the last twenty years, turnin' +from a decent residential neighbourhood to a collection of schools and +lodgin' houses, losin' clarse every year. Why the biggest house here is +owned by a chap that sells patent food, there's two socialists on the +town council, and the Mayor last year was Hoover, a chap that owns a +lunatic 'sylum. One of his loonies got out last March and near did for a +child on the Southgate Road before he was collared; and yet they make a +Mayor of him." + +"Have another drink?" said Jones. + +"I don't mind if I do." + +"Well, here's luck," said he, putting his nose into the new glass. + +"Luck!" said Jones. "Do Hoover's lunatics often escape?" + +"Escape--why I heard only an hour ago another of them was out. Gawd help +him if the town folk catch him at any of his tricks, and Gawd help +Hoover. A chap has no right comin' down and settin' up a business like +that in a place like this full of nursemaids and children. People bring +their innercent children down here to play on the sands, and any minit +that place may break loose like a bum-shell. _That's_ not marked down on +the prospectices they publish with pictures done in blue and yaller, and +lies about the air and water, and the salubriarity of the South Coast." + +"No, I suppose not," said Jones. + +"Well, I must be goin'," said the other, emptying his glass and wiping +his mouth on the back of his hand. "Good night to you." + +"Good night." + +The upholder of Church and State shuffled out, leaving Jones to his +thoughts. Wind of the business had got about the town, and even at that +moment no doubt people were carefully locking back doors and looking in +out houses. + +It was unfortunate that the last man to escape from the Hoover +establishment had been violently inclined, that was the one thing needed +to stimulate Rumour and make her spread. + +Having sat for ten minutes longer and consumed another glass of tepid +beer, he took his departure. + +Mrs. Henshaw let him in, and having informed her of his journey to the +station, the fruitlessness of his quest, and his opinion of the railway +company, its servants and its methods, he received his candle and went +to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +A TRAMP, AND OTHER THINGS + + +He was awakened by a glorious morning, and, looking out of his window, +he saw the street astir in the sunshine, stout men in white flannels +with morning newspapers in their hands, children already on their way to +the beach with spades and buckets, all the morning life of an English +seacoast town in Summer. + +Then he dressed. He had no razor, his beard was beginning to show, and +to go about unshaved was impossible to his nature. For a moment the wild +idea of letting his beard grow--that oldest form of disguise--occurred +to him, only to be dismissed immediately. A beard takes a month to grow, +he had neither the time nor the money to do it, nor the inclination. + +At breakfast--two kippered herrings and marmalade--he held a council of +war with himself. + +Nature has equipped every animal with means for offence and defence. To +man she has given daring, and that strange indifference in cool blood to +danger, when danger has become familiar, which seems the attribute of +man alone. + +Jones determined to risk everything, go out, prospect, find some likely +road of escape, and make a bold dash. The eight thousand pounds in the +London Bank shone before him like a galaxy of eight stars; no one knew +of its existence. What he was to do when he had secured it was a matter +for future consideration. Probably he would return right away to the +States. + +One great thing about all this Hoover business was the fact that it had +freed him from the haunting dread of those terrible sensations of +duality and negation. Fighting is the finest antidote to nerve troubles +and mental dreads, and he was fighting now for his liberty, for the fact +stood clearly before him, that, whether the Rochester family believed +him to be Rochester or believed him to be Jones, it was to their +interest to hold him as a lunatic in peaceful retirement. + +Having breakfasted he lit a cigarette, asked Mrs. Henshaw for a latch +key so that he might not trouble her, put on his panama and went out. +There was a barber's shop across the way, he entered it, found a vacant +chair and was shaved. Then he bought a newspaper and strolled in the +direction of the beach. The idea had come to him that he might be able +to hire a sailing boat and reach London that way, a preposterous and +vague idea that still, however, led him till he reached the esplanade, +and stood with the sea wind blowing in his face. + +The only sailing boats visible were excursion craft, guarded by +longshoremen, loading up with trippers, and showing placards to allure +the innocent. + +The sands were swarming, and the bathing machines crawling towards the +sea. + +He came on to the beach and took his seat on the warm, white sands, with +freedom before him had he been a gull or a fish. To take one of those +cockleshell row boats and scull a few miles down the coast would lead +him where? Only along the coast, rock-strewn beyond the sands and faced +with cliffs. Of boat craft he had no knowledge, the sea was choppy, and +the sailing boats now out seemed going like race horses over hurdles. + +No, he would wait till after luncheon, then in that somnolent hour when +all men's thoughts are a bit dulled, and vigilance least awake, he would +find some road, on good hard land, and make his dash. + +He would try and get a bicycle map of this part of Wessex. He had +noticed a big stationers' and book-sellers' near the beach, and he would +call there on his way back. + +Then he fell to reading his paper, smoking cigarettes, and watching the +crowd. + +Watching, he was presently rewarded with the sight of the present day +disgrace of England. Out of a bathing tent, and into the full sunlight, +came a girl with nothing on, for skin tight blue stockinette is nothing +in the eyes of Modesty; every elevation, every depression, every crease +in her shameless anatomy exposed to a hundred pairs of eyes, she walked +calmly towards the water. A young man to match followed. Then they +wallowed in the sea. + +Jones forgot Hoover. He recalled Lady Dolly in "Moths"--Lady Dolly, who, +on the beach of Sandbourne-on-Sea would have been the pink of +propriety, and the inhabitants of this beach were not wicked society +people, but respectable middle class folk. + +"That's pretty thick," said Jones to an old gentleman like a goat +sitting close to him, whose eyes were fixed in contemplation on the +bathers. + +"What?" + +"That girl in blue. Don't any of them wear decent clothes?" + +"The scraggy ones do," replied the other, speaking in a far away and +contented manner. + +At about half past eleven Jones left the beach, tired of the glare and +the bathers, and the sand digging children. He called at the book shop, +and for a shilling obtained a bicycle map of the coast, and sitting on a +seat outside the shop scanned it. + +There were three roads out of Sandbourne-on-Sea; the London road; a road +across the cliffs to the west; and a road across the cliffs to the east. +The easterly road led to Northbourne, a sea-side town some six or seven +miles away, the westerly road to Southbourne, some fifteen miles off. +London lay sixty miles to the north. The railway touched the London road +at Houghton Admiral, a station some nine miles up the line. + +That was the position. Should he take the London road and board a train +at Houghton Admiral, or take the road to Northbourne and get a train +from there? + +The three ways lay before him like the three Fates, and he determined on +the London road. + +However, Man proposes and God disposes. + +He folded up the map, put it in his pocket and started for home--or at +least Mrs. Henshaw's. + +Just at the commencement of the street he paused before a +photographer's to inspect the pictures exposed for view. Groups, family +parties, children, and girls with undecided features. He turned from the +contemplation of these things and found himself face to face with +Hoover. + +Hoover must have turned into the street from a bye way, for only sixty +seconds before the street had been Hooverless. He was dressed in a +Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and his calves showed huge. + +"Hello!" said Jones. + +The exclamation was ejected from him so to speak, by the mental shock. + +Hoover's hand shot out to grasp his prey. What happened then was +described by Mr. Shonts, the German draper across the way, to a friend. + +"The thin man hit Mr. Hoover in the stomack, who sat down, but lifted +himself at wance and pursued him." + +Jones ran. After him followed a constable, sprung from nowhere, boys, a +dog that seemed running for exercise, and Hoover. + +He reached the house of Mrs. Henshaw, pulled the latch key from his +pocket, plunged it in the lock, opened the door and shut it. So close +was the pursuit on him that the "bang-bang" of the knocker followed at +once on the bang of the door. + +Then the bell went, peal after peal. + +Jones made for the kitchen stairs and bolted down them, found a passage +leading to the back door, and, disregarding the bewildered Mrs. Henshaw, +who was coming out of the kitchen with her hands all over flour, found +the back yard. + +A blank wall lay before him, another on the right, and another on the +left. The left and right walls divided the Henshaw back yard from the +yards of the houses on either side, the wall immediately before him +divided it from the back yard of a house in Minerva Terrace, which was +parallel to the High Street. + +Jones chose this wall. A tenantless dog kennel standing before it helped +him, and next moment he was over, shaken up with a drop of twelve feet +and facing a clothes line full of linen. He dived under a sheet and +almost into the back of a broad woman hanging linen on a second clothes +line, found the back door of the house, which the broad woman had left +open, ran down a passage, up a kitchen stairs and into a hall. An old +gentleman in list slippers, coming out of a room on the right, asked him +what he wanted. Jones, recalling the affair later, could hear the old +gentleman's voice and words. + +He did not pause to reply. He opened the hall door, and the next moment +he was in Minerva Terrace. It was fortunately deserted. He ran to the +left, found a bye way and a terrace of artisans' dwellings, new, +hideous, and composed of yellow brick. In front of the terrace lay +fields. A gate in the hedge invited him, he climbed over it, crossed a +field, found another gate which led him to another field, and found +himself surrounded by the silence of the country, a silence pierced and +thrilled by the songs of larks. Larks make the sea lands of the south +and east coasts insufferable. One lark in a suitable setting, and, for a +while, is delightful, but twenty larks in all grades of ascent and +descent, some near, some distant, make for melancholy. + +Jones crouched in a hedge for a while to get back his breath. He was +lost. Road maps were not much use to him here. The larks insisted on +that, jubilantly or sorrowfully according to the stage of their flight. + +Then something or someone immediately behind him on the other side of +the hedge breathed a huge sigh, as if lamenting over his fate. He jumped +up. It was a cow. He could see her through the brambles and smell her +too, sweet as a Devonshire dairy. + +Then he sat down again to think and examine the map, which he had +fortunately placed in his pocket. The roads were there but how to reach +them was the problem, and the London road, to which he had pinned his +faith, was now impossible. It would be surely watched. He determined, +after a long consultation with himself, to make for Northbourne, +striking across the fields straight ahead, and picking up the cliff road +somewhere on its course. + +He judged, and rightly enough, that Hoover would hunt for him, not along +the coast but inland. Northbourne was not the road to London, even +though a train might be caught from Northbourne. The whole business was +desperate, but this course seemed the least desperate way out of it. And +he need not hurry, speed would be of no avail in this race against +Fate. + +He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Out of the nine pounds +he started with from Hoover's there remained only five pounds eleven and +ninepence. + +He had spent as follows: + + Mrs. Henshaw £2 0 0 + Panama 6 11 + Nightshirt 3 11 + Coat 15 0 + Public House 10 + Shave and Newspaper 7 + Road Map 1 0 + ---------- + £3 8 3 + +He went over these accounts and checked them in his head. Then he put +the money back in his pocket and started on his way across the fields. + +Despite all his worries this English country interested him, it also +annoyed him. Fields, the size of pocket handkerchiefs, divided one from +the other by monstrous hedges and deep ditches. To cross this country in +a straight line one would want to be a deer or a bounding kangaroo. +Gates, always at corners and always diagonal to his path, gave him +access from one field to the other. Trees there were none. The English +tree has an antipathy to the sea, and keeps away from it, but the hedge +has no sensitiveness of this sort. These hedges seemed to love the sea, +to judge by their size. + +He was just in the act of clambering over one of the innumerable gates +when a voice hailed him. He looked back. A young man in leggings, who +had evidently been following him unperceived, raised a hand. Jones +finished his business with the gate, and then, with it between him and +the stranger, waited. He was well dressed in a rough way, evidently a +superior sort of farmer, and physically a person to be reckoned with. He +was also an exceedingly cantankerous looking individual. + +"Do you know that you are trespassing?" asked he, when they were within +speaking distance. + +"No," said Jones. + +"Well, you are. I must ask you for your name and address, please." + +"What on earth for--what harm am I doing your old fields?" Jones had +forgotten his position, everything, before the outrage on common sense. + +"You are trespassing, that's all. I must ask you for your name and +address." + +Now to Jones came the recollection of something he had read somewhere. A +statement, that in England there was no law of trespass in the country +places, and that a person might go anywhere to pick mushrooms or wild +flowers, and no landlord could interfere so long as no damage was done. + +"Don't you know the law?" asked Jones. He recited the law accordingly, +to the Unknown. + +The other listened politely. + +"I ask you for your name and address," said he. "Our lawyers will settle +the other matter." + +Then anger came to Jones. + +"I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, "and my address is Carlton House +Terrace, London. I have no cards on me." + +Then the queerest sensation came to Jones, for he saw that the other had +recognised him. Rochester was evidently as well known to the ordinary +Englishman, by picture and repute, as Lloyd George. + +"I beg your pardon," said the other, "but the fact is that my land is +over-run with people from Sandbourne--sorry." + +"Oh, don't mention it," replied the Earl of Rochester. "I sha'n't do any +damage. Good day." They parted and he pursued his way. + +A mile farther on he came upon a person with broken boots, a beery face, +and clothes to match his boots. This person was seated in the sunshine +under a hedge, a bundle and a tin can beside him. + +He hailed Jones as "Guvernor" and requested a match. + +Jones supplied the match, and they fell into conversation. + +"Northbourne," said the tramp. "I'm goin' that way meself. I'll shew you +the quickest way when I've had a suck at me pipe." + +Jones rested for a moment by the hedge whilst the pipe was lit. The +trespass business was still hot in his mind. The cave-in of the Landlord +had not entirely removed the sense of outrage. + +"Aren't you afraid of being held up for trespass?" asked he. + +"Trespass," replied the other, "not me. I ain't afeared of no farmers." + +Jones gave his experience. + +"Don't you be under no bloomin' error," said the tramp, when the recital +was finished. "That chap was right enough. That chap couldn't touch the +likes of me, unless he lied and swore I'd broke fences, but he could +touch the likes of you. I know the Lor. I know it in and out. Landlords +don't know it as well as me. That chap knows the lor, else he wouldn't +a' been so keen on gettin' your name and where you lived." + +"But how could he have touched me if he cannot touch you?" + +The tramp chuckled. + +"I'll tell you," said he, "and I'll tell you what he'll do now he's got +where you live. He'll go to the Co't o' Charncery and arsk for a +'junction against you to stop you goin' over his fields. You don't want +to go over his fields any more, that don't matter. He'll get his +'junction and you'll have to pay the bloomin' costs--see--the bloomin' +costs, and what will that amahnt to? Gawd knows, maybe a hundred pound. +Lots of folks take it into their silly heads they can go where they +want. They carnt, not if the Landlord knows his Lor, not unless they're +hoofin' it like me. Lot o' use bringin' _me_ up to the Co't o' +Charncery." + +"Do you mean to say that just for walking over a field a man can be had +up to the court of Chancery and fined a hundred pounds?" + +"He ain't fined, it's took off him in costs." + +"You seem to know a lot about the law," said Jones, calling up the man +of the public house last night, and coming to the conclusion that +amongst the English lower orders there must be a vast fund of a peculiar +sort of intelligence. + +"Yes," said the tramp. "I told you I did." Then interestedly, "What +might your name be?" + +Jones repeated the magic formula to see the effect. + +"I am the Earl of Rochester." + +"Lord Rochester. Thought I knew your face. Lost half a quid over your +horse runnin' at Gatwood Park last Spring twel' months. 'White Lady' +came in second to 'The Nun,' half a quid. I'd made a bit on 'Champane +Bottle' in the sellin' plate. Run me eye over the lists and picked out +'White Lady.' Didn't know nothin' abaht her, said to a fren', 'here's my +fancy. Don't know nothin' abaht her, but she's one of Lord Rawchester's, +an' his horses run stright'--That's what I said--'His horses run +stright' and give me a stright run boss with a wooden leg before any of +your fliers with a dope in his belly or a pullin' jockey on his back. +But the grown' did her, she was beat on the post by haff an 'eck, you'll +remember. She'd a won be two lengths, on'y for that bit o' soggy grown' +be the post. That grown' want over-haulin', haff a shower o' rain, and +boss wants fins and flippers instead o' hoofs." + +"Yes," said Jones, "that's so." + +"A few barra' loads o' gravel would put it rite," continued the other, +"it ain't fair on the hosses, and it ain't fair on the backers, 'arf a +quid I dropped on that mucky bit o' grown'. Last Doncaster meetin' I +was sayin' the very same thing to Lor' Lonsdale over the Doncaster +Course. I met him, man to man like, outside the ring, and he handed me +out a cigar. We talked same as you and me might be talkin' now, and I +says to him: 'What we want's more money put into drains on the courses. +Look at them mucky farmers they way they drains their land,' said I, +'and look at us runnin' hosses and layin' our bets and let down, hosses +and backers and all, for want of the courses bein' looked after proper.'" + +He tapped the dottle out of his pipe, picked up the bundle, and rose +grumbling. + +Then he led the way in the direction of Northbourne. + +It was a little after three o'clock now, and the day was sultry. Jones, +despite his other troubles, was vastly interested in his companion. The +height of Rochester's position had never appeared truly till shown him +by the farmer and this tramp. They knew him. To them, without any doubt, +the philosophers and poets of the world were unknown, but they knew the +Earl of Rochester, and not unfavourably. + +Millions upon millions of the English world were equally acquainted with +his lordship, he was most evidently a National figure. His +unconventionality, his "larks," his lavishness, and his horse racing +propensities, however they might pain his family, would be meat to the +legions who loved a lord, who loved a bet, who loved a horse, and a +picturesque spendthrift. + +To be Rochester was not only to be a lord, it was more than that. It was +to be famous, a national character, whose picture was printed on the +retina of the million. Never had Jones felt more inclined to stick to +his position than now, with the hounds on his traces, a tramp for his +companion, and darkness ahead. He felt that if he could once get to +London, once lay his hands on that eight thousand pounds lying in the +National Provincial Bank, he could fight. Fight for freedom, get lawyers +to help him, and retain his phantom coronet. + +He had ceased to fear madness; all that dread of losing himself had +vanished, at least for the moment. Hoover had cured him. + +Meanwhile they talked as they went, the tramp laying down the law as to +rights over commons and waste lands, seeming absolutely to forget that +he was talking to, or supposed to be talking to, a landed proprietor. At +last they reached the white ribbon that runs over the cliffs from +Sandbourne to Northbourne and beyond. + +"Here's the road," said the tramp, "and I'll be takin' leave of your +lor'ship. I'll take it easy for a bit amongst them bushes, there's no +call for me to hurry. I shawnt forget meetin' your lor'ship. Blimy if I +will. Me sittin' there under that hedge an' thinkin' of that half quid I +dropped over 'White Lady' and your lor'ship comin' along--It gets me!" + +Up to this moment of parting he had not once Lordshipped Jones. + +Jones, feeling in his pocket, produced the half sovereign, which, with +five pounds one and nine pence made up his worldly wealth at the moment. + +He handed it over, and the tramp spat on it for luck. + +Then they parted, and the fugitive resumed his way with a lighter pocket +but a somewhat lighter heart. + +There are people who increase and people who reduce one's energy, it is +sometimes enough to look at them without even talking to them. The tramp +belonged to the former class. He had cheered Jones. There was nothing +particularly cheery in his conversation, all the same the effect had +been produced. + +Now, along the cliff road and coming from the direction of Northbourne a +black speck developed, resolving itself at last into the form of an old +man carrying a basket. The basket was filled with apples and Banbury +cakes. Jones bought eight Banbury cakes and two apples with his one and +nine pence, and then took his seat on the warm turf by the way to devour +them. He lay on his side as he ate and cursed Hoover. + +To lie here for an hour on this idyllic day, to watch the white gulls +flying, to listen to the whisper of the sea far below, what could be +better than that? He determined if ever he should win freedom and money +to return here for a holiday. + +He was thinking this, when, raised now on his elbow, he saw something +moving amongst the bushes and long grass of the waste lands bordering +the cliff road. + +It was a man, a man on all fours, yet moving swiftly, a sight natural +enough in the deer-stalking Highlands, but uncanny on these Wessex +downs. + +Jones leaving four Banbury cakes uneaten on the grass, sprang to his +feet, so did the crawling one. + +Then the race began. + +The pursuer was handicapped. + +Any two sides of a triangle are longer than the third. A right line +towards Jones would save many yards, but the going would be bad on +account of the brambles and bushes, a straight line to the road would +lenghten the distance to be covered, but would give a much better course +when the road was reached. He chose the latter. + +The result was, that when the race really started the pursuer was nearly +half a mile to the bad. But he had not recently consumed four Banbury +cakes and two apples. Super-Banbury cakes of the dear old days, when +margarine was ninepence a pound, flour unlimited, and currants unsought +after by the wealthy. + +Jones had not run for years. And in this connection it is quite +surprising how Society pursues a man once he gets over the barrier--and +especially when he has to run for his liberty. + +The first mile was bad, then he got his second wind handed to him, +despite everything, by a fair constitution and a fairly respectable +life, but the pursuer was now only a quarter of a mile behind. Up to +this the course had been clear with no spectators, but now came along +from the direction of Northbourne an invalid on the arm of an attendant, +and behind them a boy on a bicycle. The bicycle was an inspiration. + +It was also yellow painted, and bore a carrier in front blazoned with +the name of a Northbourne Italian Warehouseman. It contained parcels, +evidently intended for one of the few bungalows that strewed the cliff. + +The boy fought to defend his master's property, briefly, but still he +fought, till a happy stroke in the wind laid him on the sun-warmed turf. +The screams of the invalid--it was a female--sounded in the ears of +Jones like part of some fantastic dream, so seemed the bicycle. It had +no bell, the saddle wanted raising at least two inches, still it went, +and the wind was behind. + +On the right was a sheer drop of two hundred feet, and the road here +skirted the cliff edge murderously close, for the simple reason that +cliff falls had eaten the bordering grass to within a few feet of the +road. This course on an unknown and questionable bicycle laden with +parcels of tea and sugar, was open to a good many objections; they did +not occur to Jones; he was making good speed, or thought he was till the +long declivity leading to Northbourne was reached. Here he began to know +what speed really was, for he found on pressing the lever that the brake +would not act. Fortunately it was a free wheel. + +This declivity runs between detached villas and stone walls, sheltering +prim gardens, right on to the west end of the esplanade, which is, in +fact, a continuation of it. For the first few hundred yards Jones +thought that nothing could go quicker than the houses and walls rushing +past him, towards the end he was not thinking. + +The esplanade opened out, a happy band of children with buckets and +wooden spades, returning home to tea, opened out, gave place to rushing +apartment houses with green balconies on the left, rushing sea scape and +bathing machines on the right. Then the speed slackened. + +He got off shaking, and looked behind him. He had reached the east end +of the promenade. It lay, as it always lies towards five o'clock, +absolutely deserted by visitors. In the distance and just stepped out of +a newspaper kiosk a woman was standing, shading her eyes and looking +towards him. Two boatmen near her were looking in the same direction. +They did not seem excited, just mildly interested. + +At that moment appeared on the long slope leading down to the esplanade +the figure of a man running. He looked like a policeman--a sea-side +policeman. + +Jones did not pause to verify. He propped the bicycle against the rails +of a verandahed house and ran. + +The esplanade at this, the eastern end, ascends to the town by a zig-zag +road. As he took this ascent the mind of Jones, far from being clouded +or dulled, was acutely active. It saw that now the railway station of +Northbourne was out of count, flight by train was impossible, for the +station was the very first place that would be watched. The coast line, +to judge by present results, was impossible, for it seemed that to keep +to it he might go on for ever being chased till he reached John o' +Groats. + +Northbourne is the twin image of Sandbourne-on-Sea, the same long high +street, the same shops with blinds selling the same wares, the same +trippers, children with spades, and invalids. + +The two towns are rivals, each claiming the biggest brass band, the +longest esplanade, the fewer deaths from drowning, the best drains, the +most sunlight, and the swiftest trains from London. Needless to say that +one of them is not speaking the truth, a fact that does not seem to +disturb either of them in the least. + +Jones, walking swiftly, passed a sea-side boot shop, a butcher's, +greengrocer's, and Italian warehouse--the same, to judge by the name +over the door--that had sent forth the messenger boy on the bicycle. +Then came a cinema palace, with huge pictures splashed across with +yellow bands announcing: + + "TO-NIGHT" + +Then a milliner's, then a post office, and lastly a livery stable. + +In front of the latter stood a char-a-banc nearly full. A blackboard +announced in white chalk: "Two hours drive two shillings," and the +congregation in the char-a-banc had that stamp. Stout women, children, a +weedy man or two, and a honeymoon couple. + +Jones, without the slightest hesitation, climbed into the char-a-banc. +It seemed sent by Heaven. It was a seat, it went somewhere, and it was +a hiding place. Seated amongst these people he felt intuitively that a +viewless barrier lay between him and his pursuers, that it was the very +last place a man in search of a runaway would glance at. + +He was right. Whilst the char-a-banc still lingered on the chance of a +last customer, the running policeman--he was walking now, appeared at +the sea end of the street. He was a young man with a face like an apple, +he wore a straw helmet--Northbourne serves out straw helmets for its +police and straw hats for its horses on the first of June each year--and +he seemed blown. He was looking about him from right to left, but he +never looked once at the char-a-banc and its contents. He went on, and +round the corner of the street he vanished, still looking about him. + +A few moments later the vehicle started. The contents were cheerful and +communicative one with the other, conversing freely on all sorts of +matters, and Jones, listening despite himself, gathered all sorts of +information on subjects ranging from the pictures then exhibiting at the +cinema palace, to the price of butter. + +He discovered that the contents consisted of three family +parties--exclusive of the honeymoon couple--and that the appearance of +universal fraternity was deceptive, that the parties were exclusive, the +conversation of each being confined to its own members. + +So occupied was his mind by these facts that they were a mile and a half +away from Northbourne and in the depths of the country before a great +doubt seized him. + +He called across the heads of the others to the driver asking where they +were going to. + +"Sandbourne-on-Sea," said the driver. + +Now, though the Sandbournites hate the Northbournites as the Guelphs the +Ghibellines, though the two towns are at advertisemental war, the +favourite pleasure drive of the char-a-bancs of Sandbourne is to +Northbourne, and vice versa. It is chosen simply because the road is the +best thereabouts, and the gradients the easiest for the horses. + +"Sandbourne-on-Sea?" cried Jones. + +"Yes," said the driver. + +The vision of himself being carted back to Sandbourne-on-Sea with that +crowd and then back again to Northbourne--if he were not +caught--appeared to Jones for the moment as the last possible grimace of +Fate. He struggled to get out, calling to the driver that he did not +want to go to Sandbourne. The vehicle stopped, and the driver demanded +the full fare--two shillings. Jones produced one of his sovereigns but +the man could not make change, neither could any of the passengers. + +"I'll call at the livery stables as I go back," said Jones, "and pay +them there." + +"Where are you stayin' in the town?" asked the driver. + +"Belinda Villa," said Jones. + +It was the name of the villa against whose rails he had left the +bicycle. The idiocy of the title had struck him vaguely at the moment +and the impression had remained. + +"Mrs. Cass?" + +"Yes." + +"Mrs. Cass's empty." + +This unfortunate condition of Mrs. Cass did not floor Jones. + +"She was yesterday," said he, "but I have taken the front parlour and a +bed-room this afternoon." + +"That's true," said a fat woman, "I saw the gentleman go in with his +luggage." + +In any congregation of people you will always find a liar ready to lie +for fun, or the excitement of having a part in the business on hand; +failing that, a person equipped with an imagination that sees what it +pleases. + +This amazing statement of the fat woman almost took Jones' breath away. +But there are other people in a crowd beside liars. + +"Why can't the gentleman leave the sovereign with the driver and get the +change in the morning?" asked one of the weedy looking men. This +scarecrow had not said a word to anyone during the drive. He seemed born +of mischance to live for that supreme moment, diminish an honest man's +ways of escape, and wither. + +Jones withered him: + +"You shut up," said he. "It's no affair of yours--cheek." Then to +the driver: "You know my address, if you don't trust me you can come +back with me and get change." + +Then he turned and walked off whilst the vehicle drove on. + +He waited till a bend of the road hid it from view, and then he took to +the fields on the left. + +He had still the remains of the packet of cigarettes he had bought at +Sandbourne, and, having crossed four or five gates, he took his seat +under a hedge and lit a cigarette. + +He was hungry. He had done a lot of work on four Banbury cakes and an +apple. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD WHO WOULD BELIEVE HIM + + +The tobacco took the edge from his desire for food, increased his blood +pressure, and gave rest to his mind. + +He sat thinking. The story of "Moths" rose up before his mind and he +fell to wondering how it ended and what became of the beautiful heroine +with whom he had linked Teresa Countess of Rochester, of Zouroff with +whom he had linked Maniloff, of Corréze with whom he had linked himself. + +The colour of that story had tinctured all his sea-side experiences. Then +Mrs. Henshaw rose up before his mind. What was she thinking of the +lodger who had flashed through her life and vanished over the back +garden wall? And the interview between her and Hoover--that would have +been well worth seeing. Then the boy on the bicycle and the screaming +invalid rose before him, and that mad rush down the slope to the +esplanade; if those children with spades and buckets had not parted as +they did, if a dog had got in his way, if the slope had ended in a +curve! He amused himself with picturing these possibilities and their +results; and then all at once a drowsiness more delightful than any +dream closed on him and he fell asleep. + +It was after dark when he awoke with the remnant of a moon lighting the +field before him. From far away and borne on the wind from the sea came +a faint sound as of a delirious donkey with brass lungs braying at the +moon. It was the sound of a band. The Northbourne brass band playing in +the Cliff Gardens above the moonlit sea. Jones felt to see that his +cigarettes and matches were safe in his pocket, then he started, taking +a line across country, trusting in Providence as a guide. + +Sometimes he paused and rested on a gate, listening to the faint and +indeterminate sounds of the night, through which came occasionally the +barking of a distant dog like the beating of a trip hammer. + +It was a perfect summer's night, one of those rare nights that England +alone can produce; there were glow worms in the hedges and a scent of +new mown hay in the air. Though the music of the band had been blotted +out by distance, listening intently he caught the faintest suspicion of +a whisper, continuous, and evidently the sound of the sea. + +An hour later, that is to say towards eleven o'clock, weary with finding +his way out of fields into fields, into grassy lanes and around farm +house buildings, desperate, and faint from hunger, Jones found a road +and by the road a bungalow with a light in one of the windows. + +A dauntingly respectable-looking bungalow in the midst of a well +laid-out garden. + +Jones opened the gate and came up the path. He was going to demand food, +offer to pay for it if necessary, and produce gold as an evidence of +good faith. + +He came into the verandah, found the front door which was closed, struck +a match, found the bell, pulled and pulled it. There was no response. He +waited a little and then rang again, with a like result. Then he came to +the lighted window. + +It was a French window, only half closed, and a half turned lamp showed +a comfortably furnished room and a table laid out for supper. + +Two places were set. A cold fowl intact on a dish garnished with parsley +stood side by side with a York ham the worse for wear, a salad, a roll +of cowslip coloured butter, a loaf of home-made bread and a cheese +tucked around with a snow-white napkin made up the rest of the eatables +whilst a decanter of claret shone invitingly by the seat of the carver. +There was nothing wanting, or only the invitation. + +The fowl supplied that. + +Jones pushed the window open and entered. Half closing it again, he took +his seat at the table placing his hat on the floor beside him. Taking a +sovereign from his pocket, he placed it on the white cloth. Then he fell +to. + +You can generally tell a man by his claret, and judging from this claret +the unknown who had supplied the feast must have been a most estimable +man. + +A man of understanding and parts, a man not to be deluded by specious +wine lists, a generous warmhearted and full-blooded soul--and here he +was. + +A step sounded on the verandah, the window was pushed open and a man of +forty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark and saturnine stood +before the feaster. + +He showed no surprise. Removing his hat he bowed. + +Jones half rose. + +"Hello," said he confusedly, with his mouth full--then he subsided into +his chair. + +"I must apologise for being late," said the tall man, placing his hat on +a chair, rubbing his long hands together and moving to the vacant seat. +"I was unavoidably detained. But I'm glad you did not wait supper." + +He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself out +a glass of claret. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon the +cloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it in +his pocket. + +"That's right," said the unknown. Then as if in reply to a question: "I +will have a wing, please." + +Jones cut a wing of the fowl, placed it in the extra plate which he had +placed on one side of the table and presented it. The other cut himself +some bread, helped himself to salad, salt and pepper and started eating, +absolutely as though nothing unusual had occurred or was occurring. + +For half a minute or so neither spoke. Then Jones said: + +"Look here," said he, "I want to make some explanations." + +"Explanations," said the long man, "what about?" + +Jones laughed. + +"That sovereign which I put on the table and which I have put back in my +pocket. I must apologise. Had I gone away before you returned that would +have been left behind to show that your room had been entered neither by +a hobo nor a burglar, nor by some cad who had committed an +impertinence--perhaps you will believe that." + +The long man bowed. + +"But," went on Jones, "by a man who was driven by circumstances to seek +hospitality without an invitation." + +The other had suddenly remembered the ham and had risen and was helping +himself, his pince-nez which he wore on a ribbon and evidently only for +reading purposes, dangling against his waistcoat-buttons. + +"By circumstance," said he, "that is interesting. Circumstance is the +master dramatist--are you interested in the Drama?" + +"Interested!" said Jones. "Why, I _am_ a drama. I reckon I'm the biggest +drama ever written, and that's why I am here to-night." + +"Ah," said the other, "this is becoming more interesting still or +promising to become, for I warn you, plainly, that what may appear of +intense interest to the individual is generally of little interest to +the general. Now a man may, let's say, commit some little act that the +thing we call Justice disapproves of, and eluding Justice finds himself +pressed by Circumstance into queer and dramatic positions, those +positions though of momentary and intense interest to the man in +question would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls or +the girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by that +thread of--what shall we call it--that is the backbone of the thing we +call Story." + +"Oh, Justice isn't bothering after me," said Jones--Then vague +recollections began to stir in his mind, that long glabrous face, the +set of that jaw, that forehead, that hair, brushed back. + +"Why, you're Mr. Kellerman, aren't you?" said he. + +The other bowed. + +"Good heavens," said Jones, "I ought to have known you. I've seen your +picture often enough in the States, and your cinema plays--haven't read +your books, for I'm not a reading man--but I've been fair crazy over +your cinema plays." + +Kellerman bowed. + +"Help yourself to some cheese," said he, "it's good. I get it from +Fortnum and Masons. When I stepped into this room and saw you here, for +the first moment I was going to kick you out, then I thought I'd have +some fun with you and freeze you out. So you're American? You are +welcome. But just tell me this. Why did you come in, and how?" + +"I came in because I am being chased," said Jones. "It's not the law, I +reckon I'm an honest citizen--in purpose, anyhow, and as to how I came +in I wanted a crust of bread and rang at your hall door." + +"Servants don't sleep here," said Kellerman. "Cook snores, bungalow like +a fiddle for conveying sounds, come here for sleep and rest. They sleep +at a cottage down the road." + +"So?" said Jones. "Well, getting no reply I looked in at the window, saw +the supper, and came in." + +"That's just the sort of thing that might occur in a photo play," said +Kellerman. "When I saw you, as I stepped in, sitting quietly at supper +the situation struck me at once." + +"You call that a situation," said Jones. "It's bald to some of the +situations I have been in for the last God knows how long." + +"You interest me," said Kellerman, helping himself to cheese. "You talk +with such entire conviction of the value of your goods." + +"How do you mean the value of my goods?" + +"Your situations, if you like the term better. Don't you know that good +situations are rarer than diamonds and more valuable? Have you ever read +Pickwick?" + +"Yep." + +"Then you can guess what I mean. Situations don't occur in real life, +they have to be dug for in the diamond fields of the mind and--" + +"Situations don't occur in real life!" said Jones. "Don't they--now, see +here, I've had supper with you and in return for your hospitality I'll +tell you every thing that's happened to me if you'll hear it. I guess +I'll shatter your illusions. I'll give you a sample: I belong to the +London Senior Conservative Club and yet I don't. I have the swellest +house in London yet it doesn't belong to me. I'm worth one million and +eight thousand pounds, yet the other day I had to steal a few +sovereigns, but the law could not touch me for stealing them. I have an +uncle who is a duke yet I am no relation to him. Sounds crazy, doesn't +it, all the same it's fact. I don't mind telling you the whole thing if +you care to hear it. I won't give you the right names because there's a +woman in the case, but I bet I'll lift your hair." + +Kellerman did not seem elated. + +"I don't mind listening to your story," said he, "on one condition." + +"What's that?" + +"That you will not be offended if I switch you off if the thing palls +and hand you your hat, for I must tell you that though I came down here +to get sleep, I do most of my sleeping between two in the morning and +noon. I work at night and I had intended working to-night." + +"Oh, you can switch me off when you like," said Jones. + +Supper being finished, Kellerman fastened the window, and, carrying the +lamp, led the way to a comfortably furnished study. Here he produced +cigars and put a little kettle on a spirit stove to make tea. + +Then, sitting opposite to his host, in a comfortable armchair, Jones +began his story. + +He had told his infernal story so often that one might have fancied it a +painful effort, even to begin. It was not. He had now an audience in +touch with him. He suppressed names, or rather altered them, +substituting Manchester for Rochester and Birdwood for Birdbrook. The +audience did not care, it recked nothing of titles, it wanted Story--and +it got it. + +At about one o'clock the recital was interrupted whilst tea was made, at +two o'clock or a little after the tale finished. + +"Well?" said Jones. + +Kellerman was leaning back in his chair with eyes half closed, he seemed +calculating something in his head. + +"D' you believe me?" + +Kellerman opened his eyes. + +"Of course I believe you. If you had invented all that you would be +clever enough to know what your invention is worth and not hand it out +to a stranger. But I doubt whether anyone else will believe +you--however, that is your affair--you have given me five reels of the +finest stuff, or at least the material for it, and if I ever care to use +it I will fix you up a contract giving you twenty-five per cent +royalties. But there's one thing you haven't given me--the dénouement. +I'm more than interested in that. I'm not thinking of money, I'm a film +actor at heart and I want to help in the play. Say, may I help?" + +"How?" + +"Come along with you to the end, give all the assistance in my power--or +even without that just watch the show. I want to see the last act for +I'm blessed if I can imagine it." + +"I'd rather not," said Jones. "You might get to know the real names of +the people I'm dealing with, and as there is a woman in the business I +don't feel I ought to give her name away even to you. No. I reckon I'll +pull through alone, but if you'd give me a sofa to sleep on to-night I'd +be grateful. Then I can get away in the morning." + +Kellerman did not press the point. + +"I'll give you better than a sofa," he said. "There's a spare bed, and +you'd better not start in the morning; give them time to cool down. Then +towards evening you can make a dash. The servants here are all right, +they'll think you are a friend run down from town to see me. I'll +arrange all that." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +PEBBLEMARSH + + +At five o'clock next day, Jones, re-dressed by Kellerman in a morning +coat rather the worse for wear--a coat that had been left behind at the +bungalow by one of Kellerman's friends--and a dark cloth cap, took his +departure from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, but +quite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a grey flannel +tennis coat and wearing a Panama--and that was the main point. + +Kellerman had also worked up a history and personality for the newly +attired one. + +"You are Mr. Isaacson," said he. + +"Here's the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago, put it in +your pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card, +you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only five +miles down the road; there's a station there, but you'd better avoid +that. There's a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, +scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worst +comes to the worst refer to me and come back here. I would love that +interview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly +excited, and myself." + +He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his +uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote he +talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the +only really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel. + +"You see, all black faces are pretty much the same," said he. "Their +predominant expression is black, but I haven't got the fixings nor the +coloured pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo, so I reckon you'll +just have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the God of the Hebrews I +haven't made you an old clothes man--watches are respectable. Here are +your letters, they are short but credible. Have you enough money?" + +"Lots," said Jones, "and I don't know in the least how to thank you for +what you have done. I'd have been had, sure, wearing that hat and +coat--well, maybe we'll meet again." + +They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road in +the direction of Pebblemarsh, Kellerman watching till a bend hid him +from view. + +Kellerman had in some mysterious way added a touch of the footlights to +this business. This confounded Kellerman who thought in terms of reels +and situations, had managed to inspire Jones with the feeling that he +was moving on the screen, and that any moment the hedgerows might give +up an army of pursuers to the delight of a hidden audience. + +However, the hedgerows of the Pebblemarsh road gave up nothing but the +odours of briar and woodbine, nothing pursued him but the twitter of +birds and the songs of larks above the summer-drowsy fields. + +There is nothing much better to live in the memory than a real old +English country road on a perfect summer afternoon, no pleasanter +companion. + +Pebblemarsh is a town of some four thousand souls. It possesses a dye +factory. It once possessed the only really good trout stream in this +part of the country, with the inevitable result, for in England when a +really good trout stream is discovered a dye factory is always erected +upon its banks. Pebblemarsh now only possesses a dye factory. + +The main street runs north and south, and as Jones passed up it he might +have fancied himself in Sandbourne or Northbourne, so much alike are +these three towns. + +Half way up and opposite the post office, an archway disclosed itself +with, above it, the magic word, + + "GARAGE" + +He entered the place. There were no signs of cars, nothing of a movable +description in that yard, with the exception of a stout man in leggings +and shirtsleeves, who, seeing the stranger, came forward to receive him. + +"Have you a car?" asked Jones. + +"They're all out except a Ford," said the stout man. "Did you want to go +for a drive?" + +"No. I want to run up to London in a hurry--what's the mileage from +here?" + +"We reckon it sixty three miles from here to London--that is to say the +Old Kent Road." + +"That's near enough," said Jones. "What's the price?" + +"A shilling a mile to take you, and a sixpence a mile for the car coming +back." + +"What's the total?" + +The proprietor figured in his head for a moment. "Four, fifteen and +six," said he. + +"I'll take the car," said Jones, "and I'll pay you now. Can I have it at +once?" + +The proprietor went to a door and opened it. "Jim," cried he, "are you +there? Gentleman wants the Ford taken to London, get her out and get +yourself ready." + +He turned to Jones. + +"She'll be ready inside ten minutes if that will do?" + +"That'll do," said Jones, "and here's the money." He produced the +chamois leather bag, paid the five sovereigns, and received five and +sixpence change--and also a receipt which he put in his pocket. Then Jim +appeared, an inconspicuous looking man, wriggling into a driving coat +that had seen better days, the Ford was taken from its den, the tyres +examined, and the petrol tank filled. + +"Haven't you an overcoat?" asked the proprietor. "It'll be chilly after +sundown." + +"No," said Jones. "I came down without one, the weather was so fine--It +won't hurt." + +"Better have a coat," said the proprietor. "I'll lend you one. Jim will +fetch it back." He went off, and returned with a heavy coat on his arm. + +"That's good of you," said Jones. "Thanks--I'll put it on now to save +trouble." Then a bright idea struck him. "What I'm afraid of most is my +eyes, the wind tries them. Have you any goggles?" + +"I believe there's an old pair in the office," said the proprietor, +"hold on a minute." He went off and returned with the goggles. Jones +thanked him, put them on, and got into the car. + +"Pleasant journey to you," said the proprietor. + +Then they started. + +They turned up the street and along the road by which Jones had come. +Then they struck into the road where the "Lucknows" and "Cawnpores" +hinted of old Indian Colonels. + +They passed the gates of the Hoover establishment. It was open, and an +attendant was gazing up and down the street. He looked at the car but he +did not recognize the occupant, then several more residential roads were +left behind, a highly respectable cemetery, a tin chapel, and the car, +taking a hill as Fords know how, dropped Sandbourne-on-Sea to +invisibility and surrounded itself with vast stretches of green and sun +warmed country, June scented, and hazy with the warmth of summer. + +They passed hop gardens and hamlets, broad meadows and grazing cattle, +bosky woods and park lands. + +Jones, though he had taken the goggles off, saw little of the beauty +around him. He was recognising facts, and asking questions of himself. + +If Hoover or the police were to call at the garage, what would happen? +Knowing the route of the car could they telegraph to towns on the way +and have him arrested? How did the English law stand as regards escaped +gentlemen with hallucinations? Could they be arrested like criminals? +Surely not--and yet as regards the law, who could be sure of anything? +Jim, the speechless driver, could tell him nothing on these points. + +Towards dusk they reached a fairly big town, and in the very centre of +the main street, Jim stopped the car to light the headlamps. A +policeman, passing on his beat, paused to inspect the operation and then +moved on, and the car resumed its way, driving into a world of twilight +and scented hedges, where the glowworms were lighting up, and over which +the sky was showing a silvery sprinkle of stars. + +Two more towns they passed unhindered, and then came the fringe of +London, a maze of lights and ways and houses, tram lines, and then an +endless road, half road, half street, lines of shops, lines of old +houses and semi gardens. + +Jim turned in his seat. "This here's the Kent Road," said he. "We're +about the middle of it, which part did you want?" + +"This will do," said Jones, "pull her up." + +He got out, took the four and sixpence from his pocket, and gave Jim two +shillings for a tip. + +"Going all the way back to-night?" asked he, as he wriggled out of the +coat, and handed it over with the goggles. + +"No," said Jim. "I'll stop at the last pub we passed for the night. +There ain't no use over taxin' a car." + +"Well, good night to you," said Jones. He watched the car turning and +vanishing, then, with a feeling of freedom he had never before +experienced, he pushed on London-wards. + +With only two and sixpence in his pocket, he would have to wander about +all night, or sit on the embankment. He had several times seen the +outcasts on the embankment seats at night, and pitied them; he did not +pity them now. They were free men and women. + +The wind had died away and the night was sultry, much pleasanter out of +doors than in, a general term that did not apply to the Old Kent Road. + +The old road leading down to Kent was once, no doubt, a pleasant enough +place, but pleasure had long forsaken it, and cleanliness. It was here +that David Copperfield sold his jacket, and the old clothiers' shops are +so antiquated that any of them might have been the scene of the +purchase. To-night the old Kent Road was swarming, and the further Jones +advanced towards the river the thicker seemed the throng. + +At a flaring public house, and for the price of a shilling, he obtained +enough food in the way of sausages and mashed potatoes, to satisfy his +hunger, a half pint tankard of beer completed the satisfaction of his +inner man, and having bought a couple of packets of navy cut cigarettes +and a box of matches, he left the place and pursued his way towards the +river. + +He had exactly tenpence in his pocket, and he fell to thinking as he +walked, of the extraordinary monetary fluctuations he had experienced in +this city of London. At the Savoy that fatal day he had less than ten +pounds, next morning, though robed as a Lord, he had only a penny, the +penny had been reduced to a halfpenny by the purchase of a newspaper, +the halfpenny swelled to five pounds by Rochester's gift, the five +pounds sprang in five minutes to eight thousand, owing to Voles, the +eight thousand to a million eight thousand, owing to Mulhausen, Simms +and Cavendish had stripped him of his last cent, the Smithers affair had +given him five pounds, now he had only ten pence, and to-morrow at nine +o'clock he would have eight thousand. + +It will be noted that he did not consider that eight thousand his, till +it was safe in his pocket in the form of notes--he had learned by bitter +experience to put his trust in nothing but the tangible. He reached the +river and the great bridge that spans it here, and on the bridge he +paused, leaning his elbow on the parapet, and looking down stream. + +The waning moon had risen, painting the water with silver; barge lights +and the lights of tugs and police boats shewed points of orange and +dribbles of ruffled gold, whilst away down stream to the right, the airy +fairy tracery of the Houses of Parliament fretted the sky. + +It was a nocturne after the heart of Whistler, and Jones, as he gazed at +it, felt for the first time the magic of this wonderful half revealed +city with its million yellow eyes. He passed on, crossing to the right +bank, and found the Strand. Here in a bar, and for the price of half a +pint of beer, he sat for some twenty minutes watching the customers and +killing Time, then, with his worldly wealth reduced to eightpence, he +wandered off westward, passing the Savoy, and pausing for a moment to +peep down the great archway at the gaily lit hotel. + +At midnight he had gravitated to the embankment, and found a seat not +overcrowded. + +Here he fell in with a gentleman, derelict like himself, a free spoken +individual, whose conversation wiled away an hour. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +THE BLIGHTED CITY + + +Said the person after a request for a match: "Warm night, but there's a +change in the weather coming on, or I'm greatly mistaken. I've lost +nearly everything in the chops and changes of life, but there's one +thing I haven't lost--my barometer--that's to say my rheumatism. It +tells me when rain is coming as sure as an aneroid. London is pretty +full for the time of year, don't you think?" + +"Yes," said Jones, "I reckon it is." + +They talked, the gentleman with the barometer passing from the weather +to politics, from politics to high finance, from high finance to +himself. He had been a solicitor. + +"Disbarred, as you see, for nothing, but what a hundred men are doing at +the present moment. There's no justice in the world, except maybe in the +Law Courts. I'm not one of those who think the Law is an ass, no, +there's a great deal of common sense in the Law of England. I'm not +talking of the Incorporated Law Society that shut me out from a living, +for a slip any man might make. I'm talking of the old Laws of England as +administered by his Majesty's Judges; study them, and you will be +astonished at their straight common-sense and justice. I'm not holding +any brief for lawyers--I'm frank, you see--the business of lawyers is to +wriggle round and circumvent the truth, to muddy evidence, confuse +witnesses and undo justice. I'm just talking of the laws." + +"Do you know anything of the laws of lunacy?" asked Jones. + +"Something." + +"I had a friend who was supposed to be suffering from mind trouble, two +doctors doped him and put him away in an asylum--he was quite harmless." + +"What do you mean by doped him?" asked the other. + +"Gave him a drug to quiet him, and then took him off in an automobile." + +"Was there money involved?" + +"You may say there was. He was worth a million." + +"Anyone to benefit by his being put away?" + +"Well, I expect one might make out a case of that; the family would have +the handling of the million, wouldn't they?" + +"It all depends--but there's one thing certain, there'd be a thundering +law case for any clever solicitor to handle if the plaintiff were not +too far gone in his mind to plead. Anyhow, the drugging is out of +order--whole thing sounds fishy." + +"Suppose he escaped," said Jones. "Could they take him back by force?" + +"That's a difficult question to answer. If he were cutting up shines it +would be easy, but if he were clever enough to pretend to be sane it +might be difficult. You see, he would have to be arrested, no man can go +up and seize another man in the street and say: You're mad, come along +with me, simply because, even if he holds a certificate of lunacy +against the other man the other man might say you've made a mistake, I'm +not the person you want. Then it would be a question of swearing before +a magistrate. The good old Laws of England are very strict about the +freedom of the body, and the rights of the individual man to be heard in +his own defence. If your lunatic were not too insane, and were to take +refuge in a friend's house, and the friend were to back him, that would +make things more difficult still." + +"If he were to take refuge in his own house?" + +"Oh, that would make the thing still more difficult, very much more so. +If, of course, he were not conducting himself in a manner detrimental to +the public peace, firing guns out of windows and so forth. The laws of +England are very strict about entering a man's house. Of course, were +the pursuers to go before a magistrate and swear that the pursued were a +dangerous lunatic, then a right of search and entry might be obtained, +but on the pursuers would lie the onus of proof. Now pauper lunatics are +very easily dealt with: the Relieving Officer, on the strength of a +certificate of lunacy, can go to the poor man's cottage or tenement, and +take him away, for, you see, the man possessing no property it is +supposed that no man is interested in his internment, but once +introduce the property element and there is the very devil to pay, +especially in cases where the lunatic is only eccentric and does not +come into court with straws in his hair, so to speak." + +"I get you," said Jones. He offered cigarettes, and presently the +communicative one departed, having borrowed fourpence on the strength of +his professional advice. + +The rest of that night was a very good imitation of a nightmare. Jones +tried several different seats in succession, and managed to do a good +deal of walking. Dawn found him on London Bridge, watching the birth of +another perfect day, but without enthusiasm. + +He was cheerful but tired. The thought that at nine o'clock or +thereabouts, he would be able to place his hands on eight thousand +pounds, gave him the material for his cheerfulness. He had often read of +the joy of open air life, and the freedom of the hobo; but open air life +in London, on looking back upon it, did not appeal to him. He had been +twice moved on by policemen, and his next door neighbours, after the +departure of the barometer man, were of a type that inspired neither +liking nor trust. + +He heard Big Ben booming six o'clock. He had three hours still before +him, and he determined to take it out in walking. He would go citywards, +and then come back with an appetite for breakfast. + +Having made this resolve, he started, passing through the deserted +streets till he reached the Bank, and then onwards till he reached the +Mile End Road. + +As he walked he made plans. When he had drawn his money he would +breakfast at a restaurant, he fixed upon Romanos', eggs and bacon and +sausages, coffee and hot rolls would be the _menu_. Then he fell to +wondering whether Romanos' would be open for breakfast, or whether it +was of the type of restaurant that only serves luncheons and dinners. If +it were, then he could breakfast at the Charing Cross Hotel. + +These considerations led him a good distance on his way. Then the Mile +End Road beguiled him, lying straight and foreign looking, and empty in +the sunlight. The Barometer man's weather apparatus must have been at +fault, for in all the sky there was not a cloud, nor the symptom of the +coming of a cloud. + +Away down near the docks, a clock over a public house pointed to half +past seven, and he judged it time to return. + +He came back. The Mile End Road was still deserted, the city round the +bank was destitute of life, Fleet Street empty. + +Pompeii lay not more utterly dead than this weird city of vast business +palaces, and the Strand shewed nothing of life or almost nothing, every +shop was shuttered though now it was close upon nine o'clock. + +Something had happened to London, some blight had fallen on the +inhabitants, death seemed everywhere, not seen but hinted at. Stray +recollections of weird stories by H. G. Wells passed through the mind +of Jones. He recalled the city of London when the Martians had done with +it, that city of death, and horror, and sunlight and silence. + +Then of a sudden, as he neared the Law Courts, the appalling truth +suddenly suggested itself to him. + +He walked up to a policeman on point of duty at a corner, a policeman +who seemed under the mesmerism of the general gloom and blight, a +policeman who might have been the blue concrete core of negation. + +"Say, officer," said Jones, "what day's to-day?" + +"Sunday," said the policeman. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +A JUST MAN ANGERED + + +When things are piled one on top of another beyond a certain height, +they generally come down with a crash. + +That one word "Sunday" was the last straw for Jones, sweeping away +breakfast, bank and everything; coming on top of the events of the last +twenty-four hours, it brought his mental complacency to ruin, ruin from +which shot blazing jets of wrath. + +Red rage filled him. He had been made game of, every man and everything +was against him. Well, he would bite. He would strike. He would attack, +careless of everything, heedless of everything. + +A mesmerised looking taxi-cab, crawling along on the opposite side of +the way, fortunately caught his eye. + +"I'll make hay!" cried Jones, as he rushed across the street. He stopped +the cab. + +"10A, Carlton House Terrace," he cried to the driver. He got in and shut +the door with a bang. + +He got out at Carlton House Terrace, ran up the steps of 10A, and rang +the bell. + +The door was opened by the man who had helped to eject Spicer. He did +not seem in the least surprised to see Jones. + +"Pay that taxi," said Jones. + +"Yes, my Lord," replied the flunkey. + +Jones turned to the breakfast-room. The faint smell of coffee met him at +the door as he opened it. There were no servants in the room. Only a +woman quietly breakfasting with the Life of St. Thomas à Kempis by her +plate. + +It was Venetia Birdbrook. + +She half rose from her chair when she saw Jones. He shut the door. The +sight of Venetia acted upon him almost as badly as the word "Sunday" had +done. + +"What are you doing here?" said he. "I know--you and that lot had me +tucked away in a lunatic asylum; now you have taken possession of the +house." + +Venetia was quite calm. + +"Since the house is not yours," said she, "I fail to see how my presence +here affects you. We know the truth. Dr. Simms has arrived at the +conclusion that your confession was at least based on truth. That you +are what you proclaimed yourself to be, a man named Jones. We thought +you were mad, we see now that you are an impostor. Kindly leave this +house or I will call for a policeman." + +Jones' mind lost all its fire. Hatred can cool as well as inflame and he +hated Venetia and all her belongings, including her dowager mother and +her uncle the duke, with a hatred well based on reason and fact. All his +fear of mind disturbance should he go on playing the part of Rochester +had vanished, the fires of tribulation had purged them away. + +"I don't know what you are talking about," said he. "Do you mean that +joke I played on you all? I am the Earl of Rochester, this is my house, +and I request you to leave it. Don't speak. I know what you are going to +say. You and your family will do this and you will do that. You will do +nothing. Even if I were an impostor you would dare to do nothing. Your +family washing is far, far too much soiled to expose it in public. + +"If I were an impostor, who can say I have not played an honourable +game? I have recovered valuable property--did I touch it and take it +away? Did I expose to the public an affair that would have caused a +scandal? You will do nothing and you know it. You did not even dare to +tell the servants here what has happened, for the servant who let me in +was not a bit surprised. Now, if you have finished your breakfast, will +you kindly leave my house?" + +Venetia rose and took up her book. + +"_Your_ house," said she. + +"Yes, my house. From this day forth, my house. But that is not all. +To-morrow I will get lawyers to work and I'll get apologies as big as +houses from the whole lot of you--else I'll prosecute." He was getting +angry, "prosecute you for doping me." Recollections of the Barometer +man's advice came to him, "doping me in order to lay your hands on that +million of money." + +He went to the bell and rang it. + +"We want no scene before the servants," said Venetia hurriedly. + +"Then kindly go," said Jones, "or you will have a perfect panorama +before the servants." + +A servant entered. + +"Send Church here," said Jones. He was trembling like a furious dog. + +He had got the whole situation in hand. He had told his tale and acted +like an honourable man, the fools had disbelieved him and doped him. +They had scented the truth but they dared do nothing. Mulhausen and the +recovered mine, the Plinlimon letters, Rochester's past, all these were +his bastions, to say nothing of Rochester's suicide. + +The fear of publicity held them in a vice. Even were they to go to +America and prove that a man called Jones exactly like the Earl of +Rochester had lived in Philadelphia, go to the Savoy and prove that a +man exactly like the Earl of Rochester had lived there, produce the +clothes he had come home in that night--all of that would lead them, +where--to an action at law. + +They could not arrest him as an impostor till they had proved him an +impostor. To prove that, they would have to turn the family history +inside out before a gaping public. + +Mr. Church came in. + +"Church," said Jones, "I played a practical joke on--on my people. I met +a man called Jones at the Savoy--well, we needn't go into details, he +was very like me, and I told my people for a joke that I was Jones. The +fools thought I was mad. They called in two doctors and drugged me and +hauled me off to a place. I got out, and here I am back. What do you +think of that?" + +"Well, my Lord," said Church, "if I may say it to you, those practical +jokes are dangerous things to play--Lord Langwathby--" + +"Was he here?" + +"He came last night, my Lord, to have a personal explanation about a +telegram he said you sent him as a practical joke, some time ago, taking +him up to Cumberland." + +"I'll never play another," said Jones. "Tell them to bring me some +breakfast, and look here, Church, I've told my sister to leave the house +at once. I want no more of her here. See that her luggage is taken down +at once." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"And see here, Church, let no one in. Lord Langwathby, or anyone else. I +want a little peace. By the way, have a taxi sent for, and tell me when +my sister's luggage is down." + +In the middle of breakfast, Church came in to say that Miss Birdbrook +was departing and Jones came into the hall to verify the fact. + +Venetia had brought a crocodile skin travelling bag and a trunk. + +These were being conveyed to a taxi. + +Not one word did she say to relieve her outraged feelings. The fear of a +"scene before the servants" kept her quiet. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +HE FINDS HIMSELF + + +That evening at nine o'clock, Jones sat in the smoking-room, writing. He +had trusted Church with an important mission on the upshot of which his +whole future depended. + +If you will review his story, as he himself was reviewing it now, you +will see that, despite a strong will and a mind quick to act, the +freedom of his will had always been hampered by circumstance. + +Circumstance from the first had determined that he should be a Lord. + +I leave it to philosophers to determine what Circumstance is. I can only +say that from a fair knowledge of life, Circumstance seems to me more +than a fortuitous happening of things. Who does not know the man of +integrity and ability, the man destined for the Presidency or the +College chair, who remains in an office all his life? Luck is somehow +against him. Or the man who, starting in life with everything against +him, arrives, not by creeping, but by leaps and bounds. + +I do not wish to cast a shade on individual effort; I only say this: If +you ever find Circumstance, whose other name is Fortune, feeling for you +in order to make you a lord, don't kick, for when Fortune takes an +interest in a man, she is cunning as a woman. She is a woman in fact. + +At half past nine, a knock came to the door. It was opened by Church, +who ushered in Teresa, Countess of Rochester. + +Jones rose from his chair, Church shut the door, and they found +themselves alone and face to face. + +The girl did not sit down. She stood holding the back of a chair, and +looking at the man before her. She looked scared, dazed, like a person +suddenly awakened from sleep, in a strange place. + +Jones knew at once. + +"You have guessed the truth," said he, "that I am not your husband." + +"I knew it," she replied, "when you told us in the drawing-room-- The +others thought you mad. I knew you were speaking the truth." + +"That was why you ran from the room." + +"Yes; what more have you to say?" + +"I have a very great deal more to say; will you not sit down?" + +She sat down on the edge of a chair, folded her hands and continued +looking at him with that scared, hunted expression. + +"I want to say just this," said Jones. "Right through this business from +the very start I have tried to play a straight game. I can guess from +your face that you fear me as if I were something horrible. I don't +blame you. I ask you to listen to me. + +"Your husband took advantage of two facts: the fact that I am his twin +image, as he called it, and the fact that I was temporarily without +money and stranded in London. I am not a drunkard, but that night I came +under the influence of strong drink. He took advantage of that to send +me home as himself. I am going to say a nasty thing; that was not the +action of a gentleman." + +The girl winced. + +"Never," went on Jones, "would I say things against a man who is dead, +yet I am forced to tell you the truth, so that you may see this man as +he was--wait." + +He went to the bureau and took out some papers. He handed her one. She +read the contents: + + "Stick to it--if you can. You'll see why I couldn't. + + "ROCHESTER." + +"That is your husband's handwriting?" + +"Yes." + +"Now think for a moment of his act as regards yourself. He sent me, a +stranger, home, never thinking a thought about you." + +Her breath choked back. + +"As for me," went on Jones, "from the very first moment I saw you, I +have thought of you and your welfare. I told my story for your sake, so +that things might be cleared up, and they put me in an asylum for my +pains. I escaped, I am here, and for your sake I am saying all this. +Does it give me pleasure to show you your husband's character? I would +sooner cut off my right hand, but that would not help you. You have got +to know, else I cannot possibly get out of this. Read these." + +He handed her the Plinlimon letters. + +She read them carefully. Whilst she was doing so, he sat down and +waited. + +"These were written two years ago," said she in a sad voice, as she +folded them together, "a year after we were married." + +It was the tone of her voice that did it--as she handed the letters back +to him, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. + +He put them back in the bureau without a word. He felt that he had +struck the innocent again and most cruelly. + +Then he came back to the chair on which he had been sitting and stood +holding its back. + +"You see how we are both placed," said he. "To prove your husband's +death, all my business would have to be raked up. I don't mind, because +I have acted straight, but you would mind. The fact of his suicide, the +fact of his sending me home--everything, that would hit you again and +again. Yet, look at your position--I do not know what we are to do. If I +go away and go back to the States, I leave you before the world as the +wife of a man still living who has deserted you, if I stay and go on +being the Earl of Rochester, you are tied to a phantom." + +He paced the floor, head down, wrestling with an insoluble problem, +whilst she sat looking at him. + +"Which is the easiest for you to do?" asked she. + +"Oh, me," said he; "I'm not thinking of myself--back to the States, of +course, but that's out of the question--there are lots of easy things to +do, but when my case comes in contact with yours, there's nothing easy +to do. Do you think it was easy for me to go off that night and leave +you waiting for me, feeling that you thought me a skunk? No, that was +not easy." + +She had been sitting very calm and still up till now, then suddenly she +looked down. She burst into tears. + +"Oh," she cried, "why were you not him--if he had only been you. He +cared nothing for me, yet I loved him--you--you--" + +"I care for nothing at all but you," said he. + +She shuddered all over and turned her head away. + +"That's the mischief of it as far as I am concerned," he went on. "I +can't escape without injuring you and so myself--yet I don't wonder at +your hating me." + +She turned her face to him, it was flushed and wet. + +"I do not hate you," said she; "you are the only man I ever +met--unselfish." + +"No," he said, "I'm selfish. It's just because I love you that I think +of you more than myself, and I love you because you are good and sweet. +I could not do you wrong just because of that. If you were another +woman, I would not bother about you. I'd be cruel enough, I reckon, and +go off and leave you tied up, and get back to the States--but you are +you, and that's my bother. I did not know till now how I was tied to +you; yesterday at that asylum place and all last night I did not think +of you. My one thought was to get away. I came here to-day, driven by +want of money. I was so angry with the whole business, I determined to +go on being Rochester--then you came into my mind and I sent Church to +ask you to come and see me--much good it has done." + +"I don't know," she said. + +He looked at her quickly. Her glance fell. + +Next moment he was beside her, kneeling and holding her hand. + +For a moment, they said not one word. Then he spoke as though answering +questions. + +"We can get married-- Oh, I don't mind going on being the Earl of +Rochester. There were times when I thought I'd go cracked--but now you +know the truth, I reckon I can go on pretending. People can have the +marriage ceremony performed twice--of course, it would have to be +private--I can't think this is true--I don't believe you can ever care +for me--I don't know, maybe you will--do you care for me for myself in +the least--I reckon I'm half mad, but say--when did you begin to like me +for myself--was it only just because you thought I was unselfish--was +it--" + +"If I like you at all," she said, with a little catch in her voice, +"perhaps it was that--night--" + +"What night?" + +"The night you struck--" + +"The Russian--but you thought I was _him_ then." + +"Perhaps," said she, dreamily, "but, I thought it was unlike him--do you +understand?" + +"I don't know. I understand nothing but that I have got you to care for +always, to worship, to lay myself down for you to trample on." + + * * * * * + +"Good-night," said she at last. + +She was standing, preparing to go. "The family know the truth, at least +they are sure of the truth, but, as you say, they can do nothing. +Imagine their feelings when I tell them what we have agreed on! With me +on your side they are absolutely helpless." + + * * * * * + +There is, fortunately enough, no law preventing two married people being +re-married, privately; the good old lawyers of England considering, no +doubt, that a man having gone through the ceremony once would think it +enough. + + * * * * * + +All this that I have been telling you happened some years ago, years +marked by some very practical and brilliant speeches in the House of +Lords and the death of the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook from liver complaint. +It is a queer story, but not queerer than the face of the Dowager +Countess of Rochester when she reads in private all the nice +complimentary things that the papers have to say about her son. + + THE END + + * * * * * * + + + BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + Sea Plunder $1.30 net + The Gold Trail $1.30 net + The Pearl Fishers $1.30 net + Poppyland $2.00 net + The New Optimism $1.00 net + The Poems of François Villon. + Translated by H. 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De Vere Stacpoole</title> + <style type="text/css"> + /*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ + <!-- + p {margin-top: 0.5em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 0.5em;} + body {margin-left: 11%; margin-right: 10%;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + h1 {text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em; clear: both;} + h2 {text-align: center; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 2em; clear: both;} + h3 {text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; clear: both;} + a {text-decoration: none;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .blockquot {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} + table p {text-align: center; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0;} + h2.toc {margin-top: 1em;} + td.tdright {vertical-align: top; text-align: right;} + td.tdleft {vertical-align: top; text-align: left;} + .caption {font-size: 80%;} + .center {text-align:center;} + .pagenum {display: inline; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; + position: absolute; right: 2%; border:1px solid #eee; + padding: 1px 3px; font-style: normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration: none; + color: silver; background-color: inherit;} + hr.major {width: 65%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr.dashed {width: 100%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; border:none; border-bottom:1px dashed;} + hr.silver45 {width: 45%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver;} + a.pagenum:after {border: 1px solid silver; padding: 1px 3px; content: attr(title);} + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Man Who Lost Himself, by H. De Vere +Stacpoole</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Man Who Lost Himself</p> +<p>Author: H. De Vere Stacpoole</p> +<p>Release Date: December 23, 2007 [eBook #23988]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Roger Frank<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF</h1> + +<hr class="dashed" /> + +<table summary="" style="font-size: smaller; border: 1px solid black; padding:5px;"> +<tr><td colspan="2" style="text-align:center; font-size: 160%; border-bottom:1px solid black;">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Sea Plunder</span> </td><td align="right">$1.30 <i>net</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Gold Trail</span> </td><td align="right">$1.30 <i>net</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Pearl Fishers</span> </td><td align="right">$1.30 <i>net</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Poppyland</span> </td><td align="right">$2.00 <i>net</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The New Optimism</span> </td><td align="right">$1.00 <i>net</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Poems of François Villon.</span></td><td align="right">$1.00 <i>net</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><i>Translated by<br />H. De Vere Stacpoole.</i></td><td valign="bottom" align="right">Boards $3.00 <i>net</i></td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" valign="bottom" align="right">Half Morocco $7.50 <i>net</i></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="dashed" /> + +<table style="margin: auto; border: black 1px solid; border-spacing:2em" summary=""><tr><td> +<p style="font-size:2em; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0em;">THE MAN WHO LOST</p> +<p style="font-size:2em; margin-top:0em; margin-bottom:3em;">HIMSELF</p> +<p style="font-size:1em; margin-top:0em; margin-bottom:1em;">BY</p> +<p style="font-size:1.2em; margin-top:0em; margin-bottom:0em;">H. DE VERE STACPOOLE</p> +<p style="font-size:0.7em; margin-top:0em; margin-bottom:0em;"><span class="smcap">Author of “Sea Plunder,” “The Gold Trail,”</span></p> +<p style="font-size:0.7em; margin-top:0em; margin-bottom:10em;"><span class="smcap">“The Blue Lagoon,” Etc.</span></p> +<p style="font-size:1.0em; margin-top:0em; margin-bottom:0em;">NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY</p> +<p style="font-size:1.0em; margin-top:0em; margin-bottom:0em;">TORONTO: S. B. GUNDY .·. MCMXVIII</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<hr class="dashed" /> + +<p style="margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:2em; font-size:smaller; text-align:center;">COPYRIGHT, 1917-1918<br />BY STREET & SMITH</p> +<p style="margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:2em; font-size:smaller; text-align:center;">COPYRIGHT, 1918<br />BY JOHN LANE COMPANY</p> +<p style="margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:2em; font-size:smaller; text-align:center;">THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS<br />NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A</p> + +<hr class="dashed" /> + +<h2 class="toc"><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>CONTENTS</h2> +<table border="0" width="500" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; font-variant:small-caps;"> +<col style="width:15%;" /> +<col style="width:5%;" /> +<col style="width:70%;" /> +<col style="width:10%;" /> +<tr><td colspan="4" align="center"><br /><br />PART I</td></tr> +<tr> +<td align="right"><span style="font-size:x-small">CHAPTER</span></td> +<td></td> +<td></td> +<td align="right"><span style="font-size:x-small">PAGE</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">I</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Jones</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#JONES_95">9</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">II</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Stranger</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_STRANGER_226">14</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">III</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Dinner and After</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#DINNER_AND_AFTER_351">18</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">IV</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Carlton House Terrace</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#CARLTON_HOUSE_TERRACE_403">20</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">V</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Point of the Joke</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_POINT_OF_THE_JOKE_952">38</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="4" align="center"><br /><br />PART II</td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">VI</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Net</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_NET_1051">45</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">VII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Luncheon</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#LUNCHEON_1253">52</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">VIII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Mr. Voles</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#MR_VOLES_1517">61</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">IX</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">More Intruders</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#MORE_INTRUDERS_1939">74</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">X</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Lady Plinlimon</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#LADY_PLINLIMON_2277">85</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XI</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Coal Mine</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_COAL_MINE_2552">94</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Girl in the Victoria</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_GIRL_IN_THE_VICTORIA_2859">104</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XIII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Teresa</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#TERESA_3299">119</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td colspan="4" align="center"><br /><br />PART III</td></tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XIV</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Attack</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_ATTACK_3375">123</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XV</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Attack (<i>Continued</i>)</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_ATTACK_3564">131</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XVI</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">A Wild Surprise</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#A_WILD_SURPRISE_3721">136</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XVII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Second Honeymoon</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_SECOND_HONEYMOON_4108">148</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XVIII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Mental Trap</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_MENTAL_TRAP_4451">158</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XIX</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Escape Closed</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#ESCAPE_CLOSED_4610">164</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XX</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Family Council</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_FAMILY_COUNCIL_5116">179</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXI</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Hoover’s</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#HOOVERS_5820">200</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">An Interlude</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#AN_INTERLUDE_6202">212</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXIII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Smithers</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#SMITHERS_6483">222</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXIV</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">He Runs to Earth</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#HE_RUNS_TO_EARTH_6734">230</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXV</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Moths</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#MOTHS_6854">234</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXVI</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">A Tramp, and Other Things</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#A_TRAMP_AND_OTHER_THINGS_7039">241</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXVII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Only Man in the World Who<br />Would Believe Him</td> + <td class="tdright" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#THE_ONLY_MAN_IN_THE_WORLD_WHO_WOULD_BELIEVE_HIM_7718">264</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXVIII</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">Pebblemarsh</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#PEBBLEMARSH_8013">274</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXIX</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">The Blighted City</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#THE_BLIGHTED_CITY_8274">283</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXX</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">A Just Man Angered</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#A_JUST_MAN_ANGERED_8433">289</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdright">XXXI</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdleft">He Finds Himself</td> + <td class="tdright"><a href="#HE_FINDS_HIMSELF_8598">294</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<hr class="dashed" /> + +<h1>THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF</h1> + +<h2>PART I</h2> + +<hr class="dashed" /> + +<h2>THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF</h2> + +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_9" id="pg_9">9</a></span> +<a name="JONES_95" id="JONES_95"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<h3>JONES</h3> +</div> + +<p>It was the first of June, and Victor Jones of Philadelphia was seated in +the lounge of the Savoy Hotel, London, defeated in his first really +great battle with the thing we call life.</p> + +<p>Though of Philadelphia, Jones was not an American, nor had he anything +of the American accent. Australian born, he had started life in a bank +at Melbourne, gone to India for a trading house, started for himself, +failed, and become a rolling stone. Philadelphia was his last halt.</p> + +<p>With no financial foundation, Victor and a Philadelphia gentleman had +competed for a contract to supply the British Government with Harveyised +steel struts, bolts, and girders; he had come over to London to press +the business; he had interviewed men in brass hats, slow moving men who +had turned him over to slower moving men. The Stringer Company, for so +he dubbed himself and Aaron Stringer, who had financed him for the +journey, had wasted three weeks on the business, and this morning their +tender had<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_10" id="pg_10">10</a></span> been rejected. Hardmans’, the Pittsburg people, had got the +order.</p> + +<p>It was a nasty blow. If he and Stringer could have secured the contract, +they could have carried it through all right, Stringer would have put +the thing in the hands of Laurenson of Philadelphia, and their +commission would have been enormous, a stroke of the British +Government’s pen would have filled their pockets; failing that they were +bankrupt. At least Jones was.</p> + +<p>And justifiably you will say, considering that the whole business was a +gigantic piece of bluff—well, maybe, yet on behalf of this bluffer I +would put it forward that he had risked everything on one deal, and that +this was no little failure of his, but a disaster, naked and complete.</p> + +<p>He had less than ten pounds in his pocket and he owed money at the +Savoy. You see he had reckoned on doing all his business in a week, and +if it failed—an idea which he scarcely entertained—on getting back +third class to the States. He had not reckoned on the terrible expenses +of London, or the three weeks delay.</p> + +<p>Yesterday he had sent a cable to Stringer for funds, and had got as a +reply: “Am waiting news of contract.”</p> + +<p>Stringer was that sort of man.</p> + +<p>He was thinking about Stringer now, as he sat watching the guests of the +Savoy, Americans and English, well to do people with no money worries, +so he fancied. He was thinking about Stringer and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_11" id="pg_11">11</a></span> own position, +with less than ten pounds in his pocket, an hotel bill unreceipted, and +three thousand miles of deep water between himself and Philadelphia.</p> + +<p>Jones was twenty-four years of age. He looked thirty. A serious faced, +cadaverous individual, whom, given three guesses you would have judged +to be a Scotch free kirk minister in mufti; an actor in the melodramatic +line; a food crank. These being the three most serious occupations in +the world.</p> + +<p>In reality, he had started life, as before said, in a bank, educated +himself in mathematics and higher commercial methods, by correspondence, +and, aiming to be a millionaire, had left the bank and struck out for +himself in the great tumbling ocean of business.</p> + +<p>He had glimpsed the truth. Seen the fact that the art of life is not so +much to work oneself as to make other people work for one, to convert by +one’s own mental energy, the bodily energy of others into products or +actions. Had this Government contract come off, he would have, and to +his own profit, set a thousand hammers swinging, a dozen steel mills +rolling, twenty ships lading, hammers, mills and ships he had never +seen, never would see.</p> + +<p>That is the magic of business, and when you behold roaring towns and +humming wharves, when you read of raging battles, you see and read of +the work of a comparatively small number of men, gentlemen who wear +frock coats, who have never handled a bale, or carried a gun, or steered +a ship with their own hands. Magicians!</p> + +<p>He ordered a whisky and soda from a passing attendant,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_12" id="pg_12">12</a></span> to help him +think some more about Stringer and his own awful position, and was +taking the glass from the salver when a very well dressed man of his own +age and build who had entered by the passage leading up from the +American bar drew his attention.</p> + +<p>This man’s face seemed quite familiar to him, so much so that he started +in his chair as though about to rise and greet him. The stranger, also, +seemed for a second under the same obsession, but only for a second; he +made a half pause and then passed on, becoming lost to sight beyond the +palm trees at the entrance. Jones leaned back in his chair.</p> + +<p>“Now, <i>where</i> did I see that guy before?” asked he of himself. “Where on +earth have I met him? and he recognised me—where in the—where in +the—where in the—?”</p> + +<p>His memory vaguely and vainly searching for the name to go with that +face was at fault. He finished his whisky and soda and rose, and then +strolled off not heeding much in what direction, till he reached the +book and newspaper stand where he paused to inspect the wares, turning +over the pages of the latest best seller without imbibing a word of the +text.</p> + +<p>Then he found himself downstairs in the American bar, with a champagne +cocktail before him.</p> + +<p>Jones was an abstemious man, as a rule, but he had a highly strung +nervous system and it had been worked up. The unaccustomed whiskey and +soda had taken him in its charge, comforting him and conducting his +steps, and now the bar keeper, a cheery person, combined with the +champagne cocktail, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_13" id="pg_13">13</a></span> cheeriest of drinks, so raised his spirits and +warmed his optimism, that, having finished his glass he pushed it across +the counter and said, “Give me another.”</p> + +<p>At this moment a gentleman who had just entered the bar came up to the +counter, placed half a crown upon it and was served by the assistant bar +keeper with a glass of sherry.</p> + +<p>Jones, turning, found himself face to face with the stranger whom he had +seen in the lounge, the stranger whose face he knew but whose name he +could not remember in the least.</p> + +<p>Jones was a direct person, used to travel and the forming of chance +acquaintanceships. He did not hang back.</p> + +<p>“’Scuse me,” said he. “I saw you in the lounge and I’m sure I’ve met you +somewhere or another, but I can’t place you.”</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_14" id="pg_14">14</a></span> +<a name="THE_STRANGER_226" id="THE_STRANGER_226"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<h3>THE STRANGER</h3> +</div> + +<p>The stranger, taking his change from the assistant bar tender, laughed.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said he, “you have seen me before, often, I should think. Do you +mean to say you don’t know where?”</p> + +<p>“Nope,” said Jones—he had acquired a few American idioms—“I’m clear +out of my reckoning—are you an American?”</p> + +<p>“No, I’m English,” replied the other. “This is very curious, you don’t +recognise me, well—well—well—let’s sit down and have a talk, maybe +recollection will come to you—give it time—it is easier to think +sitting down than standing up.”</p> + +<p>Now as Jones turned to take his seat at the table indicated by the +stranger, he noticed that the bar keeper and his assistant were looking +at him as though he had suddenly become an object of more than ordinary +interest.</p> + +<p>The subtlety of human facial expression stands unchallenged, and the +faces of these persons conveyed the impression to Jones that the +interest he had suddenly evoked in their minds had in it a link with the +humorous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_15" id="pg_15">15</a></span></p> + +<p>When he looked again, however, having taken his seat, they were both +washing glasses with the solemnity of undertakers.</p> + +<p>“I thought those guys were laughing at me,” said Jones, “seems I was +wrong, and all the better for them—well, now, let’s get to the bottom +of this tangle—who are you, anyway?”</p> + +<p>“Just a friend,” replied the other, “I’ll tell you my name presently, +only I want you to think it out for yourself. Talk about yourself and +then, maybe, you’ll arrive at it. Who are you?”</p> + +<p>“Me,” cried Jones, “I’m Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I’m the partner of +a skunk by name of Stringer. I’m the victim of a British government that +doesn’t know the difference between tin plate and Harveyised steel. I’m +a man on the rocks.”</p> + +<p>The flood gates of his wrath were opened and everything came out, +including the fact of his own desperate position.</p> + +<p>When he had finished the only remark of the stranger was:</p> + +<p>“Have another.”</p> + +<p>“Not on your life,” cried Jones. “I ought to be making tracks for the +consul or somewhere to get my passage back to the States—well—I don’t +know. No—no more cocktails. I’ll have a sherry, same as you.”</p> + +<p>The sherry having been despatched, the stranger rose, refusing a return +drink just at that moment.</p> + +<p>“Come into the lounge with me,” said he, “I want to tell you something I +can’t tell you here.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_16" id="pg_16">16</a></span></p> + +<p>They passed up the stairs, the stranger leading the way, Jones +following, slightly confused in his mind but full of warmth at his +heart, and with a buoyancy of spirit beyond experience. Stringer was +forgotten, the British Government was forgotten, contracts, hotel bills, +steerage journeys to the States, all these were forgotten. The warmth, +the sumptuous rooms, and the golden lamps of the Savoy were sufficient +for the moment, and as he sank into an easy chair and lit a cigarette, +even his interest in the stranger and what he had to say was for a +moment dimmed and diminished by the fumes that filled his brain, and the +ease that lapped his senses.</p> + +<p>“What I have to say is this,” said the stranger, leaning forward in his +chair. “When I saw you here some time ago, I recognised you at once as a +person I knew, but, as you put it, I could not place you. But when I got +into the main hall a mirror at once told me. You are, to put it frankly, +my twin image.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Jones, the word image shattering his +complacency. “Your twin which do you say?”</p> + +<p>“Image, likeness, counterpart—I mean no offence—turn round and glance +at that mirror behind you.”</p> + +<p>Jones did, and saw the stranger, and the stranger was himself. Both men +belonged to a fairly common type, but the likeness went far beyond +that—they were identical. The same hair and colour of hair, the same +features, shape of head, ears and colour of eyes, the same serious +expression of countenance.</p> + +<p>Absolute likeness between two human beings is almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_17" id="pg_17">17</a></span> as rare as +absolute likeness between two pebbles on a beach, yet it occurs, as in +the case of M. de Joinville and others well known and confirmed, and +when I say absolute likeness, I mean likeness so complete that a close +acquaintance cannot distinguish the difference between the duplicates. +When nature does a trick like this, she does it thoroughly, for it has +been noticed—but more especially in the case of twins—the likeness +includes the voice, or at least its timbre, the thyroid cartilage and +vocal chords following the mysterious law that rules the duplication.</p> + +<p>Jones’ voice and the voice of the stranger might have been the same as +far as pitch and timbre were concerned, the only difference was in the +accent, and that was slight.</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m d-d-d—,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>He turned to the other and then back to the mirror.</p> + +<p>“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” said the other. “I don’t know whether I ought +to apologise to you or you to me. My name is Rochester.”</p> + +<p>Jones turned from the mirror, the two champagne cocktails, the whisky +and the sherry were accommodating his unaccustomed brain to support this +most unaccustomed situation. The thing seemed to him radiantly humorous, +yet if he had known it there was very little humour in the matter.</p> + +<p>“We must celebrate this,” said Jones, calling an attendant and giving +him explicit orders as to the means.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_18" id="pg_18">18</a></span> +<a name="DINNER_AND_AFTER_351" id="DINNER_AND_AFTER_351"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<h3>DINNER AND AFTER</h3> +</div> + +<p>A small bottle of Böllinger was the means, and the celebration was +mostly done by Jones, for it came about that this stranger, Rochester, +whilst drinking little himself, managed by some method to keep up in +gaiety and in consequence of mind with the other, though every now and +then he would fall away from the point, as a ship without a steersman +falls away from the wind, and lapse for a moment into what an acute +observer might have deemed to be the fundamental dejection of his real +nature.</p> + +<p>However, these lapses were only momentary, and did not interfere at all +with the gay spirits of his companion, who having found a friend in the +midst of the loneliness of London, and his twin image in the person of +that friend, was now pouring out his heart on every sort of subject, +always returning, and with the regularity of a pendulum to the fact of +the likeness, and the same question and statement.</p> + +<p>“What’s this, your name? Rochester! well, ’pon my soul this beats me.”</p> + +<p>Presently, the Bollinger finished, Jones found himself outside the Savoy +with this new found friend, walking in the gas lit Strand, and then, +without any<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_19" id="pg_19">19</a></span> transition rememberable, he found himself seated at dinner +in a private room of a French restaurant in Soho.</p> + +<p>Afterwards he could remember parts of that dinner quite distinctly. He +could remember the chicken and salad, and a rum omelette, at which he +had laughed because it was on fire. He could remember Rochester’s +gaiety, and a practical joke of some sort played on the waiter by +Rochester and ending in smashed plates—he could remember remonstrating +with the latter over his wild conduct. These things he could remember +afterwards, and also a few others—a place like Heaven—which was the +Leicester Lounge, and a place like the other place which was Leicester +Square.</p> + +<p>A quarrel with a stranger, about what he could not tell, a taxi cab, in +which he was seated listening to Rochester’s voice giving directions to +the driver, minute directions as to where he, Jones, was to be driven.</p> + +<p>A lamp lit hall, and stairs up which he was being led.</p> + +<p>Nothing more.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_20" id="pg_20">20</a></span> +<a name="CARLTON_HOUSE_TERRACE_403" id="CARLTON_HOUSE_TERRACE_403"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<h3>CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE</h3> +</div> + +<p>He awoke from sleep in bed in the dark, with his mind clear as crystal +and hot shame clutching at his throat. Rochester was the first +recollection that came to him, and it was a recollection tinged with +evil. He felt like a man who had supped with the devil. Led by Rochester +he had made a fool of himself, he had made a brute of himself, how would +he face the hotel people? And what had he done with the last of his +money?</p> + +<p>These thoughts held him motionless for a few terrific moments. Then he +clapped his hand to his unfortunate head, turned on his side, and lay +gazing into the darkness. It had all come back to him clearly. +Rochester’s wild conduct, the dinner, the smashed plates, the quarrel. +He was afraid to get up and search in his pockets, he guessed their +condition. He occupied himself instead, trying to imagine what would +become of him without money and without friends in this wilderness of +London. With ten pounds he might have done something; without, what +could he do? Nothing, unless it were manual labour, and he did not know +where to look for that.</p> + +<p>Then Rochester, never from his mind, came more fully before him—that +likeness, was it real, or only<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_21" id="pg_21">21</a></span> a delusion of alcohol? And what else had +Rochester done? He seemed mad enough to have done anything, plum +crazy—would he, Jones, be held accountable for Rochester’s deeds? He +was fighting with this question when a clock began to strike in the +darkness and close to the bed, nine delicate and silvery strokes, that +brought a sudden sweat upon the forehead of Jones.</p> + +<p>He was not in his room at the Savoy. There was no clock in the Savoy bed +room, and no clock in any hotel ever spoke in tones like these. On the +sound, as if from a passage outside, he heard a voice:</p> + +<p>“Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap’s clothes.”</p> + +<p>Then came the sound of a soft step crossing the carpet, the sound of +curtain rings moving—then a blind upshrivelled letting the light of day +upon a room never before seen by Jones, a Jacobean bed room, severe, but +exquisite in every detail.</p> + +<p>The man who had pulled the blind string, and whose powerful profile was +silhouetted against the light, showed to the sun a face highly but +evenly coloured, as though by the gentle painting of old port wine, +through a long series of years and ancestors. The typical colour of the +old fashioned English Judge, Bishop, and Butler.</p> + +<p>He was attired in a black morning coat, and his whole countenance, make, +build and appearance had something grave and archiepiscopal most holding +to the eye and imagination.</p> + +<p>It terrified Jones, who, breathing now as though<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_22" id="pg_22">22</a></span> asleep, watched +through closed eyelids whilst the apparition, with pursed lips, dealt +with the blind of the other window.</p> + +<p>This done, it passed to the door, conferred in muted tones with some +unseen person, and returned bearing in its hands a porcelain early +morning tea service.</p> + +<p>Having placed this on the table by the bed, the apparition vanished, +closing the door.</p> + +<p>Jones sat up and looked around him.</p> + +<p>His clothes had disappeared. He always hung his trousers on the bed post +at the end of his bed and placed his other things on a chair, but +trousers or other things were nowhere visible, they had been spirited +away. It was at this moment that he noticed the gorgeous silk pyjamas he +had got on. He held out his arm and looked at the texture and pattern.</p> + +<p>Then, in a flash came comfort and understanding. He was in Rochester’s +house. Rochester must have sent him here last night. That apparition was +Rochester’s man servant. The vision of Rochester turned from an evil +spirit to an angel, and filled with a warm sensation of friendliness +towards the said Rochester he was in the act of pouring out a cup of +tea, when the words he had heard spoken in the passage outside came back +to him.</p> + +<p>“Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap’s clothes.”</p> + +<p>What did that mean?</p> + +<p>He finished pouring out the tea and drank it; there was thin bread and +butter on a plate but he disregarded<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_23" id="pg_23">23</a></span> it. Whose money had been taken, +and who had been sent home in another chap’s clothes?</p> + +<p>Did those words apply to him or to Rochester? Had Rochester been robbed? +Might he, Jones, be held accountable?</p> + +<p>A deep uneasiness and a passionate desire for his garments begotten of +these queries, brought him out of bed and on to the floor. He came to +the nearer window and looked out. The window gave upon the Green Park, a +cheerful view beneath the sky of a perfect summer’s morning. He turned +from the window, and crossing the room opened the door through which the +apparition had vanished. A thickly carpeted corridor lay outside, a +corridor silent as the hypogeum of the Apis, secretive, gorgeous, with +tasseled silk curtains and hanging lamps. Jones judged these lamps to be +of silver and worth a thousand dollars apiece. He had read the Arabian +Nights when a boy, and like a waft now from the garden of Aladdin came a +vague something stirring his senses and disturbing his practical nature. +He wanted his clothes. This silent gorgeousness had raised the desire +for his garments to a passion. He wanted to get into his boots and face +the world and face the worst. Swinging lamps of silver, soft carpets, +silken curtains, only served to heighten his sensitiveness as to his +apparel and whole position.</p> + +<p>He came back into the room. His anger was beginning to rise, the nervous +anger of a man who has made a fool of himself, upon whom a jest is being +played, and who finds himself in a false position.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_24" id="pg_24">24</a></span></p> + +<p>Seeing an electric button by the fire place he went to it and pressed it +twice, hard, then he opened the second door of the room and found a bath +room.</p> + +<p>A Pompeian bath room with tassellated floor, marble walls and marble +ceiling. The bath was sunk in the floor. Across hot water pipes, plated +with silver, hung towels of huck-a-back, white towels with cardinal red +fringes. Here too, most un-Pompeian stood a wonderful dressing table, +one solid slab of glass, with razors set out, manicure instruments, +brushes, powder pots, scent bottles.</p> + +<p>Jones came into this place, walked round it like a cat in a strange +larder, gauged the depth of the bath, glanced at the things on the +table, and was in the act of picking up one of the manicure implements, +when a sound from the bed room drew his attention.</p> + +<p>Someone was moving about there.</p> + +<p>Someone who seemed altering the position of chairs and arranging things.</p> + +<p>He judged it to be the servant who had answered the bell; he considered +that it was better to have the thing out now, and have done with it. He +wanted a full explanation, and bravely, but with the feelings of a man +who is entering a dental parlour, he came to the bath room door.</p> + +<p>A pale faced, agile-looking young man with glossy black hair, a young +man in a sleeved waistcoat, a young man carrying a shirt and set of pink +silk undergarments over his left arm, was in the act of placing a pair +of patent leather boots with kid tops upon the floor. A gorgeous +dressing gown lay upon the bed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_25" id="pg_25">25</a></span> It had evidently been placed there by +the agile one.</p> + +<p>Jones had intended to ask explanations. That intention shrivelled, +somehow, in the act of speech. What he uttered was a very mildly framed +request.</p> + +<p>“Er—can I have my clothes, please?” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord,” replied the other. “I am placing them out.”</p> + +<p>The instantaneous anger raised by the patent fact that he was being +guyed by the second apparition was as instantly checked by the +recollection of Rochester. Here was another practical joke. This house +was evidently Rochester’s—the whole thing was plain. Well, he would +show that tricky spirit how he could take a joke and turn it on the +maker. Like Brer Rabbit he determined to lie low.</p> + +<p>He withdrew into the bath room and sat down on the rush bottomed chair +by the table, his temper coiled, and ready to fly out like a spring. He +was seated like this, curling his toes and nursing his resolve, when the +Agile One, with an absolute gravity that disarmed all anger, entered +with the dressing gown. He stood holding it up, and Jones, rising, put +it on. Then the A. O. filled the bath, trying the temperature with a +thermometer, and so absorbed in his business that he might have been +alone.</p> + +<p>The bath filled, he left the room, closing the door.</p> + +<p>He had thrown some crystals into the water, scenting it with a perfume +fragrant and refreshing, the temperature was just right, and as Jones +plunged and wallowed and lay half floating, supporting himself by the +silver plated rails arranged for that purpose, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_26" id="pg_26">26</a></span> idea came to him +that if the practical joke were to continue as pleasantly as it had +begun, he, for one, would not grumble.</p> + +<p>Soothed by the warmth his mind took a clearer view of things.</p> + +<p>If this were a jest of Rochester’s, as most certainly it was, where lay +the heart of it? Every joke has its core, and the core of this one was +most evidently the likeness between himself and Rochester.</p> + +<p>If Rochester were a Lord and if this were his house, and if Rochester +had sent him—Jones—home like a bundle of goods, then the extraordinary +likeness would perhaps deceive the servants and maybe other people as +well. That would be a good joke, promising all sorts of funny +developments. Only it was not a joke that any man of self respect would +play. But Rochester, from those vague recollections of his antics, did +not seem burdened with self respect. He seemed in his latter +developments crazy enough for anything.</p> + +<p>If he had done this, then the servants were not in the business; they +would be under the delusion that he, Jones, was Rochester, doped and +robbed and dressed in another man’s clothes and sent home.</p> + +<p>Rochester, turning up later in the morning, would have a fine feast of +humour to sit down to.</p> + +<p>This seemed plain. The born practical joker coming on his own twin image +could not resist making use of it. This explanation cleared the +situation, but it did not make it a comfortable one. If the servants +discovered the imposition before the arrival of Rochester things would +be unpleasant. He must act<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_27" id="pg_27">27</a></span> warily, get downstairs and escape from the +place as soon as possible. Later on he would settle with Rochester. The +servants, if they were not partners in the joke, had taken him on his +face value, his voice had evidently not betrayed him. He felt sure on +this point. He left the bath and, drying himself, donned the dressing +gown. Tooth paste and a tooth brush stood on a glass tray by a little +basin furnished with hot and cold water taps, and now, so strangely are +men constituted, the main facts of his position were dwarfed for a +second by the consideration that he had no tooth brush of his own.</p> + +<p>Just that little thing brought his energies to a focus and his growing +irritation.</p> + +<p>He, opened the bed-room door. The glossy haired one was putting links in +the sleeves of a shirt.</p> + +<p>“Get me a tooth brush—a new one,” said Jones, brusquely, almost +brutally. “Get it quick.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>He dropped the shirt and left the room swiftly, but not hurriedly, +taking care to close the door softly behind him.</p> + +<p>It was the first indication to Jones of a method so complete and a +mechanism so perfectly constituted, that jolts were all but eliminated.</p> + +<p>“I believe if I’d asked that guy for an elephant,” he said to himself, +“he’d have acted just the same—do they keep a drug store on the +premises?”</p> + +<p>They evidently kept a store of tooth brushes, for in less than a minute +and a half Expedition had returned with the tooth brush on a little +lacquered tray.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_28" id="pg_28">28</a></span></p> + +<p>Now, to a man accustomed to dress himself it comes as a shock to have +his underpants held out for him to get into as though he were a little +boy.</p> + +<p>This happened to Jones—and they were pink silk.</p> + +<p>A pair of subfusc coloured trousers creased and looking absolutely new +were presented to him in the same manner. He was allowed to put on his +own socks, silk and never worn before, but he was not allowed to put on +his own boots. The perfect valet did that kneeling before him, shoe horn +and button hook in hand.</p> + +<p>Having inducted him into a pink silk under vest and a soft pleated +shirt, with plain gold links in the sleeves, each button of the said +links having in its centre a small black pearl, a collar and a subfusc +coloured silk tie were added to him, also a black morning vest and a +black morning coat, with rather broad braid at the edges.</p> + +<p>A handkerchief of pure white cambric with a tiny monogram also in white +was then shaken out and presented.</p> + +<p>Then his valet, intent, silent, and seeming to move by clockwork, passed +to a table on which stood a small oak cabinet. Opening the cabinet he +took from it and placed on the table a watch and chain.</p> + +<p>His duties were now finished, and, according to some prescribed rule, he +left the room carefully and softly, closing the door behind him.</p> + +<p>Jones took up the watch and chain.</p> + +<p>The watch was as thin as a five shilling piece, the chain was a mere +thread of gold. It was an evening<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_29" id="pg_29">29</a></span> affair, to be worn with dress +clothes, and this fact presented to the mind of Jones a confirmation of +the idea that, not only was he literally in Rochester’s shoes, but that +Rochester’s ordinary watch and chain had not returned.</p> + +<p>He sat down for a moment to consider another point. His own old +Waterbury and rolled gold chain, and the few unimportant letters in his +pockets—where were they?</p> + +<p>He determined to clear this matter at once, and boldly rang the bell.</p> + +<p>The valet answered it.</p> + +<p>“When I came back last night—er—was there anything in my pockets?” +asked he.</p> + +<p>“No, my Lord. They had taken everything from the pockets.”</p> + +<p>“No watch and chain?”</p> + +<p>“No, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“Have you the clothes I came back in?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“Go and fetch them.”</p> + +<p>The man disappeared and returned in a minute with a bundle of clothes +neatly folded on his arm.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Church told me to keep them careful, lest you’d want to put the +matter in the hands of the police, my Lord, shockin’ old things they +are.”</p> + +<p>Jones examined the clothes. They were his own. Everything he had worn +yesterday lay there, and the sight of them filled his mind with a +nostalgia and a desire for them—a home sickness and a clothes +sickness—beyond expression.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_30" id="pg_30">30</a></span></p> + +<p>He was absolutely sure from the valet’s manner that the servants were +not “in the know.” A wild impulse came on him to take the exhibitor of +these remnants of his past into his confidence. To say right out: “I’m +Jones. Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I’m no Lord. Here, gimme those +clothes and let me out of this—let’s call it quits.”</p> + +<p>The word “police” already dropped held him back. He was an impostor. If +he were to declare the facts before Rochester returned, what might be +the result? Whatever the result might be one thing was certain, it would +be unpleasant. Besides, he was no prisoner, once downstairs he could +leave the house.</p> + +<p>So instead of saying: “I’m Victor Jones of Philadelphia,” he said: “Take +them away,” and finding himself alone once more he sat down to consider.</p> + +<p>Rochester must have gone through his pockets, not for loot, but for the +purpose of removing any article that might cast suspicion, or raise the +suspicion that he, Jones, was not Rochester. That seemed plain enough, +and there was an earnestness of purpose in the fact that was disturbing.</p> + +<p>There was no use in thinking, however. He would go downstairs and make +his escape. He was savagely hungry, but he reckoned the Savoy was good +enough for one more meal—if he could get there.</p> + +<p>Leaving the watch and chain—unambitious to add a charge of larceny to +his other troubles, should Fate arrest him before the return of +Rochester, he came down the corridor to a landing giving upon a flight +of<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_31" id="pg_31">31</a></span> stairs, up which, save for the gradient, a coach and horses might +have been driven.</p> + +<p>The place was a palace. Vast pictures by gloomy old artists, pictures of +men in armour, men in ruffs, women without armour or ruffs, or even a +rag of chiffon, pictures worth millions of dollars no doubt, hung from +the walls of the landing, and the wall flanking that triumphant +staircase.</p> + +<p>Jones looked over into the well of the hall, then he began to descend +the stairs.</p> + +<p>He had intended, on finding a hat in the hall, to clap it on and make a +clean bolt for freedom and the light of heaven, get back to the Savoy, +dress himself in another suit, and once more himself, go for Rochester, +but this was no hall with a hat-rack and umbrella-stand. Knights in +armour were guarding it, and a flunkey, six feet high, in red plush +breeches, and with calves that would have made Victor Jones scream with +laughter under normal conditions.</p> + +<p>The flunkey, seeing our friend, stepped to a door, opened it, and held +it open for him. Not to enter the room thus indicated would have been +possible enough, but the compelling influence of that vast flunkey made +it impossible to Jones.</p> + +<p>His volition had fled, he was subdued to his surroundings, for the +moment conquered.</p> + +<p>He entered a breakfast room, light and pleasantly furnished, where at a +breakfast table and before a silver tea urn sat a lady of forty or so, +thin faced, high nosed, aristocratic and rather faded.</p> + +<p>She was reading a letter, and when she saw the incomer<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_32" id="pg_32">32</a></span> she rose from +the table and gathered some other letters up. Then she, literally, swept +from the room. She looked at him as she passed, and it seemed to Jones +that he had never known before the full meaning of the word “scorn.”</p> + +<p>For a wild second he thought that all had been discovered, that the +police were now sure to arrive. Then he knew at once. Nothing had been +discovered, the delusion held even for this woman, that glance was meant +for Rochester, not for him, and was caused by the affair of last night, +by other things, too, maybe, but that surely.</p> + +<p>Uncomfortable, angry, nervous, wild to escape, and then yielding to +caution, he took his seat at the table where a place was laid—evidently +for him.</p> + +<p>The woman had left an envelope on the table, he glanced at it.</p> + +<p style="margin: 0 auto 0 6em"><span class="smcap">The Honble: Venetia Birdbrook</span>,</p> +<p style="margin: 0 auto 0 9em">10A Carlton House Terrace,</p> +<p style="margin: 0 auto 0 12em">London, S. W.</p> + +<p>Victor read the inscription written in a bold female hand.</p> + +<p>It told him where he was, he was in the breakfast-room of 10A Carlton +House Terrace, but it told him nothing more.</p> + +<p>Was the Honble: Venetia Birdbrook his wife, or at least the wife of his +twin image? This thought blinded him for a moment to the fact that a +flunkey—they seemed as numerous as flies in May—was at his<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_33" id="pg_33">33</a></span> elbow with +a <i>menu</i>, whilst another flunkey, who seemed to have sprung from the +floor, was fiddling at the sideboard which contained cold edibles, +tongue, ham, chicken and so forth.</p> + +<p>“Scrambled eggs,” said he, looking at the card.</p> + +<p>“Tea or coffee, my Lord?”</p> + +<p>“Coffee.”</p> + +<p>He broke a breakfast roll and helped himself mechanically to some +butter, which was instantly presented to him by the sideboard fiddler, +and he had just taken a mechanical bite of buttered roll, when the door +opened and the Archiepiscopal gentleman who had pulled up his window +blind that morning entered. Mr. Church, for Jones had already gathered +that to be his name, carried a little yellow basket filled with letters +in his right hand, and in his left a great sheaf, The Times, Daily +Telegraph, Morning Post, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Chronicle, and Daily +News. These papers he placed on a side table evidently intended for that +purpose. The little letter basket he placed on the table at Jones’ left +elbow.</p> + +<p>Then he withdrew, but not without having spoken a couple of murmured +words of correction to the flunkey near the sideboard, who had omitted, +no doubt, some point in the mysterious ritual of which he was an +acolyte.</p> + +<p>Jones glanced at the topmost letter.</p> + +<p style="margin: 0 auto 0 6em"><span class="smcap">The Earl of Rochester</span>,</p> +<p style="margin: 0 auto 0 9em">10A, Carlton House Terrace,</p> +<p style="margin: 0 auto 0 12em">London, S. W.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_34" id="pg_34">34</a></span>Ah! +now he knew it. The true name of the juggler who had played him this +trick. It was plain, too, now, that Rochester had sent him here as a +substitute.</p> + +<p>But the confirmation of his idea did not ease his mind. On the contrary +it filled him with a vague alarm. The feeling of being in a trap came +upon him now for the first time. The joke had lost any semblance of +colour, the thing was serious. Rochester ought to have been back to put +an end to the business before this. Had anything happened to him? Had he +got jailed?</p> + +<p>He did not touch the letters. Without raising suspicion, acting as +naturally as possible the part of a peer of the realm, he must escape as +swiftly as possible from this nest of flunkeys, and with that object in +view he accepted the scrambled eggs now presented to him, and the +coffee.</p> + +<p>When they were finished, he rose from the table. Then he remembered the +letters. Here was another tiny tie. He could not leave them unopened and +untouched on the table without raising suspicion. He took them from the +basket, and with them in his hand left the room, the fellow in waiting +slipping before to open the door.</p> + +<p>The hall was deserted for a wonder, deserted by all but the men in +armour. A room where he might leave the infernal letters, and find a +bell to fetch a servant to get him a hat was the prime necessity of the +moment.</p> + +<p>He crossed to a door directly opposite, opened it, and found a room half +library, half study, a pleasant<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_35" id="pg_35">35</a></span> room used to tobacco, with a rather +well worn Turkey carpet on the floor, saddle bag easy chairs, and a +great escritoire in the window, open and showing pigeon holes containing +note paper, envelopes, telegraph forms, and a rack containing the A. B. +C. Railway Guide, Whitakers Almanac, Ruffs’ Guide to the Turf, Who’s +Who, and Kelly.</p> + +<p>Pipes were on the mantel piece, a silver cigar box and cigarette box on +a little table by one of the easy chairs, matches—nothing was here +wanting, and everything was of the best.</p> + +<p>He placed the letters on the table, opened the cigar box and took from +it a Ramon Alones. A blunt ended weapon for the destruction of +melancholy and unrest, six and a half inches long, and costing perhaps +half-a-crown. A real Havana cigar. Now in London there are only four +places where you can obtain a real and perfect Havana cigar. That is to +say four shops. And at those four shops—or shall we call them +emporiums—only known and trusted customers can find the sun that shone +on the Vuelta Abajos in such and such a perfect year.</p> + +<p>The Earl of Rochester’s present representative was finding it now, with +little enough pleasure, however, as he paced the room preparatory to +ringing the bell. He was approaching the electric button for this +purpose, when the faint and far away murmuring of an automobile, as if +admitted by a suddenly opened hall door, checked his hand. Here was +Rochester at last. He waited listening.</p> + +<p>He had not long to wait.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_36" id="pg_36">36</a></span></p> + +<p>The door of the room suddenly opened, and the woman of the breakfast +table disclosed herself. She was dressed for going out, wearing a hat +that seemed a yard in diameter, and a feather boa, from which her +hen-like face and neck rose to the crowning triumph of the hat.</p> + +<p>“I am going to Mother,” said she. “I am not coming back.”</p> + +<p>“Um-um,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>She paused. Then she came right in and closed the door behind her.</p> + +<p>Standing with her back close to the door she spoke to Jones.</p> + +<p>“If you cannot see your own conduct as others see it, who can make you? +I am not referring to the disgrace of last night, though heaven knows +that was bad enough, I am talking of <i>everything</i>, of your poor wife who +loves you still, of the estate you have ruined by your lunatic conduct, +of the company you keep, of the insults you have heaped on people—and +now you add drink to the rest. That’s new.” She paused.</p> + +<p>“That’s new. But I warn you, your brain won’t stand <i>that</i>. You know the +taint in the family as well as I do, it has shewn itself in your +actions. Well, go on drinking and you will end in Bedlam instead of the +workhouse. They call you ‘Mad Rochester’; you know that.” She choked. “I +have blushed to be known as your sister—I have tried to keep my place +here and save you. It’s ended.” She turned to the door.</p> + +<p>Jones had been making up his mind. He would<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_37" id="pg_37">37</a></span> tell the whole affair. This +Rochester was a thoroughly bad lot evidently; well, he would turn the +tables on him now.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said he. “I am not the man you think I am.”</p> + +<p>“Tosh!” cried the woman.</p> + +<p>She opened the door, passed out, and shut it with a snap.</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m d——d,” said Jones, for the second time in connection with +Rochester.</p> + +<p>The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter to eleven; the faint +sound of the car had ceased. The lady of the feather boa had evidently +taken her departure, and the house had resumed its cloistral silence.</p> + +<p>He waited a moment to make sure, then he went into the hall where a huge +flunkey—a new one, more curious than the others, was lounging near the +door.</p> + +<p>“My hat,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>The thing flew, and returned with a glossy silk hat, a tortoiseshell +handled cane, and a pair of new suede gloves of a delicate dove colour. +Then it opened the door, and Jones, clapping the hat on his head, walked +out.</p> + +<p>The hat fitted, by a mercy.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_38" id="pg_38">38</a></span> +<a name="THE_POINT_OF_THE_JOKE_952" id="THE_POINT_OF_THE_JOKE_952"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<h3>THE POINT OF THE JOKE</h3> +</div> + +<p>Out in the open air and sunshine he took a deep satisfying breath. He +felt as though he had escaped from a cage full of monkeys. Monkeys in +the form of men, creatures who would servilely obey him as Rochester, +but who, scenting the truth, would rend him in pieces.</p> + +<p>Well, he was clear of them. Once back in the Savoy he would get into his +own things, and once in his own things he would strike. If he could not +get a lawyer to take his case up against Rochester, he would go to the +police. Yes, he would. Rochester had doped him, taken his letters, taken +his watch.</p> + +<p>Jones was not the man to bring false charges. He knew that in taking his +belongings, this infernal jester had done so, not for plunder, but for +the purpose of making the servants believe that he, Rochester, had been +stripped of everything by sharks, and sent home in an old suit of +clothes; all the same he would charge Rochester with the taking of his +things, he would teach this practical joker how to behave.</p> + +<p>To cool himself and collect his thoughts before going to the Savoy, he +took a walk in the Green Park.</p> + +<p>That one word “Tosh!” uttered by the woman, in answer to what he had +said, told him more about<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_39" id="pg_39">39</a></span> Rochester than many statements. This man +wanted a cold bath, he wanted to be held under the tap till he cried for +mercy.</p> + +<p>Walking, now with the stick under his right arm and his left hand in his +trousers pocket, he felt something in the pocket. It was a coin. He took +it out. It was a penny, undiscovered evidently, and unremoved by the +valet.</p> + +<p>It was also a reminder of his own poverty stricken condition. His +thoughts turned from Rochester and his jokes, to his own immediate and +tragic position. The whole thing was his own fault. It was quite easy to +say that Rochester had led him along and tempted him; he was a full +grown man and should have resisted temptation. He had let strong drink +get hold of him; well, he had paid by the loss of his money, to say +nothing of the way his self-respect had been bruised by this jester.</p> + +<p>Near Buckingham Palace he turned back, walking by the way he had come, +and leaving the park at the new gate.</p> + +<p>He crossed the plexus of ways where Northumberland Avenue debouches on +Trafalgar Square. It was near twelve o’clock, and the first evening +papers were out. A hawker with a bundle of papers under his arm and a +yellow poster in front of him like an apron, drew his attention; at +least the poster did.</p> + +<p>“Suicide of an American in London!” were the words on the poster.</p> + +<p>Jones, remembering his penny, produced it and bought a paper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_40" id="pg_40">40</a></span></p> + +<p>The American’s suicide did not interest him, but he fancied vaguely that +something of Rochester’s doings of the night before might have been +caught by the Press through the Police news. He thought it highly +probable that Rochester, continuing his mad course, had been gaoled.</p> + +<p>He was rewarded. Right on the first page he saw his own name. He had +never seen it before in print, and the sight and the circumstances made +his tongue cluck back, as though checked by a string tied to its root.</p> + +<p>This was the paragraph:</p> + +<p>“Last night, as the 11.35 Inner Circle train was entering the Temple +Station, a man was seen to jump from the platform on to the metals. +Before the station officials could interfere to save him, the +unfortunate man had thrown himself before the incoming engine. Death was +instantaneous.</p> + +<p>“From papers in possession of deceased, his identity has been verified +as that of Mr. V. A. Jones, an American gentleman of Philadelphia, +lately resident at the Savoy Hotel, Strand.”</p> + +<p>Jones stood with the paper in his hand, appalled. Rochester had +committed suicide!</p> + +<p>This was the Jest—the black core of it. All last evening, all through +that hilarity he had been plotting this. Plotting it perhaps from the +first moment of their meeting. Unable to resist the prompting of the +extraordinary likeness, this joker, this waster, done to the world, had +left life at the end of a last jamboree,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_41" id="pg_41">41</a></span> and with a burst of +laughter—leaving another man in his clothes, nay, almost one might say +in his body.</p> + +<p>Jones saw the point of the thing at once.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_42" id="pg_42">42</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width:100%; margin-top:2em;" /> + +<h2>PART II</h2> + +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_43" id="pg_43">43</a></span> +<a name="THE_NET_1051" id="THE_NET_1051"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<h3>THE NET</h3> +</div> + +<p>He saw something else. He was automatically barred from the Savoy, and +barred from the American Consul. And on top of that something else. He +had committed a very grave mistake in accepting for a moment his +position. He should have spoken at once that morning, spoken to “Mr. +Church,” told his tale and made explanations, failing that he should +have made explanations before leaving the house. He had left in +Rochester’s clothes, he had acted the part of Rochester.</p> + +<p>He rolled the paper into a ball, tossed it into the gutter, and entered +Charing Cross to continue his soliloquy.</p> + +<p>He had eaten Rochester’s food, smoked one of his cigars, accepted his +cane and gloves. All that might have been explainable with Rochester’s +aid, but Rochester was dead.</p> + +<p>No one knew that Rochester was dead. To go back to the Savoy and +establish his own identity, he would have to establish the fact of +Rochester’s death, tell the story of his own intoxication, and make +people believe that he was an innocent victim.</p> + +<p>An innocent victim who had gone to another man’s house and palpably +masqueraded for some hours as<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_46" id="pg_46">46</a></span> that other man, walking out of the house +in his clothes and carrying his stick, an innocent victim, who owed a +bill at the Savoy.</p> + +<p>Why, every man, the family included you may be sure, would be finding +the innocent victim in Rochester.</p> + +<p>What were Jones’ letters doing on Rochester? That was a nice question +for a puzzle-headed jury to answer.</p> + +<p>By what art did Jones, the needy American Adventurer—that was what they +would call him—impose himself upon Rochester, and induce Rochester to +order him to be taken to Carlton House Terrace?</p> + +<p>Oh, there were a lot more questions to be asked at that phantom court of +Justice, where Jones beheld himself in the dock trying to explain the +inexplicable.</p> + +<p>The likeness would not be any use for white-washing; it would only +deepen the mystery, make the affair more extravagant. Besides, the +likeness most likely by this time would be pretty well spoiled; by the +time of the Assizes it would be only verifiable by photographs.</p> + +<p>Sitting on a seat in Charing Cross station, he cogitated thus, chasing +the most fantastic ideas, yet gripped all the time by the cold fact.</p> + +<p>The fact that the only door in London open to him was the door of 10A, +Carlton House Terrace.</p> + +<p>Unable to return to the Savoy, he possessed nothing in the world but the +clothes he stood up in and the walking stick he held in his hand. +Dressed like a lord, he was poorer than any tramp, for the simple reason +that his extravagantly fine clothes barred him<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_47" id="pg_47">47</a></span> from begging and from +the menial work that is the only recourse of the suddenly destitute.</p> + +<p>Given time, and with his quick business capacity, he might have made a +fight to obtain a clerk-ship or some post in a store—but he had no +time. It was near the luncheon hour and he was hungry. That fact alone +was an indication of how he was placed as regards Time.</p> + +<p>He was a logical man. He saw clearly that only two courses lay before +him. To go to the Savoy and tell his story and get food and lodging in +the Police Station, or to go to 10A, Carlton House Terrace and get food +and lodging as Rochester.</p> + +<p>Both ideas were hateful, but he reckoned, and with reason, that if he +took the first course, arrest and ignominy, and probably imprisonment +would be certain, whereas if he took the second he might be able to +bluff the thing out till he could devise means of escape from the net +that surrounded him.</p> + +<p>He determined on the second course. The servants, and even that +scarecrow woman in the feather boa had accepted him as good coin; there +was no reason why they should not go on accepting him for a while. For +the matter of that, there was no reason why they should not go on +accepting him forever.</p> + +<p>Even in the midst of his disturbance of mind and general tribulation, +the humour of the latter idea almost made him smile. The idea of living +and dying as Lord Rochester, as a member of the English Aristocracy, +always being “My Lorded,” served by flunkeys<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_48" id="pg_48">48</a></span> with big calves, and +inducted every morning into his under pants by that guy in the sleeved +jacket!</p> + +<p>This preposterous idea, more absurd than any dream, was yet based on a +substantive foundation. In fact he had that morning put it in practice, +and unless a miracle occurred he would have to continue putting it in +practice for some days to come.</p> + +<p>However, Jones, fortunately or unfortunately for himself, was a man of +action and no dreamer. He dismissed the ideas and came to practical +considerations.</p> + +<p>If he had to hold on to the position, he would have to make more sure of +his ground.</p> + +<p>He rose, found his way into Charing Cross Station Hotel, and obtained a +copy of “Who’s Who” from the hotel clerk.</p> + +<p>He turned the pages till he found the R’s. Here was his man.</p> + +<p>Rochester. 21st Earl of (cr. 1431) Arthur Coningsby Delamere. Baron +Coningsby of Wilton, ex Lieut. Rifle Brigade, m. Teresa, 2d daughter of +Sir Peter Mason Bart. 9 v. Educ. Heidelberg. Owns about 21,000 acres. +Address 10A, Carlton House Terrace. Rochester Court, Rochester. The +Hatch, Colney, Wilts. Clubs, Senior Conservative, National Sporting, +Pelican.</p> + +<p>That was only a part of the sayings of “Who’s Who” regarding Rochester, +Arthur Coningsby, Delamere. The last decadent descendant of a family +that had been famous in long past years for its power, prodigality and +prolificacy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_49" id="pg_49">49</a></span></p> + +<p>If Jones could have climbed up his own family tree he might have found +on some distaff branch the reason of his appalling likeness to +Rochester, Arthur Coningsby, Delamere, but this was a pure matter of +speculation, and it did not enter the mind of Jones.</p> + +<p>He closed the book, returned it, and walked out.</p> + +<p>Now that his resolve was made, his fighting spirit was roused. In other +words he felt the same recklessness that a man feels who is going into +battle, the regardlessness of consequence which marks your true +explorer. For Stanley on the frontier of Darkest Africa, Scott on the +ice rim of the Beardmore Glacier, had before them positions and +districts simple in comparison to those that now fronted Jones, who had +before him the Western and South Western London Districts, with all they +contained in the way of natives in top hats, natives painted and +powdered, tribes with tribal laws of which he knew little, tricks of +which he knew less, convenances, ju-pu’s and fetishes. And he was +entering this dark and intricate and dangerous country, not as an +explorer carrying beads and bibles, but disguised as a top man, a chief.</p> + +<p>Burton’s position when he journeyed to Mecca disguised as a Mohammedan +was easy compared to the position of Jones. Burton knew the ritual. He +made one mistake in it it is true, but then he was able to kill the man +who saw him make that mistake. Jones could not protect himself in this +way, even if the valet in the sleeved jacket were to discover him in a +position analogous to Burton’s.</p> + +<p>He was not thinking of any of these things at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_50" id="pg_50">50</a></span> present moment, +however; he was thinking of luncheon. If he were condemned to play the +part of a Lord for awhile, he was quite determined to take his salary in +the way of everything he wanted. Yet it seemed that to obtain anything +he wanted in his new and extraordinary position, he would have to take +something he did not want. He wanted luncheon but he did not want to go +back to Carlton House Terrace, at least not just now. Those +flunkeys—the very thought of them gave him indigestion—more than that, +he was afraid of them. A fear that was neither physical nor moral, but +more in the nature of the fear of women for mice, or the supposed fear +of the late Lord Roberts for cats.</p> + +<p>The solemn Church, the mercurial valet, the men with calves, belonged to +a tribe that maybe had done Jones to death in some past life: either +bored him to death or bludgeoned him, it did not matter, the antipathy +was there, and it was powerful.</p> + +<p>At the corner of Northumberland Avenue an idea came to him. This +Rochester belonged to several clubs, why not go and have luncheon at one +of them on credit? It would save him for the moment from returning to +the door towards which Fate was shepherding him, and he might be able to +pick up some extra wrinkles about himself and his position. The idea was +indicative of the daring of the man, though there was little enough +danger in it. He was sure of passing muster at a club, since he had done +so at home. He carried the names of two of Rochester’s clubs in his +mind, the Pelican and the Senior Conservative.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_51" id="pg_51">51</a></span> The latter seemed the +more stodgy, the least likely to offer surprises in the way of shoulder +clapping, irresponsible parties who might want to enter into general +conversation.</p> + +<p>He chose it, asked a policeman for directions, and made for Pall Mall.</p> + +<p>Here another policeman pointed out to him the building he was in search +of.</p> + +<p>It stood on the opposite side of the way, a building of grey stone, vast +and serious of feature, yet opulent and hinting of the best in all +things relative to comfort.</p> + +<p>It was historical. Disraeli had come down those steps, and the great +Lord Salisbury had gone up them. Men, to enter this place, had to be +born, not made, and even these selected ones had to put their names down +at birth, if they wished for any chance of lunching there before they +lost their teeth and hair.</p> + +<p>It took twenty-one years for the elect to reach this place, and on the +way they were likely to be slain by black balls.</p> + +<p>Victor Jones just crossed the road and went up the steps.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_52" id="pg_52">52</a></span> +<a name="LUNCHEON_1253" id="LUNCHEON_1253"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<h3>LUNCHEON</h3> +</div> + +<p>He had lunched at the Constitutional with a chance acquaintance picked +up on his first week in London, so he knew something of the ways of +English clubs, yet the vast hall of this place daunted him for a moment.</p> + +<p>However, the club servants seeming to know him, and recognising that +indecision is the most fatal weakness of man, he crossed the hall, and +seeing some gentlemen going up the great staircase he followed to a door +in the first landing.</p> + +<p>He saw through the glass swing doors that this was the great luncheon +room of the club, and having made this discovery he came downstairs +again where good fortune, in the form of a bald headed man without hat +or stick, coming through a passage way, indicated the cloak room to him.</p> + +<p>Here he washed his hands and brushed his hair, and looking at himself in +a glass judged his appearance to be conservative and all right. He, a +democrat of the Democrats in this hive of Aristocracy and old crusted +conservatism, might have felt qualms of political conscience, but for +the fact that earthly politics, social theories, and social instincts +were less to him now than to an inhabitant of the dark body that<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_53" id="pg_53">53</a></span> +tumbles and fumbles around Sirius. Less than the difference between the +minnow and the roach to the roach in the landing net.</p> + +<p>Leaving the place he almost ran into the arms of a gentleman who was +entering, and who gave him a curt “H’do.”</p> + +<p>He knew that man. He had seen his newspaper portrait in America as well +as England. It was the leader of His Majesty’s Opposition, the Queen bee +of this hive where he was about to sit down to lunch. The Queen bee did +not seem very friendly, a fact that augured ill for the attitude of the +workers and the drones.</p> + +<p>Arrived at the glass swing doors before mentioned, he looked in.</p> + +<p>The place was crowded.</p> + +<p>It looked to him as though for the space of a mile and a half or so, lay +tables, tables, tables, all occupied by twos and threes and fours of +men. Conservative looking men, and no doubt mostly Lords.</p> + +<p>It was too late to withdraw without shattering his own self respect and +self confidence. The cold bath was before him, and there was no use +putting a toe in.</p> + +<p>He opened the door and entered, walking between the tables and looking +the luncheon parties in the face.</p> + +<p>The man seated has a tremendous advantage over the man standing in this +sort of game. One or two of the members met by the newcomer’s glance, +bowed in the curious manner of the seated Briton, the eyes of others +fell away, others nodded frigidly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_54" id="pg_54">54</a></span> it seemed to Jones. Then, like a +pilot fish before a shark leading him to his food, a club waiter +developed and piloted him to a small unoccupied table, where he took a +seat and looked at a menu handed to him by the pilot.</p> + +<p>He ordered fillet of sole, roast chicken, salad, and strawberry ice. +They were the easiest things to order. He would have ordered roast +elephant’s trunk had it been easier and on the menu.</p> + +<p>A man after the storming of Hell Gate, or just dismounted after the +Charge of the Light Brigade, would have possessed as little instinct for +menu hunting as Jones.</p> + +<p>He had pierced the ranks of the British Aristocracy; that was +nothing—he was seated at their camp fire, sharing their food, and they +were all inimical towards him; that was everything.</p> + +<p>He felt the draught. He felt that these men had a down on him; felt it +by all sorts of senses that seemed newly developed. Not a down on him, +Jones, but a down on him, Rochester, Arthur Coningsby Delamere, 21st +Earl of.</p> + +<p>And the extraordinary thing was that he felt it. What on earth did it +matter to him if these men looked coldly upon another man? It did. It +mattered quite a lot, more than perhaps it ever mattered to the other +man. Is the soul such a shallow and blind thing that it cannot sort the +true from the false, the material from the immaterial, cannot see that +an insult levelled at a likeness is not an insult levelled at <i>it</i>?<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_55" id="pg_55">55</a></span></p> + +<p>Surely not, and yet the soul of Victor Jones resented the coolness of +others towards the supposed body of Rochester, as though it were a +personal insult.</p> + +<p>It was the first intimation to Jones that when the actor puts on his +part he puts on more than a cloak or trunk hose, that the personality he +had put on had nerves curiously associated with his own nerves, and +that, though he might say to himself a hundred times with respect to the +attitudes of other people, “Pah! they don’t mean me,” that formula was +no charm against disdain.</p> + +<p>The wine butler, a gentleman not unlike Mr. Church, was now at his +elbow, and he found himself contemplating the wine card of the Senior +Conservative, a serious document, if one may judge by the faces of the +men who peruse it.</p> + +<p>It is in fact the Almanach de Gotha of wines. The old kings of wine are +here, the princess and all the aristocracy. Unlike the Almanach de +Gotha, however, the price of each is set down. Unlike the Almanach de +Gotha, the names of a few commoners are admitted.</p> + +<p>Macon was here, and even Blackways’ Cyder, the favourite tipple of the +old Duke of Taunton.</p> + +<p>Jones ran his eye over the list without enthusiasm. He had taken a +dislike to alcohol even in its mildest guise.</p> + +<p>“Er—what minerals have you got?” asked he.</p> + +<p>“Minerals!”</p> + +<p>The man with the wine card was nonplussed. Jones saw his mistake.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_56" id="pg_56">56</a></span></p> + +<p>“Soda water,” said he. “Get me some soda water.”</p> + +<p>The fillet of sole with sauce Tartare was excellent. Nothing, not even +the minerals could dim that fact. As he ate he looked about him, and +with all the more ease, because he found now that nobody was looking at +him; his self consciousness died down, and he began speculating on the +men around, their probable rank, fortune, and intellect. It seemed to +Jones that the latter factor was easier of determination than the other +two.</p> + +<p>What struck him more forcibly was a weird resemblance between them all, +a phantom thing, a link undiscoverable yet somehow there. This tribal +expression is one of the strangest phenomena eternally comforting and +battering our senses.</p> + +<p>Just as men grow like their wives, so do they grow like their fellow +tradesmen, waiters like waiters, grooms like grooms, lawyers like +lawyers, politicians like politicians. More, it has been undeniably +proved that landowners grow like landowners, just as shepherds grow like +sheep, and aristocrats like aristocrats.</p> + +<p>A common idea moulds faces to its shape, and a common want of ideas +allows external circumstances to do the moulding.</p> + +<p>So, English Conservative Politicians of the higher order, being worked +upon by external circumstances of a similar nature, have perhaps a +certain similar expression. Radical Politicians on the other hand, shape +to a common idea—evil—but still an idea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_57" id="pg_57">57</a></span> Jones was not thinking this, +he was just recognising that all these men belonged to the same class, +and he felt in himself that, not only did he not belong to that class, +but that Rochester also, probably, had found himself in the same +position.</p> + +<p>That might have accounted for the wildness and eccentricity of +Rochester, as demonstrated in that mad carouse and hinted at by the +woman in the feather boa. The wildness of a monkey condemned to live +amongst goats, hanging on to their horns, and clutching at their scuts, +and playing all the tricks that contrariness might suggest to a contrary +nature.</p> + +<p>Something of this sort was passing through Jones’ mind, and as he +attacked his strawberry ice, for the first time since reading that +momentous piece of news in the evening newspaper his mental powers +became focussed on the question that lay at the very heart of all this +business. It struck him now so very forcibly that he laid down his spoon +and stared before him, forgetful of the place where he was and the +people around him.</p> + +<p>“Why did that guy commit suicide?”</p> + +<p>That was the question.</p> + +<p>He could find no answer to it.</p> + +<p>A man does not as a rule commit suicide simply because he is eccentric +or because he has made a mess of his estates, or because being a +practical joker he suddenly finds his twin image to defraud. Rochester +had evidently done nothing to bar him from society. Though perhaps +coldly received by his club,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_58" id="pg_58">58</a></span> he was still received by it. Had he done +something that society did not know of, something that might suddenly +obtrude itself?</p> + +<p>Jones was brought back from his reverie with a snap. One of the +confounded waiters was making off with his half eaten ice.</p> + +<p>“Hi,” cried he. “What you doing? Bring that back.”</p> + +<p>His voice rang through the room, people turned to look. He mentally +cursed the ice and the creature who had snapped it from him, finished +it, devoured a wafer, and then, rising to his feet, left the room. It +was easier to leave than to come in, other men were leaving, and in the +general break up he felt less observed.</p> + +<p>Downstairs he looked through glass doors into a room where men were +smoking, correct men in huge arm chairs, men with legs stretched out, +men smoking big cigars and talking politics no doubt. He wanted to +smoke, but he did not want to smoke in that place.</p> + +<p>He went to the cloak room, fetched his hat and cane and gloves and left +the club.</p> + +<p>Outside in Pall Mall he remembered that he had not told the waiter to +credit him with the luncheon, but a trifle like that did not bother him +now. They would be sure to put it down.</p> + +<p>What did trouble him was the still unanswered question, “Why did that +guy commit suicide?”</p> + +<p>Suppose Rochester had murdered some man and had committed suicide to +escape the consequences?<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_59" id="pg_59">59</a></span> This thought gave him a cold grue such as he +had never experienced before. For a moment he saw himself hauled before +a British Court of Justice; for a moment, and for the first time in his +life, he found himself wondering what a hangman might be like.</p> + +<p>But Victor Jones, though a visionary sometimes in business, was at base +a business man. More used to his position now, and looking it fairly in +the face, he found that he had little to fear even if Rochester had +committed a murder. He could, if absolutely driven to it, prove his +identity. Driven to it, he could prove his life in Philadelphia, bring +witnesses and relate circumstances. His tale would all hang together, +simply because it was the truth. This inborn assurance heartened him a +lot, and, more cheerful now, he began to recognise more of the truth. +His position was very solid. Every one had accepted him. Unless he came +an awful bump over some crime committed by the late defunct, he could go +on forever as the Earl of Rochester. He did not want to go on forever as +the Earl of Rochester; he wanted to get back to the States and just be +himself, and he intended so to do having scraped a little money +together. But the idea tickled him just as it had done in Charing Cross +Station, and it had lost its monstrous appearance and had become +humorous, a highly dangerous appearance for a dangerous idea to take.</p> + +<p>Jones was a great walker, exercise always cleared his mind and +strengthened his judgment. He set off on a long walk now, passing the +National Gallery to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_60" id="pg_60">60</a></span> Regent Circus, then up Regent Street and Oxford +Street, and along Oxford Street towards the West. He found himself in +High Street Kensington, in Hammersmith, and then in those dismal regions +where the country struggles with the town.</p> + +<p>Oh, those suburbs of London! Within easy reach of the city! Those +battalions of brick houses, bits of corpses, of what once were fields; +those villas, laundries——</p> + +<p>The contrast between this place and Pall Mall came as a sudden +revelation to Jones, the contrast between the power, ease, affluence and +splendour of the surroundings of the Earl of Rochester, and the +surroundings of the bank clerks and small people who dwelt here.</p> + +<p>The view point is everything. From here Carlton House Terrace seemed +almost pleasing.</p> + +<p>Jones, like a good Democrat, had all his life professed a contempt for +rank. Titles had seemed as absurd to him as feathers in a monkey’s cap. +It was here in ultra Hammersmith that he began to review this question +from a more British standpoint.</p> + +<p>Tell it not in Gath, he was beginning to feel the vaguest antipathetic +stirring against little houses and ultra people.</p> + +<p>He turned and began to retrace his steps. It was seven o’clock when he +reached the door of 10A, Carlton House Terrace.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_61" id="pg_61">61</a></span> +<a name="MR_VOLES_1517" id="MR_VOLES_1517"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<h3>MR. VOLES</h3> +</div> + +<p>The flunkey who admitted him, having taken his hat, stick and gloves, +presented him with a letter that had arrived by the midday post, also +with a piece of information.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Voles called to see you, my Lord, shortly after twelve. He stated +that he had an appointment with you. He is to call again at quarter past +seven.”</p> + +<p>Jones took the letter and went with it to the room where he had sat that +morning. Upon the table lay all the letters that he had not opened that +morning. He had forgotten these. Here was a mistake. If he wished to +hold to his position for even a few days, it would be necessary to guard +against mistakes like this.</p> + +<p>He hurriedly opened them, merely glancing at the contents, which for the +most part were unintelligible to him.</p> + +<p>There was a dinner invitation from Lady Snorries—whoever she might +be—and a letter beginning “Dear old Boy” from a female who signed +herself “Julie,” an appeal from a begging letter writer, and a letter +beginning “Dear Rochester” from a gentleman who signed himself simply +“Childersley.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_62" id="pg_62">62</a></span></p> + +<p>The last letter he opened was the one he had just received from the +servant.</p> + +<p>It was written on poor paper, and it ran:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p style="font-style:italic">“Stick to it—if you can. You’ll see why I couldn’t. There’s a +fiver under the papers of the top right hand drawer of bureau in +smoke room.</p> +<p style="margin-right: 2em; text-align: right">”<span class="smcap">Rochester.</span>“</p> +</div> + +<p>Jones knew that this letter, though addressed to the Earl of Rochester, +was meant for him, and was written by Rochester, written probably on +some bar counter, and posted at the nearest pillar box just before he +had committed the act.</p> + +<p>He went to the drawer in the bureau indicated, raised the papers in it +and found a five pound note.</p> + +<p>Having glanced at it he closed the drawer, placed the note in his +waistcoat pocket and sat down again at the table.</p> + +<p>“Stick to it—if you can.” The words rang in his ears just as though he +had heard them spoken.</p> + +<p>Those words, backed by the five pound note, wrought a great change in +the mind of Jones. He had Rochester’s permission to act as he was +acting, and a little money to help him in his actions.</p> + +<p>The fact of his penury had been like a wet blanket upon him all day. He +felt that power had come to him with permission. He could think clearly +now. He rose and paced the floor.</p> + +<p>“Stick to it—if you can.”</p> + +<p>Why not—why not—why not? He found himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_63" id="pg_63">63</a></span> laughing out loud, a great +gush of energy had come to him. Jones was a man of that sort, a new and +great idea always came to him on the crest of a wave of energy; the +British Government Contract idea had come to him like that, and the wave +had carried him to England.</p> + +<p>Why not be the Earl of Rochester, make good his position finally, stand +on the pinnacle where Fate had placed him, and carry this thing through +to its ultimate issue?</p> + +<p>It would not be all jam. Rochester must have been very much pressed by +circumstances; that did not frighten Jones, to him the game was +everything, and the battle.</p> + +<p>He would make good where Rochester had failed, meet the difficulties +that had destroyed the other, face them, overcome them.</p> + +<p>His position was unassailable.</p> + +<p>Coming over from New York he had read Nelson’s shilling edition of the +Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of +British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a +butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as +Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education.</p> + +<p>He contrasted his own position with Orton’s.</p> + +<p>He was absolutely unassailable.</p> + +<p>He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it.</p> + +<p>There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, +confronting his newly<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_64" id="pg_64">64</a></span> formed plans. He would have to sign cheques, +write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as +for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester’s, and would have +to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his +thumb—that excuse would last for some time. “There’s one big thing +about the whole business,” said he to himself, “and that is the chap’s +eccentricity. Why, if I’m shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my +memory or my wits—there’s not a blessed card I haven’t either in my +hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my +identity and tell my story.” He was engaged with thoughts like these +when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, +announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the +day, had arrived.</p> + +<p>“Bring him in,” said Victor. The servant retired and returned +immediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him. +The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frock +coat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat with +silk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, the +hair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of the +gazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner.</p> + +<p>The card announced:</p> + +<p style="margin:0 auto 0 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mr. A. S. Voles</span></p> +<p style="margin:0 auto 0 2.5em;">12B. Jermyn Street</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_65" id="pg_65">65</a></span>Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things.</p> + +<p>Victor Jones had a sharp instinct for men, well whetted by experience.</p> + +<p>He nodded to the newcomer, curtly, and without rising from his chair; +the servant shut the door and the two men were alone.</p> + +<p>Just as a dog’s whole nature livens at the smell of a pole cat, so did +Jones’ nature at the sight of Voles. He felt this man to be an enemy.</p> + +<p>Voles came to the table and placed his hat upon it. Then he turned, went +to the door and opened it to see if the servant was listening.</p> + +<p>He shut the door.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said he, “have you got the money for me?”</p> + +<p>Another man in Jones’ position might have asked, and with reason. “What +money?”</p> + +<p>Jones simply said “No.”</p> + +<p>This simple answer had a wonderful effect. Voles, about to take a seat, +remained standing, clasping the back of the chair he had chosen. Then he +burst out.</p> + +<p>“You fooled me yesterday, and gave me an appointment for to-day. I +called, you were out.”</p> + +<p>“Was I?”</p> + +<p>“Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me—well, here I +am now, I’ve got a cab outside ready to take it.”</p> + +<p>“And suppose I don’t give it to you?” asked Jones.</p> + +<p>“We won’t suppose any nonsense like that!” replied Voles taking his +seat, “not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute’s +notice.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_66" id="pg_66">66</a></span></p> + +<p>“That’s true,” said the other, “we don’t want the police.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t,” replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl of +Rochester’s voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more spring +in it and vitality—altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of the +truth. Passed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from any +man or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear of +Voles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller’s scales.</p> + +<p>“True,” said Jones. “I don’t—well, let’s talk about this money. +Couldn’t you take half to-night, and half in a week’s time?”</p> + +<p>“Not me,” replied the other. “I must have the two thousand to-night, +same as usual.”</p> + +<p>Jones had the whole case in his hands now, and he began preparing the +toast on which to put this most evident blackmailer when cooked.</p> + +<p>His quick mind had settled everything. Here was the first obstacle in +his path, it would have to be destroyed, not surmounted. He determined +to destroy it. If the worst came to the worst, if whatever crime +Rochester had committed were to be pressed home on him by Voles, he +would declare everything, prove his identity by sending for witnesses +from the States, and show Rochester’s letter. The blackmailing would +account for Rochester’s suicide.</p> + +<p>But Jones knew blackmailers, and he knew that Voles would never +prosecute. Rochester must indeed have been a weak fool not to have +grasped this nettle<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_67" id="pg_67">67</a></span> and torn it up by the roots. He forgot that +Rochester was probably guilty—that makes all the difference in the +world.</p> + +<p>“You shall have the money,” said he, “but see here, let’s make an end of +this. Now let’s see. How much have you had already?”</p> + +<p>“Only eight,” said Voles. “You know that well enough, why ask?”</p> + +<p>“Eight thousand,” murmured the other, “you have had eight thousand +pounds out of me, and the two to-night will make ten. Seems a good price +for a few papers.” He made the shot on spec. It was a bull’s eye.</p> + +<p>“Oh, those papers are worth a good deal more than that,” said Voles, “a +good deal more than that.”</p> + +<p>So it was documents not actions that the blackmailer held in suspense +over the head of Rochester. It really did not matter a button to Jones, +he stood ready to face murder itself, armed as he was with Rochester’s +letter in his pocket, and the surety of being able to identity himself.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said he, “let’s finish this business. Have you a cheque book on +you?”</p> + +<p>“I have a cheque book right enough—what’s your game now?”</p> + +<p>“Just an idea of mine before I pay you—bring out your cheque book, +you’ll see what I mean in a minute.”</p> + +<p>Voles hesitated, then, with a laugh, he took the cheque book from the +breast pocket of his overcoat.</p> + +<p>“Now tear out a cheque.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_68" id="pg_68">68</a></span></p> + +<p>“Tear out a cheque,” cried the other. “What on earth are you getting +at—one of my cheques—this is good.”</p> + +<p>“Tear out a cheque,” insisted the other, “it will only cost you a penny, +and you will see my meaning in a moment.”</p> + +<p>The animal, before the insistent direction of the other, hesitated, then +with a laugh he tore out a cheque.</p> + +<p>“Now place it on the table.”</p> + +<p>Voles placed it on the table.</p> + +<p>Jones going to the bureau fetched a pen and ink. He pushed a chair to +the table, and made the other sit down.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said Jones, “write me out a cheque for eight thousand pounds.”</p> + +<p>Voles threw the pen down with a laugh—it was his last in that room.</p> + +<p>“You won’t?” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Oh, quit this fooling,” replied the other. “I’ve no time for such +stuff—what are you doing now?”</p> + +<p>“Ringing the bell,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to find +himself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twig +crack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses like +that over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat.</p> + +<p>The door opened and a servant appeared, it was the miracle with calves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_69" id="pg_69">69</a></span></p> + +<p>“Send out at once, and bring in an officer—a policeman,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>The door shut.</p> + +<p>Voles jumped up, and seized his hat. Jones walked to the door and locked +it, placing the key in his pocket.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got you,” said he, “and I’m going to squeeze you, and I’m going to +make you squeal.”</p> + +<p>“You’re going to—you’re going to—you’re going to—” said Voles. He was +the colour of old ivory.</p> + +<p>“I’m going to make you go through this—”</p> + +<p>“Here, d—n this nonsense—stop it—you fool, I’ll smash you,” said +Voles. “Here, open that door and stop this business.”</p> + +<p>“I told you I was going to make you squeal,” said Jones, “but that’s +nothing to what’s coming.”</p> + +<p>Voles came to the table and put down his hat. Then, facing Jones, he +rapped with the knuckles of his right hand on the table.</p> + +<p>“You’ve done it now,” said he, “you’ve laid yourself open to a nice +charge, false imprisonment, that’s what you’ve done. A nice thing in the +papers to-morrow morning, and intimidation on top of that. Over and above +those there’s the papers. <i>I’ll</i> have no mercy—those papers go to Lord +Plinlimon to-morrow morning, you’ll be in the divorce court this day +month, and so will she. Reputation! she won’t have a rag to cover +herself with.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, won’t she?” said Jones. “This is most interesting.” He felt a great +uplift of the heart. So<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_70" id="pg_70">70</a></span> this blackmail business had to do with a woman. +The idea that Rochester was some horrible form of criminal had weighed +upon him. It had seemed to him that no man would pay such a huge sum as +eight thousand pounds in the way of blackmail unless his crime were in +proportion. Rochester had evidently paid it to shield not only his own +name, but the name of a woman.</p> + +<p>“Most interesting,” said Voles. “I’m glad you think so—” Then in a +burst, “Come, open that door and stop this nonsense—take that key out +of your pocket and open the door. You always were a fool, but this is +beyond folly—the pair of you are in the hollow of my hand, you know +it—I can crush you like that—like that—like that!”</p> + +<p>He opened and shut his right hand. A cruel hand it was, hairy as to the +back, huge as to the thumb.</p> + +<p>Jones looked at him.</p> + +<p>“You are wasting a lot of muscular energy,” said he. “My determination +is made, and it holds. You are going to prison, Mr. Filthy Beast, Voles. +I’m up against you, that’s the plain truth. I’m going to cut you open, +and show your inside to the British Public. They’ll be so lost in +admiration at the sight, they won’t bother about the woman or me. +They’ll call us public benefactors, I reckon. You know men, and you know +when a man is determined. Look at me, look at me in the face, you +sumph—”</p> + +<p>A knock came to the door.</p> + +<p>Jones took the key from his pocket and opened the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_71" id="pg_71">71</a></span></p> + +<p>“The constable is here, my Lord,” said the servant.</p> + +<p>“Tell him to come in,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>Voles had taken up his hat again, and he stood now by the table, hat in +hand, looking exactly what he was, a criminal on his defence.</p> + +<p>The constable was a fresh-looking and upstanding young man; he had +removed his helmet and was carrying it by the chin strap. He had no +bludgeon, no revolver, yet he impressed Jones almost as much as he +impressed the other.</p> + +<p>“Officer,” said Jones. “I have called you in for the purpose of giving +this man in charge for attempting—”</p> + +<p>“Stop,” cried Voles.</p> + +<p>Then something Oriental in his nature took charge of him. He rushed +forward with arms out, as though to embrace the policeman.</p> + +<p>“It is all a mistake,” cried he, “constable, one moment, go outside one +moment, leave me with his lordship. I will explain. There is nothing +wrong, it is all a big mistake.”</p> + +<p>The constable held him off, glancing for orders at Jones.</p> + +<p>Jones felt no vindictiveness towards Voles now; disgust, such as he +might have felt towards a vulture or a cormorant, but no vindictiveness.</p> + +<p>He wanted that eight thousand pounds.</p> + +<p>He had determined to make good in his new position, to fight the world +that Rochester had failed to fight, and overcome the difficulties sure +to be ahead of him. Voles was the first great difficulty, and lo,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_72" id="pg_72">72</a></span> it +seemed, that he was about not only to destroy it, but turn it to a +profit. He did not want the eight thousand for himself, he wanted it for +the game; and the fascination of that great game he was only just +beginning to understand.</p> + +<p>“Go outside, officer,” said he to the constable.</p> + +<p>He shut the door. “Sit down and write,” said he. Voles said not a word.</p> + +<p>He went to the table, sat down and picked up the pen. The cheque was +still lying there. He drew it towards him. Then he flung the pen down. +Then he picked it up, but he did not write. He waved it between finger +and thumb, as though he were beating time to a miniature orchestra +staged on the table before him. Then he began to write.</p> + +<p>He was making out a cheque to the Earl of Rochester for the sum of eight +thousand pounds, no shillings, no pence.</p> + +<p>He signed it A. S. Voles.</p> + +<p>He was about to cross it, but Jones stopped him. “Leave it open,” said +he, “and now one thing more, I must have those papers to-morrow morning +without fail. And to make certain of them you must do this.”</p> + +<p>He went to the bureau and took a sheet of note paper, which he laid +before the other.</p> + +<p>“Write,” said he. “I will dictate. Begin June 2nd.”</p> + +<p>Voles put the date.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“‘<i>My Lord</i>,’” went on the dictator. “‘<i>This is to promise you that +to-morrow morning I will hand to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_73" id="pg_73">73</a></span> the messenger you send to me all the +papers of yours in my possession. I confess to having held those papers +over you for the purpose of blackmail, and of having obtained from you +the sum of eight thousand pounds, and I promise to amend my ways, and to +endeavour to lead an honest life.</i></p> + +<p style="margin-left:40%;"><i>Signed.</i> <span class="smcap">A. S. Voles</span>.’“<br /> +<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">The Earl of Rochester</span>.</p> +</div> + +<p>That was the letter.</p> + +<p>Three times the rogue at the table refused to go on writing, and three +times his master went to the door, the rattle of the door handle always +inspiring the scribe to renewed energy.</p> + +<p>When the thing was finished Jones read it over, blotted it, and put it +in his pocket with the cheque.</p> + +<p>“Now you can go,” said he. “I will send a man to-morrow morning at eight +o’clock to your home for the papers. I will not use this letter against +you, unless you give trouble—Well, what do you want?”</p> + +<p>“Brandy,” gasped Voles. “For God’s sake some brandy.”</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_74" id="pg_74">74</a></span> +<a name="MORE_INTRUDERS_1939" id="MORE_INTRUDERS_1939"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<h3>MORE INTRUDERS</h3> +</div> + +<p>The little glass that had held the <i>fin champagne</i> stood on the table, +the door was shut, Voles was gone, and the incident was ended.</p> + +<p>Jones, for the first time in his life, felt the faintness that comes +after supreme exertion. He could never have imagined that a thing like +that would have so upset him. He was unconscious during the whole of the +business that he was putting out more energy than ordinary, he knew it +now as he contemplated the magnitude of his victory, sitting exhausted +in the big saddle-bag chair on the left of the fire place and facing the +door.</p> + +<p>He had crushed the greatest rogue in London, taken from him eight +thousand pounds of ill gotten money, and freed himself of an incubus +that would have made his position untenable.</p> + +<p>Rochester could have done just the same, had he possessed daring, and +energy, and courage enough. He hadn’t, and there was an end of it.</p> + +<p>At this moment a knock came to the door, and a flunkey—a new +one—appeared.</p> + +<p>“Dinner is served, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>Jones sat up in his chair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_75" id="pg_75">75</a></span></p> + +<p>“Dinner,” said he. “I’m not ready for it yet. Fetch me a whisky and +soda—look here, tell Mr. Church I want to see him.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>Jones, as stated before, possessed that very rare attitude—an eye for +men. It was quite unknown to him; up to this he had been condemned to +take men as he found them; the pressure of circumstances alone had made +him a business partner with Aaron Stringer. He had never trusted +Stringer. Now, being in a position of command, he began to use this +precious gift, and he selected Church for a first officer. He wanted a +henchman.</p> + +<p>The whisky and soda arrived, and, almost immediately on it, Church.</p> + +<p>Jones, placing the half empty glass on the table, nodded to him.</p> + +<p>“Come in,” said he, “and shut the door.”</p> + +<p>Church closed the door and stood at attention. This admirable man’s face +was constructed not with a view to the easy interpretation of emotions. +I doubt if an earthquake in Carlton House Terrace and the vicinity could +have altered the expression of it.</p> + +<p>He stood as if listening.</p> + +<p>Jones began: “I want you to go to-morrow at eight o’clock to No. 12B +Jermyn Street to get some documents for me. They will be handed to you +by A. S. Voles.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“You will bring them back to me here.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_76" id="pg_76">76</a></span></p> + +<p>“I have just seen the gentleman, and I’ve just dealt with him. He is a +very great rogue and I had to call an officer—a constable in. I settled +him.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Church opened his mouth as though he were going to speak. Then he +shut it again.</p> + +<p>“Go on,” said Jones. “What were you going to say?”</p> + +<p>“Well, your Lordship, I was going to say that I am very glad to hear +that. When you told me four months ago, in confidence, what Voles was +having out of you, you will remember what advice I gave your Lordship. +‘Don’t be squeezed,’ I said. ‘Squeeze him.’ Your Lordship’s solicitor, +Mr. Mortimer Collins, I believe, told you the same.”</p> + +<p>“I have taken your advice. I find it so good that I am going to ask your +advice often again—Do you see any difference in me, Mr. Church?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord, you have changed. If your Lordship will excuse me for +saying so.”</p> + +<p>“How?”</p> + +<p>“You have grown younger, my Lord, and more yourself, and you speak +different—sharper, so to say.”</p> + +<p>These words were Balm of Gilead to Jones. He had received no opinion of +himself from others till now; he had vaguely mistrusted his voice, +unable to estimate in how much it differed from Rochester’s. The +perfectly frank declaration of Church put his mind at rest. He spoke +sharper—that was all.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said he. “Things are going to be different all round; better +too.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_77" id="pg_77">77</a></span></p> + +<p>He turned away towards the bureau, and Church opened the door.</p> + +<p>“You don’t want me any longer, my Lord?”</p> + +<p>“Not just now.”</p> + +<p>He opened Kelly’s directory, and looked up the solicitors, till he came +to the name he wanted.</p> + +<p><i>Mortimer Collins, 10, Sergeant’s Inn, Fleet Street.</i></p> + +<p>“That’s my man,” said he to himself, “and to-morrow I will see him.” He +closed the book and left the room.</p> + +<p>He did not know the position of the dining room, nor did he want to. A +servant seeing him, and taking it for granted that at this late hour he +did not want to dress, opened a door.</p> + +<p>Next minute he was seated alone at a large table, stared at by defunct +Rochesters and their wives, and spreading his table napkin on his knees.</p> + +<p>The dinner was excellent, though simple enough. English society has +drifted a long way from the days when Lord Palmerston sat himself down +to devour two helpings of turtle soup, the same of cod and oyster sauce, +a huge plateful of York ham, a cut from the joint, a liberal supply of +roast pheasant, to say nothing of kickshaws and sweets; the days when +the inside of a nobleman after dinner was a provision store floating in +sherry, hock, champagne, old port, and punch.</p> + +<p>Nothing acts more quickly upon the nervous system than food; before the +roast chicken and salad were served, Jones found himself enjoying his +dinner, and, more than that, enjoying his position.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_78" id="pg_78">78</a></span></p> + +<p>The awful position of the morning had lost its terrors, the fog that had +surrounded him was breaking. Wrecked on this strange, luxuriant, yet +hostile coast, he had met the natives, fed with them, fought them, and +measured their strength and cunning.</p> + +<p>He was not afraid of them now. The members of the Senior Conservative +Club Camp had left him unimpressed, and the wild beast Voles had +bequeathed to him a lively contempt for the mental powers of the man he +had succeeded.</p> + +<p>Rightly or wrongly, all Lords caught a tinge of the lurid light that +shewed up Rochester’s want of vim and mental hitting power.</p> + +<p>But he did not feel a contempt for Lords as such. He was longing to +appreciate the fact that to be a Lord was to be a very great thing. Even +a Lord who had let his estates run to ruin—like himself.</p> + +<p>A single glass of iced champagne—he allowed himself only +one—established this conviction in his mind, also the recognition that +the flunkeys no longer oppressed him, they rather pleased him. They knew +their work and performed it perfectly, they hung on his every word and +movement.</p> + +<p>Yesterday, sitting where he was, he would have been feeling out of +place, and irritable and awkward. Even a few hours ago he would have +felt oppressed and wanting to escape somewhere by himself. What lent him +this new magic of assurance and sense of mastery of his position? +Undoubtedly it was his battle with Voles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_79" id="pg_79">79</a></span></p> + +<p>Coffee was served to him in the smoking room, and there, sitting alone +with a cigar, he began clearly and for the first time to envisage his +plans for the future.</p> + +<p>He could drop everything and run. Book a passage for the United States, +enter New York as Lord Rochester, just as a diver enters the sea, and +emerge as Jones. He could keep the eight thousand pounds with a clear +conscience—or couldn’t he?</p> + +<p>This point seemed a bit obscure.</p> + +<p>He did not worry about it much. The main question had not to do with +money. The main question was simply this, shall I be Victor Jones for +the future, or shall I be the Earl of Rochester? The twenty-first Earl +of Rochester?</p> + +<p>Shall I clear out, or stick to my guns? Remain boss of this show and try +and make something of the wreckage, or sneak off with nothing to show +for the most amazing experience man ever underwent?</p> + +<p>Rochester had sneaked off. He was a quitter. Jones had once read a story +in the Popular Magazine, in which a Railway Manager had cast scorn on a +ne’er-do-well. “God does surely hate a quitter,” said the manager.</p> + +<p>These words always remained with him. They had crystallised his +sentiments in this respect: the quitter ranked in his mind almost with +the sharper.</p> + +<p>All the same the temptation to quit was strong, even though the +temptation to stay was growing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_80" id="pg_80">80</a></span></p> + +<p>A loophole remained open to him. It was not necessary to decide at once; +he could throw down his cards at any moment and rise from the table if +the game was getting too much for him, or if he grew tired of it.</p> + +<p>He saw difficult times ahead for him in the mess in which Rochester had +left his affairs—that was, perhaps, his strongest incentive to remain.</p> + +<p>He was roused from his reverie by voices in the hall. Loud cheery +voices.</p> + +<p>A knock came to the door and a servant announced: “Sir Hugh Spicer and +Captain Stark to see you, my Lord.” Jones sat up in his chair. “Show +them in,” said he.</p> + +<p>The servant went out and returned ushering in a short bibulous looking +young man in evening dress covered with a long fawn coloured overcoat; +this gentleman was followed by a half bald, evil looking man of fifty or +so, also in evening attire.</p> + +<p>This latter wore a monocle in what Jones afterwards mentally called, +“his twisted face.”</p> + +<p>“Look at him!” cried the young man, “sitting in his blessed arm chair +and not dressed. Look at him!”</p> + +<p>He lurched slightly as he spoke, and brought up at the table where he +hit the inkstand with the cane he was carrying, sending inkpot and pens +flying. Jones looked at him.</p> + +<p>This was Hughie. Pillar of the Criterion bar, President of the Rag Tag +Club, baronet and detrimental—and all at twenty three.</p> + +<p>“Leave it alone, Hughie,” said Stark, going to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_81" id="pg_81">81</a></span> silver cigar box and +helping himself. “Less of that blessed cane, Hughie—why, Jollops, what +ails you?”</p> + +<p>He stared at Jones as he lit a cigar. Jones looked at him.</p> + +<p>This was Spencer Stark, late Captain in His Majesty’s Black Hussars, +gambler, penniless, always well dressed, and always well fed—Terrible. +Just as beetles are beetles, whether dressed in tropical splendour or +the funereal black of the English type, so are detrimentals +detrimentals. Jones knew his men.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said he, “did you mean that name for me?”</p> + +<p>He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought he +was speaking in jest and ringing for drinks; they laughed, and Hughie +began to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to what +he was yelling.</p> + +<p>This beast, who was never happy unless smashing glasses, making a noise +or tormenting his neighbours, who had never been really sober for the +space of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate, and broken +his mother’s heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his wanghee cane on +the table.</p> + +<p>The noise was terrific.</p> + +<p>The door opened and calves appeared.</p> + +<p>“Throw that ruffian out,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Out with him,” cried Hughie, throwing away his cane at this joke. “Come +on, Stark, let’s shove old Jollops out of doors.”</p> + +<p>He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_82" id="pg_82">82</a></span> up by the other, +closed in, receiving a blow on the midriff that seated him in the +fender.</p> + +<p>The next moment Hughie found himself caught by a firm hand, that had +somehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and his +neck, gripping the collar.</p> + +<p>Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall to +the front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened and +he was flung into the street.</p> + +<p>The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats were +flung out and the door shut finally.</p> + +<p>“If either of those guys comes here again,” said Jones to the acolyte, +“call an officer—I mean a constable.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder how many more people I will have to fling out of this house,” +said he to himself, as he returned to the smoking room. “My God, what a +mess that chap Rochester must have made all round. Bar bummers like +those! Heu!”</p> + +<p>He ordered the ink to be cleared up, and then he sent for Mr. Church. He +was excited.</p> + +<p>“Church,” said he. “I’ve shot out two more of that carrion. You know all +the men I have been fool enough to know. If they come here again tell +the servants not to let them in.”</p> + +<p>But he had another object in sending for Church. “Where’s my cheque +book?” he asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_83" id="pg_83">83</a></span></p> + +<p>Church went to the bureau and opened a lower drawer.</p> + +<p>“I think you placed it here, my Lord.” He produced it.</p> + +<p>When he was gone Jones opened the book; it was one of Coutt’s.</p> + +<p>He knew his banker now as well as his solicitor. Then he sat down, and +taking Rochester’s note from his pocket began to study the handwriting +and signature.</p> + +<p>He made a hundred imitations of the signature, and found for the first +time in his life that he was not bad at that sort of work.</p> + +<p>Then he burnt the sheets of paper he had been using, put the cheque book +away and looked at the clock; it pointed to eleven.</p> + +<p>He switched out the lights and left the room, taking his way upstairs.</p> + +<p>He felt sure of being able to find the bed-room he had left that morning, +and coming along the softly lit corridor he had no difficulty in +locating it. He had half dreaded that the agile valet in the sleeved +jacket might be there waiting to tuck him up, but to his relief the room +was vacant.</p> + +<p>He shut the door, and going to the nearest window pulled the blind up +for a moment.</p> + +<p>The moon was rising over London, and casting her light upon the Green +Park. A huge summer moon. The sort of moon that conjures up ideas about +guitars and balconies.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_84" id="pg_84">84</a></span></p> + +<p>Jones undressed, and putting on the silk pyjamas that were laid out for +him, got into bed, leaving only the light burning by the bedside.</p> + +<p>He tried to recall the details of that wonderful day, failed utterly, +switched out the light, and went to sleep.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_85" id="pg_85">85</a></span> +<a name="LADY_PLINLIMON_2277" id="LADY_PLINLIMON_2277"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<h3>LADY PLINLIMON</h3> +</div> + +<p>The most curious thing in the whole of Jones’ extraordinary experiences +was the way in which things affecting Rochester affected him. The +coldness of the club members was an instance in point. He knew that +their coldness had nothing to do with him, yet he resented it +practically just as much as though it had.</p> + +<p>Then again, the case of Voles. What had made him fight Voles with such +vigour? It did not matter to him in the least whether Voles gave +Rochester away or not, yet he had fought Voles with all the feeling of +the man who is attacked, not of the man who is defending another man +from attack.</p> + +<p>The attitude of Spicer and the other scamp had roused his ire on account +of its want of respect for him, the supposed Earl of Rochester. +Rochester’s folly had inspired that want of respect, why should he, +Jones, bother about it? He did. It hit him just as much as though it +were levelled against himself. He had found, as yet to a limited degree, +but still he had found that anything that would hurt Rochester would +hurt him, that his sensibility was just as acute<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_86" id="pg_86">86</a></span> under his new guise, +and, wonder of wonders, his dignity as a Lord just as sensitive as his +dignity as a man.</p> + +<p>If you had told Jones in Philadelphia that a day would come when he +would be angry if a servant did not address him as “my Lord,” he would +have thought you mad. Yet that day had come, or was coming, and that +change in him was not in the least the result of snobbishness, it was +the result of the knowledge of what was due to Rochester, Arthur +Coningsby Delamere, 21st Earl of, from whom he could not disentangle +himself whilst acting his part.</p> + +<p>He was awakened by Mr. Church pulling up his window blinds.</p> + +<p>He had been dreaming of the boarding-house in Philadelphia where he used +to live, of Miss Wybrow, the proprietress, and the other guests, Miss +Sparrow, Mr. Moese—born Moses—Mr. Hoffman, the part proprietor of +Sharpes’ Drug Store, Mrs. Bertine, and the rest.</p> + +<p>He watched whilst Mr. Church passed to the door, received the morning +tea tray from the servant outside, and, placing it by the bed, withdrew. +This was the only menial service which Mr. Church ever seemed to +perform, with the exception of the stately carrying in of papers and +letters at breakfast time.</p> + +<p>Jones drank his tea. Then he got up, went to the window, looked out at +the sunlit Green Park, and then rang his bell. He was not depressed nor +nervous this morning. He felt extraordinarily fit. The powerful good +spirits natural to him, a heritage better than a<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_87" id="pg_87">87</a></span> fortune, were his +again. Life seemed wonderfully well worth living, and the game before +him the only game worth playing.</p> + +<p>Then the Mechanism came into the room and began to act. James was the +name of this individual. Dumb and serious and active as an insect, this +man always filled Jones’ mind with wonderment; he seemed less a man than +a machine. But at least he was a perfect machine.</p> + +<p>Fully dressed now, he was preparing to go down when a knock came to the +door and Mr. Church came in with a big envelope on a salver.</p> + +<p>“This is what you requested me to fetch from Jermyn Street, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you’ve been to Jermyn Street?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord, directly I had served your tea at quarter to eight, I +took a taxi.”</p> + +<p>“Good!” said Jones.</p> + +<p>He took the envelope, and, Church and the Mechanism having withdrawn, he +sat down by the window to have a look at the contents.</p> + +<p>The envelope contained letters.</p> + +<p>Letters from a man to a woman. Letters from the Earl of Rochester to +Sapphira Plinlimon. The most odiously and awfully stupid collection of +love letters ever written by a fool to be read by a wigged counsel in a +divorce court.</p> + +<p>They covered three months, and had been written two years ago.</p> + +<p>They were passionate, idealistic in parts, drivelling. He called her his +“Ickle teeny weeny treasure.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_88" id="pg_88">88</a></span> Baby language—Jones almost blushed as he +read.</p> + +<p>“He sure was moulting,” said he, as he dropped letter after letter on +the floor. “And he paid eight thousand to hold these things back—well, +I don’t know, maybe I’d have done the same myself. I can’t fancy seeing +myself in the <i>Philadelphia Ledger</i> with this stuff tacked on to the end +of my name.”</p> + +<p>He collected the incriminating documents, placed them in the envelope, +and came downstairs with it in his hand.</p> + +<p>Breakfast was an almost exact replica of the meal of yesterday; the pile +of letters brought in by Church was rather smaller, however.</p> + +<p>These letters were a new difficulty, they would all have to be answered, +the ones of yesterday, and the ones of to-day.</p> + +<p>He would have to secure the services of a typist and a typewriter: that +could be arranged later on. He placed them aside and opened a newspaper. +He was accustomed enough now to his situation to be able to take an +interest in the news of the day. At any moment his environment might +split to admit of a new Voles or Spicer, or perhaps some more dangerous +spectre engendered from the dubious past of Rochester; but he scarcely +thought of this, he had gone beyond fear, he was up to the neck in the +business.</p> + +<p>He glanced at the news of the day, reading as he ate. Then he pushed the +paper aside. The thought had just occurred to him that Rochester had +paid that eight thousand not to shield a woman’s name but to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_89" id="pg_89">89</a></span> shield his +own. To prevent that gibberish being read out against him in court.</p> + +<p>This thought dimmed what had seemed a brighter side of Rochester, that +obscure thing which Jones was condemned to unveil little by little and +bit by bit. He pushed his plate away, and at this moment Mr. Church +entered the breakfast room.</p> + +<p>He came to the table and, speaking in half lowered voice said:</p> + +<p>“Lady Plinlimon to see you, your Lordship.”</p> + +<p>“Lady Plinlimon?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, your Lordship. I have shown her into the smoking room.”</p> + +<p>Jones had finished breakfast. He rose from the table, gathered the +letters together, and with them in his hand followed Church from the +breakfast room to the smoking room. A big woman in a big hat was seated +in the arm chair facing the door.</p> + +<p>She was forty if an hour. She had a large unpleasant face. A dominating +face, fat featured, selfish, and made up by art.</p> + +<p>“Oh, here you are,” said she as he entered and closed the door. “You see +I’m out early.”</p> + +<p>Jones nodded, went to the cigarette box, took a cigarette and lit it.</p> + +<p>The woman got up and did likewise. She blew the cigarette smoke through +her nostrils, and Jones, as he watched, knew that he detested her. Then +she sat down again. She seemed nervous.</p> + +<p>“Is it true what I hear, that your sister has left you and gone to live +with your mother?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_90" id="pg_90">90</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Jones, remembering the bird woman of yesterday morning.</p> + +<p>“Well, you’ll have some peace now, unless you let her back—but I +haven’t come to talk of her. It’s just this, I’m in a tight place.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“A very tight place. I’ve got to have some money—I’ve got to have it +to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I ought to have had it yesterday, but a deal I had on fell +through. You’ve got to help me, Arthur.”</p> + +<p>“How much do you want?”</p> + +<p>“Fifteen hundred. I’ll pay it back soon.”</p> + +<p>“Fifteen hundred pounds?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course.”</p> + +<p>A great white light, cold and clear as the dawn of Truth, began to steal +across the mind of Jones. Why had this woman come to him this morning so +quickly after the defeat of Voles who held her letters? How had Voles +obtained those letters? This question had occurred to him before, and +this question seemed to his practical mind pregnant now with +possibilities.</p> + +<p>“What do you want the money for?” asked he.</p> + +<p>“Good heavens, what a question, what does a woman want money for? I want +it, that’s enough—What else will you ask?”</p> + +<p>“What was the deal you expected money from yesterday?”</p> + +<p>“A stock exchange business.”</p> + +<p>“What sort of business?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_91" id="pg_91">91</a></span></p> + +<p>She crimsoned with anger.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t come to talk of that. I came as a friend to ask you for help. +If you refuse, well, there that ends it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, it doesn’t,” said he. “I want to ask you a question.”</p> + +<p>“Well, ask it.”</p> + +<p>“It’s just a simple question.”</p> + +<p>“Go on.”</p> + +<p>“You expected to receive fifteen hundred pounds yesterday?”</p> + +<p>“I did.”</p> + +<p>“Did you expect to receive it from Mr. A. S. Voles?”</p> + +<p>He saw at once that she was guilty. She half rose from her chair, then +she sat down again.</p> + +<p>“What on earth do you mean?” she cried.</p> + +<p>“You know quite well what I mean,” replied he, “you would have had +fifteen hundred of Voles’ takings on those letters. You heard last night +I had refused to part. He was only your agent. There’s no use in denying +it. He told me all.”</p> + +<p>Her face had turned terrible, white as death, with the rouge showing on +the white.</p> + +<p>“It is all untrue,” she stuttered. “It is all untrue.” She rose +staggering. He did not want to pursue the painful business, the pursuit +of a woman was not in his line. He went to the door and opened it for +her.</p> + +<p>“It is all untrue. I’ll write to you about this—untrue.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_92" id="pg_92">92</a></span></p> + +<p>She uttered the words as she passed out. He reckoned she knew the way to +the hall door, and, shutting the door of the room, he turned to the fire +place.</p> + +<p>He was not elated. He was shocked. It seemed to him that he had never +touched and handled wickedness before, and this was a woman in the +highest ranks of life!</p> + +<p>She had trapped Rochester into making love to her, and used Voles to +extort eight thousand pounds from him on account of his letters.</p> + +<p>She had hypnotized Rochester like a fowl. She was that sort. Held the +divorce court over him as a threat—could Humanity descend lower? He +went to “Who’s Who” and turned up the P’s till he found the man he +wanted.</p> + +<p>Plinlimon: 3rd Baron, created 1831, Albert James, b. March 10th 1862. O. +S. of second Baron and Julia d. of J. H. Thompson, of Clifton, m. +Sapphira. d. of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. privately. Address The Roost, +Tite Street, Chelsea.</p> + +<p>Thus spake, “Who’s Who.”</p> + +<p>“I bet my bottom dollar that chap’s been in it as well as she,” said +Jones, referring to Plinlimon, Albert James. Then a flash of humour lit +the situation. Voles had returned eight thousand pounds; as an agent he +had received twenty five per cent., say, therefore, he stood to lose at +least six thousand. This pleased Jones more even than his victory. He +had a racial, radical, soul-rooted antipathy to Voles. Not an anger +against him, just an antipathy. “Now,” said he, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_93" id="pg_93">93</a></span> he placed “Who’s +Who” back on the bureau, “let’s get off and see Mortimer Collins.”</p> + +<p>He left the house, and, calling a taxi cab, ordered the driver to take +him to Sergeant’s Inn. He had no plan of campaign as regards Collins. He +simply wanted to explore and find out about himself. Knowledge to him in +his extraordinary position was armour, and he wanted all the armour he +could get, fighting, as he was, not only the living present, but also +another man’s past—and another man’s character, or want of character.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_94" id="pg_94">94</a></span> +<a name="THE_COAL_MINE_2552" id="THE_COAL_MINE_2552"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<h3>THE COAL MINE</h3> +</div> + +<p>Sergeant’s Inn lies off Fleet Street, a quiet court surrounded with +houses given over to the law. The law has always lived there ever since +that time when, as Stow quaintly put it, “There is in and about the city +a whole University as it were, of students, practicers, and pleaders, +and judges of the laws of this realm, not living of common stipends, as +in other universities it is for the most part done, but of their own +private maintenance, as being fed either by their places or practices, +or otherwise by their proper revenue, or exhibition of parents or +friends—of their houses, there be at this day fourteen in all; whereof +nine do stand within the liberties of this city, and five in the suburbs +thereof.”</p> + +<p>Sergeant’s Inn stood within the liberties, and there to-day it still +stands, dusty, sedate, once the abode of judges and sergeants, now the +home of solicitors. On the right of entrance lay the offices of Mortimer +Collins, an elderly man, quiet, subfusc in hue, tall, sparsely bearded, +a collector of old prints in his spare hours, and one of the most +respected members of his profession.</p> + +<p>His practice lay chiefly amongst the nobility and landed gentry, a fact +vaguely hinted at by the white<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_95" id="pg_95">95</a></span> or yellow lettering on the tin deed +boxes that lined the walls of his offices, setting forth such names and +statements as: “The Cave Estate,” “Sir Jardine Jardine,” “The Blundell +Estate,” and so forth and so on. He knew everyone, and everything about +everyone, and terrible things about some people, and he was to be met +with at the best houses. People liked him for himself, and he inspired +the trust that comes from liking.</p> + +<p>It was to this gentleman that Jones was shown in, and it was by this +gentleman that he was received coldly, it is true, but politely.</p> + +<p>Jones, with his usual directness, began the business.</p> + +<p>“I have come to have a serious talk with you,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Indeed,” said the lawyer, “has anything new turned up?”</p> + +<p>“No. I want to talk about my position generally. I see that I have made +a fool of myself.”</p> + +<p>The man of law raised his hands lightly with fingers spread, the gesture +was eloquent.</p> + +<p>“But,” went on the other, “I want to make good, I want to clear up the +mess.”</p> + +<p>The lawyer sighed. Then he took a small piece of chamois leather from +his waistcoat pocket and began to polish his glasses.</p> + +<p>“You remember what I told you the day before yesterday,” said he; “have +you determined to take my advice? Then you had nothing to offer me but +some wild talk about suicide.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_96" id="pg_96">96</a></span></p> + +<p>“What advice?”</p> + +<p>Collins made an impatient gesture.</p> + +<p>“Advice—why to emigrate and try your luck in the Colonies.”</p> + +<p>“H’m, h’m,” said Jones. “Yes, I remember, but since then I have been +thinking things out. I’m going to stay here and make good.”</p> + +<p>Again the lawyer made a gesture of impatience.</p> + +<p>“You know your financial position as well as I do,” said he. “How are +you to make good, as you express it, against that position? You can’t, +you are hopelessly involved, held at every point. A month ago I told you +to reduce your establishment and let Carlton House Terrace; you said you +would and you didn’t. That hurt me. I would much sooner you had refused +the suggestion. Well, the crash if it does not come to-day will come +to-morrow. You are overdrawn at Coutts’, you can raise money on nothing, +your urgent debts to tradesmen and so forth amount, as you told me the +day before yesterday, to over two thousand five hundred pounds. See for +yourself how you stand.”</p> + +<p>“I say again,” said Jones, “that I am going to make good. All these +affairs seem to have gone to pieces because—I have been a fool.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad you recognise that.”</p> + +<p>“But I’m a fool no longer. You know that business about Voles?”</p> + +<p>The man of affairs nodded.</p> + +<p>“Well, what do you think of that?” He took Voles’ cheque from his pocket +and laid it before the lawyer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_97" id="pg_97">97</a></span></p> + +<p>“Why, what is this?” said the other. “Eight thousand pounds.”</p> + +<p>“He called on me for more blackmail,” replied Jones, “and I squeezed +him, called in a—policeman, made him disgorge, and there’s his cheque. +Do you, think he has money enough to meet it?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, he is very wealthy, but you told me <i>distinctly</i> he had only +got a thousand out of you.”</p> + +<p>Jones swore mentally. To take up the life and past of a rogue is bad, to +take up the life and past of a weak-kneed and shifty man is almost +worse.</p> + +<p>“I told you wrong,” said he.</p> + +<p>Collins suppressed a movement of irritation and disgust. He was used to +dealing with Humanity.</p> + +<p>“What can a doctor do for a patient who holds back essential facts?” +asked he. “Nothing. How can I believe what you say?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” replied the other. “But I just ask you to. I ask you to +believe I’m changed. I’ve had a shock that has altered my whole nature. +I’m not the same man who talked to you the day before yesterday.”</p> + +<p>Collins looked at him curiously.</p> + +<p>“You have altered,” said he, “your voice is different, somehow, too. I +am not going to ask you <i>what</i> has brought about this change in your +views. I only trust it may be so—and permanent.”</p> + +<p>“Bedrock,” said Jones. “I’m going to begin right now. I’m going to let +that caravan—”</p> + +<p>“Caravan!”</p> + +<p>“The Carlton House place, your idea is good, will<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_98" id="pg_98">98</a></span> you help me through +with it? I don’t know how to start letting places.”</p> + +<p>“I will certainly assist you. In fact I believe I can get you a tenant +at once. The Bracebridges want just such a house, furnished. I will get +my clerk to write to them—if you really mean it.”</p> + +<p>“I mean it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, that’s something. I pressed the point about your really meaning +it, because you were so violently opposed to such a course when I spoke +of it before. In fact you were almost personal, as though I had proposed +something disgraceful—though it was true you came to agree with me at +last.”</p> + +<p>“I guess the only disgrace is owing money and not being able to pay,” +said the present Lord Rochester. “I’ve come to see that now.”</p> + +<p>“Thank God!” said Collins.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take rooms at a quiet hotel,” went on the other, “with this eight +thousand and the rent from that Gazabo, I ought to tide over the rocks.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see why not, I don’t really see why not,” replied Collins +cheerfully, “if you are steadfast in your purpose. Fortunately your +wife’s property is untouched, and how about her?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Jones, with a cold shiver.</p> + +<p>“The love of a good wife,” went on the other, “is a thing not to be +bought, and I may say I have very good reason to believe that, despite +all that has occurred, you still have your wife’s affection. Leaving +everything else aside I think your greatest mistake was having your +sister to live with you. It does not do,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_99" id="pg_99">99</a></span> and, considering Miss +Birdbrook’s peculiar temper, it especially did not do in your case. Now +that things are different would you care to see your wife, and have a +quiet talk over matters?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones, hurriedly. “I don’t want to see her—at least, not +yet.”</p> + +<p>“Well, please yourself,” replied the other. “Perhaps later on you will +come to see things differently.”</p> + +<p>The conversation then closed, the lawyer promising to let him know +should he secure an offer for the house.</p> + +<p>Jones, so disturbed by this talk about his wife that he was revolving in +his mind plans to cut the whole business, said good-bye and took his +departure. But he was not destined to leave the building just yet.</p> + +<p>He was descending the narrow old stairs when he saw some people coming +up, and drew back to let them pass.</p> + +<p>A stout lady led the way and was followed by an elderly gentleman and a +younger lady in a large hat.</p> + +<p>“Why it is Arthur,” cried the stout woman. “How fortunate. Arthur, we +have come to see Mr. Collins, such a terrible thing has happened.”</p> + +<p>The unfortunate Jones now perceived that the lady with the huge hat was +the bird woman, the elderly gentleman he had never seen before, but the +elderly gentleman had evidently often seen him, was most probably a near +relative, to judge by the frigidity and insolence of his nod and general +demeanour. This old person had the Army stamp about him, and a very +decided chin with a cleft in it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_100" id="pg_100">100</a></span></p> + +<p>“Better not talk out here,” said he, “come in, come in and see Collins.”</p> + +<p>Jones did not want in the least to go in and see Collins, but he was +burning to know what this dreadful thing was that had happened. He half +dreaded that it had to do with Rochester’s suicide. He followed the +party, and next moment found himself again in Collins’ room, where the +lawyer pointed out chairs to the ladies, closed the door, and came back +to his desk table where he seated himself.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Collins,” said the elderly lady, “such a dreadful thing has +happened—coal—they have found coal.” She collapsed.</p> + +<p>The old gentleman with the cleft chin took up the matter.</p> + +<p>“This idiot,” said he, indicating Jones, “has sold a coal mine, worth +maybe a million, for five thousand. The Glanafwyn property has turned up +coal. I only heard of it last night, and by accident. Struthers said to +me straight out in the club, ‘Do you know that bit of land in Glamorgan, +Rochester sold to Marcus Mulhausen?’ Yes, I said. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘it’s +not land, it’s the top of the biggest coal mine in Wales, steam coal, +and Mulhausen is going to work it himself. He was offered two hundred +and fifty thousand for the land last week, they have been boring there +for the last half year,’ that’s what he told me, and I verified it this +morning. Of course Mulhausen spotted the land for what it was worth, and +laid his trap for this fool.”</p> + +<p>Jones restrained his emotions with an effort, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_101" id="pg_101">101</a></span> knowing in the least +his relationship to the violent one. Mr. Collins made it clear.</p> + +<p>“Your nephew has evidently fallen into a trap, your Grace,” said he. +Then turning to Jones:</p> + +<p>“I warned you not to sell that land—Heaven knows I knew little enough +of the district and less of its mineral worth; still, I was adverse from +parting with land—always am—and especially to such a sharp customer as +Mulhausen. I told you to have an expert opinion. I had not minerals in +my mind. I thought, possibly, it might be some railway extension in +prospect—and it was your last bit of property without mortgage on it. +Yes, I told you not to do it, and it’s done.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Arthur,” sighed the elderly woman. “Your last bit of land—and to +think it should go like that. I never dreamed I should have to say those +words to my son.” Then stiffening and turning to Collins. “But I did not +come to complain, I came to see if justice cannot be done. This is +robbery. That terrible man with the German name has robbed Arthur. It is +quite plain. What can be done?”</p> + +<p>“Absolutely nothing,” replied Collins.</p> + +<p>“Nothing?”</p> + +<p>“Your ladyship must believe me when I say nothing can be done. What +ground can we have for moving? The sale was perfectly open and above +board. Mulhausen made no false statement—I am right in saying that, am +I not?” turning to Jones.</p> + +<p>Jones had to nod.</p> + +<p>“And that being the case we are helpless.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_102" id="pg_102">102</a></span></p> + +<p>“But if it can be proved that he knew there was coal in the land, and if +he bought it concealing that knowledge, surely, surely the law can make +him give it back,” said the simple old lady, who it would seem stood in +the place of Rochester’s unfortunate mother.</p> + +<p>Mr. Collins almost smiled.</p> + +<p>“Your ladyship, that would give no handle to the law. Now, for instance, +if I knew that the Canadian Pacific Railway, let us say, had discovered +large coal bearing lands, and if I used that private knowledge to buy +your Canadian Pacific stock at, say, one hundred, and if that stock rose +to three hundred, could you make me give you your stock back? Certainly +not. The gain would be a perfectly legitimate product of my own +sharpness.”</p> + +<p>“Sharpness,” said the bird woman, “that’s just it. If Arthur had had +even sense, to say nothing of sharpness, things would have been very +different all round—all round.”</p> + +<p>She protruded her head from her boa and retracted it. Jones, furious, +dumb, with his hands in his pockets and his back against the window, +said nothing.</p> + +<p>He never could have imagined that a baiting like this, over a matter +with which he had nothing to do, could have made him feel such a fool, +and such an ass.</p> + +<p>He saw at once how Rochester had been done, and he felt, against all +reason, the shame that Rochester might have felt—but probably wouldn’t. +His uncle, the Duke of Melford, for that was the choleric one’s name, +his mother, the dowager Countess of Rochester,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_103" id="pg_103">103</a></span> and his sister, the Hon. +Venetia Birdbrook, now all rose up and got together in a covey before +making their exit, and leaving this bad business and the fool who had +brought it about.</p> + +<p>You can fancy their feelings. A man in Rochester’s position may be +anything, almost, as long as he is wealthy, but should he add the crime +of poverty to his other sins he is lost indeed. And Rochester had not +only flung his money away, he had flung a coal mine after it.</p> + +<p>No wonder that his uncle did not even glance at him again as he left the +room, shepherding the two women before him.</p> + +<p>“It’s unfortunate,” said Collins, when they found themselves alone. It +was the mildest thing he could say, and he said it.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_104" id="pg_104">104</a></span> +<a name="THE_GIRL_IN_THE_VICTORIA_2859" id="THE_GIRL_IN_THE_VICTORIA_2859"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<h3>THE GIRL IN THE VICTORIA</h3> +</div> + +<p>When Jones found himself outside the office at last, and in the bustle +of Fleet Street, he turned his steps west-wards.</p> + +<p>He had almost forgotten the half formed determination to throw down his +cards and get up from this strange game, which he had formed when +Collins had asked him whether he would not have an interview with his +wife. This coal mine business pushed everything else aside for the +moment; the thought of that deal galvanized the whole business side of +his nature, so that, as he would have said himself, bristles stood on +it. A mine worth a million pounds, traded away for twenty five thousand +dollars!</p> + +<p>He was taking the thing to heart, as though he himself had been tricked +by Mulhausen, and now as he walked, a block in the traffic brought him +back from his thoughts, and suddenly, a most appalling sensation came +upon him. For a moment he had lost his identity. For a moment he was +neither Rochester nor Jones, but just a void between these two. For a +moment he could not tell which he was. For a moment he was neither. That +was the terrible part of the feeling. It was due to over taxation of the +brain in his extraordinary position, and to the intensive<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_105" id="pg_105">105</a></span> manner in +which he had been playing the part of Rochester. It lasted perhaps, only +a few seconds, for it is difficult to measure the duration of mental +processes, and it passed as rapidly as it had come.</p> + +<p>Seeing a bar he entered it, and a small glass of brandy closed the +incident and made him forget it. He asked the way to Coutts’ Bank, which +in 1692 was situated at the “Three Crowns” in the Strand, next door to +the Globe Tavern, and which still holds the same position in the world +of commerce, and nearly the same in the world of bricks and mortar.</p> + +<p>He reached the door of the bank and was about to enter, when something +checked him. It was the thought that he would have to endorse the cheque +with Rochester’s signature.</p> + +<p>He had copied it so often that he felt competent to make a fair +imitation, but he had begun life in a bank and he knew the awful eye a +bank has for a customer’s signature. His signature—at least +Rochester’s—must be well known at Coutts’. It would never do to put +himself under the microscope like that, besides, and this thought only +came to him now, it might be just as well to have his money in some +place unknown to others. Collins and all that terrible family knew that +he was banking at Coutts’, events might arise when it would be very +necessary too for him to be able to lay his hands on a secret store of +money.</p> + +<p>He had passed the National Provincial Bank in the Strand, the name +sounded safe and he determined to go there.</p> + +<p>He reached the bank, sent his name into the manager,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_106" id="pg_106">106</a></span> and was at once +admitted. The manager was a solid man, semi-bald, with side whiskers, +and an air of old English business respectability delightful in these +new and pushing days, he received the phantom of the Earl of Rochester +with the respect due to their mutual positions.</p> + +<p>Jones, between Coutts’ and the National Provincial, had done a lot of +thinking. He foresaw that even if he were to give in a passable +imitation of Rochester’s signature, all cheques signed in future would +have to tally with that signature. Now a man’s handwriting, though +varying, has a personality of its own, and he very much doubted as to +whether he would be able to keep up that personality under the +microscopic gaze of the bank people. He decided on a bold course. He +would retain his own handwriting. It was improbable that the National +Provincial had ever seen Rochester’s autograph; even if they had, it was +not a criminal thing for a man to alter his style of writing. He +endorsed the cheque Rochester, gave a sample of his signature, gave +directions for a cheque book to be sent to him at Carlton House Terrace, +and took his departure.</p> + +<p>He had changed Rochester’s five pound note before going to Collins, and +he had the change in his pocket, four pounds sixteen and sixpence. Five +pounds, less the price of a cigar at the tobacconist’s where he had +changed his note, the taxi to Sergeants’ Inn, and the glass of liqueur +brandy. He remembered that he still owed for his luncheon yesterday at +the Senior Conservative, and he determined to go and pay for it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_107" id="pg_107">107</a></span> and +then lunch at some restaurant. Never again would he have luncheon at +that Conservative Caravanserai, so he told himself.</p> + +<p>With this purpose in mind, he was standing waiting to cross the road +near Southampton Street, when a voice sounded in his ear and an arm took +his.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Rochy,” said the voice.</p> + +<p>Jones turned, and found himself arm in arm with a youth of eighteen—so +he seemed, a gilded youth, if there ever was a gilded youth, +immaculately dressed, cheery, and with a frank face that was entirely +pleasing.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“What became of you that night?” asked the cheery one, as they crossed +the road still arm in arm.</p> + +<p>“Which night?”</p> + +<p>“Which night? Why the night they shot us out of the Rag Tag Club. Are +you asleep, Rawjester—or what ails you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I remember,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>They had unlinked now, and walking along together they passed up +Southampton Street and through Henrietta Street towards Leicester +Square. The unknown doing all the talking, a task for which he seemed +well qualified.</p> + +<p>He talked of things, events, and people, absolutely unknown to his +listener, of horses, and men, and women. He talked Jones into Bond +Street, and Jones went shopping with him, assisting him in the choice of +two dozen coloured socks at Beale and Inmans. Outside the hosier’s, the +unknown was proposing luncheon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_108" id="pg_108">108</a></span> when a carriage, an open Victoria, +going slowly on account of the traffic, drew Jones’ attention.</p> + +<p>It was a very smart turn out, one horsed, but having two liveried +servants on the box. A coachman, and a footman with powdered hair.</p> + +<p>In the Victoria was seated one of the prettiest girls ever beheld by +Jones. A lovely creature, dark, with deep, dreamy, vague blue-grey +eyes—and a face! Ah, what pen could describe that face, so mobile, +piquante, and filled with light and inexpressible charm.</p> + +<p>She had caught Jones’ eye, she was gazing at him curiously, half +mirthfully, half wrathfully, it seemed to him, and now to his amazement +she made a little movement of the head, as if to say, “come here.” At +the same moment she spoke to the coachman.</p> + +<p>“Portman, stop please.”</p> + +<p>Jones advanced, raising his hat.</p> + +<p>“I just want to tell you,” said the Beauty, leaning a little forward, +“that you are a silly old ass. Venetia has told me all—It’s nothing to +me, but don’t do it—Portman, drive on.”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord!” said Jones, as the vehicle passed on its way, bearing off +its beautiful occupant, of whom nothing could now be seen but the lace +covered back of a parasol.</p> + +<p>He rejoined the unknown.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the latter, “what has your wife been saying to you?”</p> + +<p>“My <i>wife</i>!” said Jones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_109" id="pg_109">109</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well, your late wife, though you ain’t divorced yet, are you?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>He uttered the word mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was saying.</p> + +<p>That lovely creature his wife! Rochester’s wife!</p> + +<p>“Get in,” said the unknown. He had called a taxi.</p> + +<p>Jones got in.</p> + +<p>Rochester’s wife! The contrast between her and Lady Plinlimon suddenly +arose before him, together with the folly of Rochester seen gigantically +and in a new light.</p> + +<p>The taxi drew up in a street off Piccadilly; they got out; the unknown +paid and led the way into a house, whose front door presented a modest +brass door plate inscribed with the words:</p> + +<p style="font-variant:small-caps; text-align:center">“Mr. Carr”</p> + +<p>They passed along a passage, and then down stairs to a large room, where +small card tables were set out. An extraordinary room, for, occupying +nearly half of one side of it stood a kitchen range, over which a cook +was engaged broiling chops and kidneys, and all the other elements of a +mixed grill. Old fashioned pictures of sporting celebrities hung on the +walls, and opposite the range stood a dresser, laden with priceless old +fashioned crockery ware. Off this room lay the dining room, and the +whole place had an atmosphere of comfort and the days gone by when<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_110" id="pg_110">110</a></span> days +were less laborious than our days, and comfort less allied to glitter +and tinsel.</p> + +<p>This was Carr’s Club.</p> + +<p>The unknown sat down before the visitor’s book, and began to write his +own name and the name of his guest.</p> + +<p>Jones, looking over his shoulder, saw that his name was Spence, Patrick +Spence. Sir Patrick Spence, for one of the attendants addressed him as +Sir Patrick. A mixed grill, some cheese and draught beer in heavy pewter +tankards, constituted the meal, during which the loquacious Spence kept +up the conversation.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to poke my nose into your affairs,” said he, “but I can +see there’s something worrying you; you’re not the same chap. Is it +about the wife?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones, “it’s not that.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t want to dig into your confidences, and I don’t want to +give you advice. If I did, I’d say make it up with her. You know very +well, Rochy, you have led her the deuce of a dance. Your sister got me +on about it the other night at the Vernons’. We had a long talk about +you, Rochy, and we agreed you were the best of chaps, but too much given +to gaiety and promiscuous larks. You should have heard me holding forth. +But, joking apart, it’s time you and I settled down, old chap. You can’t +put old heads on young shoulders, but our shoulders ain’t so young as +they used to be, Rochy. And I want to tell you this, if you don’t hitch +up again in harness, the other party will do a bolt. I’m dead serious. +It’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_111" id="pg_111">111</a></span> not the thing to say to another man, but you and I haven’t any +secrets between us, and we’ve always been pretty plain one to the +other—well, this is what I want to say, and just take it as it’s meant. +Maniloff is after her. You know that chap, the <i>attaché</i> at the Russian +Embassy, chap like a billiard marker, always at the other end of a +cigarette—other name’s Boris. Hasn’t a penny to bless himself with. I +know he hasn’t, for I’ve made kind enquiries about him through Lewis, +reason why—he wanted to buy one of my racers for export to Roosia. +Seven hundred down and the balance in six months. Lewis served up his +past to me on a charger. The chap’s rotten with debt, divorced from his +wife, and a punter at Monte Carlo. That’s his real profession, and card +playing. He’s a sleepy Slav, and if he was told his house was on fire +he’d say, ”nichévo,“ meaning it don’t matter, it’s well insured—if he +had a house to insure, which he hasn’t. But women like him, he’s that +sort. But Heaven help the woman that marries him. He’d take her money +and herself off to Monte, and when he’d broken her heart and spoiled her +life and spent her coin, he’d leave her, and go off and be Russian +<i>attaché</i> in Japan or somewhere. I know him. Don’t let her do it, +Rochy.”</p> + +<p>“But how am I to help it?” asked the perplexed Jones, who saw the +meaning of the other. It did not matter in reality to him, whether a +woman whom he had only seen once were to “bolt” with a Russian and find +ruination at Monte Carlo, but this world is not entirely a world of +reality, and he felt a surprisingly<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_112" id="pg_112">112</a></span> strong resentment at the idea of +the girl in the Victoria “bolting” with a Russian.</p> + +<p>It will be remembered that in Collins’ office, the lawyer’s talk about +his “wife” had almost decided him to throw down his cards and quit. This +shadowy wife, first mentioned by the bird woman, had, in fact, been the +one vaguely felt insuperable obstacle in the way of his grand +determination to make good where Rochester had failed, to fight +Rochester’s battles, to be the Earl of Rochester permanently maybe, or, +failing that, to retire and vanish back to the States with honourable +pickings.</p> + +<p>The sight of the real thing had, however, altered the whole position. +Romance had suddenly touched Victor Jones; the gorgeous but sordid veils +through which he had been pushing had split to some mystic wand, and had +become the foliage of fairy land.</p> + +<p>“I want to tell you—you are an old ass.”</p> + +<p>Those words were surely enough to shatter any dream, to turn to pathos +any situation. In Jones’ case they had acted as a most potent spell. He +could still hear the voice, wrathful, but with a tinge of mirth in it, +golden, individual, entrancing.</p> + +<p>“How are you to help it?” said Spence. “Why, go and make up with her +again, kick old Nichévo. Women like chaps that kick other chaps; they +pretend they don’t, but they do. Either do that or take a gun and shoot +her, she’d be better shot than with that fellow.”</p> + +<p>He lit a cigarette and they passed into the card room, where Spence, +looking at his watch, declared<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_113" id="pg_113">113</a></span> that he must be off to keep an +appointment. They said good-bye in the street, and Jones returned to +Carlton House Terrace.</p> + +<p>He had plenty to think about.</p> + +<p>The pile of letters waiting to be answered on the table in the smoking +room reminded him that he had forgotten a most pressing necessity—a +typist. He could sign letters all right, with a very good imitation of +Rochester’s signature, but a holograph letter in the same hand was +beyond him. Then a bright idea came to him, why not answer these letters +with sixpenny telegrams, which he could hand in himself?</p> + +<p>He found a sheaf of telegraph forms in the bureau, and sat down before +the letters, dealing with them one by one, and as relevantly as he +could. It was a rather interesting and amusing game, and when he had +finished he felt fairly satisfied. “Awfully sorry can’t come,” was the +reply to the dinner invitations. The letter signed “Childersley” worried +him, till he looked up the name in “Who’s Who” and found a Lord +answering to it at the same address as that on the note paper.</p> + +<p>He had struck by accident on one of the alleviations of a major misery +of civilized life, replying to Letters, and he felt like patenting it.</p> + +<p>He left the house with the sheaf of telegrams, found the nearest post +office—which is situated directly opposite to Charing Cross +Station—and returned. Then lighting a cigar, he took the friendly and +indefatigable “Who’s Who” upon his knee, and began to turn the pages +indolently. It is a most interesting<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_114" id="pg_114">114</a></span> volume for an idle moment, full of +scattered romance, tales of struggle and adventure, compressed into a +few lines, peeps of history, and the epitaphs of still living men.</p> + +<p>“I want to tell you—you are an old ass.”</p> + +<p>The words still sounding in his ears made him turn again to the name +Plinlimon. The contrast between Lady Plinlimon and the girl, whose +vision dominated his mind, rose up again sharply at sight of the printed +name.</p> + +<p>Ass! That name did not apply to Rochester. To fit him with an +appropriate pseudonym would be impossible. Fool, idiot, sumph—Jones +tried them all on the image of the defunct, but they were too small.</p> + +<p>“Plinlimon: 3rd Baron,” read Jones, “created 1831, Albert James, b. +March 10th, 1862. O. S. of second Baron and Julia d. of J. H. Thompson +of Clifton, m. Sapphira, d. of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. privately. +Address The Roost, Tite Street, Chelsea.”</p> + +<p>Mulhausen! He almost dropped the book. Mulhausen! Collins, his office, +and that terrible family party all rose up before him. Here was the +scamp who had diddled Rochester out of the coal mine, the father of the +woman who had diddled him out of thousands. The paragraph in “Who’s Who” +turned from printed matter to a nest of wriggling vipers. He threw the +book on the table, rose up, and began to pace the floor.</p> + +<p>The girl-wife in the Victoria, his own position—everything was +forgotten, before the monstrous fact half guessed, half seen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_115" id="pg_115">115</a></span></p> + +<p>Rochester had been plucked right and left by these harpies. He had +received five thousand pounds for land worth a million from the father, +he had paid eight thousand, or a good part of eight thousand to the +daughter. Fine business that!</p> + +<p>I compared Jones, when he was fighting Voles, to a terrier. He had a +good deal of the terrier in his composition, the honesty, the rooting +out instinct, and the fury before vermin. Men run in animal groups, and +if you study animals you will be surprised by nothing so much as the old +race fury that breaks out in the most civilized animal before the old +race quarry or enemy.</p> + +<p>For a few seconds, as he paced the floor, Jones was in the mental +condition of a dog in proximity to a hutched badger. Then he began to +think clearly. The obvious fact before him was that Voles, the +Plinlimons and Mulhausen were a gang; the presumptive fact was that the +money paid in blackmail had gone back to Mulhausen, or at least a great +part of it.</p> + +<p>Was Mulhausen the spider of the web? Were all the rest his tools and +implements?</p> + +<p>Jones had a good deal of instinctive knowledge of women. He did not in +his heart believe that a woman could be so utterly vile as to use love +letters directed to her for the purpose of extracting money from the man +who wrote them. Or rather that, whilst she might use them, it was +improbable that she would invent the method. The whole business had the +stamp of a mind masculine and utterly unscrupulous. Even at first he had +glimpsed this vaguely, when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_116" id="pg_116">116</a></span> considered it probable that Lord +Plinlimon had a hand in the affair.</p> + +<p>“Now,” thought Jones, “if I could bring this home to Mulhausen, I could +squeeze back that coal mine from him. I could sure.”</p> + +<p>He sat down and lit another cigar to assist him in dealing with this +problem.</p> + +<p>It was very easy to say “squeeze Mulhausen,” it was a different thing to +do it. He came to this conclusion after a few minutes’ earnest +concentration of mind on that problematical person. Hitherto he had been +dealing with small men and wasters. Voles was a plain scoundrel, quite +easily overthrown by direct methods. But Marcus Mulhausen he guessed to +be a big man. The first thing to be done was to verify this supposition. +He rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church.</p> + +<p>“Come in,” said he, when the latter appeared, “and shut the door. I want +to ask you something.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“It’s just this. I want you to tell me what you think of Lord Plinlimon, +and what you have heard said about him. I have my own opinions—I want +yours.”</p> + +<p>“Well, my Lord,” began Church. “It’s not for me to say anything against +his Lordship, but since you ask me I will say that it’s generally the +opinion that his Lordship is a bit—soft.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think he’s straight?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord—that is to say—”</p> + +<p>“Spit it out,” said Jones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_117" id="pg_117">117</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well, my Lord, he owes money, that’s well known; and I’ve heard it said +a good deal of money has been lost at cards in his house, but not +through his fault. Indeed, you yourself said something to me to that +effect, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, so I did—But what I want to get at is this. Do you think he’s a +man who would do a scoundrelly thing—that’s plain?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, my Lord, he’s straight enough. It’s the other party.”</p> + +<p>“Meaning his wife?”</p> + +<p>“No, my Lord—her brother, Mr. Julian.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!”</p> + +<p>Church warmed a bit. “He’s always about there, lives with them mostly. +You see, my Lord, he has no what you may call status of his own, but he +manages to get known to people through her Ladyship.”</p> + +<p>“Kind of sucker,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>Mr. Church assented. The expression was new to him, but it seemed to +apply.</p> + +<p>Then Jones dismissed him.</p> + +<p>The light was becoming clearer and clearer. Here was another member of +the gang, another instrument of Marcus Mulhausen.</p> + +<p>“To-morrow,” said Jones to himself, “I will go for these chaps. Voles is +the key to the lot of them, and I have Voles completely under my thumb.”</p> + +<p>Then he put the matter from his mind for a while, and fell to thinking +of the girl—his wife—Rochester’s wife.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_118" id="pg_118">118</a></span></p> + +<p>The strange thought came to him that she was a widow and did not know +it.</p> + +<p>He dined out that night, going to a little restaurant in Soho, and he +returned to bed early, so as to be fresh for the business of the morrow.</p> + +<p>He had looked himself up again in “Who’s Who,” and found that his wife’s +name was Teresa. Teresa. The name pleased him vaguely, and now that he +had captured it, it stuck like a burr in his mind. If he could only make +good over the Mulhausen proposition, re-capture that mine, prove +himself—would she, if he told her all—would she—?</p> + +<p>He fell asleep murmuring the word Teresa.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_119" id="pg_119">119</a></span> +<a name="TERESA_3299" id="TERESA_3299"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> +<h3>TERESA</h3> +</div> + +<p>He woke up next morning, to find the vision of Teresa, Countess of +Rochester—so he called her—standing by his bedside.</p> + +<p>Have you ever for a moment considered the influence of women? Go to a +public meeting composed entirely of men and see what a heavy affair it +can be, especially if you are a speaker; sprinkle a few women through +the audience, and behold the livening effect. At a party or a public +meeting in the Wheat Pit or the battlefield, women, or the recollection +of a woman, form or forms one of the greatest liveners to conversation, +speech, or action. Most men fight the battle of life for a woman. Jones, +as he sat up and drank his morning tea, gazing the while at the vision +of Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had found, almost unknown to himself, +a new incentive to action.</p> + +<p>The position yesterday had begun to sag, very little would have made him +“quit,” take a hundred pounds from the eight thousand and a passage by +the next boat to the States; but that girl in the Victoria, those eyes, +that voice, those words—they had altered everything.</p> + +<p>Was he in love? Perhaps not, but he was fascinated, held, dazzled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_120" id="pg_120">120</a></span></p> + +<p>More than that, the world seemed strange—brighter; he felt younger, +filled with an energy of a new brand. He whistled as he crossed the +floor to look out of the window, and as he tubbed he splashed the water +about like a boy.</p> + +<p>It was easy to see that the unfortunate man had tumbled into a position +more fantastic and infinitely more dangerous than any position he had +hitherto occupied since setting foot in the house of Rochester.</p> + +<p>That vanished and fantastic humourist would have found plenty to feed +his thoughts could he have returned.</p> + +<p>The cheque book from the National Provincial Bank arrived by the first +post, and after breakfast he put it aside in a drawer of the bureau in +the smoking room. He glanced through the usual sheaf of letters from +unknown people, tradesmen, whose accounts were marked “account rendered” +and gentlemen who signed themselves with the names of counties. One of +the latter seemed indignant.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“<i>I take this d—d bad of you, Rochester,</i>” said he. +“<i>I’ve found it out at last, you are the man responsible for that telegram. I +lost three days and a night’s sleep rushing up to Cumberland on a wild +goose chase, and I’m telling people all about it. Some day you’ll land +yourself in a mess. Jokes that may be funny amongst board school boys +are out of place amongst men.</i></p> + +<p style="text-align:right">“<span class="smcap">Langwathby</span>.”</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_121" id="pg_121">121</a></span>Jones determined to send Langwathby a telegram of apology when he had +time to look his name up in “Who’s Who”; then he put the letters aside, +called for his hat and cane and left the house.</p> + +<p>He was going to Voles first.</p> + +<p>Voles was his big artillery. He guessed that the fight with Marcus +Mulhausen would be a battle to the death. He reckoned a lot on Voles. In +Trafalgar Square he called a taxi and told the driver to take him to +Jermyn Street.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_122" id="pg_122">122</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width:100%; margin-top:2em;" /> + +<h2>PART III</h2> + +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_123" id="pg_123">123</a></span> +<a name="THE_ATTACK_3375" id="THE_ATTACK_3375"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> +<h3>THE ATTACK</h3> +</div> + +<p>A. S. Voles, money lender and bill discounter, lived over his business. +That is to say his office was his dining room. He owned the house in +Jermyn Street. Jones, dismissing the taxi, rang the bell and was +admitted by a man servant, who, not sure whether Mr. Voles was in or +not, invited the visitor into a small room on the right of the entrance +hall and closed the door on him.</p> + +<p>The room contained a desk table, three chairs, a big scale map of +London, a Phoenix Insurance Almanac, and a photogravure reproduction of +Mona Lisa. The floor was covered with linoleum, and the window gave upon +a blank wall.</p> + +<p>This was the room where creditors and stray visitors had to wait. Jones +took a chair and looked about him.</p> + +<p>Humanity may be divided into three classes: those who, having seen, +adore, those who tolerate, and those who detest Mona Lisa. Jones +detested her. That leery, sleery, slippery, poisonous face was hateful +to him as the mask of a serpent.</p> + +<p>He was looking at the lady when the door opened and in came Voles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_126" id="pg_126">126</a></span></p> + +<p>Voles looked yellower and older this morning, but his face showed +nothing of resentment. The turning of the Earl of Rochester upon him had +been the one great surprise of his life. He had always fancied that he +knew character, and his fancy was not ill founded. His confidence in +himself had been shaken.</p> + +<p>“Good morning,” said Jones. “I have come to have a little talk with +you.”</p> + +<p>“Sit down,” said Voles.</p> + +<p>They seated themselves, Voles before the desk.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t come to fight,” said Jones, “just to talk. You known that +Marcus Mulhausen has got that Welsh land from me for five thousand, and +that it is worth maybe a million now.”</p> + +<p>Voles nodded.</p> + +<p>“Well, Mulhausen has to give that property back.”</p> + +<p>Voles laughed.</p> + +<p>“You needn’t laugh. You have seen my rough side. I’m holding the smooth +towards you now—but there is no occasion to laugh. I’m going to skin +Mulhausen.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Voles. “What have I to do with that?”</p> + +<p>“You are the knife.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, indeed. Let’s talk. When you got that eight thousand from me, you +were only the agent of the Plinlimon woman, and she was only the agent +of Marcus. She got something, you got something, but Marcus got the +most. Julian got something too, but it was Marcus got the joints. He +gave you three the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_127" id="pg_127">127</a></span> head, and the hoofs, and the innards, and the tail. +I’ve had it out with the Plinlimon woman and I know. You were a gang.”</p> + +<p>Voles heaved up in his chair.</p> + +<p>“What more have you to say?” asked he thickly.</p> + +<p>“A lot. There is nothing more difficult to get at than a gang, because +they cover each other’s traces. I pay you a certain sum in cash, you +deduct your commission and hand the remainder over to the Plinlimon +woman, she pays her Pa, and gets a few hundred to pay her milliner. +Who’s to prove anything? No cheques have passed.”</p> + +<p>“Just so,” said Voles.</p> + +<p>“I’m glad you see my point,” replied Jones. “Now if you can’t untie a +knot, you can always cut it if you have a knife—can’t you?”</p> + +<p>Voles shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Well, I said you were a knife, didn’t I, and I’m going to cut this knot +with you, see my point?”</p> + +<p>“Not in the least.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, because that makes me speak plain, and that’s unpleasant. +This is my meaning. I have to get that property back, or else I will go +to the police and rope in the whole gang. Tell the whole story. I will +accuse Marcus. Do you understand that? Marcus, and Marcus’ daughter, and +Marcus’ son, and you. And I won’t do that to-morrow, I’ll do it to-day. +To-night the whole caboodle of you will be in jail.”</p> + +<p>“You said you hadn’t come to fight,” cried Voles. “What do you want? +Haven’t you had enough from<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_128" id="pg_128">128</a></span> me? Yet you drive me like this. It’s +dangerous.”</p> + +<p>“I have not come to fight. At least not you. On the contrary, when I get +this property back, if it turns out worth a million, I’ll maybe pay you +your losses. You’ve been paying the piper for Marcus, it seems to me.”</p> + +<p>“I have,” groaned Voles.</p> + +<p>The two words proved to Jones that he was right all through.</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s Marcus I’m up against, and you have to help me.”</p> + +<p>Then Voles began to speak. The something Oriental in his nature, the +something that had driven him rushing with outspread arms at the +constable that evening, began now to talk.</p> + +<p>Help against Marcus! What could he do against Marcus? Why Marcus +Mulhausen held him in the hollow of his hand. Marcus held everyone: his +daughter, her husband, his own son Julian, to say nothing of A. S. Voles +and others.</p> + +<p>Jones listened with patient attention to all this, and when the other +had finished and wiped the palms of his hands on his handkerchief, said:</p> + +<p>“But all the same, Marcus is held by the fact that he forms one of a +gang.”</p> + +<p>Voles made a movement with his hand.</p> + +<p>“Don’t interrupt me. The head of a shark is the cleverest part of it, +but it has to suffer with the body when the whole shark is caught; +that’s the fix Marcus is in. When I close on the lot of you, Marcus +will<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_129" id="pg_129">129</a></span> be the first to go into the jug. Now, see here, you have got to +take my orders; they won’t be hard.”</p> + +<p>“What are they?”</p> + +<p>“You have got to write me a note, which I will take to Marcus, telling +him the game’s up, the gang’s burst, and to deliver.”</p> + +<p>“Why d—n it, what ails you?” said Voles.</p> + +<p>“What ails me?”</p> + +<p>“You aren’t talking like yourself—you have never been like yourself +since you’ve taken this line.”</p> + +<p>Jones felt himself changing colour. In his excitement he had let his +voice run away with him.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter a button whether I’m like myself or not,” said he, +“you’ve got to write that note, and do it now while I dictate.”</p> + +<p>Voles drummed on the desk with his fingers, then he took a sheet of +paper and an envelope from a drawer.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said he, “what is it to be?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing alarming,” said the other. “Just three words. ‘It’s all +up’—how do you address him?”</p> + +<p>Without reply Voles wrote.</p> + +<p style="margin:0 auto 0 2em;">“<i>Dear M.</i></p> +<p style="margin:0 auto 0 2.5em;">”<i>It’s all up.</i>“</p> + +<p>“That’ll do,” said Jones, “now sign your name and address the envelope.”</p> + +<p>Voles did so.</p> + +<p>Jones put the letter in his pocket.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_130" id="pg_130">130</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well,” said he, “that ends the business. I hope, with this, and what I +have to say to him, Marcus will part, and as I say, if things turn out +as I hope, maybe I’ll right your losses—I have no quarrel with +you—only Marcus.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly Voles spoke.</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake,” said he, “mind how you deal with that chap; he’s never +been got the better of, curse him. Go cautiously.”</p> + +<p>“You never fear,” said Jones.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_131" id="pg_131">131</a></span> +<a name="THE_ATTACK_3564" id="THE_ATTACK_3564"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> +<h3>THE ATTACK (<i>Continued</i>)</h3> +</div> + +<p>Jones had already obtained Marcus Mulhausen’s address from the +invaluable Kelly.</p> + +<p>Mulhausen was a financier. A financier is a man who makes money without +a trade or profession, and Mulhausen had made a great deal of money, +despite this limitation, during his twenty years of business life, which +had started humbly enough behind the counter of a pawnbroker’s in the +Minories.</p> + +<p>His offices were situated in Chancery Lane. They consisted of three +rooms: an outer waiting room, a room inhabited by three clerks, that is +to say a senior clerk, Mr. Aaronson, and two subordinates, and an inner +room where Mulhausen dwelt.</p> + +<p>Jones, on giving his name, was shown at once into the inner room where +Mulhausen was seated at his desk.</p> + +<p>Mulhausen was a man of sixty or so, small, fragile looking, with grey +side whiskers and drowsy heavy-lidded eyes.</p> + +<p>He nodded to Jones and indicated a chair. Then he finished his work, the +reading of a letter, placed it under an agate paper weight, and turned +to the newcomer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_132" id="pg_132">132</a></span></p> + +<p>“What can I do for you this morning?” asked Mulhausen.</p> + +<p>“You can just read this letter,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>He handed over Voles’ letter.</p> + +<p>Mulhausen put on his glasses, opened the letter, and read it. Then he +placed the open letter on top of the one beneath the agate paper weight, +tore up the envelope, and threw the two fragments into the waste paper +basket behind him.</p> + +<p>“Anything more?” asked he.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the other, “a lot more. Let us begin at the beginning. +You have obtained from me a piece of real estate worth anything up to a +million pounds; you paid five thousand for it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes!”</p> + +<p>“You have got to hand me that property back.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Mulhausen. “Do you refer to the Glanafwyn +lands?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I see. And I have to hand those back to you—anything more?”</p> + +<p>“No, that’s all. I received your daughter’s letters back from Voles +yesterday—Let’s be plain with one another. Voles has confessed +everything. I have his confession under his own handwriting, you are all +in a net, the whole gang of you—you, your daughter, your son and Voles. +You plucked me like a turkey. You know the whole affair as well as I do, +and if I do not receive that property back before five o’clock to-day, I +shall go to the nearest police office and swear an information against +you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_133" id="pg_133">133</a></span></p> + +<p>“I see,” said Mulhausen, without turning a hair, “you will put us all in +prison, will you not? That would be very unpleasant. Very unpleasant +indeed.”</p> + +<p>He rose, went to some tin boxes situated on a ledge behind him, took out +his keys and opened one.</p> + +<p>Jones, fancying that he was going to produce the title deeds, felt a +little jump at his thyroid cartilage. This was victory without a battle. +But Mr. Marcus Mulhausen took no title deeds from the box. He produced a +letter case, came back with it to the table, and sat down.</p> + +<p>Then holding the letter case before him he looked at Jones over his +glasses.</p> + +<p>“You rogue,” said Mulhausen.</p> + +<p>That was the most terrific moment in Jones’ life. Mulhausen from a +criminal had suddenly become a judge. He spoke with such absolute +conviction, ease, sense of power and scorn, that there could be no +manner of doubt he held the winning cards. He opened the letter case and +produced a paper.</p> + +<p>“Here is the bill of exchange for two hundred and fifty pounds, to which +you forged Sir Pleydell Tuffnell’s name,” said Marcus Mulhausen, +spreading the paper before him. “That was two years ago. We all know Sir +Pleydell and his easy going ways. He is so careless you thought he would +never find out; so good, he would never prosecute. But it came into my +hands, it is my property, and I have no hesitation in dealing with +rogues. Now do you suppose for a moment that if I were moving against +you in any unlawful way—which I deny—I would have done so<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_134" id="pg_134">134</a></span> without a +protector? Could you find a better protection than this? The punishment +for forgery let me remind you, is five years penal servitude at the +least.” He looked down at the document with a cold smile, and then he +glanced up again at his victim. Jones saw that he was done; done not by +Marcus Mulhausen, but by Rochester. He had tripped over a kink in +Rochester’s character, just as a man trips over a kink in a carpet. Then +rage came to him. The sight of the horrible scoundrel with whiskers, +triumphant and gloating, roused the dog in his nature, and all the craft +that lay hidden in him.</p> + +<p>He heaved a sigh, rose brokenly, and approached the desk, and the +creature behind it.</p> + +<p>“You are a cleverer man than I am,” said he, “shake hands and call it +quits.”</p> + +<p>Next moment he had snatched the paper from the fingers that held it, +crumpled it, crammed it into his mouth. He rushed to the door and locked +it, whilst Mulhausen, screaming like a woman, reached him and clutched +him by the shoulders.</p> + +<p>Then, swiftly turning, Jones gripped the financier by both arms and held +him so, chewing, chewing, chewing, mute and facing the shouting other +one.</p> + +<p>They were hammering at the door outside. Mr. Aaronson and the clerks, +useless people for breaking-down-door purposes, were assisting their +employer with their voices—mainly, the whole block of offices was +raised, and boys and telephones were summoning the police.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Jones was chewing, and the bill was<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_135" id="pg_135">135</a></span> slowly being converted +into what the physiologist terms a bolus. It took three minutes before +the bolus, properly salivated and raised by the tongue, passed the +anterior pillars of the fauces, then the epiglottis shut down, and the +bolus slipping over it and seized by the muscles of the esophagus passed +to its destined abode.</p> + +<p>Jones had swallowed Rochester’s past, or at least a most important part +of it. The act accomplished, he sat down as a boa constrictor recoils +itself, still gulping. Marcus Mulhausen rushed to the door and opened +it. A vast policeman stood before him, behind the policeman crowded Mr. +Aaronson and the clerks, and behind these a dozen or two of the block +dwellers, eager for gory sights at a distance.</p> + +<p>Marcus looked round.</p> + +<p>“What’s all this?” said he. “There is nothing wrong, just a little +dispute with a gentleman. It is all over—Mr. Aaronson, clear the +office. Constable, here is two shillings for your trouble. Good day.”</p> + +<p>He shut the door on the disappointed crowd and turned to Jones.</p> + +<p>The battle was over.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_136" id="pg_136">136</a></span> +<a name="A_WILD_SURPRISE_3721" id="A_WILD_SURPRISE_3721"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> +<h3>A WILD SURPRISE</h3> +</div> + +<p>At five o’clock that day the transference of the property was made out +and signed by Marcus Mulhausen in Mortimer Collins’ office, and the +Glanafwyn lands became again the property of the Earl of Rochester—“for +the sum of five thousand pounds received and herewith acknowledged,” +said the document.</p> + +<p>Needless to say no five thousand pounds passed hands. Collins, +mystified, asked no questions in the presence of Mulhausen. When the +latter had taken his departure, however, he turned to Jones.</p> + +<p>“Did you pay him five thousand?” asked the lawyer.</p> + +<p>“Not a cent,” replied the other.</p> + +<p>“Well, how have you worked the miracle, then?”</p> + +<p>Jones told.</p> + +<p>“You see how I had them coopered,” finished he. “Well, just as I was +going to grab the kitty he played the ace of spades, produced an old +document he held against me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“I pondered for a moment—then I came to a swift conclusion—took the +doc from him and ate it.”</p> + +<p>“You ate the document?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_137" id="pg_137">137</a></span></p> + +<p>“Sure.”</p> + +<p>Jones rubbed his stomach and laughed.</p> + +<p>“Well, well,” said the solicitor with curious acquiescence and want of +astonishment after the first momentary start caused by this surprising +statement, “we have the property back, that’s the main thing.”</p> + +<p>“You remember,” said Jones, “I talked to you about letting that place.”</p> + +<p>“Carlton House Terrace?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—well, that’s off. I’ve made good. Do you see?”</p> + +<p>“M—yes,” replied Collins.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have enough money now to pay off the mortgages and things.”</p> + +<p>“Undoubtedly,” said Collins, “but, now, don’t you think it would be a +good thing if you were to tie this property up, so that mischance can’t +touch it. You have no children, it is true, but one never knows. +Honestly, I think you would be well advised if you were to take +precautions.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t worry,” said Jones brightly. “I’ll give the whole lot to—my +wife—when I can come to terms with her.”</p> + +<p>“That’s good hearing,” replied the other. Then Jones took his departure, +leaving the precious documents in the hands of the lawyer.</p> + +<p>He was elated. He had proved the facts which he had only guessed by +instinct up to this, that a rogue is the weakest person in the world +before a plain dealer, if the plain dealer has a weapon in his hand. The +almost instantaneous collapse of Voles and Mulhausen<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_138" id="pg_138">138</a></span> was due to the +fact that they stood on rotten foundations. He told himself now as he +walked along homeward that he need not have eaten that document. +Mulhausen would never have used it. If he had just gone out and called +in a policeman, Mulhausen, seeing him in earnest, would have collapsed.</p> + +<p>However the thing was eaten and done with and there was no use in +troubling any more on the matter. He had other things to think of. He +had made good. He had saved the Rochester name and estates, he had +recaptured one million, eight thousand pounds, reckoning that the coal +bearing lands were worth a million, and, more than that; he was a sane +man, able to look after what he had recaptured.</p> + +<p>The Rochester family, if they knew, would have no cause to grumble at +the interloper and the substitution of new brains and push in the place +of decadence, craziness and sloth. The day when he had changed places +with Rochester was the best day that had ever dawned for them.</p> + +<p>He was thinking this when all of a sudden that horrible, unreal feeling +he had suffered from once before, came upon him again. This time it was +not a question of losing his identity, it was a shuffle of his own taxed +brain between two identities. Rochester—Jones—Jones—Rochester. It +seemed to him for the space of a couple of seconds that he could not +tell which of those two individuals he was, then the feeling passed and +he resumed his way, reaching Carlton House Terrace shortly after six.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_139" id="pg_139">139</a></span></p> + +<p>He gave his hat and cane and gloves to the flunkey who opened the door +for him—He had obtained a latch-key from Church that morning but forgot +to use it—and was crossing the hall when a strain of music brought him +to a halt. The tones of a piano came from a door on the right. Someone +was playing Chaminade’s <i>Valse Tendre</i> and playing it to perfection.</p> + +<p>Jones turned to the man-servant.</p> + +<p>“Who is that?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“It is her ladyship, my Lord, she arrived half an hour ago. Her luggage +has gone upstairs.”</p> + +<p>Her ladyship!</p> + +<p>Jones thrown off his balance hesitated for a moment, <i>what</i> ladyship +could it be. Not, surely, that awful mother!</p> + +<p>He crossed to the door, opened it, found a music-room, and there, seated +at a piano, the girl of the Victoria.</p> + +<p>She was in out-door dress and had not removed her hat.</p> + +<p>She looked over her shoulder at him as he came in, her face wore a half +smile, but she did not stop playing. Anything more fascinating, more +lovely, more distracting than that picture it would be hard to imagine.</p> + +<p>As he crossed the room she suddenly ceased playing and twirled round on +the music-stool.</p> + +<p>“I’ve come back,” said she. “Ju-ju, I couldn’t stand it. You are bad but +you are a lot, lot better<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_140" id="pg_140">140</a></span> than your mother—and Venetia. I’m going to +try and put up with you a bit longer—<i>Ju-Ju</i>, what makes you look so +stiff and funny?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” said Jones, passing his hand across his forehead. “I’ve +had a hard day.” She looked at him curiously for a moment, then +pityingly, then kindly.</p> + +<p>Then she jumped up, made him sit down on a big couch by the wall, and +took her seat beside him.</p> + +<p>Then she took his hand.</p> + +<p>“Ju-Ju—why will you be such a fool?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>The caress of the little jewelled hand destroyed his mental powers. He +dared not look at her, just sat staring before him.</p> + +<p>“They told me all about the coal mine,” she went on, “at least Venetia +did, and how they all bully-ragged you—Venetia was great on that. +Venetia waggled that awful gobbly-Jick head of hers while she was +telling me—they’re <i>mad</i> over the loss of that coal thing—oh, Ju-Ju, +I’m so glad you lost it. It’s wicked, I suppose, but I’m glad. That’s +what made me come back, the way they went on about you. I listened and +listened and then I broke out. I said all I’ve wanted to say for the +last six months to Venetia. You know she told me how you came home the +other night. I said nothing then, just listened and stored it up. Then, +last night, when they all got together about the coal mine I went on +listening and storing it up. Blunders was there as well as your mother +and Venetia. Blunders said he<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_141" id="pg_141">141</a></span> had called you an ass and that you were. +Then I broke out. I said a whole lot of things—well, there it is. So I +came back—there were other reasons as well. I don’t want to be alone. I +want to be cared for—I want to be cared for—when I saw you in Bond +Street, yesterday—I—I—I—Ju-Ju, do you care for me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“I want to confess—I want to tell you something.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“If you didn’t care for me—if I felt you didn’t, I’d—”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn’t go on as I have been +going, lonely, like a lost dog.”</p> + +<p>She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips.</p> + +<p>“You will not be lonely,” said the unfortunate man in a muted voice. +“You need not be afraid of that.” The utter inadequacy of the remark +came to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as a +rule only in Dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mind +perhaps being engaged elsewhere.</p> + +<p>“What would you have said if I had run away from you for good?” asked +she. “Would you have been sorry?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—dreadfully.”</p> + +<p>“Are you glad I’ve come back?”</p> + +<p>“I am.”</p> + +<p>“Honestly glad?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_142" id="pg_142">142</a></span></p> + +<p>“Really glad?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Truthfully, really, honestly glad?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Well, so am I,” said she. She released his hand.</p> + +<p>“Now go and play me something. I want something soothing after +Venetia—play me Chopin’s Spianato—we used to be fond of that.”</p> + +<p>Now the only thing that Jones had ever played in his life was the Star +Spangled Banner and that with one finger—Chopin’s Spianato!</p> + +<p>“No,” he said. “I’d rather talk.”</p> + +<p>“Well, talk then—mercy! There’s the first gong.”</p> + +<p>A faint and far away sound invaded the room, throbbed and ceased. She +rose, picked up her gloves, which she had cast on a chair, and then +peeped at herself in a mirror by the piano.</p> + +<p>“You have never kissed me,” said she, speaking as it were half to +herself and half to him, seeming to be more engaged in a momentary +piercing criticism of the hat she was wearing than in thoughts of +kisses. He came towards her like a schoolboy, then, as she held up her +face he imprinted a chaste kiss upon her right cheek bone.</p> + +<p>Then the most delightful thing that ever happened to mortal man happened +to him. Two warm palms suddenly took his face between them and two moist +lips met his own.</p> + +<p>Then she was gone.</p> + +<p>He took his seat on the music stool, dazed, dazzled, delighted, shocked, +frightened, triumphant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_143" id="pg_143">143</a></span></p> + +<p>The position was terrific.</p> + +<p>Jones was no Lothario. He was a straight, plain, common-sensical man +with a high respect for women, and the position of leading character in +a bad French comedy was not for him. Jones would just as soon have +thought of kissing another man’s wife as of standing on his head in the +middle of Broadway.</p> + +<p>To personate another man and to kiss the other man’s wife under that +disguise would have seemed to him the meanest act any two-legged +creature could perform.</p> + +<p>And he had just done it. And the other man’s wife had—heu! his face +still burned.</p> + +<p>She had done it because of his deception.</p> + +<p>He found himself suddenly face to face with the barrier that Fate had +been cunningly constructing and had now placed straight before him.</p> + +<p>There was no getting over it or under it, he would have to declare his +position <i>at once</i>—and what a position to declare!</p> + +<p>She loved Rochester.</p> + +<p>All at once that terrific fact appeared before him in its true +proportions and its true meaning.</p> + +<p>She loved Rochester.</p> + +<p>He had to tell her the truth. Yet to tell her the truth he would have to +tell her that the man she loved was dead.</p> + +<p>Then she would want proofs.</p> + +<p>He would have to bring up the Savoy Hotel people, fetch folk from +America—disinter Rochester. Horror! He had never thought of that. What +had become<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_144" id="pg_144">144</a></span> of Rochester? Up to this he had never thought once of what +had become of the mortal remains of the defunct jester, nor had he cared +a button—why should he?</p> + +<p>But the woman who loved Rochester would care. And he, Jones, would +become in her eyes a ghoul, a monstrosity, a horror.</p> + +<p>He felt a tinge of that feeling towards himself now. Up to this +Rochester had been for him a mechanical figure, an abstraction, but the +fact of this woman’s love had suddenly converted the abstraction into a +human being.</p> + +<p>He could not possibly tell her that he had left the remains of this +human being, this man she loved, in the hands of unknown strangers, +callously, as though it were the remains of an animal.</p> + +<p>He could tell her nothing.</p> + +<p>The game was up, he would have to quit. Either that, or to continue the +masquerade which was impossible; or to tell her all, which was equally +impossible.</p> + +<p>Yet to quit would be to hit her cruelly. She loved Rochester.</p> + +<p>Rochester, despite all his wickedness, frivolity, shiftlessness and +general unworthiness—or perhaps because of these things—had been able +to make this woman love him, take his part against his family and return +to him.</p> + +<p>To go away and leave her now would be the cruelest act. Cruel to her and +just as cruel to himself, fascinated and held by her as he was. Yet +there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_145" id="pg_145">145</a></span> no other course open to him. So he told himself—so he tried +to tell himself, knowing full well that the only course open to him as a +man of honour was a full confession of the facts of the case.</p> + +<p>To sneak away would be the act of a coward; to impose himself on her as +Rochester, the act of a villain; to tell her the truth, the act of a +man.</p> + +<p>The result would be terrific, yet only by facing that result could he +come clear out of this business. For half an hour he sat, scarcely +moving. He was up against that most insuperable obstacle, his own +character. Had he been a crook, everything would have been easy; being a +fairly straight man, everything was impossible.</p> + +<p>He had got to this bed-rock fact when the door opened and a servant made +his appearance.</p> + +<p>“Dinner is served, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>Dinner!</p> + +<p>He rose up and came into the hall. Standing there for a moment, +undecided, he heard a laugh and looked up. She was standing in evening +dress looking over the balustrade of the first landing.</p> + +<p>“Why, you are not dressed!” she said.</p> + +<p>“I—I forgot,” he answered.</p> + +<p>Something fell at his feet, it was a rose. She had cast it to him and +now she was coming down the stairway towards him, where he stood, the +rose in his hand and distraction at his heart.</p> + +<p>“It is perfectly disgraceful of you,” said she, looking him up and down +and taking the rose from him, “and there is no time to dress now; you +usen’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_146" id="pg_146">146</a></span> to be as careless as that,” she put the rose in his coat. “I +suppose it’s from living alone for a fortnight with Venetia—what would +a month have done!” She pressed the rose flat with her little palm.</p> + +<p>Then she slipped her fingers through the crook of his elbow and led him +to the breakfast-room door.</p> + +<p>She entered and he followed her.</p> + +<p>The breakfast table had been reduced in size and they dined facing one +another across a bowl of blush roses.</p> + +<p>That dinner was not a conversational success on the part of Jones, a +fact which she scarcely perceived, being in high spirits and full of +information she was eager to impart.</p> + +<p>It did not seem to matter to her in the least whether the flunkeys in +waiting were listening or not, she talked of the family, of “your mater” +and “Blunders” and “V” and other people, touching, it seemed on the most +intimate matters and all with a lightness of tone and spirit that would +have been delightful, no doubt, had he known the discussed ones more +intimately, and had his mind been open to receive pleasurable +impressions.</p> + +<p>He would have to tell her directly after dinner the whole of his +terrible story. It was as though Fate were saying to him, “You will have +to kill her directly after dinner.”</p> + +<p>All that light-hearted chatter and new found contentment, all that +brightness would die. Grief for the man she loved, hatred of the man who +had supplanted<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_147" id="pg_147">147</a></span> him, anguish, perplexity, terror, would take their +places.</p> + +<p>When the terrible meal was over, she ordered coffee to be served in the +music-room. He lingered behind for a moment, fiddling with a cigarette. +Then, when he came into the hall with the sweat standing in beads upon +his forehead, he heard the notes of the piano.</p> + +<p>It was a Mazurka of Chopin’s, played with gaiety and brilliancy, yet no +funeral march ever sounded more fatefully in the ears of mortal.</p> + +<p>He could not do it. Then—he turned the handle of the music-room door +and entered.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_148" id="pg_148">148</a></span> +<a name="THE_SECOND_HONEYMOON_4108" id="THE_SECOND_HONEYMOON_4108"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> +<h3>THE SECOND HONEYMOON</h3> +</div> + +<p>Only three of the electric lights were on in the music-room. In the rosy +light and half shadows the room looked larger than when seen in +daylight, and different.</p> + +<p>She had wandered from the Mazurka into Paderewski’s Mélodie Op. 8. No. +3, a lonesome sort of tune it seemed to him, as he dropped into a chair, +crossed his legs and listened.</p> + +<p>Then as he listened he began to think. Up to this his thoughts had been +in confusion, chasing one another or pursued by the monstrosity of the +situation. Now he was thinking clearly.</p> + +<p>She was his, that girl sitting there at the piano with the light upon +her hair, the light upon her bare shoulders and the sheeny fabric of her +dress. He had only to stretch out his hand and take her. Absolutely his, +and he had only met her twice. She was the most beautiful woman in +London, she had a mind that would have made a plain woman attractive, +and a manner delightful, full of surprises and contrarieties and +tendernesses—and she loved him.</p> + +<p>The Arabian Nights contained nothing like this, nor had the brain that +conceived Tantalus risen to the heights achieved by accident and +coincidence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_149" id="pg_149">149</a></span></p> + +<p>She finished the piece, rose, turned over some sheets of music and then +came across the room—floated across the room, and took her perch on the +arm of the great chair in which he was sitting. Then he felt her fingers +on his hair.</p> + +<p>“I want to feel your bumps to see if you have improved—Ju-ju, your head +isn’t so flat as it used to be on top. It seems a different shape +somehow, nicer. Blunders is as flat as a pancake on top of his head. +Flatness runs in families I suppose. Look at Venetia’s feet! Ju-ju, have +you ever seen her in felt bath slippers?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“I have—and a long yellow dressing gown, and her hair on her shoulders +all wet, in rat tails. I’m not a cat, but she makes me feel like one and +talk like one. I want to forget her. Do you remember our honeymoon?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>She had taken his hand and was holding it.</p> + +<p>“We were happy then. Let’s begin again and let this be our second +honeymoon, and we won’t quarrel once—will we?”</p> + +<p>“No, we won’t,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>She slipped down into the chair beside him, pulled his arm around her +and held up her lips.</p> + +<p>“Now you’re kissing me really,” she murmured; “you seemed half +frightened before—Ju-ju, I want to make a confession.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_150" id="pg_150">150</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well—somebody pretended to care for me very much a little while ago.”</p> + +<p>“Who was that?”</p> + +<p>“Never mind. I went last night to a dance at the Crawleys’ and he was +there.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Yes—is that all you have to say? You don’t seem to be very much +interested.”</p> + +<p>“I am though.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t want you to be too much interested, and go making scenes and +all that—though you couldn’t for you don’t know his name. Suffice to +tell you—as the books say—he is a very handsome man, much, much +handsomer than you, Ju—Well, listen to me. He asked me to run off with +him.”</p> + +<p>“Run off with him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—to Spain. We were to go to Paris first and then to Spain—Spain, +at this time of year!”</p> + +<p>“What did you say?”</p> + +<p>“I said: ‘Please don’t be stupid.’ I’d been reading a novel where a girl +said that to a man who wanted to run off with her—she died at the +end—but that’s what she said at first—Fortunate I remembered it.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Because—because—for a moment I felt inclined to say ‘yes.’ I know it +was dreadful, but think of my position, you going on like that, and me +all alone with no one to care for me—It’s like a crave for drink. I +must have someone to care for me and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_151" id="pg_151">151</a></span> thought you didn’t—so I nearly +said ‘yes.’ Once I had said what I did I felt stronger.”</p> + +<p>“What did he say?”</p> + +<p>“He pleaded passionately—like the man in the book, and talked of roses +and blue seas—he’s not English—I sat thinking of Venetia in her felt +bath room slippers and yellow wrapper. You know she reads St. Thomas à +Kempis and opens bazaars. She opened one the other day, and came back +with her nose quite red and in a horrid temper—I wonder what was inside +that bazaar?—Well, I knew if I did anything foolish Venetia would +exult, and that held me firm. She’s not wicked. I believe she is really +good as far as she knows how, and that’s the terrible thing about her. +She goes to church twice on Sunday, she takes puddings and things to old +women in the country, she opens bazaars and subscribes to ragged +schools—yet with one word she sets everyone by the ears—Well, when I +got home from the dance I began to think, and to-day, when they were all +out, I had my boxes packed and came right back here. I’d have given +anything to see their faces when they got home and found me gone.”</p> + +<p>She sprang up suddenly. A knock had come to the door, it opened and a +servant announced Miss Birdbrook.</p> + +<p>Venetia had not changed that evening, she was still in her big hat. She +ignored Jones, and, standing, spoke tersely to Teresa.</p> + +<p>“So you have left us?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_152" id="pg_152">152</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the other. “I have come back here, d’you mind?”</p> + +<p>“I?” said Venetia. “It’s not a question of my minding in the least, only +it was sudden, and as you left no word as to where you were going we +thought it best to make sure you were all right.”</p> + +<p>She took her seat uncomfortably on a chair and the Countess of Rochester +perched herself again by Jones.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am all right,” said she, with her hand resting on his shoulder.</p> + +<p>Venetia gulped.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to know it,” she said. “We tried to make you comfortable—I +cannot deny that mother feels slightly hurt at having no word from you +before leaving, and one must admit that it cannot but seem strange to +the servants your going like that—but of course that is entirely a +question of taste.”</p> + +<p>“You mean,” said Teresa, “that it was bad taste on my part—well, I +apologise. I am sorry, but the sudden craving to get—back here was more +than I could resist. I would have written to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it does not matter,” said Venetia, “the thing is done. Well, I must +be going—but have you both thought over the future and all that it +implies?”</p> + +<p>“Have we, Ju-ju?” asked the girl, caressingly stroking Jones’ head.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“I’m sure,” went on Venetia with a sigh, “I have always done my best to +keep things together. I failed. Was it my fault?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_153" id="pg_153">153</a></span></p> + +<p>“No,” said Teresa, aching for her to be gone. “I am sure it was not.”</p> + +<p>“I am glad to hear you say that. I always tried to avoid interfering in +your life. I never did—or only when ordinary prudence made me speak, as +for instance, in that baccarat business.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t rake up old things,” said Teresa suddenly.</p> + +<p>“And the Williamson affair,” got in Venetia. “Oh, I am the very last to +rake up things, as you call it. I, for one, will say no more of things +that have happened, but I <i>must</i> speak of things that affect myself.”</p> + +<p>“What is affecting you?”</p> + +<p>“Just this. You know quite well the financial position. You know what +the upkeep of this house means. You can’t do it. You plainly can’t do +it. Your income is not sufficient.”</p> + +<p>“But how does that affect you?”</p> + +<p>“When tradespeople talk it affects me; it affects us all. Why not let +this house and live quietly, somewhere in the country, ’til things blow +over?”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by things blowing over?” asked Teresa. “One would +think that you were talking of some disgrace that had happened.”</p> + +<p>Venetia pulled up her long left hand glove and moved as though about to +depart. She said nothing but looked at her glove.</p> + +<p>During the whole of this time she had neither looked at nor spoken to +Jones, nor included him by word in the conversation. Her influence had +been working upon him ever since she entered the room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_154" id="pg_154">154</a></span> He began now +more fully to understand the part she had played in the life of +Rochester. He felt that he wanted to talk to Venetia as Rochester had, +probably, never talked.</p> + +<p>“A man once said to me that the greatest mistake a fellow can make is to +have a sister to live with him after his marriage,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>Venetia pulled up her right hand glove.</p> + +<p>“A sister that has had to face mad intoxication and <i>worse</i>, can endorse +that opinion,” said she.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by worse?” fired Teresa.</p> + +<p>“I mean exactly what I say,” replied Venetia.</p> + +<p>“That is no answer. Do you mean that Arthur has been unfaithful to me?”</p> + +<p>“I did not say that.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what can be worse than intoxication—that is the only thing worse +that I know of—unless murder. Do you mean that he has murdered +someone?”</p> + +<p>“I will not let you drag me into a quarrel,” said Venetia; “you are +putting things into my mouth. I think mad extravagance is worse than +intoxication, inasmuch as it is committed by reasonable people +uninfluenced by drugs or alcohol. I think insults levelled at +inoffensive people are worse than the wildest deeds committed under the +influence of that demon alcohol.”</p> + +<p>“Who are the inoffensive people who have been insulted?”</p> + +<p>“Good gracious—well, of course you don’t know—you have not had to +interview people.”</p> + +<p>“What people?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_155" id="pg_155">155</a></span></p> + +<p>“Sir Pleydell Harcourt for instance, who had sixteen pianos sent to him +only last week, to say nothing of pantechnicon vans and half the +contents of Harrods’ and Whiteleys’, so that Arlington Street was +blocked, simply blocked, the whole of last Friday.”</p> + +<p>“Did he say Arthur had sent them?”</p> + +<p>“He had no direct proof—but he knew. There was no other man in London +would have done such a thing.”</p> + +<p>“Did you send them, Ju-ju?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones. “I did not.”</p> + +<p>Venetia rose.</p> + +<p>“You admitted to me, yourself, that you did,” said she.</p> + +<p>“I was only joking,” he replied.</p> + +<p>Teresa went to the bell and rang it.</p> + +<p>“Good night,” said Venetia, “after that I have nothing more to say.”</p> + +<p>“Thank goodness,” murmured Teresa when she was gone. “She made me shiver +with her talk about extravagance. I’ve been horribly extravagant the +last week—when a woman is distracted she runs to clothes for +relief—anyhow I did. I’ve got three new evening frocks and I want to +show you them. I’ve never known your taste wrong.”</p> + +<p>“Good,” said Jones, “I’d like to see them.”</p> + +<p>“Guess what they cost?”</p> + +<p>“Can’t.”</p> + +<p>“Two hundred and fifty—and they are a bargain. You’re not shocked, are +you?”</p> + +<p>“Not a bit.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_156" id="pg_156">156</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well, come and look at them—what’s the time? Half past ten.” She led +the way upstairs.</p> + +<p>On the first landing she turned to the left, opened a door and disclosed +a bed-room where a maid was moving about arranging things and unpacking +boxes.</p> + +<p>A large cardboard box lay open on the floor, it was filled with snow +white lingerie. The instinct to bolt came upon Jones so strongly that he +might have obeyed it, only for the hand upon his arm pressing him down +into a chair.</p> + +<p>“Anne,” said the Countess of Rochester, “bring out my new evening gowns, +I want to show them.”</p> + +<p>Then she turned to the cardboard box. “Here’s some more of my +extravagance. I couldn’t resist them, Venetia nearly had a fit when she +saw the bill—Look!”</p> + +<p>She exhibited frilled and snow white things, delicate and diaphanous and +fit to be worn by angels. Then the dresses arrived, and were laid out on +the bed and inspected. There was a black gown and a grey gown and a +confection in pale blue. If Jones had been asked to price them he would +have said a hundred dollars. Like most men he was absolutely unconscious +of the worth of a woman’s dress. To a woman a Purdy and a ten guinea +Birmingham gun are just the same, and to a man, a ten guinea Bayswater +dress is little different, if worn by a pretty girl, from a seventy +guinea Bond Street—is it Bond Street—rig out. Unless he is a man +milliner.</p> + +<p>Jones said “beautiful,” gave the palm to the blue, and watched them +carried off again by the maid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_157" id="pg_157">157</a></span></p> + +<p>He had left his cigarettes down stairs; there were some in a box on a +table, she made him take one and lit it for him, then she disappeared +into a room adjoining, returning in a few minutes dressed in a kimono +covered with golden swallows and followed by the maid. Then she took her +seat before a great mirror and the maid began to take down her hair and +brush it.</p> + +<p>As the brushing went on she talked to the maid and to Jones upon all +sorts of subjects. To the maid about the condition of +her—Teresa’s—hair, and a new fashion in hair dressing, to Jones about +the Opera, the stoutness of Caruso, and kindred matters.</p> + +<p>The hair having been arranged in one great gorgeous plait, Jones +suddenly breaking free from a weird sort of hypnotism that had held him +since first entering the room, rose to his feet.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be back in a minute,” said he.</p> + +<p>He crossed the room, reached the door, opened it and passed out closing +the door. In the corridor he stood for half a moment with his hand to +his head.</p> + +<p>Then he came down the stairs, crossed the hall, seized a hat and +overcoat, put them on and opened the hall door.</p> + +<p>All the way down the stairs and across the hall, he felt as though he +were being driven along by some viewless force, and now, standing at the +door, that same force pushed him out of the house and on to the steps.</p> + +<p>He closed the door, came down the steps, and turned to the right.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_158" id="pg_158">158</a></span> +<a name="THE_MENTAL_TRAP_4451" id="THE_MENTAL_TRAP_4451"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +<h3>THE MENTAL TRAP</h3> +</div> + +<p>It was a beautiful night, warm and starlit, the waning moon had just +begun to rise in the east and as he turned into the green Park a breath +of tepid wind, grass-scented and balmy blew in his face.</p> + +<p>He walked in the direction of Buckingham Palace.</p> + +<p>Where was he to go? He had no ideas, no plans.</p> + +<p>He had failed in performing the Duty that Fate had arranged for him to +perform. He had failed, but not through cowardice, or at least not +through fear of consequences to himself.</p> + +<p>The man who refuses to cut a lamb’s throat, even though Duty calls him +to the act, has many things to be said for him.</p> + +<p>His distracted mind was not dealing with this matter, however. What held +him entirely was the thought of her waiting for him and how she would +feel when she found he had deserted her. He had acted like a brute and +she would hate him accordingly. Not him, but Rochester.</p> + +<p>It was the same thing. The old story. Hatred, obloquy, disdain levelled +against Rochester affected him as though it were levelled against +himself. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_159" id="pg_159">159</a></span> could not take refuge in his own personality. Even on the +first day of his new life he had found that out at the club. Since then +the struggle to maintain his position and the battles he had fought had +steadily weakened his mental position as Jones, strengthened his +position as Rochester.</p> + +<p>The strange psychological fact was becoming plain, though not to him, +that the jealousy he ought to have felt on account of this woman’s love +for Rochester was not there.</p> + +<p>This woman had fascinated him, as women had perhaps never fascinated a +man before; she had kissed him, she loved him, and though his reason +told him quite plainly that he was Victor Jones and that she loved and +had kissed another man, his heart did not resent that fact.</p> + +<p>Rochester was dead. It seemed to him that Rochester had never lived.</p> + +<p>He left the Park and came along Knightsbridge still thinking of her +sitting there waiting for him, his mind straying from that to the kiss, +the dinner, the bowl of roses that stood between them—her voice.</p> + +<p>Then all at once these considerations vanished, all at once, and like an +extinguisher, fell on him that awful sensation of negation.</p> + +<p>His mind pulled this way and that between contending forces, became a +blank written across with letters of fire forming the question:</p> + +<p>“Who am I?”</p> + +<p>The acutest physical suffering could not have been worse than that +torture of the over-taxed brain, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_160" id="pg_160">160</a></span> feeling that if he did not clutch +at <i>himself</i> he would become nothing.</p> + +<p>He ran for a few yards—then it passed and he found himself beneath a +lamp-post recovering and muttering his own name rapidly to himself like +a charm to exorcise evil.</p> + +<p>“Jones—Jones—Jones.”</p> + +<p>He looked around.</p> + +<p>There were not many people to be seen, but a man and woman a few yards +away were standing and looking at him. They had evidently stopped and +turned to see what he was about and they went on when they saw him +observing them.</p> + +<p>They must have thought him mad.</p> + +<p>The hot shame of the idea was a better stimulant than brandy. He walked +on. He was no longer thinking of the woman he had just left. He was +thinking of himself.</p> + +<p>He had been false to himself.</p> + +<p>The greatest possession any man can have in the world is himself. Some +men let that priceless property depreciate, some improve it, it is given +to few men to tamper with it after the fashion of Jones.</p> + +<p>He saw this now, and just as though a pit had opened before him he drew +back. He must stop this double life at once and become his own self in +reality; failing to do that he would meet madness. He recognised this. +No man’s brain could stand what he had been going through for long; had +he been left to himself he might have adapted his mind gradually to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_161" id="pg_161">161</a></span> the +perpetual shifting from Jones to Rochester and vice versa. The woman had +brought things to a crisis. The horror that had now suddenly fallen on +him, the horror of the return of that awful feeling of negation, the +horror of losing himself, cast all other considerations from his mind.</p> + +<p>He must stop this business at once.</p> + +<p>He would go away, return straight to America.</p> + +<p>That was easy to be done—but would that save him? Would that free him +from this horrible clinging personality that he had so lightly cast +around himself?</p> + +<p>Nothing is stranger than mind. From the depth of his mind came the +whisper, “No.” Intuition told him that were he to go to Timbuctoo, +Rochester would cling to him, that he would wake up from sleep fancying +himself Rochester and then that feeling would return. What he required +was the recognition by other people that he was himself, Jones, that the +whole of this business was a deception, a stage play in real life. Their +abuse, their threats would not matter. Their blows would be welcome, so +he thought. Anything that would hit him back firmly into his real +position in the scheme of things and save him from the dread of some day +losing himself.</p> + +<p>After a while the exercise and night air calmed his mind. He had come to +the great decision. A decision immutable now, since it had to do with +the very core of his being. He would tell her everything. To-morrow +morning he would confess all. Her fascination<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_162" id="pg_162">162</a></span> upon him had loosened its +hold, the terror had done that. He no longer loved her. Had he ever +loved her? That was an open question, or in other words, a question no +man could answer. He only knew now that he did not crave for her regard, +only for her recognition of himself as Jones.</p> + +<p>She was the door out of the mental trap into which his mind had +blundered.</p> + +<p>These considerations had carried him far into a region of mean streets +and suburban houses. It was long after twelve o’clock and he fell to +thinking what he should do with himself for the rest of the night. It +was impossible to walk about till morning and he determined to return to +Carlton House Terrace, let himself in with his latch key and slip +upstairs to his room. If by any chance she had not retired for the night +and he chanced to meet her on the stairs or in the hall then the +confession must be made forthwith.</p> + +<p>It was after two o’clock when he reached the house. He opened the door +with his key and closing it softly, crossed the hall and went up the +stairs. One of the hall lamps had been left burning, evidently for him: +a lamp was burning also, in the corridor. He switched on the electric +light in his room and closed the door.</p> + +<p>Then he heaved a sigh of relief, undressed and got into bed.</p> + +<p>All across the hall, up the stairs, and along the corridor he had been +followed by the dread of meeting her and having to enter on that +terrible explanation right away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_163" id="pg_163">163</a></span></p> + +<p>The craving to tell her all had been supplanted for the moment by the +dread of the act.</p> + +<p>In the morning it would be different. He would be rested and have more +command over himself, so he fancied.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_164" id="pg_164">164</a></span> +<a name="ESCAPE_CLOSED_4610" id="ESCAPE_CLOSED_4610"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> +<h3>ESCAPE CLOSED</h3> +</div> + +<p>He was awakened by Mr. Church—one has always to give him the +prefix—pulling up the blinds. His first thought was of the task before +him.</p> + +<p>The mind does a lot of quiet business of its own when the blinds are +down and the body is asleep, and during the night, his mind, working in +darkness, had cleared up matters, countered and cut off all sorts of +fears and objections and drawn up a definite plan.</p> + +<p>He would tell her everything that morning. If she would not take his +word for the facts, then he would have a meeting of the whole family. He +felt absolutely certain that explaining things bit by bit and detail by +detail he could convince them of the death of Rochester and his own +existence as Jones; absolutely certain that they would not push matters +to the point of publicity. He held a trump card in the property he had +recovered from Mulhausen, were he to be exposed publicly as an impostor, +all about the Plinlimon letters, Voles and Mulhausen would come out. +Mulhausen, that very astute practitioner, would not be long in declaring +that he had been forced to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_165" id="pg_165">165</a></span> return the title deeds to protect his +daughter’s name. Voles would swear anything, and their case would stand +good on the proved fact that he, Jones, was a swindler. No, assuredly +the family would not press the matter to publicity.</p> + +<p>Having drunk his tea, he arose, bathed, and dressed with a calm mind.</p> + +<p>Then he came down stairs.</p> + +<p>She was not in the breakfast-room, where only one place was laid, and, +concluding that she was breakfasting in her own room, he sat down to +table.</p> + +<p>After the meal, and with another sheaf of the infernal early post +letters in his hand, he crossed to the smoking-room, where he closed the +door, put the letters on the table and lit a cigar. Then, having smoked +for a few minutes and collected his thoughts, he rang the bell and sent +for Mr. Church.</p> + +<p>“Church,” said he when that functionary arrived, “will you tell—my wife +I want to see her?”</p> + +<p>“Her ladyship left last night, your Lordship, she left at ten o’clock, +or a little after.”</p> + +<p>“Left! where did she go to?”</p> + +<p>“She went to the South Kensington Hotel, your Lordship.”</p> + +<p>“Good heavens! what made her—why did she go—ah, was it because I did +not come back?”</p> + +<p>“I think it was, your Lordship.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Church spoke gravely and the least bit stiffly. It could easily be +seen that as an old servant and faithful retainer he was on the woman’s +side in the business.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_166" id="pg_166">166</a></span></p> + +<p>“I had to go out,” said the other. “I will explain it to her when I see +her—It was on a matter of importance—Thanks, that will do, Church.”</p> + +<p>Alone again he finished his cigar.</p> + +<p>The awful fear of the night before, the fear of negation and the loss of +himself had vanished with a brain refreshed by sleep and before this +fact.</p> + +<p>What a brute he had been! She had come back forgiving him for who knows +what, she had taken his part against his traducers, kissed him. She had +fancied that all was right and that happiness had returned—and he had +coldly discarded her.</p> + +<p>It would have been less cruel to have beaten her. She was a good sweet +woman. He knew that fact, now, both instinctively and by knowledge. He +had not known it fully till this minute.</p> + +<p>Would it, after all, have been better to have deceived her and to have +played the part of Rochester? That question occurred to him for a moment +to be at once flung away. It was not so much personal antagonism to such +a course nor the dread of madness owing to his double life that cast it +out so violently, but the recognition of the goodness and lovableness of +the woman. Leaving everything else aside to carry on such a deception +with her, even to think of it, was impossible.</p> + +<p>More than ever was he determined to clear this thing up and tell her +all, and, to his honour be it said, his main motive now was to do his +best by her.</p> + +<p>He finished his cigar, and then going into the hall obtained his hat and +left the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_167" id="pg_167">167</a></span></p> + +<p>He did not know where the South Kensington Hotel might be, but a taxi +solved that question and shortly before ten o’clock he reached his +destination.</p> + +<p>Yes, Lady Rochester had arrived last night and was staying in the hotel, +and whilst the girl in the manager’s office was sending up his name and +asking for an interview Jones took his seat in the lounge.</p> + +<p>A long time—nearly ten minutes—elapsed, and then a boy brought him her +answer in the form of a letter.</p> + +<p>He opened it.</p> + +<div style="margin: 0 auto 0 auto; width:40%"> +<p>“<i>Never again. This is good-bye.</i>”</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“T.”</p> +</div> + +<p>That was the answer.</p> + +<p>He sat with the sheet of paper in his hand, contemplating the shape and +make of an armchair of wicker-work opposite him.</p> + +<p>What was he to do?</p> + +<p>He had received just the answer he might have expected, neither more nor +less. It was impossible for him to force an interview with her. He had +overthrown Voles, climbed over Mulhausen, but the flight of stairs +dividing him now from the private suite of the Countess of Rochester was +an obstacle not to be overcome by courage or direct methods, and he knew +of no indirect method.</p> + +<p>He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel +and took his way back to Carlton House Terrace.</p> + +<p>If she would not see him she could not refuse to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_168" id="pg_168">168</a></span> read a letter. He +would write to her and explain all. He would write in detail giving the +whole business, circumstance by circumstance. It would take him a long +while; he guessed that, and ordinary note-paper would not do. He had +seen a stack of manuscript paper, however, in one of the drawers of the +bureau, and having shut the door and lit a cigarette he took some of the +sheets of long foolscap, ruled thirty four lines to the page, and sat +down to the business. This is what he said:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Lady Rochester</span>,</p> + +<p>“<i>I want you to read what follows carefully and not to form any opinion +on the matter till all the details are before you. This document is not +a letter in the strict sense of the term, it’s more in the nature of an +invoice of the cargo of stupidity and bad luck, which I, the writer, +Victor Jones of Philadelphia, have been freighted with by an all-wise +Providence for its own incomprehensible ends.</i>”</p> +</div> + +<p>Providence held him up for a moment. Was Providence neuter or +masculine?—he risked it and left it neuter and continued.</p> + +<p>When the servant announced luncheon he had covered twenty sheets of +paper and had only arrived at the American bar of the Savoy.</p> + +<p>He went to luncheon, swallowed a whiting and half a cutlet, and +returned.</p> + +<p>He sat down, read what he had written, and tore it across.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_169" id="pg_169">169</a></span></p> + +<p>That would never do. It was like the vast prelude to a begging letter. +She would never read it through.</p> + +<p>He started again, beginning this time in the American bar of the Savoy, +writing very carefully. He had reached, by tea-time, the reading of +Rochester’s death in the paper.</p> + +<p>Well satisfied with his progress he took afternoon tea, and then sat +down comfortably to read what he had written.</p> + +<p>He was aghast with the result. The things that had happened to him were +believable because they had happened to him, but in cold writing they +had an air of falsity. She would never believe this yarn. He tore the +sheets across. Then he burned all he had written in the grate, took his +seat in the armchair and began to think of the devil.</p> + +<p>Surely there was something diabolical in the whole of this business and +the manner in which everything and every circumstance headed him off +from escape. After dinner he was sitting down to attempt a literary +forlorn hope, when a sharp voice in the hall made him pause.</p> + +<p>The door opened, and Venetia Birdbrook entered. She wore a new hat that +seemed bigger than the one he had last beheld and her manner was wild.</p> + +<p>She shut the door, walked to the table, placed her parasol on it and +began peeling off a glove.</p> + +<p>“She’s gone,” said Venetia.</p> + +<p>Jones had risen to his feet.</p> + +<p>“Who’s gone?”</p> + +<p>“Teresa—gone with Maniloff.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_170" id="pg_170">170</a></span></p> + +<p>He sat down. Then she blazed out.</p> + +<p>“Are you going to do nothing—are you going to sit there and let us all +be disgraced? She’s gone—she’s going—to Paris. It was through her maid +I learned it; she’s gone from the hotel by this—gone with Maniloff—are +you deaf or simply stupid? You <i>must</i> follow her.”</p> + +<p>He rose.</p> + +<p>“Follow her now, follow her and get her back, there is just a chance. +They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything—I will go with +you. There is a train at nine o’clock from Victoria, you have only just +time to catch it.”</p> + +<p>“I have no money,” said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly, +“only about four pounds.”</p> + +<p>“I have,” replied she, “and our car is at the door—are you afraid, or +is it that you don’t mind?”</p> + +<p>“Come on,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute was +buried in a stuffy limousine with Venetia’s sharp elbow poking him in +the side.</p> + +<p>He was furious.</p> + +<p>There are people who seem born for the express purpose of setting other +people by the ears. Venetia was one of them. Despite Voles, Mulhausen, +debts and want of balance one might hazard the opinion that it was +Venetia who had driven the unfortunate Rochester to his mad act.</p> + +<p>The prospect of a journey to Paris with this woman in pursuit of another +man’s wife was bad enough,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_171" id="pg_171">171</a></span> but it was not this prospect that made Jones +furious, though assisting. No doubt, it was Venetia herself.</p> + +<p>She raised the devil in him, and on the journey to the station, though +she said not a word, she managed to raise his exasperation with the +world, herself, himself and his vile position to the limit just below +the last.—The last was to come.</p> + +<p>At the station they walked through the crowd to the booking-office where +Venetia bought the tickets. Reminiscences of being taken on journeys as +a small boy by his mother flitted across the mind of Jones and did not +improve his temper.</p> + +<p>He looked at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes of the starting time +and he was in the act of evading a barrow of luggage when Venetia +arrived with the tickets.</p> + +<p>It had come into the mind of Jones that not only was he travelling to +Paris with the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook, in pursuit of the wife of another +man, but that they were travelling without luggage. If, in Philadelphia, +he had dreamt of himself in such a position he would have been disturbed +as to the state of his health and the condition of his liver, yet now, +in reality, the thing did not seem preposterous, he was concerned as to +the fact about the want of luggage.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said he, “what are we to do—I haven’t even a night-suit +of pyjamas. I haven’t even a toothbrush. No hotel will take us in.”</p> + +<p>“We don’t want an hotel,” said Venetia, “we’ll come back straight if we +can save Teresa. If not,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_172" id="pg_172">172</a></span> if she insists in pursuing her mad course, you +had better not come back at all. Come on and let us take our places in +the train.”</p> + +<p>They moved away and she continued.</p> + +<p>“For if she does you will never be able to hold up your head again, +everyone knows how you have behaved to her.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, stop it,” said he irritably. “I have enough to think about.”</p> + +<p>“You ought to.”</p> + +<p>Only just those three words, yet they set him off.</p> + +<p>“Ought I? Well, what of yourself? She told me last night things about +<i>you</i>.”</p> + +<p>“About me. What things?”</p> + +<p>“Never mind.”</p> + +<p>“But I do,” she stopped and he stopped.</p> + +<p>“I mind very much. What things did she tell you?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and that +though I was bad you were worse.”</p> + +<p>Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train +when she stopped dead like a pointer.</p> + +<p>“That’s them,” she said, in a hard, tense whisper.</p> + +<p>Jones looked.</p> + +<p>A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella under +his arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were +making their way through the crowd towards the train.</p> + +<p>The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_173" id="pg_173">173</a></span></p> + +<p>It was then that Venetia’s effect upon him acted as the contents of the +white-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the +blue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder.</p> + +<p>Venetia saw his face.</p> + +<p>“Don’t make a scene,” she cried.</p> + +<p>That was the stirring of the spoon.</p> + +<p>He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded +one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a +powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the +part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their “power” and +manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips.</p> + +<p>Jones wasn’t much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe +Hennessy’s, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, +Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger.</p> + +<p>He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right +under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella—and then—swift +as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the +jaw.</p> + +<p>The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under +them, then, shouting for help—that was the humorous and pitiable part +of it—scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again.</p> + +<p>Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally +injured.</p> + +<p>The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_174" id="pg_174">174</a></span></p> + +<p>You can fancy the scene.</p> + +<p>Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the +display—and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to +see worse—were moving away together through the throng, the floored one +with arms still out, was murmuring: “Brandee—brandee,” into the ear of +a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones’ side.</p> + +<p>Jones took him apart a few steps.</p> + +<p>“I am the Earl of Rochester,” said he, in a half whisper. “That guy has +got what he wanted—never mind what he was doing—kick the beast awake +and ask him if he wants to prosecute.”</p> + +<p>The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who was +now leaning on one arm.</p> + +<p>“Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?” asked the constable.</p> + +<p>“Nichévo,” murmured the other. “No. Brandee.”</p> + +<p>“Thought so,” said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with +the constable.</p> + +<p>“My address is Carlton House Terrace,” said he. “When you get that chap +on his pins you can tell him to come there and I’ll give him another +dose. Here’s a sovereign for you.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks, your Lordship,” said the guardian of the Peace, “you landed him +fine, I will say. I didn’t see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw the +knock out—you won’t have any more bother with him.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_175" id="pg_175">175</a></span> from his mind, all his +evil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting +jaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circumstance and +the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when +someone ran up from behind.</p> + +<p>It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering.</p> + +<p>“Teresa is in the car—You have done it now—you have done it now. What +<i>made</i> you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open +station—before everyone—you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace on +us—on <i>me</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, shut up,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>He sighted the car, ran to it and opened the door. A whimpering bundle +in the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off.</p> + +<p>“Oh! oh! oh!” sighed and murmured the bundle.</p> + +<p>Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in and kissed it. Then he turned +to Venetia who had followed him.</p> + +<p>“Get in,” he said.</p> + +<p>She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put her +head out of the window:</p> + +<p>“Home,” cried she to the chauffeur.</p> + +<p>Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then he +began to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in a +weird sort of monologue.</p> + +<p>“All this is nothing,” said he, “you must both forget it. When you hear +what I have to tell you to-morrow you won’t bother to remember all this. +No one that counts saw that, they were all strangers and<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_176" id="pg_176">176</a></span> making for the +cars—I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this—I must +have a meeting of the whole family to-morrow, to-morrow morning. Not +about this affair, about something else, something entirely to do with +me. I have been trying to explain all day—tried to write it out but +couldn’t. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you all +out of time.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t want to do it—I hate him—oh, Ju-Ju, +if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it, +never, never, never.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” he replied, “but it was not my fault leaving you like that. I +had to go. You will know everything to-morrow—when you hear all you +will very likely never speak to me again—though I am innocent enough, +Lord knows.”</p> + +<p>Then came Venetia’s voice:</p> + +<p>“This is new—Heaven <i>knows</i> we have had disgrace enough—what else is +going to fall on us?—Why put it off till to-morrow—what new thing have +you done?”</p> + +<p>Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceased +sniffing and turned on Venetia.</p> + +<p>“No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right to +accuse him.”</p> + +<p>“Accuse him!” cried the outraged Venetia.</p> + +<p>“Yes, accuse him; you don’t say it, but you feel it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_177" id="pg_177">177</a></span> I believe you’d be +glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible.”</p> + +<p>Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen.</p> + +<p>Teresa had put her finger on the spot.</p> + +<p>Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, a +Righteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of other +people’s sins gave her pleasure.</p> + +<p>Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had +suddenly entered his practical mind.</p> + +<p>“Good heavens,” said he, “what has become of your luggage?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied the roused one, “let it go with +the rest.”</p> + +<p>The car drew up.</p> + +<p>“You will stay with us to-night, I suppose,” said Venetia coldly.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so,” replied the other.</p> + +<p>Jones got out.</p> + +<p>“I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o’clock,” said he. “I want +the whole family present.”—Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct +Rochester—“Don’t worry about what took place this evening. It was all +my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the +morning.”</p> + +<p>She sighed and passed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in a +dream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_178" id="pg_178">178</a></span> +then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It was +Curzon street. Then he walked home.</p> + +<p>Come what might he had done a good evening’s work. More than ever did he +feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love.</p> + +<p>What a woman! and what a fate!</p> + +<p>It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace, +that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and +lurid light.</p> + +<p>Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, but +up to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman +showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual +likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have +a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never +thought of her, or he had not cared.</p> + +<p>And such a wife!</p> + +<p>“That fellow ought to be dug up and—cremated,” said Jones to himself as +he opened the door with his latch key. “He ought, sure. Well, I hope +I’ll cremate his reputation to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed.</p> + +<p>He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the +morrow, of what he would say to start with—then he gave up the attempt, +determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_179" id="pg_179">179</a></span> +<a name="THE_FAMILY_COUNCIL_5116" id="THE_FAMILY_COUNCIL_5116"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> +<h3>THE FAMILY COUNCIL</h3> +</div> + +<p>He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, +and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his +seat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best he +could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to +the sounds of the house and the street outside.</p> + +<p>He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices.</p> + +<p>Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, +for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though two +servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words.</p> + +<p>One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs +lightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door opened +and the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff +waistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing his +eye glasses.</p> + +<p>He nodded at Jones.</p> + +<p>“Morning,” said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. “The +women will be up in a moment.” He took his seat and spread open the +paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_180" id="pg_180">180</a></span> as if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles, +“Glad to hear from Collins you’ve got that land back. I was in there +just after you left and he told me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Jones, “I’ve got it back.” He had no time to say more as at +that moment the door opened and the “women” appeared, led by the Dowager +Countess of Rochester.</p> + +<p>Venetia shut the door and they took their seats about the room whilst +Jones, who had risen, reseated himself.</p> + +<p>Then, with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began:</p> + +<p>“I have asked you all to come here this morning—I asked you to meet me +this morning because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruder +into your family—”</p> + +<p>“An intruder,” cried the mother of the defunct. “Arthur, what <i>are</i> you +saying?”</p> + +<p>“One moment,” he went on. “I want to begin by explaining what I have +done for you all and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest man +even though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have got +back one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mine +property and other money as well, one million and eight thousand pounds +that would have been a dead loss only for me.”</p> + +<p>“You have acted like a man,” said the Duke of Melford, “go on—what do +you mean about intrusion?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_181" id="pg_181">181</a></span></p> + +<p>“Let me tell the thing in my own way,” said Jones irritably. “The late +Lord Rochester got dreadfully involved owing to his own stupidity with a +woman—I call him the late Lord Rochester because I have to announce now +the fact of his death.”</p> + +<p>The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat like +frozen corpses for a moment, then they moved, casting terrified eyes at +one another. It was the Duke of Melford who spoke.</p> + +<p>“We will leave your father’s name alone,” said he; “yes, we know he is +dead—what more have you to say?”</p> + +<p>“I was not talking of my father,” said Jones, beginning to get bogged +and slightly confused, also angry, “he was not my father. If you will +only listen to me without interrupting I will make things plain. I am +talking of myself—or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earl +of Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester, he is dead—” +He turned to Rochester’s wife. “I <i>hate</i> to have to tell you this right +out and in such a manner, but it has to be told. I am not your husband. +I am an American. My name is Victor Jones, and I come from +Philadelphia.”</p> + +<p>The Dowager Countess of Rochester who had been leaning forward in her +chair, sank back, she had fainted.</p> + +<p>Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife of +Rochester who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner ran from +the room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_182" id="pg_182">182</a></span></p> + +<p>Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned +to consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from +the room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused in +lamentation:</p> + +<p>“My boy—my poor boy.”</p> + +<p>Venetia had said nothing.</p> + +<p>Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was something +in all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, +seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially.</p> + +<p>The Duke of Melford shut the door.</p> + +<p>“Your mother—I mean Lady Rochester’s heart is not strong,” said he, +going to the bell and touching it. “I must send for the doctor to see +her.”</p> + +<p>Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat down +again.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said he, “I can’t make you all out—you’ve called me no +names—you haven’t let me fully explain, the old lady is the only one +that seems to have taken the news in. Can’t you understand what I have +told you?”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly,” said the old gentleman, “and it’s the most extraordinary +thing I have ever heard—and the most interesting—I want to have a long +talk about it.—James,” to the servant who had answered the bell, +“telephone for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. +Simms.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_183" id="pg_183">183</a></span></p> + +<p>“That will do,” said his grace.</p> + +<p>“Yes, ’pon my soul, it’s quite extraordinary,” he took a cigar case from +his pocket, proffered a cigar which Jones took, and then lit one +himself.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said Jones suddenly alarmed by a new idea, “you aren’t +guying me, are you?—you haven’t taken it into your heads that I’ve gone +dotty—mad?”</p> + +<p>“Mad!” cried the old gentleman with a start. “Never—such an idea never +entered my mind. Why—why should it?”</p> + +<p>“Only you take this thing so quietly.”</p> + +<p>“Quietly—well, what would you have? My dear fellow, what is the good of +shouting—ever? Not a bit. It’s bad form. I take everything as it +comes.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, listen whilst I tell you how all this happened. I came over +here some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Government +over some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. +Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than ten +pounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy lounge when in came a +man whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn’t place his name on him. +We had drinks together in the American bar, then we went upstairs to the +lounge. He would not tell me who he was. ‘Look in the looking-glass +behind you,’ said he, ‘and you will see who I am.’ I looked and I saw +him. I was his twin image. I must tell you first that I had been having +some champagne cocktails and a whisky and soda. I’m not used to drink. +We had a jamboree together and<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_184" id="pg_184">184</a></span> dinner at some place, and then he sent +me home as himself—I was blind.</p> + +<p>“When I woke up next morning I said nothing but lay low, thinking it was +all a joke. I ought to have spoken at once, but didn’t, one makes +mistakes in life—”</p> + +<p>“We all do that,” said the other; “yes—go on.”</p> + +<p>“And later that day I opened a newspaper and saw my name and that I had +committed suicide. It was Rochester, of course, that had committed +suicide; did it on the underground.—Then I was in a nice fix. There I +was in Rochester’s clothes, with not a penny in my pockets; couldn’t go +to the hotel, couldn’t go anywhere—so I determined to be Rochester, for +a while, at least.</p> + +<p>“I found his affairs in an awful muddle. You know that business about +the coal mine. Well, I’ve managed to right his affairs. I wasn’t +thinking of any profit to myself over the business, I just did it +because it was the right thing to do.</p> + +<p>“Now I want to be perfectly plain with you. I might have carried on this +game always and lived in Rochester’s shoes only for two things, one is +his wife, the other is a feeling that has been coming on me that if I +carried on any longer I might go dotty. Times I’ve had attacks of a +feeling that I did not know who I was. It’s leading this double life, +you know. Now I want to get right back and be myself and cut clear of +all this. You can’t think what it has been, carrying on this double +life, hearing the servants calling me ‘your lordship.’ I couldn’t have +imagined it would<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_185" id="pg_185">185</a></span> have acted on the brain so. I’ve been simply crazy to +hear someone calling me by my right name—well, that’s the end of the +matter, I want to settle up and get back to the States—”</p> + +<p>The door opened and a servant appeared.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Simms has arrived, your grace.”</p> + +<p>The Duke of Melford rose from his chair.</p> + +<p>“One moment,” said he to Jones. He left the room closing the door.</p> + +<p>Jones tipped the ash of his cigar into a jardinière near by.</p> + +<p>He was astonished and a bit disturbed by the cool manner in which his +wonderful confession had been received. “Can it be they are laying low +and sending for the police?” thought he.</p> + +<p>He was debating this question when the door opened and the Duke walked +in, followed by a bald, elderly, pleasant-looking man; after this latter +came a cadaverous gentleman, wearing glasses.</p> + +<p>The bald man was Dr. Simms, the cadaverous, Dr. Cavendish.</p> + +<p>Simms nodded at Jones as though he knew him.</p> + +<p>“I have asked these gentlemen as friends of the family to step in and +talk about this matter before seeing Lady Rochester,” said the Duke. +“She has been taken to her room, and is not yet prepared for visitors.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be delighted to help in any way,” said Simms; “my services, +professional or private, are always at your disposal, your grace.” He +sat down and turned to Jones. “Now tell us all about it,” said he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_186" id="pg_186">186</a></span></p> + +<p>Cavendish took another chair and the Duke remained standing.</p> + +<p>Jones felt irritated, felt somewhat as a maestro would feel who, having +finished that musical obstacle race The Grand Polonnaise, finds himself +requested to play it again.</p> + +<p>“I’ve told the whole thing once,” said he, “I can’t go over it +again—the Duke knows.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly Cavendish spoke:</p> + +<p>“I understand from what his grace said on the stairs, that there is some +trouble about identity?”</p> + +<p>“Some trouble,” said Jones; “I reckon you are right in calling it some +trouble.”</p> + +<p>“You are Mr. Jones, I think,” said Simms.</p> + +<p>“Victor Jones was the name I was christened by,” answered Jones.</p> + +<p>“Quite so, American?”</p> + +<p>“American.”</p> + +<p>“Now, Mr. Jones, as a matter of formality, may I ask where you live in +America?”</p> + +<p>“Philadelphia.”</p> + +<p>“And in Philadelphia what might be your address?”</p> + +<p>“Number one thousand, one hundred and one, Walnut Street,” replied +Jones.</p> + +<p>Cavendish averted his head for a moment and the Duke shifted his +position on the hearthrug, leaving his elbow on the mantel and caressing +for a moment his chin.</p> + +<p>Simms alone remained unmoved.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_187" id="pg_187">187</a></span></p> + +<p>“Just so,” said Simms. “Have you any family?”</p> + +<p>“Nope.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon.”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“I thought you said nope—my mistake.”</p> + +<p>“Not a bit, I did say nope—it’s short for no.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Short</i> for no—I see, just so.”</p> + +<p>Cavendish interposed with an air of interest.</p> + +<p>“How would you spell that word?” asked he. Jones resented Cavendish +somehow.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” said he, “this isn’t a spelling bee. N-o-p-e I suspect. +You gentlemen have undertaken to question me on behalf of the family as +to my identity, I think we had better stick to that point.”</p> + +<p>“Just so,” said Simms, “precisely—”</p> + +<p>“Excuse me,” said the Duke of Melford, “I think if Mr. er—Jones wishes +to prove his identity as Mr. Jones he will admit that his actions will +help. Now Lord Rochester was a very, shall we say, fastidious person, +quiet in his actions.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, was he,” said Jones, “that’s news.”</p> + +<p>“Quiet, that is to say, in his movements—let it stand at that. Now my +friend Collins said to me something about the eating of a document—”</p> + +<p>Jones bristled. “Collins had no right to tell you that,” said he, “I +told him that privately. When did he tell you that?”</p> + +<p>“When I called, just after his interview with you—he did not say it in +anyway offensively. In fact he seemed to admire you for your—energy and +so forth.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_188" id="pg_188">188</a></span></p> + +<p>“Did you, in fact, eat a document?” asked Simms, with an air of bland +interest.</p> + +<p>“I did—and saved a very nasty situation, <i>and</i> a million of money.”</p> + +<p>“What was the document?” asked Cavendish.</p> + +<p>“A bill of exchange.”</p> + +<p>“Now may I ask why you did that?” queried Simms.</p> + +<p>“No, you mayn’t,” replied Jones, “it’s a private affair affecting the +honour of another person.”</p> + +<p>“Quite so,” said Simms, “but just one more question. Did you hear a +voice telling you to—er—eat this paper?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“What sort of voice was it?”</p> + +<p>“It was the sort of voice that belongs to common-sense.”</p> + +<p>“Ha, ha,” laughed Cavendish. “Good, very good,—but there is just +something I want to ask. How was it, Mr.—er—Jones, that you turned +into your present form, exchanged your position as it were with the Earl +of Rochester?”</p> + +<p>“O Lord,” said Jones. Then to the Duke of Melford, “Tell them.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the Duke. “Mr. Jones was sitting in the lounge of an hotel +when a gentleman entered whom he knew but could not recognize.”</p> + +<p>“Couldn’t place his name,” cut in Jones.</p> + +<p>“Precisely. The gentleman said ‘turn round and look in that mirror’—”</p> + +<p>“You’ve left the drinks out,” said Jones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_189" id="pg_189">189</a></span></p> + +<p>“True. Mr. Jones and the gentleman had partaken of certain drinks.”</p> + +<p>“What were the drinks?” put in Simms.</p> + +<p>“Champagne cocktails, whisky and soda, then a bottle of +Bollinger—after,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Jones looked into the mirror,” continued the Duke, “and saw that he +was the other gentleman, that is to say, Lord Rochester.”</p> + +<p>“No, the twin image,” put in Jones.</p> + +<p>“The twin image—well, after that more liquor was consumed—”</p> + +<p>“The chap doped me with drink and sent me home as himself,” cut in +Jones, “and I woke up in a strange bed with a guy pulling up the window +blinds.”</p> + +<p>“A guy?” put in Cavendish.</p> + +<p>“A chap. Church is his name—I thought I was being bamboozled, so I +determined to play the part of Lord Rochester—you know the rest.” +Turning to the Duke of Melford.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Cavendish, “I don’t think we need ask any more questions of +Mr. Jones; we are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones and—er—the Earl +of Rochester are different.”</p> + +<p>“Quite so,” said Simms, “we are sure of his <i>bonafides</i> and of course it +is for the family to decide how to meet this extraordinary situation. I +am sure they will sympathize with Mr. Jones and make no trouble. It is +quite evident he had no wrong intent.”</p> + +<p>“Now you are talking,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Quite so—One more question, does it seem to you I have not been +talking at all up to this?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_190" id="pg_190">190</a></span></p> + +<p>Jones laughed. “It seems to me you have uttered <i>one</i> word or two—ask a +bee in a bottle, has it been buzzing.”</p> + +<p>The cadaverous Cavendish, who, from his outward appearance presented no +signs of a sense of humour, exploded at this hit, but Simms remained +unmoved.</p> + +<p>“Quite so,” said he. “Well, that’s all that remains to be said—but, now +as a professional man, has not all this tried you a good deal, Mr. +Jones?—I should think it was enough to try any man’s health.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, my health is all right,” said Jones. “I can eat and all that, but, +times, I’ve felt as if I wasn’t one person or the other, that’s one of +my main reasons for quitting, leaving aside other things. You see I had +to carry on up to a certain point, and, if you’ll excuse me blowing my +own horn, I think I’ve not done bad. I could have put my claws on all +that money—If I hadn’t been a straight man, there’s a lot of things I +could have done, ’pears to me. Well, now that everything is settled, I +think that ought to be taken into consideration. I don’t ask much, just +a commission on the money salved.”</p> + +<p>“Decidedly,” said Simms. “In my opinion you are quite right. But as a +professional man my concern just a moment ago was about your health.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, the voyage back to the States will put that right.”</p> + +<p>“Quite so, but you will excuse my professional instinct—and I am giving +you my services for nothing, if you will let me—I notice signs of nerve +exhaustion—Let’s look at your tongue.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_191" id="pg_191">191</a></span></p> + +<p>Jones put out his tongue.</p> + +<p>“Not bad,” said Simms. “Now just cross your legs.”</p> + +<p>Jones crossed his legs, right over left, and Simms, standing before him, +gave him a little sharp tap just under the right knee cap. The leg flew +out.</p> + +<p>Jones laughed.</p> + +<p>“Exaggerated patella reflex,” said Simms. “Nerve fag, nothing more. A +pill or two is all you want. You don’t notice any difficulty in speech?”</p> + +<p>“Not much,” said Jones, laughing.</p> + +<p>“Say—‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.’”</p> + +<p>“‘Peter Peter piped a pick—’” began Jones, then he laughed.</p> + +<p>“You can’t say it,” said Simms, cocking a wise eyebrow.</p> + +<p>“You bet I can,” said the patient. “‘Peter Piper pucked a pick’”—</p> + +<p>“Nerve exhaustion,” said Simms.</p> + +<p>“Say, Doc,” cut in Jones, beginning to feel slight alarm. “What are you +getting at, you’re beginning to make me feel frightened, there’s not +anything really wrong with me, is there?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing but what can be righted by care,” replied Simms.</p> + +<p>“Let me try Mr. Jones with a lingual test,” said Cavendish. “Say: ‘She +stood at the door of the fish-sauce shop in the Strand welcoming him +in.’”</p> + +<p>“She stood at the door of the fish shauce shop in the Strand welcom-om +ming im,” said Jones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_192" id="pg_192">192</a></span></p> + +<p>“H’m, h’m,” said Cavendish.</p> + +<p>“That’s crazy,” said Jones, “nobody could say that—Oh, I’m all right—I +reckon a little liver pill will fix me up.”</p> + +<p>The two doctors withdrew to a window and said a few words together. Then +they both nodded to the Duke of Melford.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the Duke, “that’s settled and now, Mr. Jones, I hope you +will stay here for luncheon.”</p> + +<p>Jones had had enough of that house.</p> + +<p>“Thanks,” said he, “but I think I’ll be getting back. I want a walk. +You’ll find me at Carlton House Terrace where we can finish up this +business. It’s a weight off my mind now everything is over—whew! I can +tell you I’m hungry for the States.”</p> + +<p>He rose and took his hat which he had placed on the floor, nodded to the +Duke of Melford and turned to the door.</p> + +<p>Simms was standing in front of the door.</p> + +<p>“Excuse me,” said Simms, “but I would not advise you to go out in your +condition, much better stay here till your nerves have recovered.”</p> + +<p>Jones stared at him.</p> + +<p>“My nerves are all right,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Don’t, my dear fellow,” said Cavendish.</p> + +<p>Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door.</p> + +<p>Simms was barring the way still.</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Jones, “think I was a baby. I tell you I’m +all right—what on earth do<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_193" id="pg_193">193</a></span> you mean—upon my soul, you’re like a lot +of children.”</p> + +<p>He tried to pass Simms.</p> + +<p>“You must not leave this room yet,” said Simms. “Pray quiet yourself.”</p> + +<p>“You mean to say you’ll stop me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend the +Dowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they considered +him to be Rochester—Rochester gone mad.</p> + +<p>Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a mad +man, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old lady +had fainted, that was why his wife—at least Rochester’s wife, had run +from the room like a blind woman.</p> + +<p>He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then he +spoke:</p> + +<p>“Open that door—get away from that door.”</p> + +<p>“Sit down and <i>quiet</i> yourself,” said Simms, staring him full in the +eye, “you—will—not—leave-this—house.”</p> + +<p>It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones.</p> + +<p>Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouted +directions, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free of +Cavendish, the rough and tumble began.</p> + +<p>They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinières, little +tables, costly china.</p> + +<p>Jones’ foot went into a china cabinet carrying<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_194" id="pg_194">194</a></span> destruction amongst a +concert party of little Dresden figures; Simms’ portly behind bumped +against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess +of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust, and the Duke of +Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business with +the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin that +recalled Eton across a long vista of years.</p> + +<p>Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back +with the Duke’s bandanna handkerchief.</p> + +<p>Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping and +banging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came to +the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” said he, “nothing wrong. Off with you.”</p> + +<p>He shut the door and turned to the couch.</p> + +<p>Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily un-smashed, +caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and towsled with Simms beside +him and Cavendish standing by, re-fixing his glasses.</p> + +<p>He recognised a terrible fact; though he had smashed hundreds of pounds’ +worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, now +that the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. +Simms was patting his shoulder.</p> + +<p>He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, to +fight without raising ire in one’s antagonists, to smash with +impunity—to murder without being brought to justice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_195" id="pg_195">195</a></span></p> + +<p>Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like a +mad-man—that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and +madness have awful similarities.</p> + +<p>He moved slightly away from Simms.</p> + +<p>“I reckon I’ve been a fool,” said he, “three to one is not fair play. +Come, let my hands free, I won’t fight any more.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said Simms. “But let me point out that we were not fighting +you in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimental +to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd +handkerchief?”</p> + +<p>Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists.</p> + +<p>“What are you going to do now?” asked he.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” said Simms, “you are perfectly free, but we don’t want you to +go out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say that +you feel all right. No matter, take a physician’s advice and just remain +here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you can +amuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a little +prescription for you?”</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said Jones. “Let’s talk quietly for a moment—you think I’m +mad.”</p> + +<p>“Not in the least!” said Simms. “You are only suffering from a nerve +upset.”</p> + +<p>“Well, if I’m not mad you have no right to keep me here.”</p> + +<p>This was cunning, but, unfortunately, cunning like<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_196" id="pg_196">196</a></span> anger, is an +attribute of madness as well as of sanity.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said Simms, with an air of great frankness, “do you think that it +is for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are not +keeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library and +I will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have considered +matters a bit you can use your own discretion about going.”</p> + +<p>Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight this +man with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His tale +was such that no man would believe it, and, persisting in that tale, he +would be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester’s bad +reputation for sanity. They called him mad Rochester.</p> + +<p>Then as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspiration +seized him.</p> + +<p>He stopped at the drawing-room door.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said he, “one moment. I can prove what I say. You send out +a man to Philadelphia and make enquiries, fetch some of the people over +that knew me. You’ll find I’m—myself and that I’ve told you no lie.”</p> + +<p>“We will do anything you like,” said Simms, “but first let us go down to +the library.”</p> + +<p>They went. It was a large, pleasant room lined with books.</p> + +<p>Simms sat down at the writing-table, whilst the others took chairs. He +wrote a prescription, and the Duke, ringing the bell, ordered a servant +to take the prescription to the chemists.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_197" id="pg_197">197</a></span></p> + +<p>Then during the twenty minutes before the servant returned they talked. +Jones, giving again his address, that fantastic address which was yet +real, and the names and descriptions of people he knew and who would +know him.</p> + +<p>“You see, gentlemen,” said he, “it’s just this, I have only one crave in +life just now, to be myself again. Not exactly that, but to be +recognized as myself. You can’t imagine what that feeling is. You +needn’t tell me. I know exactly what you think, you think I’m Rochester +gone crazy. I know the yarn I’ve slung you sounds crazy, but it’s the +truth. The fact is I’ve felt at times that if I didn’t get someone to +recognize me as myself I’d <i>go</i> crazy. Just one person to believe in me, +that’s all I want and then I’d feel free of this cursed Rochester. Put +yourself in my place. Imagine that you have lost touch with everything +you ever were, that you were playing another man’s part and that +everyone in the world kept on insisting you were the other guy. Think of +that for a position. Why, gentlemen, you might open that door wide. I +wouldn’t want to go out, not till I had convinced one of you at all +events that my story was true. I wouldn’t want to go back to the States, +not till I had convinced you that I am who I am. It seems foolish but +it’s a bed-rock fact. I have to make good on this position, convince +someone who knows the facts, and so get myself back. It wouldn’t be any +use my going to Philadelphia. I’d say to people I know there, ‘I’m +Jones.’ They’d say, ‘Of course you are,’ and believe me. But then, do +you see, they wouldn’t know of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_198" id="pg_198">198</a></span> adventure and their belief in me +wouldn’t be a bit of good. Of course I <i>know</i> I’m Jones, all the same +I’ve been playing the part of Rochester so hard that times I’ve almost +believed I’m him, times I’ve lost myself, and I have a feeling at the +back of my mind that if I don’t get someone to believe me to be who I +am, I may go dotty in earnest. It’s a feeling without reason, I know. +It’s more like having a grit in the eye than anything else. I want to +get rid of that grit, and I can’t take it out myself, someone else must +do it. One person would be enough, just one person to believe in what I +say and I would be myself again. That’s why I want you to send to +Philadelphia. The mind is a curious thing, gentlemen, the freedom of the +body is nothing if the mind is not free, and my mind can never be free +till another person who knows my whole story believes in what I say. I +could not have imagined anyone being trapped like this—I’ve heard of an +actor guy once playing a part so often he went loony and fancied himself +the character. I’m not like that, I’m as sane as you, it’s just this +uneasy, uncomfortable feeling—this want to get absolutely clean out of +this business, that’s the trouble.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind!” said Simms cheerfully, “we will get you out only you must +<i>not</i> worry yourself. I admit that your story is strange, but we will +send to Philadelphia and make all enquiries—come in.”</p> + +<p>The servant had knocked at the door. He entered with the medicine. Simms +sent him for a wine glass and when it arrived he poured out a dose.</p> + +<p>“Now take a dose of your medicine like a man,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_199" id="pg_199">199</a></span> said the kindly +physician, jocularly, “and another in four hours’ time, it will re-make +your nerves.”</p> + +<p>Jones tossed the stuff off impatiently.</p> + +<p>“Say,” said he, “there’s another point I’ve forgot. You might go to the +Savoy and get the clerk there, he’d recognize me, the bar tender in the +American bar, he’d maybe be able to recognise me too, he saw us +together—I say I feel a bit drowsy, you haven’t doped me, have you?”</p> + +<p>Simms and Cavendish, leaving the house together five minutes later, had +a moment’s conversation on the steps.</p> + +<p>“What do you think of him?” said Simms.</p> + +<p>“Bad,” said Cavendish. “He reasons on his own case, that’s always bad, +and did you notice how cleverly he worked that in about wanting someone +to believe in him.”</p> + +<p>They walked down the street together.</p> + +<p>“That smash has been coming for a long time,” said Simms—“it’s an +heirloom. It’s a good thing it has come, he was getting to be a +bye-word—I wonder what it is that introduces the humorous element into +insanity; that address, for instance, one thousand one hundred and +ninety one Walnut Street, could never have strayed into a sane person’s +head.”</p> + +<p>“Nor a luncheon on bills of exchange,” said Cavendish. “Well, he will be +all right at Hoover’s. What was the dose you gave him?”</p> + +<p>“Heroin, mostly,” replied the other. “Well, so long.”</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_200" id="pg_200">200</a></span> +<a name="HOOVERS_5820" id="HOOVERS_5820"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> +<h3>HOOVER’S</h3> +</div> + +<p>Jones, after the magic draught administered by Simms, entered into a +blissful condition of twilight sleep, half sleep, half drowsiness, +absolute indifference. He walked with assistance to the hall door and +entered a motor car, it did not matter to him what he entered or where +he went, he did not want to be disturbed.</p> + +<p>He roused himself during a long journey to take a drink of something +held to his lips by someone, and sank back, tucking sleep around him +like a warm blanket.</p> + +<p>In all his life he had never had such a gorgeous sleep as that, his +weary and harassed brain revelled in moments of semi-consciousness, and +then sank back into the last abysms of oblivion.</p> + +<p>He awoke a new man, physically and mentally, and with an absolutely +clear memory and understanding. He awoke in a bed-room, a cheerful +bed-room, lit by the morning sun, a bed-room with an open window through +which came the songs of birds and the whisper of foliage.</p> + +<p>A young man dressed in a black morning coat was seated in an armchair by +the window, reading a book. He looked like a superior sort of servant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_201" id="pg_201">201</a></span></p> + +<p>Jones looked at this young man, who had not yet noticed the awakening of +the sleeper, and Jones, as he looked at him, put facts together.</p> + +<p>Simms, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where he +was, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, +whatever it was; they had thought him mad—they had carted him off to a +mad-house, this was a mad-house, that guy in the chair was an attendant. +He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger and +little surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed by +profound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light.</p> + +<p>It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in a +mad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because he +knew that he was sane. The situation was amusing, it was also one to get +free from—but there was plenty of time, and there was no room for +making mistakes.</p> + +<p>Curiously enough, now, the passionate or almost passionate desire to +recover his own personality had vanished, or at least, was no longer +active in his mind; his brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was no +longer tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curious +craving to have others believe in his story and to have others recognize +him as Jones.</p> + +<p>No, it did not matter to him just now whether he recovered his +personality in the eyes of others; what did matter to him was the +recovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution. Like Brer Rabbit, he +determined to “lie low.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_202" id="pg_202">202</a></span></p> + +<p>“Say,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>The young man by the window started slightly, rose, and came to the +bedside.</p> + +<p>“What o’clock?” said the patient.</p> + +<p>“It has just gone half past eight, sir,” replied the other. “I hope you +have slept well.”</p> + +<p>Jones noticed that this person did not “my Lord” him.</p> + +<p>“Not a wink,” said he, “tossed and tumbled all night—oh, say—what do +<i>you</i> think—”</p> + +<p>The young man looked puzzled.</p> + +<p>“And would you like anything now, sir?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—my pants. I want to get up.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready,” replied the other.</p> + +<p>He went to the fire-place and touched an electric button, then he +bustled about the room getting Jones’ garments together.</p> + +<p>The bed-room had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to a +bath-room; in a minute the bath-room door opened and a voice queried, +“Hot or cold?”</p> + +<p>“Hot,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Hot,” said the attendant.</p> + +<p>“Hot,” said the unseen person in the bath-room, as if registering the +order in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple of +minutes the voice:</p> + +<p>“Gentleman’s bath ready.”</p> + +<p>Jones bathed, and though the door of the bath-room had been shut upon him +and there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone was<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_203" id="pg_203">203</a></span> +watching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the other +door, and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid on +a small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and bacon +and sausages, he chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by the +pleasant summery sound of croquet balls knocking together, he looked out +of the window.</p> + +<p>Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet; stout elderly +gentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flannel +trousers and a grey tweed coat was seated watching the game and smoking +cigarettes.</p> + +<p>He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happy +enough, and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast.</p> + +<p>He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poor +quality—of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heed +much. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given him +a shock. Instinctively he knew them to be “inmates.” He had never +considered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vague +recollections of Edgar Allan Poe and the works of Charles Reade had +surrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of feather beds +and brutality; the word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of a +man obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quite +ordinary and pleasant in appearance, and these sane looking gentlemen +lunatics, gave him a grue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_204" id="pg_204">204</a></span></p> + +<p>The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisoner +was beginning to steal upon him, that a man might be able to play +croquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life and +yet, just because of some illusion, be held as a prisoner.</p> + +<p>He did not fully realise this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But he +did fully realise that he had lost his liberty.</p> + +<p>Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute.</p> + +<p>The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly; all that +haunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, he +would go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in the +National Provincial Bank; no one knew that it was there. He could seize +it with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow of +Rochester—oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actual +fact of lost liberty—so he told himself.</p> + +<p>A servant brought up the <i>Times</i> and he opened it, and lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, an +extraordinary feeling came upon him; all this printed matter was +relative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk down +the street, if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the world +through bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things had +been removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bed-room +adjoining.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_205" id="pg_205">205</a></span></p> + +<p>Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carried +away the things, and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor lay +outside, and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made him +turn.</p> + +<p>“Do you require anything, sir?”</p> + +<p>It was the attendant.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” said Jones. “I was just looking to see where this place led +to.” He came back into the room.</p> + +<p>He knew now that every movement of his was watched, and he accepted the +fact without comment. He sat down and took up the <i>Times</i> whilst the +attendant went back to the bed-room.</p> + +<p>He had said to himself on awaking, that a sane man, held as insane, +could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line of +reasoning now and casting about him for a method.</p> + +<p>He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that had all +at once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor. +Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called the +attendant.</p> + +<p>“I want to see the gentleman who runs this place.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Hoover, sir?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for.”</p> + +<p>He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message.</p> + +<p>Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutes +passed and then the door<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_206" id="pg_206">206</a></span> opened and a gentleman entered.</p> + +<p>A pleasant faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue serge and +with a rose in his button-hole, such was Doctor Hoover. But the eye of +the man held him apart from others; a blue grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, +for all the smile upon the pleasant face.</p> + +<p>Jones rose up.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Hoover, I think,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Good morning,” said the other in a hearty voice. “Fine day, isn’t it? +Well, how are we this morning?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m all right,” said Jones. “I want to have a little talk with +you.” He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closed +it.</p> + +<p>“For your sake,” said Jones, “it’s just as well we have no one +listening, the attendant is in there—you are sure he cannot hear what +we say, even with the door shut?”</p> + +<p>“Quite,” said Hoover, with a benign smile.</p> + +<p>He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications +concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food.</p> + +<p>He did not expect what followed.</p> + +<p>“I am not going to grumble at your having me here,” said Jones; “it’s my +fault for playing practical jokes. I didn’t think they’d go the length +of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them.”</p> + +<p>“And what name was that?” asked Hoover kindly.</p> + +<p>“Jones.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_207" id="pg_207">207</a></span></p> + +<p>“Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I’m the Earl of Rochester.”</p> + +<p>This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman’s face shewed +nothing.</p> + +<p>“Indeed,” said he, “then why did you call yourself Jones?”</p> + +<p>“For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me +a draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty, +and I drank it—you must have seen the condition I was in when I got +here.”</p> + +<p>“Hum, hum,” said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways of +gentlemen off their balance, and he had a profound belief in Simms and +Cavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he had +received with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said, with an air of absolute frankness, “this takes me by +surprise; a practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke?”</p> + +<p>“I know,” said Jones, “it was stupid, just a piece of tom-foolery—but +you see how I am landed.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst noting it.</p> + +<p>Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions seemingly irrelevant +enough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying out +such a practical joke? Why did he not say at once it was a practical +joke after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory as +good as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl of +Rochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochester<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_208" id="pg_208">208</a></span> he could hold that +title against a claim that he was not the Earl? Give details and so +forth?</p> + +<p>“Now suppose,” said Dr. Hoover, “I were to contest the title with you +and say ‘you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester,’ how would +you establish your claim. I am simply asking, to find out whether what +you consider to be a practical joke was in fact a slight lapse of memory +on your part, a slight mind disturbance such as is easily caused by +fatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeks +or months.</p> + +<p>“Now I must point out to you that, as—practical joke or not—you came +here calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you for +proof that you are <i>not</i> Mr. Jones. See my point?”</p> + +<p>“Quite.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, prove your case,” said the physician jovially.</p> + +<p>“How can I?”</p> + +<p>“Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is +your banker?”</p> + +<p>“Coutts.”</p> + +<p>Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester’s banker might be, but the +promptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth, the promptness was +also an index of sanity. He passed at a venture to a subject on which he +was acquainted.</p> + +<p>“And how many brothers and sisters have you?”</p> + +<p>That was fatal.</p> + +<p>Jones’ eye fell under the pressure of Hoover’s.</p> + +<p>“There is no use in going on with these absurd<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_209" id="pg_209">209</a></span> questions,” said he, “a +thing everyone knows.”</p> + +<p>“But I just want to prove to you,” said Hoover, gently, “that your mind, +which in a week from now, will have quite recovered, is still a little +bit shaky—now how long is it since you succeeded to the title? It’s +just a test memory question.”</p> + +<p>Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained an +appreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Simms and the cadaverous +Cavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense.</p> + +<p>Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was a +blind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questions +of which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came to +the grand determination to try back.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said he, “let’s be straight with one another. I can’t +answer your questions. Now if you are a man of sense, as I take you to +be, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselves +is mad, you will recognize <i>why</i> I can’t answer your questions. I’m not +Rochester. I thought I’d get out of here by pretending that I’d played a +practical joke on those guys; it was a false move, I acknowledge it, but +when I fixed on the idea, I didn’t know the man I had to deal with. If +you will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all this +business came about.”</p> + +<p>“Go on,” said Hoover.</p> + +<p>Jones told, and Hoover listened and when the tale was over, at the end +of a quarter of an hour or so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_210" id="pg_210">210</a></span> Jones scarcely believed it himself. It +sounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke of +Melford and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There was +something in Hoover’s eye, something in his make up and personality, +something veiled and critical, that destroyed confidence.</p> + +<p>“I have asked them to make enquiries,” finished Jones, “if they will +only do that everything will be cleared up.”</p> + +<p>“And you may rest content we will,” said Hoover.</p> + +<p>“Now for another thing,” said Jones. “Till I leave this place, which +will be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendant +not to be always watching me. I don’t know whether you think me mad or +sane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me, I’m not going to do +anything foolish, but if anything would drive me crazy, it would be +feeling that I am always watched like a child.”</p> + +<p>Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Then +he said:</p> + +<p>“You will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as you +like. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuse +yourself. I’ll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds till +your health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it’s a +sanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstowe for +neuritis, got it in India. You will like them. There are several others +who make up my household—you can come on down with me now—are you a +billiard player?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_211" id="pg_211">211</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes, I can play—but, see here, before we go down, where is this +place?—I don’t even know what part of the country it’s in.”</p> + +<p>“Sandbourne-on-sea,” replied Hoover, leading the way from the room.</p> + +<p>Now in London on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Simms, at +a dinner-party, given by Doctor Took of Bethlem Hospital had, relative +to the imagination of lunatics, given an instance:</p> + +<p>“Only to-day,” said Simms, “I had a case in point. A man gave me as his +supposed address, one thousand one hundred and ninety one, Walnut +Street, Philadelphia.”</p> + +<p>“But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia,” said Took, “and it’s ten +miles long, and the numbers run up well towards that.”</p> + +<p>Half an hour later, Simms got into his carriage.</p> + +<p>“Savoy Hotel, Strand,” said he to the coachman.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_212" id="pg_212">212</a></span> +<a name="AN_INTERLUDE_6202" id="AN_INTERLUDE_6202"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> +<h3>AN INTERLUDE</h3> +</div> + +<p>Simms in his electric brougham passed through the gas-lit streets in the +direction of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, but +seeing nothing.</p> + +<p>I love to linger over Simms, but what pages of description could +adequately describe him; buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with the +appearance of having been born and bred in a frock-coat, above all +things discreet; you can fancy him stepping out of his brougham, passing +into the hall of the hotel and presenting his card to the clerk with a +request for an interview with the manager. The manager being away, his +deputy supplied his place.</p> + +<p>“Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hotel +and on the night of the first of June had met with ‘an accident’ on the +underground railway. The police had taken charge of the business. What +address had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. +Walnut Street, Philadelphia.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks,” said Simms, “I came to enquire because a patient of mine +fancied, seeing the report, that it might be a relative. She must have +been mistaken,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_213" id="pg_213">213</a></span> for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thank +you—quite so—good evening.”</p> + +<p>In the hall Simms hesitated for a moment, then he asked a page boy for +the American bar, found it and ordered a glass of soda water.</p> + +<p>There were only one or two men in the bar and as Simms paid for his +drink he had a word with the bar tender.</p> + +<p>“Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who were +very much alike?”</p> + +<p>The bar tender did, and as an indication how in huge hotels dramatic +happenings may pass unknown to the staff not immediately concerned, he +had never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappy +demise he had read in the papers.</p> + +<p>He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, +never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, but +still like. His assistant had seen them too.</p> + +<p>“Quite so,” said Simms; “they are friends of mine and I hoped to see +them again here this evening—perhaps they are waiting in the lounge.”</p> + +<p>He finished his soda water and walked off. He sought the telephone +office and rang up Curzon Street.</p> + +<p>The Duke of Melford had dined at home but had gone out. He was at the +Buffs’ Club in Piccadilly.</p> + +<p>Simms drove to the Club.</p> + +<p>The Duke was in the library.</p> + +<p>His Grace had literary leanings. His “History of the Siege of +Bundlecund,” of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remained +unsold, had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_214" id="pg_214">214</a></span> deterred him from attempting the “Siege of Jutjutpore.” +He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and to-night he was in +the act of taking down some notes on the character of Fooze Ali, the +leader of the besiegers, when Simms was announced.</p> + +<p>The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting together +into a cosy corner, the two men talked.</p> + +<p>“Your Grace,” said Simms, “we have made a mistake. Your nephew is dead +and that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himself +to be.”</p> + +<p>“What! What! What!” cried the Duke.</p> + +<p>“There can be no doubt at all,” said Simms. “I have made enquiries.”</p> + +<p>He gave details. The Duke listened, his narrow brain incensed at this +monstrous statement that had suddenly risen up to confront it.</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe a word of it,” said he, when the recital was over, “and +what’s more, I won’t believe it. Do you mean to tell me I don’t know my +own nephew?”</p> + +<p>“It’s not a question of that,” said Simms. “It’s just a question of the +facts of the case. There is no doubt at all that a man exactly like the +late—your nephew, in fact, stayed at this hotel, that he there met +the—your nephew. There is no doubt that this man gave the address to +the hotel people he gave to us, and there is no doubt in my mind that he +could make out a very good case if he were free. That there would be a +very great scandal—a world scandal. Even if<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_215" id="pg_215">215</a></span> he were not to prove his +case, the character of—your nephew—would be held up for inspection. +Then again, he would have very powerful backers. Now you told me of this +man Mulhausen. How would that property stand were this man to prove his +claim and prove that Lord Rochester was dead when the transfer of the +property was made to him? I am not thinking of my reputation,” finished +the ingenuous Simms, “but of your interests, and I tell you quite +plainly, your Grace, that were this man to escape we would all be in a +very unpleasant predicament.”</p> + +<p>“Well, he won’t escape,” said the Duke. “I’ll see to that.”</p> + +<p>“Quite so, but there is another matter. The Commissioners in Lunacy.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what about them?”</p> + +<p>“It is the habit of the Commissioners to visit every establishment +registered under the act and unfortunately, they are men—I mean of +course that, fortunately, they are men of the most absolute probity, but +given to over-riding, sometimes, the considered opinion of those in +close touch with the cases they are brought in contact with. They would +undoubtedly make strict enquiries into the truth of the story that Lord +Rochester has just put up, and the result—I can quite see it—would +drift us into one of those <i>exposés</i>, those painful and interminable +lawsuits, destructive alike to property, to dignity, and that ease of +mind inseparable from health and the enjoyment of those positions to +which my labours and your Grace’s lineage entitle us.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_216" id="pg_216">216</a></span></p> + +<p>“Damn the Commissioners,” suddenly broke out his Grace. “Do you mean to +say they would doubt my word?”</p> + +<p>“Unfortunately, it is not a question of that,” said Simms. “It is a +question of what they call the liberty of the subject.”</p> + +<p>“Damn the liberty of the subject—liberty of the subject. When a man’s +mad what right has he to liberty—liberty to cut people’s throats maybe. +Look at that fool Arthur, liberty! Look at the use he made of his +liberty when he had it. Look what he did to Langwathby: sent a telegram +leading him to believe that his wife had broken out again—you know how +she drinks—and had been gaoled in Carlisle. And the thing was so +artfully constructed, it said almost nothing. You couldn’t touch him on +it. Simply said, ‘Go at once to police court Carlisle.’ See the art of +it? Never mentioned the woman’s name. There was no libel. Langwathby, to +prosecute, would have to explain all about his wife. He went. What +happened! You know his temper. He went to Langwathby Castle before going +to the police court, and the first person he saw was his wife. Before +all the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, he said to her, ‘So +they have let you out of prison and now you’d better get out of my +house.’ You know her temper. Before all the servants. Before all the +servants, mind you, she accused him of that disgraceful affair in Pont +Street when he was turned out in his pyjamas—and they half ripped off +him—by Lord Tango’s brother. Tango never knew anything of it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_217" id="pg_217">217</a></span> Never +would, but he knows now, for Lucy Jerningham was at Langwathby when the +scene occurred and she’s told him. The result is poor Langwathby will +find himself in the D. C. Liberty! What right has a man like that to +talk of liberty?”</p> + +<p>“Quite so,” said Simms, utterly despairing of pressing home the truth of +the horrible situation upon this brain in blinkers. “<i>Quite</i> so. But +facts are facts and the fact remains that this man—I mean—er—Lord +Rochester, possesses on your own shewing great craft and subtlety. And +he will use that with the Commissioners in Lunacy when they call.”</p> + +<p>“When do they call?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that’s just it. They visit asylums and registered houses at their +own will, and the element of surprise is one of their methods. They may +arrive at Hoover’s any time. I say, literally, any time. Sometimes they +arrive at a house in the middle of the night; they may leave an asylum +unvisited for a month and then come twice in one week, and they hold +everyone concerned literally in the hollows of their hands. If denied +admittance they would not hesitate to break the doors down. Their power +is absolute.”</p> + +<p>“But, good God, sir,” cried the Duke, “what you tell me is monstrous. +It’s un-English. Break into a man’s house, spy upon him in the middle of +the night! Why, such powers vested in a body of men make for +terrorisation. This must be seen to. I will speak about it in the +House.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_218" id="pg_218">218</a></span></p> + +<p>“Quite so, but, meanwhile, there is the danger, and it must be faced.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll take him away from Hoover’s.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” said Simms.</p> + +<p>“I’ll put him somewhere where these fellows won’t be able to interfere. +How about my place at Skibo?”</p> + +<p>Simms shook his head.</p> + +<p>“He is under a certificate,” said he. “The Commissioners call at +Hoover’s, inspect the books, find that Lord Rochester has been there, +find him gone, find you have taken him away. They will simply call upon +you to produce him.”</p> + +<p>“How about my yacht?” asked the other.</p> + +<p>“A long sea voyage for his health?”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” said Simms, “that’s better, but voyages come to an end.”</p> + +<p>“How about my villa at Naples? Properly looked after there he will be +safe enough.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Simms, “that will mean he will always have to be +there—always.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, always. D’you think now I have got him in safety I will let +him out?”</p> + +<p>Simms sighed. The business was drifting into very dangerous waters. He +knew for a matter of fact and also by intuition that Jones was Jones and +that Rochester was dead and his unfortunate position was like this:</p> + +<p>1. If Jones escaped from Hoover’s unsoothed and furious he might find +his way to the American Consul or, <i>horror!</i> to some newspaper office. +Then the band would begin to play.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_219" id="pg_219">219</a></span></p> + +<p>2. If Jones were transferred on board the Duke’s yacht and sequestrated, +the matter at once became <i>criminal</i>, and the prospect of long years of +mental distress and dread lest the agile Jones should break free stood +before him like a nightmare.</p> + +<p>3. It was impossible to make the Duke believe that Jones was Jones and +that Rochester was dead.</p> + +<p>The only thing to be done was to release Jones, soothe him, bribe him +and implore of him to get back to America as quick as possible.</p> + +<p>This being clear before the mind of Simms, he at once proceeded to act.</p> + +<p>“It is not so much the question of your letting him out,” he said, “as +of his escaping. And now I must say this. My professional reputation is +at stake and I must ask you to come with me to Curzon Street and put the +whole matter before the family. I wish to have a full consultation.”</p> + +<p>The Duke demurred for a moment. Then he agreed and the two men left the +club.</p> + +<p>At Curzon Street they found the Dowager Countess and Venetia Birdbrook +about to retire for the night. Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had +already retired, and, though invited to the conference, refused to leave +her room.</p> + +<p>Then, in the drawing-room with closed doors, Simms, relying on the +intelligence of the women as a support, began, for the second time, his +tale.</p> + +<p>He convinced the women, and by one o’clock in the morning, still +standing by his guns after the fashion of the defenders of Bundlecund, +the Duke had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_220" id="pg_220">220</a></span> confess that he had no more ammunition. Surrendered in +fact.</p> + +<p>“But what is to be done?” asked the distracted mother of the defunct. +“What will this terrible man do if we release him?”</p> + +<p>“Do,” shouted the Duke. “Do—why the impostor may well ask what will we +do to him.”</p> + +<p>“We can do nothing,” said Venetia. “How can we? How can we expose all +this before the servants—and the public? It is all entirely Teresa’s +fault. If she had treated Arthur properly none of this would ever have +happened. She laughed and made light of his wickedness, she—”</p> + +<p>“Quite so,” said Simms, “but, my dear lady, what we have to think of now +is the man, Jones. We must remember that whilst being an extremely +astute person, inasmuch as he recovered for you that large property from +the man Mulhausen, he seems honest. Indeed, yes, it is quite evident +that he is honest. I would suggest his release to-morrow and the +tendering to him of an adequate sum, say one thousand pounds, on the +condition that he retires to the States. Then, later, we can think of +some means to account for the demise of the late Earl of Rochester or +simply leave it that he has disappeared.”</p> + +<p>The rest of this weird conclave remains unreported, Simms, however, +carrying his point and departing next day, after having seen his +patients, for Sandbourne-on-Sea, where he arrived late in the afternoon.</p> + +<p>When the hired fly that carried him from Sandbourne<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_221" id="pg_221">221</a></span> Station arrived at +the Hoover establishment, it found the gate wide open, and at the gate +one of the attendants standing in an expectant attitude glancing up and +down the road as though he were looking for something, or waiting for +somebody.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_222" id="pg_222">222</a></span> +<a name="SMITHERS_6483" id="SMITHERS_6483"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +<h3>SMITHERS</h3> +</div> + +<p>Hoover, leading the way downstairs, shewed Jones the billiard-room on +the first floor, the dining-room, the smoke-room. All pleasant places, +with windows opening on the gardens. Then he introduced him to some +gentlemen. To Colonel Hawker, just come in from an after breakfast game +of croquet, to Major Barstowe, and to a young man with no chin to speak +of, named Smithers. There were several others, very quiet people, the +three mentioned are enough for consideration.</p> + +<p>Colonel Hawker and Major Barstowe were having an argument in the +smoking-room when Hoover and Jones entered.</p> + +<p>“I did not say I did not believe you,” said Barstowe, “I said it was +strange.”</p> + +<p>“Strange,” cried the Colonel, “what do you mean by strange—it’s not the +word I object to, it’s the tone you spoke in.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the dispute?” asked Hoover.</p> + +<p>“Why,” said Barstowe, “the Colonel was telling me he had seen pigs in +Burmah sixteen feet long, and sunflowers twenty feet in diameter.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that story,” said Hoover; “yes, there’s nothing strange in that.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_223" id="pg_223">223</a></span></p> + +<p>“I’ll knock any man down that doubts my word,” said the Colonel, “that’s +flat.”</p> + +<p>Hoover laughed, Jones shivered.</p> + +<p>Then the disputants went out to play another game of croquet, and Jones, +picking up with Smithers, played a game of billiards, Hoover going off +and leaving them alone.</p> + +<p>After playing for about five minutes, Smithers, who had maintained an +uncanny silence, broke off the game.</p> + +<p>“Let’s play something better than this,” said he. “Did you know I was +rich?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m very rich—Look here,” he took five sovereigns from his +pocket and shewed them with pride. “I play pitch and toss with these,” +said he. “Hoover doesn’t mind so long as I don’t lose them. Pitch and +toss with sovereigns is fine fun, let’s have a game?”</p> + +<p>Jones agreed.</p> + +<p>They sat on the divan and played pitch and toss. At the end of ten +minutes, Jones had won twenty pounds.</p> + +<p>“I think I will stop now,” said Smithers. “Give me back that sovereign I +lent you to toss with.”</p> + +<p>“But you owe me twenty pounds,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“I’ll pay you that to-morrow,” said Smithers; “these sovereigns are not +to be spent, they are only for playing with.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Jones, handing back the coin, and +recognising that, penniless as he was,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_224" id="pg_224">224</a></span> here was a small fund to be +drawn upon by cunning, should he find a means of escape. “I’m rich. I’m +worth ten millions.”</p> + +<p>“Ten million sovereigns?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Golden ones, like these?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I say,” said Smithers, “could you lend me one or two?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, rather.”</p> + +<p>“But you mustn’t tell Hoover.”</p> + +<p>“Of course I won’t.”</p> + +<p>“When will you lend me them?”</p> + +<p>“When I get my bag of sovereigns from London. They are coming down +soon.”</p> + +<p>“I like you,” said Smithers. “We’ll be great friends, won’t we?”</p> + +<p>“Rather, come out in the garden.”</p> + +<p>They went out.</p> + +<p>The garden encircled the house, big wrought iron gates, locked, gave +upon the road.</p> + +<p>The tennis and croquet lawns lay at the back of the house, brick walls, +covered in part with fruit trees, surrounded the whole place. The wall +on the left of the house struck Jones as being practicable, and he +noticed that none of the walls were spiked or glassed. Hoover’s patients +were evidently not of the dangerous and agile type.</p> + +<p>“What’s at the other side of this wall?” asked Jones, as they passed +along by the left hand barrier. Smithers giggled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_225" id="pg_225">225</a></span></p> + +<p>“Girls,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Girls! what sort of girls?”</p> + +<p>“Little ones with long hair and bigger ones; they learn their lessons +there, it’s a school. The gardener left his ladder there one day and I +climbed up. There were a lot of girls there. I nodded to them, and they +all came to the wall. I made them all laugh. I asked them to come over +the wall and toss for sovereigns—then a lady came and told me to go +away. She didn’t seem to like me.”</p> + +<p>Jones, all during luncheon—the meal was served in his own +apartments—revolved things in his mind, Smithers amongst others. +Smithers’ mania for handling gold had evidently been satisfied by giving +him these few coins to play with. They were real ones, Jones had +satisfied himself of that. Smithers, despite his want of chin, was +evidently not a person to be put off with counterfeit coin. Jones had +come down from London dressed just as he had called at Curzon Street. +That is to say in a black morning coat and grey trousers. His tall hat +had evidently been forgotten by his deporters. After luncheon he asked +for a cap to wear in the garden, and was supplied with a grey tweed +shooting cap of Hoover’s.</p> + +<p>With this on his head he took his seat in an arbour, an arbour which, he +noticed, had its opening facing the house.</p> + +<p>Here, smoking, he continued revolving his plans, and here afternoon tea +was served to him.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later the colonel and the major began another game of +croquet, and five minutes after that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_226" id="pg_226">226</a></span> came from the house Smithers, +with a butterfly net in his hand.</p> + +<p>Jones left the arbour and joined Smithers.</p> + +<p>“The sovereigns have come,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“The bag of sovereigns?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, with a big red seal from the bankers. I’m going to give you +fifty.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Lord,” said Smithers, “but you haven’t said anything to Hoover?”</p> + +<p>“Not a word—but you must do something for me before I give you them.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?”</p> + +<p>“I want you to go up to Colonel Hawker and take him aside.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“And tell him that Major Barstowe says he’s a liar.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all.”</p> + +<p>“That’s easy enough,” said Smithers.</p> + +<p>“I’ll stand by the wall here, and if any of the girls look over, as they +probably will, for I’m going to whistle to them, I’ll make them come +over and toss for sovereigns.”</p> + +<p>“That would be a lark,” said the unfortunate.</p> + +<p>“Bother,” said Jones, “I’ve forgot.”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“All my sovereigns are upstairs in the bag—I know—lend me yours whilst +I’m waiting.”</p> + +<p>“I—I never lend sovereigns,” said Smithers.</p> + +<p>“Why, I’m going to <i>give</i> you fifty—and I only ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_227" id="pg_227">227</a></span> you to lend me five +for a moment in case those girls—”</p> + +<p>Smithers put his hand in his pocket and produced the coins; they were in +a little chamois leather bag. “Don’t open the bag,” said he, “just shake +it and they’ll know there are sovereigns in it by the noise.”</p> + +<p>“Right,” said Jones. “Now go and tell Colonel Hawker that Major Barstowe +says he’s a liar.”</p> + +<p>Smithers went off, butterfly net in hand.</p> + +<p>Jones was under no delusion. He reckoned that the garden was always +under surveillance, and that a man getting over a wall would have little +chance of reaching the street, unless he managed to distract the +attention of watchers. He thought it probable that his conversation with +Smithers had been watched, and possibly the handing over of some article +noted.</p> + +<p>There was a seat just here, close to the wall. He sat down on it, pulled +his cap over his eyes, and stretched out his legs. Then under the peak +of the cap, he watched Smithers approaching Colonel Hawker, interrupt +him just as he was on the point of making a stroke, and lead him aside.</p> + +<p>The effect on the colonel’s mind of the interruption to his stroke, +followed by the sudden information that his veracity had been impeached, +was miraculous and sudden as the slap on the side of the face that sent +the butterfly hunter flying. The attack on Barstowe, who seemed to fight +well, the cries, the shouts, the imprecations, the fact that half a +dozen people, inmates and attendants, joined in the confusion as if by +magic, all this was nothing to Jones,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_228" id="pg_228">228</a></span> nor was the subsidiary fact that +one of the inmates, a quiet mannered clergyman, with a taste for arson, +had taken advantage of the confusion and was patiently and sedulously at +work, firing the thatch of the summer house in six different places, +with a long concealed box of matches.</p> + +<p>Jones, on the stroke of the Colonel, had risen from the seat, and with +the aid of a wall-trained plum tree, had reached the top of the wall and +dropped on the other side into a bed of mignonette. It was a hockey day +at the school, and there were no girls in the garden. He ran across it +to the open front gate and reached the road, ran down the road, which +was deserted, and burning in the late afternoon sunshine, reached a side +road and slackened his pace. All the roads were of the same pattern, +broad, respectable, and lined with detached and semi-detached houses set +in gardens, and labelled according to the owner’s fancy. Old +Anglo-Indian colonels and majors lived here, and one knew their houses +by such names as “Lucknow,” “Cawnpore,” etc., just as one knows azaleas +by their blossoms. Jones, like an animal making for cover, pushed on +till he reached a street of shops. A long, long street, running north +and south with the shop fronts on the eastern side, sun-blinded and +sunlit. A peep of blue and perfect sea shewed at the end of the street, +and on the sea the white sail of a boat. Sandbourne-on-Sea is a pleasant +place to stay at, but Jones did not want to stay there.</p> + +<p>His mind was working feverishly. There was sure to be a railway station +somewhere, and, as surely, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_229" id="pg_229">229</a></span> railway station would be the first place +they would hunt for him.</p> + +<p>London was his objective. London and the National Provincial Bank, but +of the direction or the distance to be travelled, he knew no more than +the man in the moon.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_230" id="pg_230">230</a></span> +<a name="HE_RUNS_TO_EARTH_6734" id="HE_RUNS_TO_EARTH_6734"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +<h3>HE RUNS TO EARTH</h3> +</div> + +<p>As the fox seeks an earth, he was seeking for a hole to hide in. Across +the road a narrow house, set between a fishmonger’s shop and a sea-side +library, displayed in one of its lower windows a card with the word +“Apartments.” Jones crossed the road to this house and knocked at the +hall door. He waited a minute and a half, ninety seconds, and every +second a framed vision of Hoover in pursuit, Hoover and his assistants +streaming like hounds on a hot scent. Then he found a decrepit bell and +pulled it.</p> + +<p>Almost on the pull the door opened, disclosing a bustless, sharp-eyed +and cheerful-looking little woman of fifty or so, wearing a cameo brooch +and cornelian rings. She wore other things but you did not notice them.</p> + +<p>“Have you rooms to let?” asked Jones.</p> + +<p>“Well, sir, I have the front parlour unoccupied,” replied the landlady, +“and two bed-rooms on the top floor. Are there any children?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones. “I came down here alone for a holiday. May I see the +rooms?”</p> + +<p>She took him to the top front bed-room first. It was clean and tidy, just +like herself, and gave a<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_231" id="pg_231">231</a></span> cheery view of the shop fronts on the opposite +side of the street.</p> + +<p>Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a +moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion. +Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked +like a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about them +as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse +or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He +turned to the landlady.</p> + +<p>“I like this room,” said he, “it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of +place I want. Now let’s see the parlour.”</p> + +<p>The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to +match, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday +Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida’s “Moths” in the +old, yellow-back, two shilling edition.</p> + +<p>“Very nice indeed,” said Jones. “What do you charge?”</p> + +<p>“Well, sir,” said the landlady—her name was Henshaw—“it’s a pound a +week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with.”</p> + +<p>“Any extras?” asked the artful Jones.</p> + +<p>“No, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, +and my portmanteau hasn’t arrived, though it was labelled for here, and +the porter told me he had put it on the train. I’ll have to go up to the +station this evening again to see if it has<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_232" id="pg_232">232</a></span> arrived. Meanwhile, seeing +I haven’t my luggage with me, I’ll pay you in advance.”</p> + +<p>She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted.</p> + +<p>When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have for +supper, or would he prefer late dinner.</p> + +<p>“Supper,” replied Jones, “oh, anything. I’m not particular.”</p> + +<p>Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think. +Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, that +was highly improbable. Hoover’s was a high class establishment, he would +avoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to use +the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act +with caution.</p> + +<p>Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtful +point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover’s position and failed.</p> + +<p>One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from +Sandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover +was a logical man.</p> + +<p>There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this +thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and +horsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow. +Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk without +creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get +out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_233" id="pg_233">233</a></span> of seaweed +hanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat all +day in his room in the face of such weather, would create a most +unhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whatever +else he might do he could not lurk.</p> + +<p>The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things +that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet +that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run +away with all your money, and left you with seven children to look +after, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose in +her hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was under +the obsession of <i>the</i> picture of the room, whose place was above the +mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince +Consort, correct, sane, urbane—a terrible comparison for a man in an +insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or +its productions—though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in +both.</p> + +<p>A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He +heard the door answered, a voice outside saying “N’k you” and the door +shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending +the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened +it, inspected the contents, and chose “Moths.”</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_234" id="pg_234">234</a></span> +<a name="MOTHS_6854" id="MOTHS_6854"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> +<h3>MOTHS</h3> +</div> + +<p>In ill-health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinary +mind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons of +Charles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few classics that will stand the test +of a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, or +a minor tragedy. Here the writer of “light fiction” stands firm.</p> + +<p>Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two, +but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to the +uplands where the grass is improving.</p> + +<p>Colour, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, and +now—he suddenly found himself on the beach at Trouville.</p> + +<p>On the beach at Trouville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in the +sea.</p> + +<p>He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to the +wicked Russian Prince, when the door opened and the supper tray entered, +followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honour and her own initiative she had +produced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dull +looking jam tarts on a willow pattern plate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_235" id="pg_235">235</a></span></p> + +<p>When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on with +the book. The lovely heroine had become for him Teresa, Countess of +Rochester, the Opera singer himself, and the Russian Prince Maniloff.</p> + +<p>Then the deepening dusk tore him from the book. Work had to be done.</p> + +<p>He rang the bell, told Mrs. Henshaw that he was going to the railway +station to see after his luggage, took his cap, and went out. Strangely +enough he did not feel nervous. The first flurry had passed, and he had +adapted himself to the situation, the deepening darkness gave him a +sense of security, and the lights of the shops cheered him somehow.</p> + +<p>He turned to the left towards the sea.</p> + +<p>Fifty yards down the street he came across a Gentlemen’s Outfitters, in +whose windows coloured neckties screamed, and fancy shirts raised their +discordant voices with Gent’s summer waistcoats and those panama hats, +adored in the year of this story by the river and sea-side youth.</p> + +<p>Jones, under the hands of Rochester’s valet, and forced by circumstances +to use Rochester’s clothes, was one of the best dressed men in London. +Left to himself in this matter he was lost. He had no idea of what to +wear or what not to wear, no idea of the social damnation that lies in +tweed trousers not turned up at the bottom, fancy waistcoats, made +evening ties, a bowler worn with a black morning coat, or dog-skin +gloves. Heinenberg and Obermann of Philadelphia had dressed him till +Stultz unconsciously<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_236" id="pg_236">236</a></span> took the business over. He was barely conscious of +the incongruity of his present get-up topped by the tweed shooting cap +of Hoover’s, but he was quite conscious of the fact that some alteration +in dress was imperative as a means towards escape from +Sandbourne-on-Sea.</p> + +<p>He entered the shop of Towler and Simpkinson, bought a six and +elevenpenny panama, put it on and had the tweed cap done up in a parcel. +Then a flannel coat attracted him, a grey flannel tennis coat price +fifteen shillings. It fitted him to a charm, save for the almost +negligible fact that the sleeves came down nearly to his knuckles. Then +he bought a night shirt for three and eleven, and had the whole lot done +up in one parcel.</p> + +<p>At a chemist’s next door he bought a tooth brush. In the mirror across +the counter he caught a glimpse of himself in the panama. It seemed to +him that not only had he never looked so well in any other head gear, +but that his appearance was completely altered.</p> + +<p>Charmed and comforted he left the shop. Next door to the chemist’s and +at the street corner was a public house.</p> + +<p>Jones felt certain from his knowledge of Hoover that the very last place +to come across one of his assistants would be a public house. He entered +the public bar, took a seat by the counter and ordered a glass of beer +and a packet of cigarettes. The place was rank with the fumes of cheap +tobacco and cigarettes and the smell of beer. Hard gas light shewed<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_237" id="pg_237">237</a></span> no +adornment, nothing but pitch pine panelling, spittoons, bottles on +shelves and an almanac. The barmaid, a long-necked girl with red hands, +and cheap rings and a rose in her belt, detached herself from earnest +conversation with a youth in a bowler inhabiting the saloon bar, pulled +a handle, dumped a glass of beer before Jones and gave him change +without word or glance, returning to her conversation with the bowlered +youth. She evidently had no eyes at all for people in the public bar. +There are grades, even in the tavern.</p> + +<p>Close to where Jones had taken his seat was standing a person in broken +shoes, an old straw hat, a coat, with parcels evidently in the tail +pockets, and trousers frayed at the heels. He had a red unshaven face, +and was reading the <i>Evening Courier</i>.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he banged the paper with the tips of the fingers of his right +hand and cast it on the counter.</p> + +<p>“Govinment! Govinment! nice sort of govinment, payin’ each other four +hundred a year for followin’ Asquith and robbin’ the landowners to get +the money—God lumme.”</p> + +<p>He paused to light a filthy clay pipe. He had his eyes on Jones, and +evidently considered him, for some occult reason, of the same way of +political thinking as himself, and he addressed him in that impersonal +way in which one addresses an audience.</p> + +<p>“They’ve downed and outed the House o’ Lords, an’ now they’re scraggin’ +the Welsh Church, after that they’ll go for the Landed Prepriotor and +finish <i>him</i>. And who’s to blame? the Radicals—no, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_238" id="pg_238">238</a></span> ain’t to +blame, no more than rats for their instincts; we’re to blame, the +Conservatives is to blame, we haven’t got a fightin’ man to purtect us. +The Radicals has got all the tallant—you look at the fight Bonna Lor’s +been makin’ this week. Fight! A blind Tom cat with his head in an old +t’marter tin would make a better fight than Bonna Lor’s put up. Look at +Churchill, that chap was one of us once, he was born to lead the +clarses, an’ now look at him leadin’ the marses, up to his neck in +Radical dirt and pretendin’ he likes it. He doesn’t, but he’s a man with +an eye in his head and he knows what we are, a boneless lot without +organisation. I say it myself, I said it only larst night in this here +bar, and I say it again, for two pins I’d chuck my party. I would so. +For two pins I’d chuck the country, and leave the whole lot to stew in +their own grease.”</p> + +<p>He addressed himself to his beer, and Jones, greatly marvelling, lit a +cigarette.</p> + +<p>“Do you live here?” asked he.</p> + +<p>“Sh’d think I did,” replied the other. “Born here and bred here, and +been watchin’ the place going down for the last twenty years, turnin’ +from a decent residential neighbourhood to a collection of schools and +lodgin’ houses, losin’ clarse every year. Why the biggest house here is +owned by a chap that sells patent food, there’s two socialists on the +town council, and the Mayor last year was Hoover, a chap that owns a +lunatic ’sylum. One of his loonies got out last March and near did for a +child on the Southgate<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_239" id="pg_239">239</a></span> Road before he was collared; and yet they make a +Mayor of him.”</p> + +<p>“Have another drink?” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“I don’t mind if I do.”</p> + +<p>“Well, here’s luck,” said he, putting his nose into the new glass.</p> + +<p>“Luck!” said Jones. “Do Hoover’s lunatics often escape?”</p> + +<p>“Escape—why I heard only an hour ago another of them was out. Gawd help +him if the town folk catch him at any of his tricks, and Gawd help +Hoover. A chap has no right comin’ down and settin’ up a business like +that in a place like this full of nursemaids and children. People bring +their innercent children down here to play on the sands, and any minit +that place may break loose like a bum-shell. <i>That’s</i> not marked down on +the prospectices they publish with pictures done in blue and yaller, and +lies about the air and water, and the salubriarity of the South Coast.”</p> + +<p>“No, I suppose not,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Well, I must be goin’,” said the other, emptying his glass and wiping +his mouth on the back of his hand. “Good night to you.”</p> + +<p>“Good night.”</p> + +<p>The upholder of Church and State shuffled out, leaving Jones to his +thoughts. Wind of the business had got about the town, and even at that +moment no doubt people were carefully locking back doors and looking in +out houses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_240" id="pg_240">240</a></span></p> + +<p>It was unfortunate that the last man to escape from the Hoover +establishment had been violently inclined, that was the one thing needed +to stimulate Rumour and make her spread.</p> + +<p>Having sat for ten minutes longer and consumed another glass of tepid +beer, he took his departure.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Henshaw let him in, and having informed her of his journey to the +station, the fruitlessness of his quest, and his opinion of the railway +company, its servants and its methods, he received his candle and went +to bed.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_241" id="pg_241">241</a></span> +<a name="A_TRAMP_AND_OTHER_THINGS_7039" id="A_TRAMP_AND_OTHER_THINGS_7039"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> +<h3>A TRAMP, AND OTHER THINGS</h3> +</div> + +<p>He was awakened by a glorious morning, and, looking out of his window, +he saw the street astir in the sunshine, stout men in white flannels +with morning newspapers in their hands, children already on their way to +the beach with spades and buckets, all the morning life of an English +seacoast town in Summer.</p> + +<p>Then he dressed. He had no razor, his beard was beginning to show, and +to go about unshaved was impossible to his nature. For a moment the wild +idea of letting his beard grow—that oldest form of disguise—occurred +to him, only to be dismissed immediately. A beard takes a month to grow, +he had neither the time nor the money to do it, nor the inclination.</p> + +<p>At breakfast—two kippered herrings and marmalade—he held a council of +war with himself.</p> + +<p>Nature has equipped every animal with means for offence and defence. To +man she has given daring, and that strange indifference in cool blood to +danger, when danger has become familiar, which seems the attribute of +man alone.</p> + +<p>Jones determined to risk everything, go out, prospect, find some likely +road of escape, and make a bold<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_242" id="pg_242">242</a></span> dash. The eight thousand pounds in the +London Bank shone before him like a galaxy of eight stars; no one knew +of its existence. What he was to do when he had secured it was a matter +for future consideration. Probably he would return right away to the +States.</p> + +<p>One great thing about all this Hoover business was the fact that it had +freed him from the haunting dread of those terrible sensations of +duality and negation. Fighting is the finest antidote to nerve troubles +and mental dreads, and he was fighting now for his liberty, for the fact +stood clearly before him, that, whether the Rochester family believed +him to be Rochester or believed him to be Jones, it was to their +interest to hold him as a lunatic in peaceful retirement.</p> + +<p>Having breakfasted he lit a cigarette, asked Mrs. Henshaw for a latch +key so that he might not trouble her, put on his panama and went out. +There was a barber’s shop across the way, he entered it, found a vacant +chair and was shaved. Then he bought a newspaper and strolled in the +direction of the beach. The idea had come to him that he might be able +to hire a sailing boat and reach London that way, a preposterous and +vague idea that still, however, led him till he reached the esplanade, +and stood with the sea wind blowing in his face.</p> + +<p>The only sailing boats visible were excursion craft, guarded by +longshoremen, loading up with trippers, and showing placards to allure +the innocent.</p> + +<p>The sands were swarming, and the bathing machines crawling towards the +sea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_243" id="pg_243">243</a></span></p> + +<p>He came on to the beach and took his seat on the warm, white sands, with +freedom before him had he been a gull or a fish. To take one of those +cockleshell row boats and scull a few miles down the coast would lead +him where? Only along the coast, rock-strewn beyond the sands and faced +with cliffs. Of boat craft he had no knowledge, the sea was choppy, and +the sailing boats now out seemed going like race horses over hurdles.</p> + +<p>No, he would wait till after luncheon, then in that somnolent hour when +all men’s thoughts are a bit dulled, and vigilance least awake, he would +find some road, on good hard land, and make his dash.</p> + +<p>He would try and get a bicycle map of this part of Wessex. He had +noticed a big stationers’ and book-sellers’ near the beach, and he would +call there on his way back.</p> + +<p>Then he fell to reading his paper, smoking cigarettes, and watching the +crowd.</p> + +<p>Watching, he was presently rewarded with the sight of the present day +disgrace of England. Out of a bathing tent, and into the full sunlight, +came a girl with nothing on, for skin tight blue stockinette is nothing +in the eyes of Modesty; every elevation, every depression, every crease +in her shameless anatomy exposed to a hundred pairs of eyes, she walked +calmly towards the water. A young man to match followed. Then they +wallowed in the sea.</p> + +<p>Jones forgot Hoover. He recalled Lady Dolly in “Moths”—Lady Dolly, who, +on the beach of Sandbourne-on-Sea would have been the pink of +propriety,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_244" id="pg_244">244</a></span> and the inhabitants of this beach were not wicked society +people, but respectable middle class folk.</p> + +<p>“That’s pretty thick,” said Jones to an old gentleman like a goat +sitting close to him, whose eyes were fixed in contemplation on the +bathers.</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“That girl in blue. Don’t any of them wear decent clothes?”</p> + +<p>“The scraggy ones do,” replied the other, speaking in a far away and +contented manner.</p> + +<p>At about half past eleven Jones left the beach, tired of the glare and +the bathers, and the sand digging children. He called at the book shop, +and for a shilling obtained a bicycle map of the coast, and sitting on a +seat outside the shop scanned it.</p> + +<p>There were three roads out of Sandbourne-on-Sea; the London road; a road +across the cliffs to the west; and a road across the cliffs to the east. +The easterly road led to Northbourne, a sea-side town some six or seven +miles away, the westerly road to Southbourne, some fifteen miles off. +London lay sixty miles to the north. The railway touched the London road +at Houghton Admiral, a station some nine miles up the line.</p> + +<p>That was the position. Should he take the London road and board a train +at Houghton Admiral, or take the road to Northbourne and get a train +from there?</p> + +<p>The three ways lay before him like the three Fates, and he determined on +the London road.</p> + +<p>However, Man proposes and God disposes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_245" id="pg_245">245</a></span></p> + +<p>He folded up the map, put it in his pocket and started for home—or at +least Mrs. Henshaw’s.</p> + +<p>Just at the commencement of the street he paused before a +photographer’s to inspect the pictures exposed for view. Groups, family +parties, children, and girls with undecided features. He turned from the +contemplation of these things and found himself face to face with +Hoover.</p> + +<p>Hoover must have turned into the street from a bye way, for only sixty +seconds before the street had been Hooverless. He was dressed in a +Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and his calves showed huge.</p> + +<p>“Hello!” said Jones.</p> + +<p>The exclamation was ejected from him so to speak, by the mental shock.</p> + +<p>Hoover’s hand shot out to grasp his prey. What happened then was +described by Mr. Shonts, the German draper across the way, to a friend.</p> + +<p>“The thin man hit Mr. Hoover in the stomack, who sat down, but lifted +himself at wance and pursued him.”</p> + +<p>Jones ran. After him followed a constable, sprung from nowhere, boys, a +dog that seemed running for exercise, and Hoover.</p> + +<p>He reached the house of Mrs. Henshaw, pulled the latch key from his +pocket, plunged it in the lock, opened the door and shut it. So close +was the pursuit on him that the “bang-bang” of the knocker followed at +once on the bang of the door.</p> + +<p>Then the bell went, peal after peal.</p> + +<p>Jones made for the kitchen stairs and bolted down<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_246" id="pg_246">246</a></span> them, found a passage +leading to the back door, and, disregarding the bewildered Mrs. Henshaw, +who was coming out of the kitchen with her hands all over flour, found +the back yard.</p> + +<p>A blank wall lay before him, another on the right, and another on the +left. The left and right walls divided the Henshaw back yard from the +yards of the houses on either side, the wall immediately before him +divided it from the back yard of a house in Minerva Terrace, which was +parallel to the High Street.</p> + +<p>Jones chose this wall. A tenantless dog kennel standing before it helped +him, and next moment he was over, shaken up with a drop of twelve feet +and facing a clothes line full of linen. He dived under a sheet and +almost into the back of a broad woman hanging linen on a second clothes +line, found the back door of the house, which the broad woman had left +open, ran down a passage, up a kitchen stairs and into a hall. An old +gentleman in list slippers, coming out of a room on the right, asked him +what he wanted. Jones, recalling the affair later, could hear the old +gentleman’s voice and words.</p> + +<p>He did not pause to reply. He opened the hall door, and the next moment +he was in Minerva Terrace. It was fortunately deserted. He ran to the +left, found a bye way and a terrace of artisans’ dwellings, new, +hideous, and composed of yellow brick. In front of the terrace lay +fields. A gate in the hedge invited him, he climbed over it, crossed a +field, found another gate which led him to another field, and found +himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_247" id="pg_247">247</a></span> surrounded by the silence of the country, a silence pierced and +thrilled by the songs of larks. Larks make the sea lands of the south +and east coasts insufferable. One lark in a suitable setting, and, for a +while, is delightful, but twenty larks in all grades of ascent and +descent, some near, some distant, make for melancholy.</p> + +<p>Jones crouched in a hedge for a while to get back his breath. He was +lost. Road maps were not much use to him here. The larks insisted on +that, jubilantly or sorrowfully according to the stage of their flight.</p> + +<p>Then something or someone immediately behind him on the other side of +the hedge breathed a huge sigh, as if lamenting over his fate. He jumped +up. It was a cow. He could see her through the brambles and smell her +too, sweet as a Devonshire dairy.</p> + +<p>Then he sat down again to think and examine the map, which he had +fortunately placed in his pocket. The roads were there but how to reach +them was the problem, and the London road, to which he had pinned his +faith, was now impossible. It would be surely watched. He determined, +after a long consultation with himself, to make for Northbourne, +striking across the fields straight ahead, and picking up the cliff road +somewhere on its course.</p> + +<p>He judged, and rightly enough, that Hoover would hunt for him, not along +the coast but inland. Northbourne was not the road to London, even +though a train might be caught from Northbourne. The whole business was +desperate, but this course seemed the least desperate way out of it. And +he need not hurry,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_248" id="pg_248">248</a></span> speed would be of no avail in this race against +Fate.</p> + +<p>He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Out of the nine pounds +he started with from Hoover’s there remained only five pounds eleven and +ninepence.</p> + +<p>He had spent as follows:</p> + +<table border="0" width="250" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="spending" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; font-size:0.9em;"> +<col style="width:70%;" /> +<col style="width:10%;" /> +<col style="width:10%;" /> +<col style="width:10%;" /> +<tr><td>Mrs. Henshaw</td><td align="right">£2</td><td align="right">0</td><td align="right">0</td></tr> +<tr><td>Panama</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right">6</td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td>Nightshirt</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right">3</td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td>Coat</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right">15</td><td align="right">0</td></tr> +<tr><td>Public House</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"></td><td align="right">10</td></tr> +<tr><td>Shave and Newspaper</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"></td><td align="right">7</td></tr> +<tr><td>Road Map</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right">1</td><td align="right">0</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right" colspan="4">—————</td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td align="right">£3</td><td align="right">8</td><td align="right">3</td></tr> +</table> + +<p>He went over these accounts and checked them in his head. Then he put +the money back in his pocket and started on his way across the fields.</p> + +<p>Despite all his worries this English country interested him, it also +annoyed him. Fields, the size of pocket handkerchiefs, divided one from +the other by monstrous hedges and deep ditches. To cross this country in +a straight line one would want to be a deer or a bounding kangaroo. +Gates, always at corners and always diagonal to his path, gave him +access from one field to the other. Trees there were none. The English +tree has an antipathy to the sea, and keeps away from it, but the hedge +has no sensitiveness of this sort. These hedges seemed to love the sea, +to judge by their size.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_249" id="pg_249">249</a></span></p> + +<p>He was just in the act of clambering over one of the innumerable gates +when a voice hailed him. He looked back. A young man in leggings, who +had evidently been following him unperceived, raised a hand. Jones +finished his business with the gate, and then, with it between him and +the stranger, waited. He was well dressed in a rough way, evidently a +superior sort of farmer, and physically a person to be reckoned with. He +was also an exceedingly cantankerous looking individual.</p> + +<p>“Do you know that you are trespassing?” asked he, when they were within +speaking distance.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Well, you are. I must ask you for your name and address, please.”</p> + +<p>“What on earth for—what harm am I doing your old fields?” Jones had +forgotten his position, everything, before the outrage on common sense.</p> + +<p>“You are trespassing, that’s all. I must ask you for your name and +address.”</p> + +<p>Now to Jones came the recollection of something he had read somewhere. A +statement, that in England there was no law of trespass in the country +places, and that a person might go anywhere to pick mushrooms or wild +flowers, and no landlord could interfere so long as no damage was done.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you know the law?” asked Jones. He recited the law accordingly, +to the Unknown.</p> + +<p>The other listened politely.</p> + +<p>“I ask you for your name and address,” said he. “Our lawyers will settle +the other matter.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_250" id="pg_250">250</a></span></p> + +<p>Then anger came to Jones.</p> + +<p>“I am the Earl of Rochester,” said he, “and my address is Carlton House +Terrace, London. I have no cards on me.”</p> + +<p>Then the queerest sensation came to Jones, for he saw that the other had +recognised him. Rochester was evidently as well known to the ordinary +Englishman, by picture and repute, as Lloyd George.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the other, “but the fact is that my land is +over-run with people from Sandbourne—sorry.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t mention it,” replied the Earl of Rochester. “I sha’n’t do any +damage. Good day.” They parted and he pursued his way.</p> + +<p>A mile farther on he came upon a person with broken boots, a beery face, +and clothes to match his boots. This person was seated in the sunshine +under a hedge, a bundle and a tin can beside him.</p> + +<p>He hailed Jones as “Guvernor” and requested a match.</p> + +<p>Jones supplied the match, and they fell into conversation.</p> + +<p>“Northbourne,” said the tramp. “I’m goin’ that way meself. I’ll shew you +the quickest way when I’ve had a suck at me pipe.”</p> + +<p>Jones rested for a moment by the hedge whilst the pipe was lit. The +trespass business was still hot in his mind. The cave-in of the Landlord +had not entirely removed the sense of outrage.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you afraid of being held up for trespass?” asked he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_251" id="pg_251">251</a></span></p> + +<p>“Trespass,” replied the other, “not me. I ain’t afeared of no farmers.”</p> + +<p>Jones gave his experience.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you be under no bloomin’ error,” said the tramp, when the recital +was finished. “That chap was right enough. That chap couldn’t touch the +likes of me, unless he lied and swore I’d broke fences, but he could +touch the likes of you. I know the Lor. I know it in and out. Landlords +don’t know it as well as me. That chap knows the lor, else he wouldn’t +a’ been so keen on gettin’ your name and where you lived.”</p> + +<p>“But how could he have touched me if he cannot touch you?”</p> + +<p>The tramp chuckled.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you,” said he, “and I’ll tell you what he’ll do now he’s got +where you live. He’ll go to the Co’t o’ Charncery and arsk for a +’junction against you to stop you goin’ over his fields. You don’t want +to go over his fields any more, that don’t matter. He’ll get his +’junction and you’ll have to pay the bloomin’ costs—see—the bloomin’ +costs, and what will that amahnt to? Gawd knows, maybe a hundred pound. +Lots of folks take it into their silly heads they can go where they +want. They carnt, not if the Landlord knows his Lor, not unless they’re +hoofin’ it like me. Lot o’ use bringin’ <i>me</i> up to the Co’t o’ +Charncery.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to say that just for walking over a field a man can be had +up to the court of Chancery and fined a hundred pounds?”</p> + +<p>“He ain’t fined, it’s took off him in costs.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_252" id="pg_252">252</a></span></p> + +<p>“You seem to know a lot about the law,” said Jones, calling up the man +of the public house last night, and coming to the conclusion that +amongst the English lower orders there must be a vast fund of a peculiar +sort of intelligence.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the tramp. “I told you I did.” Then interestedly, “What +might your name be?”</p> + +<p>Jones repeated the magic formula to see the effect.</p> + +<p>“I am the Earl of Rochester.”</p> + +<p>“Lord Rochester. Thought I knew your face. Lost half a quid over your +horse runnin’ at Gatwood Park last Spring twel’ months. ‘White Lady’ +came in second to ‘The Nun,’ half a quid. I’d made a bit on ‘Champane +Bottle’ in the sellin’ plate. Run me eye over the lists and picked out +‘White Lady.’ Didn’t know nothin’ abaht her, said to a fren’, ‘here’s my +fancy. Don’t know nothin’ abaht her, but she’s one of Lord Rawchester’s, +an’ his horses run stright’—That’s what I said—‘His horses run +stright’ and give me a stright run boss with a wooden leg before any of +your fliers with a dope in his belly or a pullin’ jockey on his back. +But the grown’ did her, she was beat on the post by haff an ’eck, you’ll +remember. She’d a won be two lengths, on’y for that bit o’ soggy grown’ +be the post. That grown’ want over-haulin’, haff a shower o’ rain, and +boss wants fins and flippers instead o’ hoofs.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Jones, “that’s so.”</p> + +<p>“A few barra’ loads o’ gravel would put it rite,” continued the other, +“it ain’t fair on the hosses, and it ain’t fair on the backers, ’arf a +quid I dropped on<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_253" id="pg_253">253</a></span> that mucky bit o’ grown’. Last Doncaster meetin’ I +was sayin’ the very same thing to Lor’ Lonsdale over the Doncaster +Course. I met him, man to man like, outside the ring, and he handed me +out a cigar. We talked same as you and me might be talkin’ now, and I +says to him: ‘What we want’s more money put into drains on the courses. +Look at them mucky farmers they way they drains their land,’ said I, +‘and look at us runnin’ hosses and layin’ our bets and let down, hosses +and backers and all, for want of the courses bein’ looked after proper.’”</p> + +<p>He tapped the dottle out of his pipe, picked up the bundle, and rose +grumbling.</p> + +<p>Then he led the way in the direction of Northbourne.</p> + +<p>It was a little after three o’clock now, and the day was sultry. Jones, +despite his other troubles, was vastly interested in his companion. The +height of Rochester’s position had never appeared truly till shown him +by the farmer and this tramp. They knew him. To them, without any doubt, +the philosophers and poets of the world were unknown, but they knew the +Earl of Rochester, and not unfavourably.</p> + +<p>Millions upon millions of the English world were equally acquainted with +his lordship, he was most evidently a National figure. His +unconventionality, his “larks,” his lavishness, and his horse racing +propensities, however they might pain his family, would be meat to the +legions who loved a lord, who loved a bet, who loved a horse, and a +picturesque spendthrift.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_254" id="pg_254">254</a></span></p> + +<p>To be Rochester was not only to be a lord, it was more than that. It was +to be famous, a national character, whose picture was printed on the +retina of the million. Never had Jones felt more inclined to stick to +his position than now, with the hounds on his traces, a tramp for his +companion, and darkness ahead. He felt that if he could once get to +London, once lay his hands on that eight thousand pounds lying in the +National Provincial Bank, he could fight. Fight for freedom, get lawyers +to help him, and retain his phantom coronet.</p> + +<p>He had ceased to fear madness; all that dread of losing himself had +vanished, at least for the moment. Hoover had cured him.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile they talked as they went, the tramp laying down the law as to +rights over commons and waste lands, seeming absolutely to forget that +he was talking to, or supposed to be talking to, a landed proprietor. At +last they reached the white ribbon that runs over the cliffs from +Sandbourne to Northbourne and beyond.</p> + +<p>“Here’s the road,” said the tramp, “and I’ll be takin’ leave of your +lor’ship. I’ll take it easy for a bit amongst them bushes, there’s no +call for me to hurry. I shawnt forget meetin’ your lor’ship. Blimy if I +will. Me sittin’ there under that hedge an’ thinkin’ of that half quid I +dropped over ‘White Lady’ and your lor’ship comin’ along—It gets me!”</p> + +<p>Up to this moment of parting he had not once Lordshipped Jones.</p> + +<p>Jones, feeling in his pocket, produced the half<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_255" id="pg_255">255</a></span> sovereign, which, with +five pounds one and nine pence made up his worldly wealth at the moment.</p> + +<p>He handed it over, and the tramp spat on it for luck.</p> + +<p>Then they parted, and the fugitive resumed his way with a lighter pocket +but a somewhat lighter heart.</p> + +<p>There are people who increase and people who reduce one’s energy, it is +sometimes enough to look at them without even talking to them. The tramp +belonged to the former class. He had cheered Jones. There was nothing +particularly cheery in his conversation, all the same the effect had +been produced.</p> + +<p>Now, along the cliff road and coming from the direction of Northbourne a +black speck developed, resolving itself at last into the form of an old +man carrying a basket. The basket was filled with apples and Banbury +cakes. Jones bought eight Banbury cakes and two apples with his one and +nine pence, and then took his seat on the warm turf by the way to devour +them. He lay on his side as he ate and cursed Hoover.</p> + +<p>To lie here for an hour on this idyllic day, to watch the white gulls +flying, to listen to the whisper of the sea far below, what could be +better than that? He determined if ever he should win freedom and money +to return here for a holiday.</p> + +<p>He was thinking this, when, raised now on his elbow, he saw something +moving amongst the bushes and long grass of the waste lands bordering +the cliff road.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_256" id="pg_256">256</a></span></p> + +<p>It was a man, a man on all fours, yet moving swiftly, a sight natural +enough in the deer-stalking Highlands, but uncanny on these Wessex +downs.</p> + +<p>Jones leaving four Banbury cakes uneaten on the grass, sprang to his +feet, so did the crawling one.</p> + +<p>Then the race began.</p> + +<p>The pursuer was handicapped.</p> + +<p>Any two sides of a triangle are longer than the third. A right line +towards Jones would save many yards, but the going would be bad on +account of the brambles and bushes, a straight line to the road would +lenghten the distance to be covered, but would give a much better course +when the road was reached. He chose the latter.</p> + +<p>The result was, that when the race really started the pursuer was nearly +half a mile to the bad. But he had not recently consumed four Banbury +cakes and two apples. Super-Banbury cakes of the dear old days, when +margarine was ninepence a pound, flour unlimited, and currants unsought +after by the wealthy.</p> + +<p>Jones had not run for years. And in this connection it is quite +surprising how Society pursues a man once he gets over the barrier—and +especially when he has to run for his liberty.</p> + +<p>The first mile was bad, then he got his second wind handed to him, +despite everything, by a fair constitution and a fairly respectable +life, but the pursuer was now only a quarter of a mile behind. Up to +this the course had been clear with no spectators, but now came along +from the direction of Northbourne an invalid on the arm of an attendant, +and<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_257" id="pg_257">257</a></span> behind them a boy on a bicycle. The bicycle was an inspiration.</p> + +<p>It was also yellow painted, and bore a carrier in front blazoned with +the name of a Northbourne Italian Warehouseman. It contained parcels, +evidently intended for one of the few bungalows that strewed the cliff.</p> + +<p>The boy fought to defend his master’s property, briefly, but still he +fought, till a happy stroke in the wind laid him on the sun-warmed turf. +The screams of the invalid—it was a female—sounded in the ears of +Jones like part of some fantastic dream, so seemed the bicycle. It had +no bell, the saddle wanted raising at least two inches, still it went, +and the wind was behind.</p> + +<p>On the right was a sheer drop of two hundred feet, and the road here +skirted the cliff edge murderously close, for the simple reason that +cliff falls had eaten the bordering grass to within a few feet of the +road. This course on an unknown and questionable bicycle laden with +parcels of tea and sugar, was open to a good many objections; they did +not occur to Jones; he was making good speed, or thought he was till the +long declivity leading to Northbourne was reached. Here he began to know +what speed really was, for he found on pressing the lever that the brake +would not act. Fortunately it was a free wheel.</p> + +<p>This declivity runs between detached villas and stone walls, sheltering +prim gardens, right on to the west end of the esplanade, which is, in +fact, a continuation of it. For the first few hundred yards Jones<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_258" id="pg_258">258</a></span> +thought that nothing could go quicker than the houses and walls rushing +past him, towards the end he was not thinking.</p> + +<p>The esplanade opened out, a happy band of children with buckets and +wooden spades, returning home to tea, opened out, gave place to rushing +apartment houses with green balconies on the left, rushing sea scape and +bathing machines on the right. Then the speed slackened.</p> + +<p>He got off shaking, and looked behind him. He had reached the east end +of the promenade. It lay, as it always lies towards five o’clock, +absolutely deserted by visitors. In the distance and just stepped out of +a newspaper kiosk a woman was standing, shading her eyes and looking +towards him. Two boatmen near her were looking in the same direction. +They did not seem excited, just mildly interested.</p> + +<p>At that moment appeared on the long slope leading down to the esplanade +the figure of a man running. He looked like a policeman—a sea-side +policeman.</p> + +<p>Jones did not pause to verify. He propped the bicycle against the rails +of a verandahed house and ran.</p> + +<p>The esplanade at this, the eastern end, ascends to the town by a zig-zag +road. As he took this ascent the mind of Jones, far from being clouded +or dulled, was acutely active. It saw that now the railway station of +Northbourne was out of count, flight by train was impossible, for the +station was the very first place that would be watched. The coast line, +to judge by present results, was impossible, for it seemed that to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_259" id="pg_259">259</a></span> keep +to it he might go on for ever being chased till he reached John o’ +Groats.</p> + +<p>Northbourne is the twin image of Sandbourne-on-Sea, the same long high +street, the same shops with blinds selling the same wares, the same +trippers, children with spades, and invalids.</p> + +<p>The two towns are rivals, each claiming the biggest brass band, the +longest esplanade, the fewer deaths from drowning, the best drains, the +most sunlight, and the swiftest trains from London. Needless to say that +one of them is not speaking the truth, a fact that does not seem to +disturb either of them in the least.</p> + +<p>Jones, walking swiftly, passed a sea-side boot shop, a butcher’s, +greengrocer’s, and Italian warehouse—the same, to judge by the name +over the door—that had sent forth the messenger boy on the bicycle. +Then came a cinema palace, with huge pictures splashed across with +yellow bands announcing:</p> + +<p class="center">“TO-NIGHT”</p> + +<p>Then a milliner’s, then a post office, and lastly a livery stable.</p> + +<p>In front of the latter stood a char-a-banc nearly full. A blackboard +announced in white chalk: “Two hours drive two shillings,” and the +congregation in the char-a-banc had that stamp. Stout women, children, a +weedy man or two, and a honeymoon couple.</p> + +<p>Jones, without the slightest hesitation, climbed into the char-a-banc. +It seemed sent by Heaven. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_260" id="pg_260">260</a></span> a seat, it went somewhere, and it was +a hiding place. Seated amongst these people he felt intuitively that a +viewless barrier lay between him and his pursuers, that it was the very +last place a man in search of a runaway would glance at.</p> + +<p>He was right. Whilst the char-a-banc still lingered on the chance of a +last customer, the running policeman—he was walking now, appeared at +the sea end of the street. He was a young man with a face like an apple, +he wore a straw helmet—Northbourne serves out straw helmets for its +police and straw hats for its horses on the first of June each year—and +he seemed blown. He was looking about him from right to left, but he +never looked once at the char-a-banc and its contents. He went on, and +round the corner of the street he vanished, still looking about him.</p> + +<p>A few moments later the vehicle started. The contents were cheerful and +communicative one with the other, conversing freely on all sorts of +matters, and Jones, listening despite himself, gathered all sorts of +information on subjects ranging from the pictures then exhibiting at the +cinema palace, to the price of butter.</p> + +<p>He discovered that the contents consisted of three family +parties—exclusive of the honeymoon couple—and that the appearance of +universal fraternity was deceptive, that the parties were exclusive, the +conversation of each being confined to its own members.</p> + +<p>So occupied was his mind by these facts that they were a mile and a half +away from Northbourne and<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_261" id="pg_261">261</a></span> in the depths of the country before a great +doubt seized him.</p> + +<p>He called across the heads of the others to the driver asking where they +were going to.</p> + +<p>“Sandbourne-on-Sea,” said the driver.</p> + +<p>Now, though the Sandbournites hate the Northbournites as the Guelphs the +Ghibellines, though the two towns are at advertisemental war, the +favourite pleasure drive of the char-a-bancs of Sandbourne is to +Northbourne, and vice versa. It is chosen simply because the road is the +best thereabouts, and the gradients the easiest for the horses.</p> + +<p>“Sandbourne-on-Sea?” cried Jones.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the driver.</p> + +<p>The vision of himself being carted back to Sandbourne-on-Sea with that +crowd and then back again to Northbourne—if he were not +caught—appeared to Jones for the moment as the last possible grimace of +Fate. He struggled to get out, calling to the driver that he did not +want to go to Sandbourne. The vehicle stopped, and the driver demanded +the full fare—two shillings. Jones produced one of his sovereigns but +the man could not make change, neither could any of the passengers.</p> + +<p>“I’ll call at the livery stables as I go back,” said Jones, “and pay +them there.”</p> + +<p>“Where are you stayin’ in the town?” asked the driver.</p> + +<p>“Belinda Villa,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>It was the name of the villa against whose rails he<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_262" id="pg_262">262</a></span> had left the +bicycle. The idiocy of the title had struck him vaguely at the moment +and the impression had remained.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Cass?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Cass’s empty.”</p> + +<p>This unfortunate condition of Mrs. Cass did not floor Jones.</p> + +<p>“She was yesterday,” said he, “but I have taken the front parlour and a +bed-room this afternoon.”</p> + +<p>“That’s true,” said a fat woman, “I saw the gentleman go in with his +luggage.”</p> + +<p>In any congregation of people you will always find a liar ready to lie +for fun, or the excitement of having a part in the business on hand; +failing that, a person equipped with an imagination that sees what it +pleases.</p> + +<p>This amazing statement of the fat woman almost took Jones’ breath away. +But there are other people in a crowd beside liars.</p> + +<p>“Why can’t the gentleman leave the sovereign with the driver and get the +change in the morning?” asked one of the weedy looking men. This +scarecrow had not said a word to anyone during the drive. He seemed born +of mischance to live for that supreme moment, diminish an honest man’s +ways of escape, and wither.</p> + +<p>Jones withered him:</p> + +<p>“You shut up,” said he. “It’s no affair of yours—cheek.” Then to +the driver: “You know my address,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_263" id="pg_263">263</a></span> if you don’t trust me you can come +back with me and get change.”</p> + +<p>Then he turned and walked off whilst the vehicle drove on.</p> + +<p>He waited till a bend of the road hid it from view, and then he took to +the fields on the left.</p> + +<p>He had still the remains of the packet of cigarettes he had bought at +Sandbourne, and, having crossed four or five gates, he took his seat +under a hedge and lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>He was hungry. He had done a lot of work on four Banbury cakes and an +apple.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_264" id="pg_264">264</a></span> +<a name="THE_ONLY_MAN_IN_THE_WORLD_WHO_WOULD_BELIEVE_HIM_7718" id="THE_ONLY_MAN_IN_THE_WORLD_WHO_WOULD_BELIEVE_HIM_7718"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> +<h3>THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD WHO WOULD BELIEVE HIM</h3> +</div> + +<p>The tobacco took the edge from his desire for food, increased his blood +pressure, and gave rest to his mind.</p> + +<p>He sat thinking. The story of “Moths” rose up before his mind and he +fell to wondering how it ended and what became of the beautiful heroine +with whom he had linked Teresa Countess of Rochester, of Zouroff with +whom he had linked Maniloff, of Corréze with whom he had linked himself.</p> + +<p>The colour of that story had tinctured all his sea-side experiences. Then +Mrs. Henshaw rose up before his mind. What was she thinking of the +lodger who had flashed through her life and vanished over the back +garden wall? And the interview between her and Hoover—that would have +been well worth seeing. Then the boy on the bicycle and the screaming +invalid rose before him, and that mad rush down the slope to the +esplanade; if those children with spades and buckets had not parted as +they did, if a dog had got in his way, if the slope had ended in a +curve! He amused himself with picturing these possibilities and their +results; and then all at once a<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_265" id="pg_265">265</a></span> drowsiness more delightful than any +dream closed on him and he fell asleep.</p> + +<p>It was after dark when he awoke with the remnant of a moon lighting the +field before him. From far away and borne on the wind from the sea came +a faint sound as of a delirious donkey with brass lungs braying at the +moon. It was the sound of a band. The Northbourne brass band playing in +the Cliff Gardens above the moonlit sea. Jones felt to see that his +cigarettes and matches were safe in his pocket, then he started, taking +a line across country, trusting in Providence as a guide.</p> + +<p>Sometimes he paused and rested on a gate, listening to the faint and +indeterminate sounds of the night, through which came occasionally the +barking of a distant dog like the beating of a trip hammer.</p> + +<p>It was a perfect summer’s night, one of those rare nights that England +alone can produce; there were glow worms in the hedges and a scent of +new mown hay in the air. Though the music of the band had been blotted +out by distance, listening intently he caught the faintest suspicion of +a whisper, continuous, and evidently the sound of the sea.</p> + +<p>An hour later, that is to say towards eleven o’clock, weary with finding +his way out of fields into fields, into grassy lanes and around farm +house buildings, desperate, and faint from hunger, Jones found a road +and by the road a bungalow with a light in one of the windows.</p> + +<p>A dauntingly respectable-looking bungalow in the midst of a well +laid-out garden.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_266" id="pg_266">266</a></span></p> + +<p>Jones opened the gate and came up the path. He was going to demand food, +offer to pay for it if necessary, and produce gold as an evidence of +good faith.</p> + +<p>He came into the verandah, found the front door which was closed, struck +a match, found the bell, pulled and pulled it. There was no response. He +waited a little and then rang again, with a like result. Then he came to +the lighted window.</p> + +<p>It was a French window, only half closed, and a half turned lamp showed +a comfortably furnished room and a table laid out for supper.</p> + +<p>Two places were set. A cold fowl intact on a dish garnished with parsley +stood side by side with a York ham the worse for wear, a salad, a roll +of cowslip coloured butter, a loaf of home-made bread and a cheese +tucked around with a snow-white napkin made up the rest of the eatables +whilst a decanter of claret shone invitingly by the seat of the carver. +There was nothing wanting, or only the invitation.</p> + +<p>The fowl supplied that.</p> + +<p>Jones pushed the window open and entered. Half closing it again, he took +his seat at the table placing his hat on the floor beside him. Taking a +sovereign from his pocket, he placed it on the white cloth. Then he fell +to.</p> + +<p>You can generally tell a man by his claret, and judging from this claret +the unknown who had supplied the feast must have been a most estimable +man.</p> + +<p>A man of understanding and parts, a man not to<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_267" id="pg_267">267</a></span> be deluded by specious +wine lists, a generous warmhearted and full-blooded soul—and here he +was.</p> + +<p>A step sounded on the verandah, the window was pushed open and a man of +forty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark and saturnine stood +before the feaster.</p> + +<p>He showed no surprise. Removing his hat he bowed.</p> + +<p>Jones half rose.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” said he confusedly, with his mouth full—then he subsided into +his chair.</p> + +<p>“I must apologise for being late,” said the tall man, placing his hat on +a chair, rubbing his long hands together and moving to the vacant seat. +“I was unavoidably detained. But I’m glad you did not wait supper.”</p> + +<p>He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself out +a glass of claret. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon the +cloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it in +his pocket.</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” said the unknown. Then as if in reply to a question: “I +will have a wing, please.”</p> + +<p>Jones cut a wing of the fowl, placed it in the extra plate which he had +placed on one side of the table and presented it. The other cut himself +some bread, helped himself to salad, salt and pepper and started eating, +absolutely as though nothing unusual had occurred or was occurring.</p> + +<p>For half a minute or so neither spoke. Then Jones said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_268" id="pg_268">268</a></span></p> + +<p>“Look here,” said he, “I want to make some explanations.”</p> + +<p>“Explanations,” said the long man, “what about?”</p> + +<p>Jones laughed.</p> + +<p>“That sovereign which I put on the table and which I have put back in my +pocket. I must apologise. Had I gone away before you returned that would +have been left behind to show that your room had been entered neither by +a hobo nor a burglar, nor by some cad who had committed an +impertinence—perhaps you will believe that.”</p> + +<p>The long man bowed.</p> + +<p>“But,” went on Jones, “by a man who was driven by circumstances to seek +hospitality without an invitation.”</p> + +<p>The other had suddenly remembered the ham and had risen and was helping +himself, his pince-nez which he wore on a ribbon and evidently only for +reading purposes, dangling against his waistcoat-buttons.</p> + +<p>“By circumstance,” said he, “that is interesting. Circumstance is the +master dramatist—are you interested in the Drama?”</p> + +<p>“Interested!” said Jones. “Why, I <i>am</i> a drama. I reckon I’m the biggest +drama ever written, and that’s why I am here to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” said the other, “this is becoming more interesting still or +promising to become, for I warn you, plainly, that what may appear of +intense interest to the individual is generally of little interest to +the general. Now a man may, let’s say, commit some little<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_269" id="pg_269">269</a></span> act that the +thing we call Justice disapproves of, and eluding Justice finds himself +pressed by Circumstance into queer and dramatic positions, those +positions though of momentary and intense interest to the man in +question would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls or +the girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by that +thread of—what shall we call it—that is the backbone of the thing we +call Story.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Justice isn’t bothering after me,” said Jones—Then vague +recollections began to stir in his mind, that long glabrous face, the +set of that jaw, that forehead, that hair, brushed back.</p> + +<p>“Why, you’re Mr. Kellerman, aren’t you?” said he.</p> + +<p>The other bowed.</p> + +<p>“Good heavens,” said Jones, “I ought to have known you. I’ve seen your +picture often enough in the States, and your cinema plays—haven’t read +your books, for I’m not a reading man—but I’ve been fair crazy over +your cinema plays.”</p> + +<p>Kellerman bowed.</p> + +<p>“Help yourself to some cheese,” said he, “it’s good. I get it from +Fortnum and Masons. When I stepped into this room and saw you here, for +the first moment I was going to kick you out, then I thought I’d have +some fun with you and freeze you out. So you’re American? You are +welcome. But just tell me this. Why did you come in, and how?”</p> + +<p>“I came in because I am being chased,” said Jones. “It’s not the law, I +reckon I’m an honest citizen—in<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_270" id="pg_270">270</a></span> purpose, anyhow, and as to how I came +in I wanted a crust of bread and rang at your hall door.”</p> + +<p>“Servants don’t sleep here,” said Kellerman. “Cook snores, bungalow like +a fiddle for conveying sounds, come here for sleep and rest. They sleep +at a cottage down the road.”</p> + +<p>“So?” said Jones. “Well, getting no reply I looked in at the window, saw +the supper, and came in.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just the sort of thing that might occur in a photo play,” said +Kellerman. “When I saw you, as I stepped in, sitting quietly at supper +the situation struck me at once.”</p> + +<p>“You call that a situation,” said Jones. “It’s bald to some of the +situations I have been in for the last God knows how long.”</p> + +<p>“You interest me,” said Kellerman, helping himself to cheese. “You talk +with such entire conviction of the value of your goods.”</p> + +<p>“How do you mean the value of my goods?”</p> + +<p>“Your situations, if you like the term better. Don’t you know that good +situations are rarer than diamonds and more valuable? Have you ever read +Pickwick?”</p> + +<p>“Yep.”</p> + +<p>“Then you can guess what I mean. Situations don’t occur in real life, +they have to be dug for in the diamond fields of the mind and—”</p> + +<p>“Situations don’t occur in real life!” said Jones. “Don’t they—now, see +here, I’ve had supper with you and in return for your hospitality I’ll +tell you every thing that’s happened to me if you’ll hear it. I guess<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_271" id="pg_271">271</a></span> +I’ll shatter your illusions. I’ll give you a sample: I belong to the +London Senior Conservative Club and yet I don’t. I have the swellest +house in London yet it doesn’t belong to me. I’m worth one million and +eight thousand pounds, yet the other day I had to steal a few +sovereigns, but the law could not touch me for stealing them. I have an +uncle who is a duke yet I am no relation to him. Sounds crazy, doesn’t +it, all the same it’s fact. I don’t mind telling you the whole thing if +you care to hear it. I won’t give you the right names because there’s a +woman in the case, but I bet I’ll lift your hair.”</p> + +<p>Kellerman did not seem elated.</p> + +<p>“I don’t mind listening to your story,” said he, “on one condition.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?”</p> + +<p>“That you will not be offended if I switch you off if the thing palls +and hand you your hat, for I must tell you that though I came down here +to get sleep, I do most of my sleeping between two in the morning and +noon. I work at night and I had intended working to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you can switch me off when you like,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>Supper being finished, Kellerman fastened the window, and, carrying the +lamp, led the way to a comfortably furnished study. Here he produced +cigars and put a little kettle on a spirit stove to make tea.</p> + +<p>Then, sitting opposite to his host, in a comfortable armchair, Jones +began his story.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_272" id="pg_272">272</a></span></p> + +<p>He had told his infernal story so often that one might have fancied it a +painful effort, even to begin. It was not. He had now an audience in +touch with him. He suppressed names, or rather altered them, +substituting Manchester for Rochester and Birdwood for Birdbrook. The +audience did not care, it recked nothing of titles, it wanted Story—and +it got it.</p> + +<p>At about one o’clock the recital was interrupted whilst tea was made, at +two o’clock or a little after the tale finished.</p> + +<p>“Well?” said Jones.</p> + +<p>Kellerman was leaning back in his chair with eyes half closed, he seemed +calculating something in his head.</p> + +<p>“D’ you believe me?”</p> + +<p>Kellerman opened his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Of course I believe you. If you had invented all that you would be +clever enough to know what your invention is worth and not hand it out +to a stranger. But I doubt whether anyone else will believe +you—however, that is your affair—you have given me five reels of the +finest stuff, or at least the material for it, and if I ever care to use +it I will fix you up a contract giving you twenty-five per cent +royalties. But there’s one thing you haven’t given me—the dénouement. +I’m more than interested in that. I’m not thinking of money, I’m a film +actor at heart and I want to help in the play. Say, may I help?”</p> + +<p>“How?”</p> + +<p>“Come along with you to the end, give all the assistance in my power—or +even without that just watch<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_273" id="pg_273">273</a></span> the show. I want to see the last act for +I’m blessed if I can imagine it.”</p> + +<p>“I’d rather not,” said Jones. “You might get to know the real names of +the people I’m dealing with, and as there is a woman in the business I +don’t feel I ought to give her name away even to you. No. I reckon I’ll +pull through alone, but if you’d give me a sofa to sleep on to-night I’d +be grateful. Then I can get away in the morning.”</p> + +<p>Kellerman did not press the point.</p> + +<p>“I’ll give you better than a sofa,” he said. “There’s a spare bed, and +you’d better not start in the morning; give them time to cool down. Then +towards evening you can make a dash. The servants here are all right, +they’ll think you are a friend run down from town to see me. I’ll +arrange all that.”</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_274" id="pg_274">274</a></span> +<a name="PEBBLEMARSH_8013" id="PEBBLEMARSH_8013"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> +<h3>PEBBLEMARSH</h3> +</div> + +<p>At five o’clock next day, Jones, re-dressed by Kellerman in a morning +coat rather the worse for wear—a coat that had been left behind at the +bungalow by one of Kellerman’s friends—and a dark cloth cap, took his +departure from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, but +quite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a grey flannel +tennis coat and wearing a Panama—and that was the main point.</p> + +<p>Kellerman had also worked up a history and personality for the newly +attired one.</p> + +<p>“You are Mr. Isaacson,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Here’s the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago, put it in +your pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card, +you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only five +miles down the road; there’s a station there, but you’d better avoid +that. There’s a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, +scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worst +comes to the worst refer to me and come back here. I would love that +interview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly +excited, and myself.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_275" id="pg_275">275</a></span></p> + +<p>He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his +uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote he +talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the +only really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel.</p> + +<p>“You see, all black faces are pretty much the same,” said he. “Their +predominant expression is black, but I haven’t got the fixings nor the +coloured pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo, so I reckon you’ll +just have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the God of the Hebrews I +haven’t made you an old clothes man—watches are respectable. Here are +your letters, they are short but credible. Have you enough money?”</p> + +<p>“Lots,” said Jones, “and I don’t know in the least how to thank you for +what you have done. I’d have been had, sure, wearing that hat and +coat—well, maybe we’ll meet again.”</p> + +<p>They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road in +the direction of Pebblemarsh, Kellerman watching till a bend hid him +from view.</p> + +<p>Kellerman had in some mysterious way added a touch of the footlights to +this business. This confounded Kellerman who thought in terms of reels +and situations, had managed to inspire Jones with the feeling that he +was moving on the screen, and that any moment the hedgerows might give +up an army of pursuers to the delight of a hidden audience.</p> + +<p>However, the hedgerows of the Pebblemarsh road gave up nothing but the +odours of briar and woodbine,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_276" id="pg_276">276</a></span> nothing pursued him but the twitter of +birds and the songs of larks above the summer-drowsy fields.</p> + +<p>There is nothing much better to live in the memory than a real old +English country road on a perfect summer afternoon, no pleasanter +companion.</p> + +<p>Pebblemarsh is a town of some four thousand souls. It possesses a dye +factory. It once possessed the only really good trout stream in this +part of the country, with the inevitable result, for in England when a +really good trout stream is discovered a dye factory is always erected +upon its banks. Pebblemarsh now only possesses a dye factory.</p> + +<p>The main street runs north and south, and as Jones passed up it he might +have fancied himself in Sandbourne or Northbourne, so much alike are +these three towns.</p> + +<p>Half way up and opposite the post office, an archway disclosed itself +with, above it, the magic word,</p> + +<p class="center">“GARAGE”</p> + +<p>He entered the place. There were no signs of cars, nothing of a movable +description in that yard, with the exception of a stout man in leggings +and shirtsleeves, who, seeing the stranger, came forward to receive him.</p> + +<p>“Have you a car?” asked Jones.</p> + +<p>“They’re all out except a Ford,” said the stout man. “Did you want to go +for a drive?”</p> + +<p>“No. I want to run up to London in a hurry—what’s the mileage from +here?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_277" id="pg_277">277</a></span></p> + +<p>“We reckon it sixty three miles from here to London—that is to say the +Old Kent Road.”</p> + +<p>“That’s near enough,” said Jones. “What’s the price?”</p> + +<p>“A shilling a mile to take you, and a sixpence a mile for the car coming +back.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the total?”</p> + +<p>The proprietor figured in his head for a moment. “Four, fifteen and +six,” said he.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take the car,” said Jones, “and I’ll pay you now. Can I have it at +once?”</p> + +<p>The proprietor went to a door and opened it. “Jim,” cried he, “are you +there? Gentleman wants the Ford taken to London, get her out and get +yourself ready.”</p> + +<p>He turned to Jones.</p> + +<p>“She’ll be ready inside ten minutes if that will do?”</p> + +<p>“That’ll do,” said Jones, “and here’s the money.” He produced the +chamois leather bag, paid the five sovereigns, and received five and +sixpence change—and also a receipt which he put in his pocket. Then Jim +appeared, an inconspicuous looking man, wriggling into a driving coat +that had seen better days, the Ford was taken from its den, the tyres +examined, and the petrol tank filled.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t you an overcoat?” asked the proprietor. “It’ll be chilly after +sundown.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jones. “I came down without one, the weather was so fine—It +won’t hurt.”</p> + +<p>“Better have a coat,” said the proprietor. “I’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_278" id="pg_278">278</a></span> lend you one. Jim will +fetch it back.” He went off, and returned with a heavy coat on his arm.</p> + +<p>“That’s good of you,” said Jones. “Thanks—I’ll put it on now to save +trouble.” Then a bright idea struck him. “What I’m afraid of most is my +eyes, the wind tries them. Have you any goggles?”</p> + +<p>“I believe there’s an old pair in the office,” said the proprietor, +“hold on a minute.” He went off and returned with the goggles. Jones +thanked him, put them on, and got into the car.</p> + +<p>“Pleasant journey to you,” said the proprietor.</p> + +<p>Then they started.</p> + +<p>They turned up the street and along the road by which Jones had come. +Then they struck into the road where the “Lucknows” and “Cawnpores” +hinted of old Indian Colonels.</p> + +<p>They passed the gates of the Hoover establishment. It was open, and an +attendant was gazing up and down the street. He looked at the car but he +did not recognize the occupant, then several more residential roads were +left behind, a highly respectable cemetery, a tin chapel, and the car, +taking a hill as Fords know how, dropped Sandbourne-on-Sea to +invisibility and surrounded itself with vast stretches of green and sun +warmed country, June scented, and hazy with the warmth of summer.</p> + +<p>They passed hop gardens and hamlets, broad meadows and grazing cattle, +bosky woods and park lands.</p> + +<p>Jones, though he had taken the goggles off, saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_279" id="pg_279">279</a></span> little of the beauty +around him. He was recognising facts, and asking questions of himself.</p> + +<p>If Hoover or the police were to call at the garage, what would happen? +Knowing the route of the car could they telegraph to towns on the way +and have him arrested? How did the English law stand as regards escaped +gentlemen with hallucinations? Could they be arrested like criminals? +Surely not—and yet as regards the law, who could be sure of anything? +Jim, the speechless driver, could tell him nothing on these points.</p> + +<p>Towards dusk they reached a fairly big town, and in the very centre of +the main street, Jim stopped the car to light the headlamps. A +policeman, passing on his beat, paused to inspect the operation and then +moved on, and the car resumed its way, driving into a world of twilight +and scented hedges, where the glowworms were lighting up, and over which +the sky was showing a silvery sprinkle of stars.</p> + +<p>Two more towns they passed unhindered, and then came the fringe of +London, a maze of lights and ways and houses, tram lines, and then an +endless road, half road, half street, lines of shops, lines of old +houses and semi gardens.</p> + +<p>Jim turned in his seat. “This here’s the Kent Road,” said he. “We’re +about the middle of it, which part did you want?”</p> + +<p>“This will do,” said Jones, “pull her up.”</p> + +<p>He got out, took the four and sixpence from his pocket, and gave Jim two +shillings for a tip.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_280" id="pg_280">280</a></span></p> + +<p>“Going all the way back to-night?” asked he, as he wriggled out of the +coat, and handed it over with the goggles.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Jim. “I’ll stop at the last pub we passed for the night. +There ain’t no use over taxin’ a car.”</p> + +<p>“Well, good night to you,” said Jones. He watched the car turning and +vanishing, then, with a feeling of freedom he had never before +experienced, he pushed on London-wards.</p> + +<p>With only two and sixpence in his pocket, he would have to wander about +all night, or sit on the embankment. He had several times seen the +outcasts on the embankment seats at night, and pitied them; he did not +pity them now. They were free men and women.</p> + +<p>The wind had died away and the night was sultry, much pleasanter out of +doors than in, a general term that did not apply to the Old Kent Road.</p> + +<p>The old road leading down to Kent was once, no doubt, a pleasant enough +place, but pleasure had long forsaken it, and cleanliness. It was here +that David Copperfield sold his jacket, and the old clothiers’ shops are +so antiquated that any of them might have been the scene of the +purchase. To-night the old Kent Road was swarming, and the further Jones +advanced towards the river the thicker seemed the throng.</p> + +<p>At a flaring public house, and for the price of a shilling, he obtained +enough food in the way of sausages and mashed potatoes, to satisfy his +hunger, a half pint tankard of beer completed the satisfaction of his +inner man, and having bought a couple of<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_281" id="pg_281">281</a></span> packets of navy cut cigarettes +and a box of matches, he left the place and pursued his way towards the +river.</p> + +<p>He had exactly tenpence in his pocket, and he fell to thinking as he +walked, of the extraordinary monetary fluctuations he had experienced in +this city of London. At the Savoy that fatal day he had less than ten +pounds, next morning, though robed as a Lord, he had only a penny, the +penny had been reduced to a halfpenny by the purchase of a newspaper, +the halfpenny swelled to five pounds by Rochester’s gift, the five +pounds sprang in five minutes to eight thousand, owing to Voles, the +eight thousand to a million eight thousand, owing to Mulhausen, Simms +and Cavendish had stripped him of his last cent, the Smithers affair had +given him five pounds, now he had only ten pence, and to-morrow at nine +o’clock he would have eight thousand.</p> + +<p>It will be noted that he did not consider that eight thousand his, till +it was safe in his pocket in the form of notes—he had learned by bitter +experience to put his trust in nothing but the tangible. He reached the +river and the great bridge that spans it here, and on the bridge he +paused, leaning his elbow on the parapet, and looking down stream.</p> + +<p>The waning moon had risen, painting the water with silver; barge lights +and the lights of tugs and police boats shewed points of orange and +dribbles of ruffled gold, whilst away down stream to the right, the airy +fairy tracery of the Houses of Parliament fretted the sky.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_282" id="pg_282">282</a></span></p> + +<p>It was a nocturne after the heart of Whistler, and Jones, as he gazed at +it, felt for the first time the magic of this wonderful half revealed +city with its million yellow eyes. He passed on, crossing to the right +bank, and found the Strand. Here in a bar, and for the price of half a +pint of beer, he sat for some twenty minutes watching the customers and +killing Time, then, with his worldly wealth reduced to eightpence, he +wandered off westward, passing the Savoy, and pausing for a moment to +peep down the great archway at the gaily lit hotel.</p> + +<p>At midnight he had gravitated to the embankment, and found a seat not +overcrowded.</p> + +<p>Here he fell in with a gentleman, derelict like himself, a free spoken +individual, whose conversation wiled away an hour.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_283" id="pg_283">283</a></span> +<a name="THE_BLIGHTED_CITY_8274" id="THE_BLIGHTED_CITY_8274"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> +<h3>THE BLIGHTED CITY</h3> +</div> + +<p>Said the person after a request for a match: “Warm night, but there’s a +change in the weather coming on, or I’m greatly mistaken. I’ve lost +nearly everything in the chops and changes of life, but there’s one +thing I haven’t lost—my barometer—that’s to say my rheumatism. It +tells me when rain is coming as sure as an aneroid. London is pretty +full for the time of year, don’t you think?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Jones, “I reckon it is.”</p> + +<p>They talked, the gentleman with the barometer passing from the weather +to politics, from politics to high finance, from high finance to +himself. He had been a solicitor.</p> + +<p>“Disbarred, as you see, for nothing, but what a hundred men are doing at +the present moment. There’s no justice in the world, except maybe in the +Law Courts. I’m not one of those who think the Law is an ass, no, +there’s a great deal of common sense in the Law of England. I’m not +talking of the Incorporated Law Society that shut me out from a living, +for a slip any man might make. I’m talking of the old Laws of England as +administered by his Majesty’s Judges; study them, and you will be +astonished at<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_284" id="pg_284">284</a></span> their straight common-sense and justice. I’m not holding +any brief for lawyers—I’m frank, you see—the business of lawyers is to +wriggle round and circumvent the truth, to muddy evidence, confuse +witnesses and undo justice. I’m just talking of the laws.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know anything of the laws of lunacy?” asked Jones.</p> + +<p>“Something.”</p> + +<p>“I had a friend who was supposed to be suffering from mind trouble, two +doctors doped him and put him away in an asylum—he was quite harmless.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by doped him?” asked the other.</p> + +<p>“Gave him a drug to quiet him, and then took him off in an automobile.”</p> + +<p>“Was there money involved?”</p> + +<p>“You may say there was. He was worth a million.”</p> + +<p>“Anyone to benefit by his being put away?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I expect one might make out a case of that; the family would have +the handling of the million, wouldn’t they?”</p> + +<p>“It all depends—but there’s one thing certain, there’d be a thundering +law case for any clever solicitor to handle if the plaintiff were not +too far gone in his mind to plead. Anyhow, the drugging is out of +order—whole thing sounds fishy.”</p> + +<p>“Suppose he escaped,” said Jones. “Could they take him back by force?”</p> + +<p>“That’s a difficult question to answer. If he were<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_285" id="pg_285">285</a></span> cutting up shines it +would be easy, but if he were clever enough to pretend to be sane it +might be difficult. You see, he would have to be arrested, no man can go +up and seize another man in the street and say: You’re mad, come along +with me, simply because, even if he holds a certificate of lunacy +against the other man the other man might say you’ve made a mistake, I’m +not the person you want. Then it would be a question of swearing before +a magistrate. The good old Laws of England are very strict about the +freedom of the body, and the rights of the individual man to be heard in +his own defence. If your lunatic were not too insane, and were to take +refuge in a friend’s house, and the friend were to back him, that would +make things more difficult still.”</p> + +<p>“If he were to take refuge in his own house?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that would make the thing still more difficult, very much more so. +If, of course, he were not conducting himself in a manner detrimental to +the public peace, firing guns out of windows and so forth. The laws of +England are very strict about entering a man’s house. Of course, were +the pursuers to go before a magistrate and swear that the pursued were a +dangerous lunatic, then a right of search and entry might be obtained, +but on the pursuers would lie the onus of proof. Now pauper lunatics are +very easily dealt with: the Relieving Officer, on the strength of a +certificate of lunacy, can go to the poor man’s cottage or tenement, and +take him away, for, you see, the man possessing no property it is +supposed that no man is interested in his internment, but once +introduce<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_286" id="pg_286">286</a></span> the property element and there is the very devil to pay, +especially in cases where the lunatic is only eccentric and does not +come into court with straws in his hair, so to speak.”</p> + +<p>“I get you,” said Jones. He offered cigarettes, and presently the +communicative one departed, having borrowed fourpence on the strength of +his professional advice.</p> + +<p>The rest of that night was a very good imitation of a nightmare. Jones +tried several different seats in succession, and managed to do a good +deal of walking. Dawn found him on London Bridge, watching the birth of +another perfect day, but without enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>He was cheerful but tired. The thought that at nine o’clock or +thereabouts, he would be able to place his hands on eight thousand +pounds, gave him the material for his cheerfulness. He had often read of +the joy of open air life, and the freedom of the hobo; but open air life +in London, on looking back upon it, did not appeal to him. He had been +twice moved on by policemen, and his next door neighbours, after the +departure of the barometer man, were of a type that inspired neither +liking nor trust.</p> + +<p>He heard Big Ben booming six o’clock. He had three hours still before +him, and he determined to take it out in walking. He would go citywards, +and then come back with an appetite for breakfast.</p> + +<p>Having made this resolve, he started, passing through the deserted +streets till he reached the Bank,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_287" id="pg_287">287</a></span> and then onwards till he reached the +Mile End Road.</p> + +<p>As he walked he made plans. When he had drawn his money he would +breakfast at a restaurant, he fixed upon Romanos’, eggs and bacon and +sausages, coffee and hot rolls would be the <i>menu</i>. Then he fell to +wondering whether Romanos’ would be open for breakfast, or whether it +was of the type of restaurant that only serves luncheons and dinners. If +it were, then he could breakfast at the Charing Cross Hotel.</p> + +<p>These considerations led him a good distance on his way. Then the Mile +End Road beguiled him, lying straight and foreign looking, and empty in +the sunlight. The Barometer man’s weather apparatus must have been at +fault, for in all the sky there was not a cloud, nor the symptom of the +coming of a cloud.</p> + +<p>Away down near the docks, a clock over a public house pointed to half +past seven, and he judged it time to return.</p> + +<p>He came back. The Mile End Road was still deserted, the city round the +bank was destitute of life, Fleet Street empty.</p> + +<p>Pompeii lay not more utterly dead than this weird city of vast business +palaces, and the Strand shewed nothing of life or almost nothing, every +shop was shuttered though now it was close upon nine o’clock.</p> + +<p>Something had happened to London, some blight had fallen on the +inhabitants, death seemed everywhere, not seen but hinted at. Stray +recollections of weird stories by H. G. Wells passed through the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_288" id="pg_288">288</a></span> mind +of Jones. He recalled the city of London when the Martians had done with +it, that city of death, and horror, and sunlight and silence.</p> + +<p>Then of a sudden, as he neared the Law Courts, the appalling truth +suddenly suggested itself to him.</p> + +<p>He walked up to a policeman on point of duty at a corner, a policeman +who seemed under the mesmerism of the general gloom and blight, a +policeman who might have been the blue concrete core of negation.</p> + +<p>“Say, officer,” said Jones, “what day’s to-day?”</p> + +<p>“Sunday,” said the policeman.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_289" id="pg_289">289</a></span> +<a name="A_JUST_MAN_ANGERED_8433" id="A_JUST_MAN_ANGERED_8433"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXX</h2> +<h3>A JUST MAN ANGERED</h3> +</div> + +<p>When things are piled one on top of another beyond a certain height, +they generally come down with a crash.</p> + +<p>That one word “Sunday” was the last straw for Jones, sweeping away +breakfast, bank and everything; coming on top of the events of the last +twenty-four hours, it brought his mental complacency to ruin, ruin from +which shot blazing jets of wrath.</p> + +<p>Red rage filled him. He had been made game of, every man and everything +was against him. Well, he would bite. He would strike. He would attack, +careless of everything, heedless of everything.</p> + +<p>A mesmerised looking taxi-cab, crawling along on the opposite side of +the way, fortunately caught his eye.</p> + +<p>“I’ll make hay!” cried Jones, as he rushed across the street. He stopped +the cab.</p> + +<p>“10A, Carlton House Terrace,” he cried to the driver. He got in and shut +the door with a bang.</p> + +<p>He got out at Carlton House Terrace, ran up the steps of 10A, and rang +the bell.</p> + +<p>The door was opened by the man who had helped to eject Spicer. He did +not seem in the least surprised to see Jones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_290" id="pg_290">290</a></span></p> + +<p>“Pay that taxi,” said Jones.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord,” replied the flunkey.</p> + +<p>Jones turned to the breakfast-room. The faint smell of coffee met him at +the door as he opened it. There were no servants in the room. Only a +woman quietly breakfasting with the Life of St. Thomas à Kempis by her +plate.</p> + +<p>It was Venetia Birdbrook.</p> + +<p>She half rose from her chair when she saw Jones. He shut the door. The +sight of Venetia acted upon him almost as badly as the word “Sunday” had +done.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing here?” said he. “I know—you and that lot had me +tucked away in a lunatic asylum; now you have taken possession of the +house.”</p> + +<p>Venetia was quite calm.</p> + +<p>“Since the house is not yours,” said she, “I fail to see how my presence +here affects you. We know the truth. Dr. Simms has arrived at the +conclusion that your confession was at least based on truth. That you +are what you proclaimed yourself to be, a man named Jones. We thought +you were mad, we see now that you are an impostor. Kindly leave this +house or I will call for a policeman.”</p> + +<p>Jones’ mind lost all its fire. Hatred can cool as well as inflame and he +hated Venetia and all her belongings, including her dowager mother and +her uncle the duke, with a hatred well based on reason and fact. All his +fear of mind disturbance should he go on playing the part of Rochester +had vanished, the fires of tribulation had purged them away.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_291" id="pg_291">291</a></span> “Do you mean that +joke I played on you all? I am the Earl of Rochester, this is my house, +and I request you to leave it. Don’t speak. I know what you are going to +say. You and your family will do this and you will do that. You will do +nothing. Even if I were an impostor you would dare to do nothing. Your +family washing is far, far too much soiled to expose it in public.</p> + +<p>“If I were an impostor, who can say I have not played an honourable +game? I have recovered valuable property—did I touch it and take it +away? Did I expose to the public an affair that would have caused a +scandal? You will do nothing and you know it. You did not even dare to +tell the servants here what has happened, for the servant who let me in +was not a bit surprised. Now, if you have finished your breakfast, will +you kindly leave my house?”</p> + +<p>Venetia rose and took up her book.</p> + +<p>“<i>Your</i> house,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my house. From this day forth, my house. But that is not all. +To-morrow I will get lawyers to work and I’ll get apologies as big as +houses from the whole lot of you—else I’ll prosecute.” He was getting +angry, “prosecute you for doping me.” Recollections of the Barometer +man’s advice came to him, “doping me in order to lay your hands on that +million of money.”</p> + +<p>He went to the bell and rang it.</p> + +<p>“We want no scene before the servants,” said Venetia hurriedly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_292" id="pg_292">292</a></span></p> + +<p>“Then kindly go,” said Jones, “or you will have a perfect panorama +before the servants.”</p> + +<p>A servant entered.</p> + +<p>“Send Church here,” said Jones. He was trembling like a furious dog.</p> + +<p>He had got the whole situation in hand. He had told his tale and acted +like an honourable man, the fools had disbelieved him and doped him. +They had scented the truth but they dared do nothing. Mulhausen and the +recovered mine, the Plinlimon letters, Rochester’s past, all these were +his bastions, to say nothing of Rochester’s suicide.</p> + +<p>The fear of publicity held them in a vice. Even were they to go to +America and prove that a man called Jones exactly like the Earl of +Rochester had lived in Philadelphia, go to the Savoy and prove that a +man exactly like the Earl of Rochester had lived there, produce the +clothes he had come home in that night—all of that would lead them, +where—to an action at law.</p> + +<p>They could not arrest him as an impostor till they had proved him an +impostor. To prove that, they would have to turn the family history +inside out before a gaping public.</p> + +<p>Mr. Church came in.</p> + +<p>“Church,” said Jones, “I played a practical joke on—on my people. I met +a man called Jones at the Savoy—well, we needn’t go into details, he +was very like me, and I told my people for a joke that I was Jones. The +fools thought I was mad. They called in two doctors and drugged me and +hauled me<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_293" id="pg_293">293</a></span> off to a place. I got out, and here I am back. What do you +think of that?”</p> + +<p>“Well, my Lord,” said Church, “if I may say it to you, those practical +jokes are dangerous things to play—Lord Langwathby—”</p> + +<p>“Was he here?”</p> + +<p>“He came last night, my Lord, to have a personal explanation about a +telegram he said you sent him as a practical joke, some time ago, taking +him up to Cumberland.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll never play another,” said Jones. “Tell them to bring me some +breakfast, and look here, Church, I’ve told my sister to leave the house +at once. I want no more of her here. See that her luggage is taken down +at once.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p> + +<p>“And see here, Church, let no one in. Lord Langwathby, or anyone else. I +want a little peace. By the way, have a taxi sent for, and tell me when +my sister’s luggage is down.”</p> + +<p>In the middle of breakfast, Church came in to say that Miss Birdbrook +was departing and Jones came into the hall to verify the fact.</p> + +<p>Venetia had brought a crocodile skin travelling bag and a trunk.</p> + +<p>These were being conveyed to a taxi.</p> + +<p>Not one word did she say to relieve her outraged feelings. The fear of a +“scene before the servants” kept her quiet.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_294" id="pg_294">294</a></span> +<a name="HE_FINDS_HIMSELF_8598" id="HE_FINDS_HIMSELF_8598"></a> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> +<h3>HE FINDS HIMSELF</h3> +</div> + +<p>That evening at nine o’clock, Jones sat in the smoking-room, writing. He +had trusted Church with an important mission on the upshot of which his +whole future depended.</p> + +<p>If you will review his story, as he himself was reviewing it now, you +will see that, despite a strong will and a mind quick to act, the +freedom of his will had always been hampered by circumstance.</p> + +<p>Circumstance from the first had determined that he should be a Lord.</p> + +<p>I leave it to philosophers to determine what Circumstance is. I can only +say that from a fair knowledge of life, Circumstance seems to me more +than a fortuitous happening of things. Who does not know the man of +integrity and ability, the man destined for the Presidency or the +College chair, who remains in an office all his life? Luck is somehow +against him. Or the man who, starting in life with everything against +him, arrives, not by creeping, but by leaps and bounds.</p> + +<p>I do not wish to cast a shade on individual effort; I only say this: If +you ever find Circumstance, whose other name is Fortune, feeling for you +in order to make you a lord, don’t kick, for when Fortune takes<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_295" id="pg_295">295</a></span> an +interest in a man, she is cunning as a woman. She is a woman in fact.</p> + +<p>At half past nine, a knock came to the door. It was opened by Church, +who ushered in Teresa, Countess of Rochester.</p> + +<p>Jones rose from his chair, Church shut the door, and they found +themselves alone and face to face.</p> + +<p>The girl did not sit down. She stood holding the back of a chair, and +looking at the man before her. She looked scared, dazed, like a person +suddenly awakened from sleep, in a strange place.</p> + +<p>Jones knew at once.</p> + +<p>“You have guessed the truth,” said he, “that I am not your husband.”</p> + +<p>“I knew it,” she replied, “when you told us in the drawing-room— The +others thought you mad. I knew you were speaking the truth.”</p> + +<p>“That was why you ran from the room.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; what more have you to say?”</p> + +<p>“I have a very great deal more to say; will you not sit down?”</p> + +<p>She sat down on the edge of a chair, folded her hands and continued +looking at him with that scared, hunted expression.</p> + +<p>“I want to say just this,” said Jones. “Right through this business from +the very start I have tried to play a straight game. I can guess from +your face that you fear me as if I were something horrible. I don’t +blame you. I ask you to listen to me.</p> + +<p>“Your husband took advantage of two facts: the fact that I am his twin +image, as he called it, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_296" id="pg_296">296</a></span> fact that I was temporarily without +money and stranded in London. I am not a drunkard, but that night I came +under the influence of strong drink. He took advantage of that to send +me home as himself. I am going to say a nasty thing; that was not the +action of a gentleman.”</p> + +<p>The girl winced.</p> + +<p>“Never,” went on Jones, “would I say things against a man who is dead, +yet I am forced to tell you the truth, so that you may see this man as +he was—wait.”</p> + +<p>He went to the bureau and took out some papers. He handed her one. She +read the contents:</p> + +<div style="margin:0 auto 0 auto; width:20em;"> +<p>“<i>Stick to it—if you can. You’ll see why I couldn’t</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align:right">”<span class="smcap">Rochester</span>.“</p> +</div> + +<p>“That is your husband’s handwriting?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Now think for a moment of his act as regards yourself. He sent me, a +stranger, home, never thinking a thought about you.”</p> + +<p>Her breath choked back.</p> + +<p>“As for me,” went on Jones, “from the very first moment I saw you, I +have thought of you and your welfare. I told my story for your sake, so +that things might be cleared up, and they put me in an asylum for my +pains. I escaped, I am here, and for your sake I am saying all this. +Does it give me pleasure to show you your husband’s character? I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_297" id="pg_297">297</a></span> +sooner cut off my right hand, but that would not help you. You have got +to know, else I cannot possibly get out of this. Read these.”</p> + +<p>He handed her the Plinlimon letters.</p> + +<p>She read them carefully. Whilst she was doing so, he sat down and +waited.</p> + +<p>“These were written two years ago,” said she in a sad voice, as she +folded them together, “a year after we were married.”</p> + +<p>It was the tone of her voice that did it—as she handed the letters back +to him, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears.</p> + +<p>He put them back in the bureau without a word. He felt that he had +struck the innocent again and most cruelly.</p> + +<p>Then he came back to the chair on which he had been sitting and stood +holding its back.</p> + +<p>“You see how we are both placed,” said he. “To prove your husband’s +death, all my business would have to be raked up. I don’t mind, because +I have acted straight, but you would mind. The fact of his suicide, the +fact of his sending me home—everything, that would hit you again and +again. Yet, look at your position—I do not know what we are to do. If I +go away and go back to the States, I leave you before the world as the +wife of a man still living who has deserted you, if I stay and go on +being the Earl of Rochester, you are tied to a phantom.”</p> + +<p>He paced the floor, head down, wrestling with an insoluble problem, +whilst she sat looking at him.</p> + +<p>“Which is the easiest for you to do?” asked she.<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_298" id="pg_298">298</a></span></p> + +<p>“Oh, me,” said he; “I’m not thinking of myself—back to the States, of +course, but that’s out of the question—there are lots of easy things to +do, but when my case comes in contact with yours, there’s nothing easy +to do. Do you think it was easy for me to go off that night and leave +you waiting for me, feeling that you thought me a skunk? No, that was +not easy.”</p> + +<p>She had been sitting very calm and still up till now, then suddenly she +looked down. She burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” she cried, “why were you not him—if he had only been you. He +cared nothing for me, yet I loved him—you—you—”</p> + +<p>“I care for nothing at all but you,” said he.</p> + +<p>She shuddered all over and turned her head away.</p> + +<p>“That’s the mischief of it as far as I am concerned,” he went on. “I +can’t escape without injuring you and so myself—yet I don’t wonder at +your hating me.”</p> + +<p>She turned her face to him, it was flushed and wet.</p> + +<p>“I do not hate you,” said she; “you are the only man I ever +met—unselfish.”</p> + +<p>“No,” he said, “I’m selfish. It’s just because I love you that I think +of you more than myself, and I love you because you are good and sweet. +I could not do you wrong just because of that. If you were another +woman, I would not bother about you. I’d be cruel enough, I reckon, and +go off and leave you tied up, and get back to the States—but you are +you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_299" id="pg_299">299</a></span> and that’s my bother. I did not know till now how I was tied to +you; yesterday at that asylum place and all last night I did not think +of you. My one thought was to get away. I came here to-day, driven by +want of money. I was so angry with the whole business, I determined to +go on being Rochester—then you came into my mind and I sent Church to +ask you to come and see me—much good it has done.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she said.</p> + +<p>He looked at her quickly. Her glance fell.</p> + +<p>Next moment he was beside her, kneeling and holding her hand.</p> + +<p>For a moment, they said not one word. Then he spoke as though answering +questions.</p> + +<p>“We can get married— Oh, I don’t mind going on being the Earl of +Rochester. There were times when I thought I’d go cracked—but now you +know the truth, I reckon I can go on pretending. People can have the +marriage ceremony performed twice—of course, it would have to be +private—I can’t think this is true—I don’t believe you can ever care +for me—I don’t know, maybe you will—do you care for me for myself in +the least—I reckon I’m half mad, but say—when did you begin to like me +for myself—was it only just because you thought I was unselfish—was +it—”</p> + +<p>“If I like you at all,” she said, with a little catch in her voice, +“perhaps it was that—night—”</p> + +<p>“What night?”</p> + +<p>“The night you struck—”<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_300" id="pg_300">300</a></span></p> + +<p>“The Russian—but you thought I was <i>him</i> then.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” said she, dreamily, “but, I thought it was unlike him—do you +understand?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I understand nothing but that I have got you to care for +always, to worship, to lay myself down for you to trample on.”</p> + +<hr class="silver45" /> + +<p>“Good-night,” said she at last.</p> + +<p>She was standing, preparing to go. “The family know the truth, at least +they are sure of the truth, but, as you say, they can do nothing. +Imagine their feelings when I tell them what we have agreed on! With me +on your side they are absolutely helpless.”</p> + +<hr class="silver45" /> + +<p>There is, fortunately enough, no law preventing two married people being +re-married, privately; the good old lawyers of England considering, no +doubt, that a man having gone through the ceremony once would think it +enough.</p> + +<hr class="silver45" /> + +<p>All this that I have been telling you happened some years ago, years +marked by some very practical and brilliant speeches in the House of +Lords and the death of the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook from liver complaint. +It is a queer story, but not queerer than the face of the Dowager +Countess of Rochester when she reads in private all the nice +complimentary things that the papers have to say about her son.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 23988-h.txt or 23988-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/9/8/23988">http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/9/8/23988</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL">http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL</a> + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** +</pre> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/23988.txt b/23988.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e87aa6b --- /dev/null +++ b/23988.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9131 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Man Who Lost Himself, by H. De Vere +Stacpoole + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + + + + +Title: The Man Who Lost Himself + + +Author: H. De Vere Stacpoole + + + +Release Date: December 23, 2007 [eBook #23988] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF*** + + +E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) + + + +THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF + +by + +H. DE VERE STACPOOLE + +Author of "Sea Plunder," "The Gold Trail," +"The Blue Lagoon," Etc. + + + + + + + +New York: John Lane Company +Toronto: S. B. Gundy :: MCMXVIII + +Copyright, 1917-1918 +by Street & Smith + +Copyright, 1918 +by John Lane Company + +The Plimpton Press +Norwood Mass U.S.A. + + + + +CONTENTS + +PART I + + CHAPTER PAGE + I. Jones 9 + II. The Stranger 14 + III. Dinner and After 18 + IV. Carlton House Terrace 20 + V. The Point of the Joke 38 + +PART II + + VI. The Net 45 + VII. Luncheon 52 + VIII. Mr. Voles 61 + IX. More Intruders 74 + X. Lady Plinlimon 85 + XI. The Coal Mine 94 + XII. The Girl in the Victoria 104 + XIII. Teresa 119 + +PART III + + XIV. The Attack 125 + XV. The Attack (Continued) 131 + XVI. A Wild Surprise 136 + XVII. The Second Honeymoon 148 + XVIII. The Mental Trap 158 + XIX. Escape Closed 164 + XX. The Family Council 179 + XXI. Hoover's 200 + XXII. An Interlude 212 + XXIII. Smithers 222 + XXIV. He Runs to Earth 230 + XXV. Moths 234 + XXVI. A Tramp, and Other Things 241 + XXVII. The Only Man in the World Who Would Believe Him 264 + XXVIII. Pebblemarsh 274 + XXIX. The Blighted City 283 + XXX. A Just Man Angered 289 + XXXI. He Finds Himself 294 + + + + + + +THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF + +PART I + +CHAPTER I + +JONES + + +It was the first of June, and Victor Jones of Philadelphia was seated in +the lounge of the Savoy Hotel, London, defeated in his first really +great battle with the thing we call life. + +Though of Philadelphia, Jones was not an American, nor had he anything +of the American accent. Australian born, he had started life in a bank +at Melbourne, gone to India for a trading house, started for himself, +failed, and become a rolling stone. Philadelphia was his last halt. + +With no financial foundation, Victor and a Philadelphia gentleman had +competed for a contract to supply the British Government with Harveyised +steel struts, bolts, and girders; he had come over to London to press +the business; he had interviewed men in brass hats, slow moving men who +had turned him over to slower moving men. The Stringer Company, for so +he dubbed himself and Aaron Stringer, who had financed him for the +journey, had wasted three weeks on the business, and this morning their +tender had been rejected. Hardmans', the Pittsburg people, had got the +order. + +It was a nasty blow. If he and Stringer could have secured the contract, +they could have carried it through all right, Stringer would have put +the thing in the hands of Laurenson of Philadelphia, and their +commission would have been enormous, a stroke of the British +Government's pen would have filled their pockets; failing that they were +bankrupt. At least Jones was. + +And justifiably you will say, considering that the whole business was a +gigantic piece of bluff--well, maybe, yet on behalf of this bluffer I +would put it forward that he had risked everything on one deal, and that +this was no little failure of his, but a disaster, naked and complete. + +He had less than ten pounds in his pocket and he owed money at the +Savoy. You see he had reckoned on doing all his business in a week, and +if it failed--an idea which he scarcely entertained--on getting back +third class to the States. He had not reckoned on the terrible expenses +of London, or the three weeks delay. + +Yesterday he had sent a cable to Stringer for funds, and had got as a +reply: "Am waiting news of contract." + +Stringer was that sort of man. + +He was thinking about Stringer now, as he sat watching the guests of the +Savoy, Americans and English, well to do people with no money worries, +so he fancied. He was thinking about Stringer and his own position, +with less than ten pounds in his pocket, an hotel bill unreceipted, and +three thousand miles of deep water between himself and Philadelphia. + +Jones was twenty-four years of age. He looked thirty. A serious faced, +cadaverous individual, whom, given three guesses you would have judged +to be a Scotch free kirk minister in mufti; an actor in the melodramatic +line; a food crank. These being the three most serious occupations in +the world. + +In reality, he had started life, as before said, in a bank, educated +himself in mathematics and higher commercial methods, by correspondence, +and, aiming to be a millionaire, had left the bank and struck out for +himself in the great tumbling ocean of business. + +He had glimpsed the truth. Seen the fact that the art of life is not so +much to work oneself as to make other people work for one, to convert by +one's own mental energy, the bodily energy of others into products or +actions. Had this Government contract come off, he would have, and to +his own profit, set a thousand hammers swinging, a dozen steel mills +rolling, twenty ships lading, hammers, mills and ships he had never +seen, never would see. + +That is the magic of business, and when you behold roaring towns and +humming wharves, when you read of raging battles, you see and read of +the work of a comparatively small number of men, gentlemen who wear +frock coats, who have never handled a bale, or carried a gun, or steered +a ship with their own hands. Magicians! + +He ordered a whisky and soda from a passing attendant, to help him +think some more about Stringer and his own awful position, and was +taking the glass from the salver when a very well dressed man of his own +age and build who had entered by the passage leading up from the +American bar drew his attention. + +This man's face seemed quite familiar to him, so much so that he started +in his chair as though about to rise and greet him. The stranger, also, +seemed for a second under the same obsession, but only for a second; he +made a half pause and then passed on, becoming lost to sight beyond the +palm trees at the entrance. Jones leaned back in his chair. + +"Now, _where_ did I see that guy before?" asked he of himself. "Where on +earth have I met him? and he recognised me--where in the--where in +the--where in the--?" + +His memory vaguely and vainly searching for the name to go with that +face was at fault. He finished his whisky and soda and rose, and then +strolled off not heeding much in what direction, till he reached the +book and newspaper stand where he paused to inspect the wares, turning +over the pages of the latest best seller without imbibing a word of the +text. + +Then he found himself downstairs in the American bar, with a champagne +cocktail before him. + +Jones was an abstemious man, as a rule, but he had a highly strung +nervous system and it had been worked up. The unaccustomed whiskey and +soda had taken him in its charge, comforting him and conducting his +steps, and now the bar keeper, a cheery person, combined with the +champagne cocktail, the cheeriest of drinks, so raised his spirits and +warmed his optimism, that, having finished his glass he pushed it across +the counter and said, "Give me another." + +At this moment a gentleman who had just entered the bar came up to the +counter, placed half a crown upon it and was served by the assistant bar +keeper with a glass of sherry. + +Jones, turning, found himself face to face with the stranger whom he had +seen in the lounge, the stranger whose face he knew but whose name he +could not remember in the least. + +Jones was a direct person, used to travel and the forming of chance +acquaintanceships. He did not hang back. + +"'Scuse me," said he. "I saw you in the lounge and I'm sure I've met you +somewhere or another, but I can't place you." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE STRANGER + + +The stranger, taking his change from the assistant bar tender, laughed. + +"Yes," said he, "you have seen me before, often, I should think. Do you +mean to say you don't know where?" + +"Nope," said Jones--he had acquired a few American idioms--"I'm clear +out of my reckoning--are you an American?" + +"No, I'm English," replied the other. "This is very curious, you don't +recognise me, well--well--well--let's sit down and have a talk, maybe +recollection will come to you--give it time--it is easier to think +sitting down than standing up." + +Now as Jones turned to take his seat at the table indicated by the +stranger, he noticed that the bar keeper and his assistant were looking +at him as though he had suddenly become an object of more than ordinary +interest. + +The subtlety of human facial expression stands unchallenged, and the +faces of these persons conveyed the impression to Jones that the +interest he had suddenly evoked in their minds had in it a link with the +humorous. + +When he looked again, however, having taken his seat, they were both +washing glasses with the solemnity of undertakers. + +"I thought those guys were laughing at me," said Jones, "seems I was +wrong, and all the better for them--well, now, let's get to the bottom +of this tangle--who are you, anyway?" + +"Just a friend," replied the other, "I'll tell you my name presently, +only I want you to think it out for yourself. Talk about yourself and +then, maybe, you'll arrive at it. Who are you?" + +"Me," cried Jones, "I'm Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm the partner of +a skunk by name of Stringer. I'm the victim of a British government that +doesn't know the difference between tin plate and Harveyised steel. I'm +a man on the rocks." + +The flood gates of his wrath were opened and everything came out, +including the fact of his own desperate position. + +When he had finished the only remark of the stranger was: + +"Have another." + +"Not on your life," cried Jones. "I ought to be making tracks for the +consul or somewhere to get my passage back to the States--well--I don't +know. No--no more cocktails. I'll have a sherry, same as you." + +The sherry having been despatched, the stranger rose, refusing a return +drink just at that moment. + +"Come into the lounge with me," said he, "I want to tell you something I +can't tell you here." + +They passed up the stairs, the stranger leading the way, Jones +following, slightly confused in his mind but full of warmth at his +heart, and with a buoyancy of spirit beyond experience. Stringer was +forgotten, the British Government was forgotten, contracts, hotel bills, +steerage journeys to the States, all these were forgotten. The warmth, +the sumptuous rooms, and the golden lamps of the Savoy were sufficient +for the moment, and as he sank into an easy chair and lit a cigarette, +even his interest in the stranger and what he had to say was for a +moment dimmed and diminished by the fumes that filled his brain, and the +ease that lapped his senses. + +"What I have to say is this," said the stranger, leaning forward in his +chair. "When I saw you here some time ago, I recognised you at once as a +person I knew, but, as you put it, I could not place you. But when I got +into the main hall a mirror at once told me. You are, to put it frankly, +my twin image." + +"I beg your pardon," said Jones, the word image shattering his +complacency. "Your twin which do you say?" + +"Image, likeness, counterpart--I mean no offence--turn round and glance +at that mirror behind you." + +Jones did, and saw the stranger, and the stranger was himself. Both men +belonged to a fairly common type, but the likeness went far beyond +that--they were identical. The same hair and colour of hair, the same +features, shape of head, ears and colour of eyes, the same serious +expression of countenance. + +Absolute likeness between two human beings is almost as rare as +absolute likeness between two pebbles on a beach, yet it occurs, as in +the case of M. de Joinville and others well known and confirmed, and +when I say absolute likeness, I mean likeness so complete that a close +acquaintance cannot distinguish the difference between the duplicates. +When nature does a trick like this, she does it thoroughly, for it has +been noticed--but more especially in the case of twins--the likeness +includes the voice, or at least its timbre, the thyroid cartilage and +vocal chords following the mysterious law that rules the duplication. + +Jones' voice and the voice of the stranger might have been the same as +far as pitch and timbre were concerned, the only difference was in the +accent, and that was slight. + +"Well, I'm d-d-d--," said Jones. + +He turned to the other and then back to the mirror. + +"Extraordinary, isn't it?" said the other. "I don't know whether I ought +to apologise to you or you to me. My name is Rochester." + +Jones turned from the mirror, the two champagne cocktails, the whisky +and the sherry were accommodating his unaccustomed brain to support this +most unaccustomed situation. The thing seemed to him radiantly humorous, +yet if he had known it there was very little humour in the matter. + +"We must celebrate this," said Jones, calling an attendant and giving +him explicit orders as to the means. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +DINNER AND AFTER + + +A small bottle of Boellinger was the means, and the celebration was +mostly done by Jones, for it came about that this stranger, Rochester, +whilst drinking little himself, managed by some method to keep up in +gaiety and in consequence of mind with the other, though every now and +then he would fall away from the point, as a ship without a steersman +falls away from the wind, and lapse for a moment into what an acute +observer might have deemed to be the fundamental dejection of his real +nature. + +However, these lapses were only momentary, and did not interfere at all +with the gay spirits of his companion, who having found a friend in the +midst of the loneliness of London, and his twin image in the person of +that friend, was now pouring out his heart on every sort of subject, +always returning, and with the regularity of a pendulum to the fact of +the likeness, and the same question and statement. + +"What's this, your name? Rochester! well, 'pon my soul this beats me." + +Presently, the Bollinger finished, Jones found himself outside the Savoy +with this new found friend, walking in the gas lit Strand, and then, +without any transition rememberable, he found himself seated at dinner +in a private room of a French restaurant in Soho. + +Afterwards he could remember parts of that dinner quite distinctly. He +could remember the chicken and salad, and a rum omelette, at which he +had laughed because it was on fire. He could remember Rochester's +gaiety, and a practical joke of some sort played on the waiter by +Rochester and ending in smashed plates--he could remember remonstrating +with the latter over his wild conduct. These things he could remember +afterwards, and also a few others--a place like Heaven--which was the +Leicester Lounge, and a place like the other place which was Leicester +Square. + +A quarrel with a stranger, about what he could not tell, a taxi cab, in +which he was seated listening to Rochester's voice giving directions to +the driver, minute directions as to where he, Jones, was to be driven. + +A lamp lit hall, and stairs up which he was being led. + +Nothing more. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE + + +He awoke from sleep in bed in the dark, with his mind clear as crystal +and hot shame clutching at his throat. Rochester was the first +recollection that came to him, and it was a recollection tinged with +evil. He felt like a man who had supped with the devil. Led by Rochester +he had made a fool of himself, he had made a brute of himself, how would +he face the hotel people? And what had he done with the last of his +money? + +These thoughts held him motionless for a few terrific moments. Then he +clapped his hand to his unfortunate head, turned on his side, and lay +gazing into the darkness. It had all come back to him clearly. +Rochester's wild conduct, the dinner, the smashed plates, the quarrel. +He was afraid to get up and search in his pockets, he guessed their +condition. He occupied himself instead, trying to imagine what would +become of him without money and without friends in this wilderness of +London. With ten pounds he might have done something; without, what +could he do? Nothing, unless it were manual labour, and he did not know +where to look for that. + +Then Rochester, never from his mind, came more fully before him--that +likeness, was it real, or only a delusion of alcohol? And what else had +Rochester done? He seemed mad enough to have done anything, plum +crazy--would he, Jones, be held accountable for Rochester's deeds? He +was fighting with this question when a clock began to strike in the +darkness and close to the bed, nine delicate and silvery strokes, that +brought a sudden sweat upon the forehead of Jones. + +He was not in his room at the Savoy. There was no clock in the Savoy bed +room, and no clock in any hotel ever spoke in tones like these. On the +sound, as if from a passage outside, he heard a voice: + +"Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap's clothes." + +Then came the sound of a soft step crossing the carpet, the sound of +curtain rings moving--then a blind upshrivelled letting the light of day +upon a room never before seen by Jones, a Jacobean bed room, severe, but +exquisite in every detail. + +The man who had pulled the blind string, and whose powerful profile was +silhouetted against the light, showed to the sun a face highly but +evenly coloured, as though by the gentle painting of old port wine, +through a long series of years and ancestors. The typical colour of the +old fashioned English Judge, Bishop, and Butler. + +He was attired in a black morning coat, and his whole countenance, make, +build and appearance had something grave and archiepiscopal most holding +to the eye and imagination. + +It terrified Jones, who, breathing now as though asleep, watched +through closed eyelids whilst the apparition, with pursed lips, dealt +with the blind of the other window. + +This done, it passed to the door, conferred in muted tones with some +unseen person, and returned bearing in its hands a porcelain early +morning tea service. + +Having placed this on the table by the bed, the apparition vanished, +closing the door. + +Jones sat up and looked around him. + +His clothes had disappeared. He always hung his trousers on the bed post +at the end of his bed and placed his other things on a chair, but +trousers or other things were nowhere visible, they had been spirited +away. It was at this moment that he noticed the gorgeous silk pyjamas he +had got on. He held out his arm and looked at the texture and pattern. + +Then, in a flash came comfort and understanding. He was in Rochester's +house. Rochester must have sent him here last night. That apparition was +Rochester's man servant. The vision of Rochester turned from an evil +spirit to an angel, and filled with a warm sensation of friendliness +towards the said Rochester he was in the act of pouring out a cup of +tea, when the words he had heard spoken in the passage outside came back +to him. + +"Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap's clothes." + +What did that mean? + +He finished pouring out the tea and drank it; there was thin bread and +butter on a plate but he disregarded it. Whose money had been taken, +and who had been sent home in another chap's clothes? + +Did those words apply to him or to Rochester? Had Rochester been robbed? +Might he, Jones, be held accountable? + +A deep uneasiness and a passionate desire for his garments begotten of +these queries, brought him out of bed and on to the floor. He came to +the nearer window and looked out. The window gave upon the Green Park, a +cheerful view beneath the sky of a perfect summer's morning. He turned +from the window, and crossing the room opened the door through which the +apparition had vanished. A thickly carpeted corridor lay outside, a +corridor silent as the hypogeum of the Apis, secretive, gorgeous, with +tasseled silk curtains and hanging lamps. Jones judged these lamps to be +of silver and worth a thousand dollars apiece. He had read the Arabian +Nights when a boy, and like a waft now from the garden of Aladdin came a +vague something stirring his senses and disturbing his practical nature. +He wanted his clothes. This silent gorgeousness had raised the desire +for his garments to a passion. He wanted to get into his boots and face +the world and face the worst. Swinging lamps of silver, soft carpets, +silken curtains, only served to heighten his sensitiveness as to his +apparel and whole position. + +He came back into the room. His anger was beginning to rise, the nervous +anger of a man who has made a fool of himself, upon whom a jest is being +played, and who finds himself in a false position. + +Seeing an electric button by the fire place he went to it and pressed it +twice, hard, then he opened the second door of the room and found a bath +room. + +A Pompeian bath room with tassellated floor, marble walls and marble +ceiling. The bath was sunk in the floor. Across hot water pipes, plated +with silver, hung towels of huck-a-back, white towels with cardinal red +fringes. Here too, most un-Pompeian stood a wonderful dressing table, +one solid slab of glass, with razors set out, manicure instruments, +brushes, powder pots, scent bottles. + +Jones came into this place, walked round it like a cat in a strange +larder, gauged the depth of the bath, glanced at the things on the +table, and was in the act of picking up one of the manicure implements, +when a sound from the bed room drew his attention. + +Someone was moving about there. + +Someone who seemed altering the position of chairs and arranging things. + +He judged it to be the servant who had answered the bell; he considered +that it was better to have the thing out now, and have done with it. He +wanted a full explanation, and bravely, but with the feelings of a man +who is entering a dental parlour, he came to the bath room door. + +A pale faced, agile-looking young man with glossy black hair, a young +man in a sleeved waistcoat, a young man carrying a shirt and set of pink +silk undergarments over his left arm, was in the act of placing a pair +of patent leather boots with kid tops upon the floor. A gorgeous +dressing gown lay upon the bed. It had evidently been placed there by +the agile one. + +Jones had intended to ask explanations. That intention shrivelled, +somehow, in the act of speech. What he uttered was a very mildly framed +request. + +"Er--can I have my clothes, please?" said Jones. + +"Yes, my Lord," replied the other. "I am placing them out." + +The instantaneous anger raised by the patent fact that he was being +guyed by the second apparition was as instantly checked by the +recollection of Rochester. Here was another practical joke. This house +was evidently Rochester's--the whole thing was plain. Well, he would +show that tricky spirit how he could take a joke and turn it on the +maker. Like Brer Rabbit he determined to lie low. + +He withdrew into the bath room and sat down on the rush bottomed chair +by the table, his temper coiled, and ready to fly out like a spring. He +was seated like this, curling his toes and nursing his resolve, when the +Agile One, with an absolute gravity that disarmed all anger, entered +with the dressing gown. He stood holding it up, and Jones, rising, put +it on. Then the A. O. filled the bath, trying the temperature with a +thermometer, and so absorbed in his business that he might have been +alone. + +The bath filled, he left the room, closing the door. + +He had thrown some crystals into the water, scenting it with a perfume +fragrant and refreshing, the temperature was just right, and as Jones +plunged and wallowed and lay half floating, supporting himself by the +silver plated rails arranged for that purpose, the idea came to him +that if the practical joke were to continue as pleasantly as it had +begun, he, for one, would not grumble. + +Soothed by the warmth his mind took a clearer view of things. + +If this were a jest of Rochester's, as most certainly it was, where lay +the heart of it? Every joke has its core, and the core of this one was +most evidently the likeness between himself and Rochester. + +If Rochester were a Lord and if this were his house, and if Rochester +had sent him--Jones--home like a bundle of goods, then the extraordinary +likeness would perhaps deceive the servants and maybe other people as +well. That would be a good joke, promising all sorts of funny +developments. Only it was not a joke that any man of self respect would +play. But Rochester, from those vague recollections of his antics, did +not seem burdened with self respect. He seemed in his latter +developments crazy enough for anything. + +If he had done this, then the servants were not in the business; they +would be under the delusion that he, Jones, was Rochester, doped and +robbed and dressed in another man's clothes and sent home. + +Rochester, turning up later in the morning, would have a fine feast of +humour to sit down to. + +This seemed plain. The born practical joker coming on his own twin image +could not resist making use of it. This explanation cleared the +situation, but it did not make it a comfortable one. If the servants +discovered the imposition before the arrival of Rochester things would +be unpleasant. He must act warily, get downstairs and escape from the +place as soon as possible. Later on he would settle with Rochester. The +servants, if they were not partners in the joke, had taken him on his +face value, his voice had evidently not betrayed him. He felt sure on +this point. He left the bath and, drying himself, donned the dressing +gown. Tooth paste and a tooth brush stood on a glass tray by a little +basin furnished with hot and cold water taps, and now, so strangely are +men constituted, the main facts of his position were dwarfed for a +second by the consideration that he had no tooth brush of his own. + +Just that little thing brought his energies to a focus and his growing +irritation. + +He, opened the bed-room door. The glossy haired one was putting links in +the sleeves of a shirt. + +"Get me a tooth brush--a new one," said Jones, brusquely, almost +brutally. "Get it quick." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +He dropped the shirt and left the room swiftly, but not hurriedly, +taking care to close the door softly behind him. + +It was the first indication to Jones of a method so complete and a +mechanism so perfectly constituted, that jolts were all but eliminated. + +"I believe if I'd asked that guy for an elephant," he said to himself, +"he'd have acted just the same--do they keep a drug store on the +premises?" + +They evidently kept a store of tooth brushes, for in less than a minute +and a half Expedition had returned with the tooth brush on a little +lacquered tray. + +Now, to a man accustomed to dress himself it comes as a shock to have +his underpants held out for him to get into as though he were a little +boy. + +This happened to Jones--and they were pink silk. + +A pair of subfusc coloured trousers creased and looking absolutely new +were presented to him in the same manner. He was allowed to put on his +own socks, silk and never worn before, but he was not allowed to put on +his own boots. The perfect valet did that kneeling before him, shoe horn +and button hook in hand. + +Having inducted him into a pink silk under vest and a soft pleated +shirt, with plain gold links in the sleeves, each button of the said +links having in its centre a small black pearl, a collar and a subfusc +coloured silk tie were added to him, also a black morning vest and a +black morning coat, with rather broad braid at the edges. + +A handkerchief of pure white cambric with a tiny monogram also in white +was then shaken out and presented. + +Then his valet, intent, silent, and seeming to move by clockwork, passed +to a table on which stood a small oak cabinet. Opening the cabinet he +took from it and placed on the table a watch and chain. + +His duties were now finished, and, according to some prescribed rule, he +left the room carefully and softly, closing the door behind him. + +Jones took up the watch and chain. + +The watch was as thin as a five shilling piece, the chain was a mere +thread of gold. It was an evening affair, to be worn with dress +clothes, and this fact presented to the mind of Jones a confirmation of +the idea that, not only was he literally in Rochester's shoes, but that +Rochester's ordinary watch and chain had not returned. + +He sat down for a moment to consider another point. His own old +Waterbury and rolled gold chain, and the few unimportant letters in his +pockets--where were they? + +He determined to clear this matter at once, and boldly rang the bell. + +The valet answered it. + +"When I came back last night--er--was there anything in my pockets?" +asked he. + +"No, my Lord. They had taken everything from the pockets." + +"No watch and chain?" + +"No, my Lord." + +"Have you the clothes I came back in?" + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"Go and fetch them." + +The man disappeared and returned in a minute with a bundle of clothes +neatly folded on his arm. + +"Mr. Church told me to keep them careful, lest you'd want to put the +matter in the hands of the police, my Lord, shockin' old things they +are." + +Jones examined the clothes. They were his own. Everything he had worn +yesterday lay there, and the sight of them filled his mind with a +nostalgia and a desire for them--a home sickness and a clothes +sickness--beyond expression. + +He was absolutely sure from the valet's manner that the servants were +not "in the know." A wild impulse came on him to take the exhibitor of +these remnants of his past into his confidence. To say right out: "I'm +Jones. Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm no Lord. Here, gimme those +clothes and let me out of this--let's call it quits." + +The word "police" already dropped held him back. He was an impostor. If +he were to declare the facts before Rochester returned, what might be +the result? Whatever the result might be one thing was certain, it would +be unpleasant. Besides, he was no prisoner, once downstairs he could +leave the house. + +So instead of saying: "I'm Victor Jones of Philadelphia," he said: "Take +them away," and finding himself alone once more he sat down to consider. + +Rochester must have gone through his pockets, not for loot, but for the +purpose of removing any article that might cast suspicion, or raise the +suspicion that he, Jones, was not Rochester. That seemed plain enough, +and there was an earnestness of purpose in the fact that was disturbing. + +There was no use in thinking, however. He would go downstairs and make +his escape. He was savagely hungry, but he reckoned the Savoy was good +enough for one more meal--if he could get there. + +Leaving the watch and chain--unambitious to add a charge of larceny to +his other troubles, should Fate arrest him before the return of +Rochester, he came down the corridor to a landing giving upon a flight +of stairs, up which, save for the gradient, a coach and horses might +have been driven. + +The place was a palace. Vast pictures by gloomy old artists, pictures of +men in armour, men in ruffs, women without armour or ruffs, or even a +rag of chiffon, pictures worth millions of dollars no doubt, hung from +the walls of the landing, and the wall flanking that triumphant +staircase. + +Jones looked over into the well of the hall, then he began to descend +the stairs. + +He had intended, on finding a hat in the hall, to clap it on and make a +clean bolt for freedom and the light of heaven, get back to the Savoy, +dress himself in another suit, and once more himself, go for Rochester, +but this was no hall with a hat-rack and umbrella-stand. Knights in +armour were guarding it, and a flunkey, six feet high, in red plush +breeches, and with calves that would have made Victor Jones scream with +laughter under normal conditions. + +The flunkey, seeing our friend, stepped to a door, opened it, and held +it open for him. Not to enter the room thus indicated would have been +possible enough, but the compelling influence of that vast flunkey made +it impossible to Jones. + +His volition had fled, he was subdued to his surroundings, for the +moment conquered. + +He entered a breakfast room, light and pleasantly furnished, where at a +breakfast table and before a silver tea urn sat a lady of forty or so, +thin faced, high nosed, aristocratic and rather faded. + +She was reading a letter, and when she saw the incomer she rose from +the table and gathered some other letters up. Then she, literally, swept +from the room. She looked at him as she passed, and it seemed to Jones +that he had never known before the full meaning of the word "scorn." + +For a wild second he thought that all had been discovered, that the +police were now sure to arrive. Then he knew at once. Nothing had been +discovered, the delusion held even for this woman, that glance was meant +for Rochester, not for him, and was caused by the affair of last night, +by other things, too, maybe, but that surely. + +Uncomfortable, angry, nervous, wild to escape, and then yielding to +caution, he took his seat at the table where a place was laid--evidently +for him. + +The woman had left an envelope on the table, he glanced at it. + + THE HONBLE: VENETIA BIRDBROOK, + 10A Carlton House Terrace, + London, S. W. + +Victor read the inscription written in a bold female hand. + +It told him where he was, he was in the breakfast-room of 10A Carlton +House Terrace, but it told him nothing more. + +Was the Honble: Venetia Birdbrook his wife, or at least the wife of his +twin image? This thought blinded him for a moment to the fact that a +flunkey--they seemed as numerous as flies in May--was at his elbow with +a _menu_, whilst another flunkey, who seemed to have sprung from the +floor, was fiddling at the sideboard which contained cold edibles, +tongue, ham, chicken and so forth. + +"Scrambled eggs," said he, looking at the card. + +"Tea or coffee, my Lord?" + +"Coffee." + +He broke a breakfast roll and helped himself mechanically to some +butter, which was instantly presented to him by the sideboard fiddler, +and he had just taken a mechanical bite of buttered roll, when the door +opened and the Archiepiscopal gentleman who had pulled up his window +blind that morning entered. Mr. Church, for Jones had already gathered +that to be his name, carried a little yellow basket filled with letters +in his right hand, and in his left a great sheaf, The Times, Daily +Telegraph, Morning Post, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Chronicle, and Daily +News. These papers he placed on a side table evidently intended for that +purpose. The little letter basket he placed on the table at Jones' left +elbow. + +Then he withdrew, but not without having spoken a couple of murmured +words of correction to the flunkey near the sideboard, who had omitted, +no doubt, some point in the mysterious ritual of which he was an +acolyte. + +Jones glanced at the topmost letter. + + THE EARL OF ROCHESTER, + 10A, Carlton House Terrace, + London, S. W. + +Ah! now he knew it. The true name of the juggler who had played him this +trick. It was plain, too, now, that Rochester had sent him here as a +substitute. + +But the confirmation of his idea did not ease his mind. On the contrary +it filled him with a vague alarm. The feeling of being in a trap came +upon him now for the first time. The joke had lost any semblance of +colour, the thing was serious. Rochester ought to have been back to put +an end to the business before this. Had anything happened to him? Had he +got jailed? + +He did not touch the letters. Without raising suspicion, acting as +naturally as possible the part of a peer of the realm, he must escape as +swiftly as possible from this nest of flunkeys, and with that object in +view he accepted the scrambled eggs now presented to him, and the +coffee. + +When they were finished, he rose from the table. Then he remembered the +letters. Here was another tiny tie. He could not leave them unopened and +untouched on the table without raising suspicion. He took them from the +basket, and with them in his hand left the room, the fellow in waiting +slipping before to open the door. + +The hall was deserted for a wonder, deserted by all but the men in +armour. A room where he might leave the infernal letters, and find a +bell to fetch a servant to get him a hat was the prime necessity of the +moment. + +He crossed to a door directly opposite, opened it, and found a room half +library, half study, a pleasant room used to tobacco, with a rather +well worn Turkey carpet on the floor, saddle bag easy chairs, and a +great escritoire in the window, open and showing pigeon holes containing +note paper, envelopes, telegraph forms, and a rack containing the A. B. +C. Railway Guide, Whitakers Almanac, Ruffs' Guide to the Turf, Who's +Who, and Kelly. + +Pipes were on the mantel piece, a silver cigar box and cigarette box on +a little table by one of the easy chairs, matches--nothing was here +wanting, and everything was of the best. + +He placed the letters on the table, opened the cigar box and took from +it a Ramon Alones. A blunt ended weapon for the destruction of +melancholy and unrest, six and a half inches long, and costing perhaps +half-a-crown. A real Havana cigar. Now in London there are only four +places where you can obtain a real and perfect Havana cigar. That is to +say four shops. And at those four shops--or shall we call them +emporiums--only known and trusted customers can find the sun that shone +on the Vuelta Abajos in such and such a perfect year. + +The Earl of Rochester's present representative was finding it now, with +little enough pleasure, however, as he paced the room preparatory to +ringing the bell. He was approaching the electric button for this +purpose, when the faint and far away murmuring of an automobile, as if +admitted by a suddenly opened hall door, checked his hand. Here was +Rochester at last. He waited listening. + +He had not long to wait. + +The door of the room suddenly opened, and the woman of the breakfast +table disclosed herself. She was dressed for going out, wearing a hat +that seemed a yard in diameter, and a feather boa, from which her +hen-like face and neck rose to the crowning triumph of the hat. + +"I am going to Mother," said she. "I am not coming back." + +"Um-um," said Jones. + +She paused. Then she came right in and closed the door behind her. + +Standing with her back close to the door she spoke to Jones. + +"If you cannot see your own conduct as others see it, who can make you? +I am not referring to the disgrace of last night, though heaven knows +that was bad enough, I am talking of _everything_, of your poor wife who +loves you still, of the estate you have ruined by your lunatic conduct, +of the company you keep, of the insults you have heaped on people--and +now you add drink to the rest. That's new." She paused. + +"That's new. But I warn you, your brain won't stand _that_. You know the +taint in the family as well as I do, it has shewn itself in your +actions. Well, go on drinking and you will end in Bedlam instead of the +workhouse. They call you 'Mad Rochester'; you know that." She choked. "I +have blushed to be known as your sister--I have tried to keep my place +here and save you. It's ended." She turned to the door. + +Jones had been making up his mind. He would tell the whole affair. This +Rochester was a thoroughly bad lot evidently; well, he would turn the +tables on him now. + +"Look here," said he. "I am not the man you think I am." + +"Tosh!" cried the woman. + +She opened the door, passed out, and shut it with a snap. + +"Well, I'm d----d," said Jones, for the second time in connection with +Rochester. + +The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter to eleven; the faint +sound of the car had ceased. The lady of the feather boa had evidently +taken her departure, and the house had resumed its cloistral silence. + +He waited a moment to make sure, then he went into the hall where a huge +flunkey--a new one, more curious than the others, was lounging near the +door. + +"My hat," said Jones. + +The thing flew, and returned with a glossy silk hat, a tortoiseshell +handled cane, and a pair of new suede gloves of a delicate dove colour. +Then it opened the door, and Jones, clapping the hat on his head, walked +out. + +The hat fitted, by a mercy. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE POINT OF THE JOKE + + +Out in the open air and sunshine he took a deep satisfying breath. He +felt as though he had escaped from a cage full of monkeys. Monkeys in +the form of men, creatures who would servilely obey him as Rochester, +but who, scenting the truth, would rend him in pieces. + +Well, he was clear of them. Once back in the Savoy he would get into his +own things, and once in his own things he would strike. If he could not +get a lawyer to take his case up against Rochester, he would go to the +police. Yes, he would. Rochester had doped him, taken his letters, taken +his watch. + +Jones was not the man to bring false charges. He knew that in taking his +belongings, this infernal jester had done so, not for plunder, but for +the purpose of making the servants believe that he, Rochester, had been +stripped of everything by sharks, and sent home in an old suit of +clothes; all the same he would charge Rochester with the taking of his +things, he would teach this practical joker how to behave. + +To cool himself and collect his thoughts before going to the Savoy, he +took a walk in the Green Park. + +That one word "Tosh!" uttered by the woman, in answer to what he had +said, told him more about Rochester than many statements. This man +wanted a cold bath, he wanted to be held under the tap till he cried for +mercy. + +Walking, now with the stick under his right arm and his left hand in his +trousers pocket, he felt something in the pocket. It was a coin. He took +it out. It was a penny, undiscovered evidently, and unremoved by the +valet. + +It was also a reminder of his own poverty stricken condition. His +thoughts turned from Rochester and his jokes, to his own immediate and +tragic position. The whole thing was his own fault. It was quite easy to +say that Rochester had led him along and tempted him; he was a full +grown man and should have resisted temptation. He had let strong drink +get hold of him; well, he had paid by the loss of his money, to say +nothing of the way his self-respect had been bruised by this jester. + +Near Buckingham Palace he turned back, walking by the way he had come, +and leaving the park at the new gate. + +He crossed the plexus of ways where Northumberland Avenue debouches on +Trafalgar Square. It was near twelve o'clock, and the first evening +papers were out. A hawker with a bundle of papers under his arm and a +yellow poster in front of him like an apron, drew his attention; at +least the poster did. + +"Suicide of an American in London!" were the words on the poster. + +Jones, remembering his penny, produced it and bought a paper. + +The American's suicide did not interest him, but he fancied vaguely that +something of Rochester's doings of the night before might have been +caught by the Press through the Police news. He thought it highly +probable that Rochester, continuing his mad course, had been gaoled. + +He was rewarded. Right on the first page he saw his own name. He had +never seen it before in print, and the sight and the circumstances made +his tongue cluck back, as though checked by a string tied to its root. + +This was the paragraph: + +"Last night, as the 11.35 Inner Circle train was entering the Temple +Station, a man was seen to jump from the platform on to the metals. +Before the station officials could interfere to save him, the +unfortunate man had thrown himself before the incoming engine. Death was +instantaneous. + +"From papers in possession of deceased, his identity has been verified +as that of Mr. V. A. Jones, an American gentleman of Philadelphia, +lately resident at the Savoy Hotel, Strand." + +Jones stood with the paper in his hand, appalled. Rochester had +committed suicide! + +This was the Jest--the black core of it. All last evening, all through +that hilarity he had been plotting this. Plotting it perhaps from the +first moment of their meeting. Unable to resist the prompting of the +extraordinary likeness, this joker, this waster, done to the world, had +left life at the end of a last jamboree, and with a burst of +laughter--leaving another man in his clothes, nay, almost one might say +in his body. + +Jones saw the point of the thing at once. + + + + +PART II + +CHAPTER VI + +THE NET + + +He saw something else. He was automatically barred from the Savoy, and +barred from the American Consul. And on top of that something else. He +had committed a very grave mistake in accepting for a moment his +position. He should have spoken at once that morning, spoken to "Mr. +Church," told his tale and made explanations, failing that he should +have made explanations before leaving the house. He had left in +Rochester's clothes, he had acted the part of Rochester. + +He rolled the paper into a ball, tossed it into the gutter, and entered +Charing Cross to continue his soliloquy. + +He had eaten Rochester's food, smoked one of his cigars, accepted his +cane and gloves. All that might have been explainable with Rochester's +aid, but Rochester was dead. + +No one knew that Rochester was dead. To go back to the Savoy and +establish his own identity, he would have to establish the fact of +Rochester's death, tell the story of his own intoxication, and make +people believe that he was an innocent victim. + +An innocent victim who had gone to another man's house and palpably +masqueraded for some hours as that other man, walking out of the house +in his clothes and carrying his stick, an innocent victim, who owed a +bill at the Savoy. + +Why, every man, the family included you may be sure, would be finding +the innocent victim in Rochester. + +What were Jones' letters doing on Rochester? That was a nice question +for a puzzle-headed jury to answer. + +By what art did Jones, the needy American Adventurer--that was what they +would call him--impose himself upon Rochester, and induce Rochester to +order him to be taken to Carlton House Terrace? + +Oh, there were a lot more questions to be asked at that phantom court of +Justice, where Jones beheld himself in the dock trying to explain the +inexplicable. + +The likeness would not be any use for white-washing; it would only +deepen the mystery, make the affair more extravagant. Besides, the +likeness most likely by this time would be pretty well spoiled; by the +time of the Assizes it would be only verifiable by photographs. + +Sitting on a seat in Charing Cross station, he cogitated thus, chasing +the most fantastic ideas, yet gripped all the time by the cold fact. + +The fact that the only door in London open to him was the door of 10A, +Carlton House Terrace. + +Unable to return to the Savoy, he possessed nothing in the world but the +clothes he stood up in and the walking stick he held in his hand. +Dressed like a lord, he was poorer than any tramp, for the simple reason +that his extravagantly fine clothes barred him from begging and from +the menial work that is the only recourse of the suddenly destitute. + +Given time, and with his quick business capacity, he might have made a +fight to obtain a clerk-ship or some post in a store--but he had no +time. It was near the luncheon hour and he was hungry. That fact alone +was an indication of how he was placed as regards Time. + +He was a logical man. He saw clearly that only two courses lay before +him. To go to the Savoy and tell his story and get food and lodging in +the Police Station, or to go to 10A, Carlton House Terrace and get food +and lodging as Rochester. + +Both ideas were hateful, but he reckoned, and with reason, that if he +took the first course, arrest and ignominy, and probably imprisonment +would be certain, whereas if he took the second he might be able to +bluff the thing out till he could devise means of escape from the net +that surrounded him. + +He determined on the second course. The servants, and even that +scarecrow woman in the feather boa had accepted him as good coin; there +was no reason why they should not go on accepting him for a while. For +the matter of that, there was no reason why they should not go on +accepting him forever. + +Even in the midst of his disturbance of mind and general tribulation, +the humour of the latter idea almost made him smile. The idea of living +and dying as Lord Rochester, as a member of the English Aristocracy, +always being "My Lorded," served by flunkeys with big calves, and +inducted every morning into his under pants by that guy in the sleeved +jacket! + +This preposterous idea, more absurd than any dream, was yet based on a +substantive foundation. In fact he had that morning put it in practice, +and unless a miracle occurred he would have to continue putting it in +practice for some days to come. + +However, Jones, fortunately or unfortunately for himself, was a man of +action and no dreamer. He dismissed the ideas and came to practical +considerations. + +If he had to hold on to the position, he would have to make more sure of +his ground. + +He rose, found his way into Charing Cross Station Hotel, and obtained a +copy of "Who's Who" from the hotel clerk. + +He turned the pages till he found the R's. Here was his man. + +Rochester. 21st Earl of (cr. 1431) Arthur Coningsby Delamere. Baron +Coningsby of Wilton, ex Lieut. Rifle Brigade, m. Teresa, 2d daughter of +Sir Peter Mason Bart. 9 v. Educ. Heidelberg. Owns about 21,000 acres. +Address 10A, Carlton House Terrace. Rochester Court, Rochester. The +Hatch, Colney, Wilts. Clubs, Senior Conservative, National Sporting, +Pelican. + +That was only a part of the sayings of "Who's Who" regarding Rochester, +Arthur Coningsby, Delamere. The last decadent descendant of a family +that had been famous in long past years for its power, prodigality and +prolificacy. + +If Jones could have climbed up his own family tree he might have found +on some distaff branch the reason of his appalling likeness to +Rochester, Arthur Coningsby, Delamere, but this was a pure matter of +speculation, and it did not enter the mind of Jones. + +He closed the book, returned it, and walked out. + +Now that his resolve was made, his fighting spirit was roused. In other +words he felt the same recklessness that a man feels who is going into +battle, the regardlessness of consequence which marks your true +explorer. For Stanley on the frontier of Darkest Africa, Scott on the +ice rim of the Beardmore Glacier, had before them positions and +districts simple in comparison to those that now fronted Jones, who had +before him the Western and South Western London Districts, with all they +contained in the way of natives in top hats, natives painted and +powdered, tribes with tribal laws of which he knew little, tricks of +which he knew less, convenances, ju-pu's and fetishes. And he was +entering this dark and intricate and dangerous country, not as an +explorer carrying beads and bibles, but disguised as a top man, a chief. + +Burton's position when he journeyed to Mecca disguised as a Mohammedan +was easy compared to the position of Jones. Burton knew the ritual. He +made one mistake in it it is true, but then he was able to kill the man +who saw him make that mistake. Jones could not protect himself in this +way, even if the valet in the sleeved jacket were to discover him in a +position analogous to Burton's. + +He was not thinking of any of these things at the present moment, +however; he was thinking of luncheon. If he were condemned to play the +part of a Lord for awhile, he was quite determined to take his salary in +the way of everything he wanted. Yet it seemed that to obtain anything +he wanted in his new and extraordinary position, he would have to take +something he did not want. He wanted luncheon but he did not want to go +back to Carlton House Terrace, at least not just now. Those +flunkeys--the very thought of them gave him indigestion--more than that, +he was afraid of them. A fear that was neither physical nor moral, but +more in the nature of the fear of women for mice, or the supposed fear +of the late Lord Roberts for cats. + +The solemn Church, the mercurial valet, the men with calves, belonged to +a tribe that maybe had done Jones to death in some past life: either +bored him to death or bludgeoned him, it did not matter, the antipathy +was there, and it was powerful. + +At the corner of Northumberland Avenue an idea came to him. This +Rochester belonged to several clubs, why not go and have luncheon at one +of them on credit? It would save him for the moment from returning to +the door towards which Fate was shepherding him, and he might be able to +pick up some extra wrinkles about himself and his position. The idea was +indicative of the daring of the man, though there was little enough +danger in it. He was sure of passing muster at a club, since he had done +so at home. He carried the names of two of Rochester's clubs in his +mind, the Pelican and the Senior Conservative. The latter seemed the +more stodgy, the least likely to offer surprises in the way of shoulder +clapping, irresponsible parties who might want to enter into general +conversation. + +He chose it, asked a policeman for directions, and made for Pall Mall. + +Here another policeman pointed out to him the building he was in search +of. + +It stood on the opposite side of the way, a building of grey stone, vast +and serious of feature, yet opulent and hinting of the best in all +things relative to comfort. + +It was historical. Disraeli had come down those steps, and the great +Lord Salisbury had gone up them. Men, to enter this place, had to be +born, not made, and even these selected ones had to put their names down +at birth, if they wished for any chance of lunching there before they +lost their teeth and hair. + +It took twenty-one years for the elect to reach this place, and on the +way they were likely to be slain by black balls. + +Victor Jones just crossed the road and went up the steps. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +LUNCHEON + + +He had lunched at the Constitutional with a chance acquaintance picked +up on his first week in London, so he knew something of the ways of +English clubs, yet the vast hall of this place daunted him for a moment. + +However, the club servants seeming to know him, and recognising that +indecision is the most fatal weakness of man, he crossed the hall, and +seeing some gentlemen going up the great staircase he followed to a door +in the first landing. + +He saw through the glass swing doors that this was the great luncheon +room of the club, and having made this discovery he came downstairs +again where good fortune, in the form of a bald headed man without hat +or stick, coming through a passage way, indicated the cloak room to him. + +Here he washed his hands and brushed his hair, and looking at himself in +a glass judged his appearance to be conservative and all right. He, a +democrat of the Democrats in this hive of Aristocracy and old crusted +conservatism, might have felt qualms of political conscience, but for +the fact that earthly politics, social theories, and social instincts +were less to him now than to an inhabitant of the dark body that +tumbles and fumbles around Sirius. Less than the difference between the +minnow and the roach to the roach in the landing net. + +Leaving the place he almost ran into the arms of a gentleman who was +entering, and who gave him a curt "H'do." + +He knew that man. He had seen his newspaper portrait in America as well +as England. It was the leader of His Majesty's Opposition, the Queen bee +of this hive where he was about to sit down to lunch. The Queen bee did +not seem very friendly, a fact that augured ill for the attitude of the +workers and the drones. + +Arrived at the glass swing doors before mentioned, he looked in. + +The place was crowded. + +It looked to him as though for the space of a mile and a half or so, lay +tables, tables, tables, all occupied by twos and threes and fours of +men. Conservative looking men, and no doubt mostly Lords. + +It was too late to withdraw without shattering his own self respect and +self confidence. The cold bath was before him, and there was no use +putting a toe in. + +He opened the door and entered, walking between the tables and looking +the luncheon parties in the face. + +The man seated has a tremendous advantage over the man standing in this +sort of game. One or two of the members met by the newcomer's glance, +bowed in the curious manner of the seated Briton, the eyes of others +fell away, others nodded frigidly, it seemed to Jones. Then, like a +pilot fish before a shark leading him to his food, a club waiter +developed and piloted him to a small unoccupied table, where he took a +seat and looked at a menu handed to him by the pilot. + +He ordered fillet of sole, roast chicken, salad, and strawberry ice. +They were the easiest things to order. He would have ordered roast +elephant's trunk had it been easier and on the menu. + +A man after the storming of Hell Gate, or just dismounted after the +Charge of the Light Brigade, would have possessed as little instinct for +menu hunting as Jones. + +He had pierced the ranks of the British Aristocracy; that was +nothing--he was seated at their camp fire, sharing their food, and they +were all inimical towards him; that was everything. + +He felt the draught. He felt that these men had a down on him; felt it +by all sorts of senses that seemed newly developed. Not a down on him, +Jones, but a down on him, Rochester, Arthur Coningsby Delamere, 21st +Earl of. + +And the extraordinary thing was that he felt it. What on earth did it +matter to him if these men looked coldly upon another man? It did. It +mattered quite a lot, more than perhaps it ever mattered to the other +man. Is the soul such a shallow and blind thing that it cannot sort the +true from the false, the material from the immaterial, cannot see that +an insult levelled at a likeness is not an insult levelled at _it_? + +Surely not, and yet the soul of Victor Jones resented the coolness of +others towards the supposed body of Rochester, as though it were a +personal insult. + +It was the first intimation to Jones that when the actor puts on his +part he puts on more than a cloak or trunk hose, that the personality he +had put on had nerves curiously associated with his own nerves, and +that, though he might say to himself a hundred times with respect to the +attitudes of other people, "Pah! they don't mean me," that formula was +no charm against disdain. + +The wine butler, a gentleman not unlike Mr. Church, was now at his +elbow, and he found himself contemplating the wine card of the Senior +Conservative, a serious document, if one may judge by the faces of the +men who peruse it. + +It is in fact the Almanach de Gotha of wines. The old kings of wine are +here, the princess and all the aristocracy. Unlike the Almanach de +Gotha, however, the price of each is set down. Unlike the Almanach de +Gotha, the names of a few commoners are admitted. + +Macon was here, and even Blackways' Cyder, the favourite tipple of the +old Duke of Taunton. + +Jones ran his eye over the list without enthusiasm. He had taken a +dislike to alcohol even in its mildest guise. + +"Er--what minerals have you got?" asked he. + +"Minerals!" + +The man with the wine card was nonplussed. Jones saw his mistake. + +"Soda water," said he. "Get me some soda water." + +The fillet of sole with sauce Tartare was excellent. Nothing, not even +the minerals could dim that fact. As he ate he looked about him, and +with all the more ease, because he found now that nobody was looking at +him; his self consciousness died down, and he began speculating on the +men around, their probable rank, fortune, and intellect. It seemed to +Jones that the latter factor was easier of determination than the other +two. + +What struck him more forcibly was a weird resemblance between them all, +a phantom thing, a link undiscoverable yet somehow there. This tribal +expression is one of the strangest phenomena eternally comforting and +battering our senses. + +Just as men grow like their wives, so do they grow like their fellow +tradesmen, waiters like waiters, grooms like grooms, lawyers like +lawyers, politicians like politicians. More, it has been undeniably +proved that landowners grow like landowners, just as shepherds grow like +sheep, and aristocrats like aristocrats. + +A common idea moulds faces to its shape, and a common want of ideas +allows external circumstances to do the moulding. + +So, English Conservative Politicians of the higher order, being worked +upon by external circumstances of a similar nature, have perhaps a +certain similar expression. Radical Politicians on the other hand, shape +to a common idea--evil--but still an idea. Jones was not thinking this, +he was just recognising that all these men belonged to the same class, +and he felt in himself that, not only did he not belong to that class, +but that Rochester also, probably, had found himself in the same +position. + +That might have accounted for the wildness and eccentricity of +Rochester, as demonstrated in that mad carouse and hinted at by the +woman in the feather boa. The wildness of a monkey condemned to live +amongst goats, hanging on to their horns, and clutching at their scuts, +and playing all the tricks that contrariness might suggest to a contrary +nature. + +Something of this sort was passing through Jones' mind, and as he +attacked his strawberry ice, for the first time since reading that +momentous piece of news in the evening newspaper his mental powers +became focussed on the question that lay at the very heart of all this +business. It struck him now so very forcibly that he laid down his spoon +and stared before him, forgetful of the place where he was and the +people around him. + +"Why did that guy commit suicide?" + +That was the question. + +He could find no answer to it. + +A man does not as a rule commit suicide simply because he is eccentric +or because he has made a mess of his estates, or because being a +practical joker he suddenly finds his twin image to defraud. Rochester +had evidently done nothing to bar him from society. Though perhaps +coldly received by his club, he was still received by it. Had he done +something that society did not know of, something that might suddenly +obtrude itself? + +Jones was brought back from his reverie with a snap. One of the +confounded waiters was making off with his half eaten ice. + +"Hi," cried he. "What you doing? Bring that back." + +His voice rang through the room, people turned to look. He mentally +cursed the ice and the creature who had snapped it from him, finished +it, devoured a wafer, and then, rising to his feet, left the room. It +was easier to leave than to come in, other men were leaving, and in the +general break up he felt less observed. + +Downstairs he looked through glass doors into a room where men were +smoking, correct men in huge arm chairs, men with legs stretched out, +men smoking big cigars and talking politics no doubt. He wanted to +smoke, but he did not want to smoke in that place. + +He went to the cloak room, fetched his hat and cane and gloves and left +the club. + +Outside in Pall Mall he remembered that he had not told the waiter to +credit him with the luncheon, but a trifle like that did not bother him +now. They would be sure to put it down. + +What did trouble him was the still unanswered question, "Why did that +guy commit suicide?" + +Suppose Rochester had murdered some man and had committed suicide to +escape the consequences? This thought gave him a cold grue such as he +had never experienced before. For a moment he saw himself hauled before +a British Court of Justice; for a moment, and for the first time in his +life, he found himself wondering what a hangman might be like. + +But Victor Jones, though a visionary sometimes in business, was at base +a business man. More used to his position now, and looking it fairly in +the face, he found that he had little to fear even if Rochester had +committed a murder. He could, if absolutely driven to it, prove his +identity. Driven to it, he could prove his life in Philadelphia, bring +witnesses and relate circumstances. His tale would all hang together, +simply because it was the truth. This inborn assurance heartened him a +lot, and, more cheerful now, he began to recognise more of the truth. +His position was very solid. Every one had accepted him. Unless he came +an awful bump over some crime committed by the late defunct, he could go +on forever as the Earl of Rochester. He did not want to go on forever as +the Earl of Rochester; he wanted to get back to the States and just be +himself, and he intended so to do having scraped a little money +together. But the idea tickled him just as it had done in Charing Cross +Station, and it had lost its monstrous appearance and had become +humorous, a highly dangerous appearance for a dangerous idea to take. + +Jones was a great walker, exercise always cleared his mind and +strengthened his judgment. He set off on a long walk now, passing the +National Gallery to Regent Circus, then up Regent Street and Oxford +Street, and along Oxford Street towards the West. He found himself in +High Street Kensington, in Hammersmith, and then in those dismal regions +where the country struggles with the town. + +Oh, those suburbs of London! Within easy reach of the city! Those +battalions of brick houses, bits of corpses, of what once were fields; +those villas, laundries---- + +The contrast between this place and Pall Mall came as a sudden +revelation to Jones, the contrast between the power, ease, affluence and +splendour of the surroundings of the Earl of Rochester, and the +surroundings of the bank clerks and small people who dwelt here. + +The view point is everything. From here Carlton House Terrace seemed +almost pleasing. + +Jones, like a good Democrat, had all his life professed a contempt for +rank. Titles had seemed as absurd to him as feathers in a monkey's cap. +It was here in ultra Hammersmith that he began to review this question +from a more British standpoint. + +Tell it not in Gath, he was beginning to feel the vaguest antipathetic +stirring against little houses and ultra people. + +He turned and began to retrace his steps. It was seven o'clock when he +reached the door of 10A, Carlton House Terrace. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +MR. VOLES + + +The flunkey who admitted him, having taken his hat, stick and gloves, +presented him with a letter that had arrived by the midday post, also +with a piece of information. + +"Mr. Voles called to see you, my Lord, shortly after twelve. He stated +that he had an appointment with you. He is to call again at quarter past +seven." + +Jones took the letter and went with it to the room where he had sat that +morning. Upon the table lay all the letters that he had not opened that +morning. He had forgotten these. Here was a mistake. If he wished to +hold to his position for even a few days, it would be necessary to guard +against mistakes like this. + +He hurriedly opened them, merely glancing at the contents, which for the +most part were unintelligible to him. + +There was a dinner invitation from Lady Snorries--whoever she might +be--and a letter beginning "Dear old Boy" from a female who signed +herself "Julie," an appeal from a begging letter writer, and a letter +beginning "Dear Rochester" from a gentleman who signed himself simply +"Childersley." + +The last letter he opened was the one he had just received from the +servant. + +It was written on poor paper, and it ran: + + "Stick to it--if you can. You'll see why I couldn't. There's a + fiver under the papers of the top right hand drawer of bureau in + smoke room. + + "ROCHESTER." + +Jones knew that this letter, though addressed to the Earl of Rochester, +was meant for him, and was written by Rochester, written probably on +some bar counter, and posted at the nearest pillar box just before he +had committed the act. + +He went to the drawer in the bureau indicated, raised the papers in it +and found a five pound note. + +Having glanced at it he closed the drawer, placed the note in his +waistcoat pocket and sat down again at the table. + +"Stick to it--if you can." The words rang in his ears just as though he +had heard them spoken. + +Those words, backed by the five pound note, wrought a great change in +the mind of Jones. He had Rochester's permission to act as he was +acting, and a little money to help him in his actions. + +The fact of his penury had been like a wet blanket upon him all day. He +felt that power had come to him with permission. He could think clearly +now. He rose and paced the floor. + +"Stick to it--if you can." + +Why not--why not--why not? He found himself laughing out loud, a great +gush of energy had come to him. Jones was a man of that sort, a new and +great idea always came to him on the crest of a wave of energy; the +British Government Contract idea had come to him like that, and the wave +had carried him to England. + +Why not be the Earl of Rochester, make good his position finally, stand +on the pinnacle where Fate had placed him, and carry this thing through +to its ultimate issue? + +It would not be all jam. Rochester must have been very much pressed by +circumstances; that did not frighten Jones, to him the game was +everything, and the battle. + +He would make good where Rochester had failed, meet the difficulties +that had destroyed the other, face them, overcome them. + +His position was unassailable. + +Coming over from New York he had read Nelson's shilling edition of the +Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of +British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a +butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as +Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education. + +He contrasted his own position with Orton's. + +He was absolutely unassailable. + +He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it. + +There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, +confronting his newly formed plans. He would have to sign cheques, +write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as +for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester's, and would have +to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his +thumb--that excuse would last for some time. "There's one big thing +about the whole business," said he to himself, "and that is the chap's +eccentricity. Why, if I'm shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my +memory or my wits--there's not a blessed card I haven't either in my +hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my +identity and tell my story." He was engaged with thoughts like these +when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, +announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the +day, had arrived. + +"Bring him in," said Victor. The servant retired and returned +immediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him. +The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frock +coat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat with +silk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, the +hair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of the +gazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner. + +The card announced: + + MR. A. S. VOLES + 12B. Jermyn Street + +Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things. + +Victor Jones had a sharp instinct for men, well whetted by experience. + +He nodded to the newcomer, curtly, and without rising from his chair; +the servant shut the door and the two men were alone. + +Just as a dog's whole nature livens at the smell of a pole cat, so did +Jones' nature at the sight of Voles. He felt this man to be an enemy. + +Voles came to the table and placed his hat upon it. Then he turned, went +to the door and opened it to see if the servant was listening. + +He shut the door. + +"Well," said he, "have you got the money for me?" + +Another man in Jones' position might have asked, and with reason. "What +money?" + +Jones simply said "No." + +This simple answer had a wonderful effect. Voles, about to take a seat, +remained standing, clasping the back of the chair he had chosen. Then he +burst out. + +"You fooled me yesterday, and gave me an appointment for to-day. I +called, you were out." + +"Was I?" + +"Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me--well, here I +am now, I've got a cab outside ready to take it." + +"And suppose I don't give it to you?" asked Jones. + +"We won't suppose any nonsense like that!" replied Voles taking his +seat, "not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute's +notice." + +"That's true," said the other, "we don't want the police." + +"You don't," replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl of +Rochester's voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more spring +in it and vitality--altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of the +truth. Passed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from any +man or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear of +Voles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller's scales. + +"True," said Jones. "I don't--well, let's talk about this money. +Couldn't you take half to-night, and half in a week's time?" + +"Not me," replied the other. "I must have the two thousand to-night, +same as usual." + +Jones had the whole case in his hands now, and he began preparing the +toast on which to put this most evident blackmailer when cooked. + +His quick mind had settled everything. Here was the first obstacle in +his path, it would have to be destroyed, not surmounted. He determined +to destroy it. If the worst came to the worst, if whatever crime +Rochester had committed were to be pressed home on him by Voles, he +would declare everything, prove his identity by sending for witnesses +from the States, and show Rochester's letter. The blackmailing would +account for Rochester's suicide. + +But Jones knew blackmailers, and he knew that Voles would never +prosecute. Rochester must indeed have been a weak fool not to have +grasped this nettle and torn it up by the roots. He forgot that +Rochester was probably guilty--that makes all the difference in the +world. + +"You shall have the money," said he, "but see here, let's make an end of +this. Now let's see. How much have you had already?" + +"Only eight," said Voles. "You know that well enough, why ask?" + +"Eight thousand," murmured the other, "you have had eight thousand +pounds out of me, and the two to-night will make ten. Seems a good price +for a few papers." He made the shot on spec. It was a bull's eye. + +"Oh, those papers are worth a good deal more than that," said Voles, "a +good deal more than that." + +So it was documents not actions that the blackmailer held in suspense +over the head of Rochester. It really did not matter a button to Jones, +he stood ready to face murder itself, armed as he was with Rochester's +letter in his pocket, and the surety of being able to identity himself. + +"Well," said he, "let's finish this business. Have you a cheque book on +you?" + +"I have a cheque book right enough--what's your game now?" + +"Just an idea of mine before I pay you--bring out your cheque book, +you'll see what I mean in a minute." + +Voles hesitated, then, with a laugh, he took the cheque book from the +breast pocket of his overcoat. + +"Now tear out a cheque." + +"Tear out a cheque," cried the other. "What on earth are you getting +at--one of my cheques--this is good." + +"Tear out a cheque," insisted the other, "it will only cost you a penny, +and you will see my meaning in a moment." + +The animal, before the insistent direction of the other, hesitated, then +with a laugh he tore out a cheque. + +"Now place it on the table." + +Voles placed it on the table. + +Jones going to the bureau fetched a pen and ink. He pushed a chair to +the table, and made the other sit down. + +"Now," said Jones, "write me out a cheque for eight thousand pounds." + +Voles threw the pen down with a laugh--it was his last in that room. + +"You won't?" said Jones. + +"Oh, quit this fooling," replied the other. "I've no time for such +stuff--what are you doing now?" + +"Ringing the bell," said Jones. + +Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to find +himself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twig +crack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses like +that over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat. + +The door opened and a servant appeared, it was the miracle with calves. + +"Send out at once, and bring in an officer--a policeman," said Jones. + +"Yes, my Lord." + +The door shut. + +Voles jumped up, and seized his hat. Jones walked to the door and locked +it, placing the key in his pocket. + +"I've got you," said he, "and I'm going to squeeze you, and I'm going to +make you squeal." + +"You're going to--you're going to--you're going to--" said Voles. He was +the colour of old ivory. + +"I'm going to make you go through this--" + +"Here, d--n this nonsense--stop it--you fool, I'll smash you," said +Voles. "Here, open that door and stop this business." + +"I told you I was going to make you squeal," said Jones, "but that's +nothing to what's coming." + +Voles came to the table and put down his hat. Then, facing Jones, he +rapped with the knuckles of his right hand on the table. + +"You've done it now," said he, "you've laid yourself open to a nice +charge, false imprisonment, that's what you've done. A nice thing in the +papers to-morrow morning, and intimidation on top of that. Over and above +those there's the papers. _I'll_ have no mercy--those papers go to Lord +Plinlimon to-morrow morning, you'll be in the divorce court this day +month, and so will she. Reputation! she won't have a rag to cover +herself with." + +"Oh, won't she?" said Jones. "This is most interesting." He felt a great +uplift of the heart. So this blackmail business had to do with a woman. +The idea that Rochester was some horrible form of criminal had weighed +upon him. It had seemed to him that no man would pay such a huge sum as +eight thousand pounds in the way of blackmail unless his crime were in +proportion. Rochester had evidently paid it to shield not only his own +name, but the name of a woman. + +"Most interesting," said Voles. "I'm glad you think so--" Then in a +burst, "Come, open that door and stop this nonsense--take that key out +of your pocket and open the door. You always were a fool, but this is +beyond folly--the pair of you are in the hollow of my hand, you know +it--I can crush you like that--like that--like that!" + +He opened and shut his right hand. A cruel hand it was, hairy as to the +back, huge as to the thumb. + +Jones looked at him. + +"You are wasting a lot of muscular energy," said he. "My determination +is made, and it holds. You are going to prison, Mr. Filthy Beast, Voles. +I'm up against you, that's the plain truth. I'm going to cut you open, +and show your inside to the British Public. They'll be so lost in +admiration at the sight, they won't bother about the woman or me. +They'll call us public benefactors, I reckon. You know men, and you know +when a man is determined. Look at me, look at me in the face, you +sumph--" + +A knock came to the door. + +Jones took the key from his pocket and opened the door. + +"The constable is here, my Lord," said the servant. + +"Tell him to come in," said Jones. + +Voles had taken up his hat again, and he stood now by the table, hat in +hand, looking exactly what he was, a criminal on his defence. + +The constable was a fresh-looking and upstanding young man; he had +removed his helmet and was carrying it by the chin strap. He had no +bludgeon, no revolver, yet he impressed Jones almost as much as he +impressed the other. + +"Officer," said Jones. "I have called you in for the purpose of giving +this man in charge for attempting--" + +"Stop," cried Voles. + +Then something Oriental in his nature took charge of him. He rushed +forward with arms out, as though to embrace the policeman. + +"It is all a mistake," cried he, "constable, one moment, go outside one +moment, leave me with his lordship. I will explain. There is nothing +wrong, it is all a big mistake." + +The constable held him off, glancing for orders at Jones. + +Jones felt no vindictiveness towards Voles now; disgust, such as he +might have felt towards a vulture or a cormorant, but no vindictiveness. + +He wanted that eight thousand pounds. + +He had determined to make good in his new position, to fight the world +that Rochester had failed to fight, and overcome the difficulties sure +to be ahead of him. Voles was the first great difficulty, and lo, it +seemed, that he was about not only to destroy it, but turn it to a +profit. He did not want the eight thousand for himself, he wanted it for +the game; and the fascination of that great game he was only just +beginning to understand. + +"Go outside, officer," said he to the constable. + +He shut the door. "Sit down and write," said he. Voles said not a word. + +He went to the table, sat down and picked up the pen. The cheque was +still lying there. He drew it towards him. Then he flung the pen down. +Then he picked it up, but he did not write. He waved it between finger +and thumb, as though he were beating time to a miniature orchestra +staged on the table before him. Then he began to write. + +He was making out a cheque to the Earl of Rochester for the sum of eight +thousand pounds, no shillings, no pence. + +He signed it A. S. Voles. + +He was about to cross it, but Jones stopped him. "Leave it open," said +he, "and now one thing more, I must have those papers to-morrow morning +without fail. And to make certain of them you must do this." + +He went to the bureau and took a sheet of note paper, which he laid +before the other. + +"Write," said he. "I will dictate. Begin June 2nd." + +Voles put the date. + + "'My Lord,'" went on the dictator. "'This is to promise you that + to-morrow morning I will hand to the messenger you send to me + all the papers of yours in my possession. I confess to having + held those papers over you for the purpose of blackmail, and of + having obtained from you the sum of eight thousand pounds, and I + promise to amend my ways, and to endeavour to lead an honest life. + + Signed. A. S. VOLES.'" + To The Earl of Rochester. + +That was the letter. + +Three times the rogue at the table refused to go on writing, and three +times his master went to the door, the rattle of the door handle always +inspiring the scribe to renewed energy. + +When the thing was finished Jones read it over, blotted it, and put it +in his pocket with the cheque. + +"Now you can go," said he. "I will send a man to-morrow morning at eight +o'clock to your home for the papers. I will not use this letter against +you, unless you give trouble--Well, what do you want?" + +"Brandy," gasped Voles. "For God's sake some brandy." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +MORE INTRUDERS + + +The little glass that had held the _fin champagne_ stood on the table, +the door was shut, Voles was gone, and the incident was ended. + +Jones, for the first time in his life, felt the faintness that comes +after supreme exertion. He could never have imagined that a thing like +that would have so upset him. He was unconscious during the whole of the +business that he was putting out more energy than ordinary, he knew it +now as he contemplated the magnitude of his victory, sitting exhausted +in the big saddle-bag chair on the left of the fire place and facing the +door. + +He had crushed the greatest rogue in London, taken from him eight +thousand pounds of ill gotten money, and freed himself of an incubus +that would have made his position untenable. + +Rochester could have done just the same, had he possessed daring, and +energy, and courage enough. He hadn't, and there was an end of it. + +At this moment a knock came to the door, and a flunkey--a new +one--appeared. + +"Dinner is served, my Lord." + +Jones sat up in his chair. + +"Dinner," said he. "I'm not ready for it yet. Fetch me a whisky and +soda--look here, tell Mr. Church I want to see him." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +Jones, as stated before, possessed that very rare attitude--an eye for +men. It was quite unknown to him; up to this he had been condemned to +take men as he found them; the pressure of circumstances alone had made +him a business partner with Aaron Stringer. He had never trusted +Stringer. Now, being in a position of command, he began to use this +precious gift, and he selected Church for a first officer. He wanted a +henchman. + +The whisky and soda arrived, and, almost immediately on it, Church. + +Jones, placing the half empty glass on the table, nodded to him. + +"Come in," said he, "and shut the door." + +Church closed the door and stood at attention. This admirable man's face +was constructed not with a view to the easy interpretation of emotions. +I doubt if an earthquake in Carlton House Terrace and the vicinity could +have altered the expression of it. + +He stood as if listening. + +Jones began: "I want you to go to-morrow at eight o'clock to No. 12B +Jermyn Street to get some documents for me. They will be handed to you +by A. S. Voles." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"You will bring them back to me here." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"I have just seen the gentleman, and I've just dealt with him. He is a +very great rogue and I had to call an officer--a constable in. I settled +him." + +Mr. Church opened his mouth as though he were going to speak. Then he +shut it again. + +"Go on," said Jones. "What were you going to say?" + +"Well, your Lordship, I was going to say that I am very glad to hear +that. When you told me four months ago, in confidence, what Voles was +having out of you, you will remember what advice I gave your Lordship. +'Don't be squeezed,' I said. 'Squeeze him.' Your Lordship's solicitor, +Mr. Mortimer Collins, I believe, told you the same." + +"I have taken your advice. I find it so good that I am going to ask your +advice often again--Do you see any difference in me, Mr. Church?" + +"Yes, my Lord, you have changed. If your Lordship will excuse me for +saying so." + +"How?" + +"You have grown younger, my Lord, and more yourself, and you speak +different--sharper, so to say." + +These words were Balm of Gilead to Jones. He had received no opinion of +himself from others till now; he had vaguely mistrusted his voice, +unable to estimate in how much it differed from Rochester's. The +perfectly frank declaration of Church put his mind at rest. He spoke +sharper--that was all. + +"Well," said he. "Things are going to be different all round; better +too." + +He turned away towards the bureau, and Church opened the door. + +"You don't want me any longer, my Lord?" + +"Not just now." + +He opened Kelly's directory, and looked up the solicitors, till he came +to the name he wanted. + + Mortimer Collins, 10, Sergeant's Inn, Fleet Street. + +"That's my man," said he to himself, "and to-morrow I will see him." He +closed the book and left the room. + +He did not know the position of the dining room, nor did he want to. A +servant seeing him, and taking it for granted that at this late hour he +did not want to dress, opened a door. + +Next minute he was seated alone at a large table, stared at by defunct +Rochesters and their wives, and spreading his table napkin on his knees. + +The dinner was excellent, though simple enough. English society has +drifted a long way from the days when Lord Palmerston sat himself down +to devour two helpings of turtle soup, the same of cod and oyster sauce, +a huge plateful of York ham, a cut from the joint, a liberal supply of +roast pheasant, to say nothing of kickshaws and sweets; the days when +the inside of a nobleman after dinner was a provision store floating in +sherry, hock, champagne, old port, and punch. + +Nothing acts more quickly upon the nervous system than food; before the +roast chicken and salad were served, Jones found himself enjoying his +dinner, and, more than that, enjoying his position. + +The awful position of the morning had lost its terrors, the fog that had +surrounded him was breaking. Wrecked on this strange, luxuriant, yet +hostile coast, he had met the natives, fed with them, fought them, and +measured their strength and cunning. + +He was not afraid of them now. The members of the Senior Conservative +Club Camp had left him unimpressed, and the wild beast Voles had +bequeathed to him a lively contempt for the mental powers of the man he +had succeeded. + +Rightly or wrongly, all Lords caught a tinge of the lurid light that +shewed up Rochester's want of vim and mental hitting power. + +But he did not feel a contempt for Lords as such. He was longing to +appreciate the fact that to be a Lord was to be a very great thing. Even +a Lord who had let his estates run to ruin--like himself. + +A single glass of iced champagne--he allowed himself only +one--established this conviction in his mind, also the recognition that +the flunkeys no longer oppressed him, they rather pleased him. They knew +their work and performed it perfectly, they hung on his every word and +movement. + +Yesterday, sitting where he was, he would have been feeling out of +place, and irritable and awkward. Even a few hours ago he would have +felt oppressed and wanting to escape somewhere by himself. What lent him +this new magic of assurance and sense of mastery of his position? +Undoubtedly it was his battle with Voles. + +Coffee was served to him in the smoking room, and there, sitting alone +with a cigar, he began clearly and for the first time to envisage his +plans for the future. + +He could drop everything and run. Book a passage for the United States, +enter New York as Lord Rochester, just as a diver enters the sea, and +emerge as Jones. He could keep the eight thousand pounds with a clear +conscience--or couldn't he? + +This point seemed a bit obscure. + +He did not worry about it much. The main question had not to do with +money. The main question was simply this, shall I be Victor Jones for +the future, or shall I be the Earl of Rochester? The twenty-first Earl +of Rochester? + +Shall I clear out, or stick to my guns? Remain boss of this show and try +and make something of the wreckage, or sneak off with nothing to show +for the most amazing experience man ever underwent? + +Rochester had sneaked off. He was a quitter. Jones had once read a story +in the Popular Magazine, in which a Railway Manager had cast scorn on a +ne'er-do-well. "God does surely hate a quitter," said the manager. + +These words always remained with him. They had crystallised his +sentiments in this respect: the quitter ranked in his mind almost with +the sharper. + +All the same the temptation to quit was strong, even though the +temptation to stay was growing. + +A loophole remained open to him. It was not necessary to decide at once; +he could throw down his cards at any moment and rise from the table if +the game was getting too much for him, or if he grew tired of it. + +He saw difficult times ahead for him in the mess in which Rochester had +left his affairs--that was, perhaps, his strongest incentive to remain. + +He was roused from his reverie by voices in the hall. Loud cheery +voices. + +A knock came to the door and a servant announced: "Sir Hugh Spicer and +Captain Stark to see you, my Lord." Jones sat up in his chair. "Show +them in," said he. + +The servant went out and returned ushering in a short bibulous looking +young man in evening dress covered with a long fawn coloured overcoat; +this gentleman was followed by a half bald, evil looking man of fifty or +so, also in evening attire. + +This latter wore a monocle in what Jones afterwards mentally called, +"his twisted face." + +"Look at him!" cried the young man, "sitting in his blessed arm chair +and not dressed. Look at him!" + +He lurched slightly as he spoke, and brought up at the table where he +hit the inkstand with the cane he was carrying, sending inkpot and pens +flying. Jones looked at him. + +This was Hughie. Pillar of the Criterion bar, President of the Rag Tag +Club, baronet and detrimental--and all at twenty three. + +"Leave it alone, Hughie," said Stark, going to the silver cigar box and +helping himself. "Less of that blessed cane, Hughie--why, Jollops, what +ails you?" + +He stared at Jones as he lit a cigar. Jones looked at him. + +This was Spencer Stark, late Captain in His Majesty's Black Hussars, +gambler, penniless, always well dressed, and always well fed--Terrible. +Just as beetles are beetles, whether dressed in tropical splendour or +the funereal black of the English type, so are detrimentals +detrimentals. Jones knew his men. + +"I beg your pardon," said he, "did you mean that name for me?" + +He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought he +was speaking in jest and ringing for drinks; they laughed, and Hughie +began to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to what +he was yelling. + +This beast, who was never happy unless smashing glasses, making a noise +or tormenting his neighbours, who had never been really sober for the +space of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate, and broken +his mother's heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his wanghee cane on +the table. + +The noise was terrific. + +The door opened and calves appeared. + +"Throw that ruffian out," said Jones. + +"Out with him," cried Hughie, throwing away his cane at this joke. "Come +on, Stark, let's shove old Jollops out of doors." + +He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened up by the other, +closed in, receiving a blow on the midriff that seated him in the +fender. + +The next moment Hughie found himself caught by a firm hand, that had +somehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and his +neck, gripping the collar. + +Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall to +the front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened and +he was flung into the street. + +The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats were +flung out and the door shut finally. + +"If either of those guys comes here again," said Jones to the acolyte, +"call an officer--I mean a constable." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"I wonder how many more people I will have to fling out of this house," +said he to himself, as he returned to the smoking room. "My God, what a +mess that chap Rochester must have made all round. Bar bummers like +those! Heu!" + +He ordered the ink to be cleared up, and then he sent for Mr. Church. He +was excited. + +"Church," said he. "I've shot out two more of that carrion. You know all +the men I have been fool enough to know. If they come here again tell +the servants not to let them in." + +But he had another object in sending for Church. "Where's my cheque +book?" he asked. + +Church went to the bureau and opened a lower drawer. + +"I think you placed it here, my Lord." He produced it. + +When he was gone Jones opened the book; it was one of Coutt's. + +He knew his banker now as well as his solicitor. Then he sat down, and +taking Rochester's note from his pocket began to study the handwriting +and signature. + +He made a hundred imitations of the signature, and found for the first +time in his life that he was not bad at that sort of work. + +Then he burnt the sheets of paper he had been using, put the cheque book +away and looked at the clock; it pointed to eleven. + +He switched out the lights and left the room, taking his way upstairs. + +He felt sure of being able to find the bed-room he had left that morning, +and coming along the softly lit corridor he had no difficulty in +locating it. He had half dreaded that the agile valet in the sleeved +jacket might be there waiting to tuck him up, but to his relief the room +was vacant. + +He shut the door, and going to the nearest window pulled the blind up +for a moment. + +The moon was rising over London, and casting her light upon the Green +Park. A huge summer moon. The sort of moon that conjures up ideas about +guitars and balconies. + +Jones undressed, and putting on the silk pyjamas that were laid out for +him, got into bed, leaving only the light burning by the bedside. + +He tried to recall the details of that wonderful day, failed utterly, +switched out the light, and went to sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +LADY PLINLIMON + + +The most curious thing in the whole of Jones' extraordinary experiences +was the way in which things affecting Rochester affected him. The +coldness of the club members was an instance in point. He knew that +their coldness had nothing to do with him, yet he resented it +practically just as much as though it had. + +Then again, the case of Voles. What had made him fight Voles with such +vigour? It did not matter to him in the least whether Voles gave +Rochester away or not, yet he had fought Voles with all the feeling of +the man who is attacked, not of the man who is defending another man +from attack. + +The attitude of Spicer and the other scamp had roused his ire on account +of its want of respect for him, the supposed Earl of Rochester. +Rochester's folly had inspired that want of respect, why should he, +Jones, bother about it? He did. It hit him just as much as though it +were levelled against himself. He had found, as yet to a limited degree, +but still he had found that anything that would hurt Rochester would +hurt him, that his sensibility was just as acute under his new guise, +and, wonder of wonders, his dignity as a Lord just as sensitive as his +dignity as a man. + +If you had told Jones in Philadelphia that a day would come when he +would be angry if a servant did not address him as "my Lord," he would +have thought you mad. Yet that day had come, or was coming, and that +change in him was not in the least the result of snobbishness, it was +the result of the knowledge of what was due to Rochester, Arthur +Coningsby Delamere, 21st Earl of, from whom he could not disentangle +himself whilst acting his part. + +He was awakened by Mr. Church pulling up his window blinds. + +He had been dreaming of the boarding-house in Philadelphia where he used +to live, of Miss Wybrow, the proprietress, and the other guests, Miss +Sparrow, Mr. Moese--born Moses--Mr. Hoffman, the part proprietor of +Sharpes' Drug Store, Mrs. Bertine, and the rest. + +He watched whilst Mr. Church passed to the door, received the morning +tea tray from the servant outside, and, placing it by the bed, withdrew. +This was the only menial service which Mr. Church ever seemed to +perform, with the exception of the stately carrying in of papers and +letters at breakfast time. + +Jones drank his tea. Then he got up, went to the window, looked out at +the sunlit Green Park, and then rang his bell. He was not depressed nor +nervous this morning. He felt extraordinarily fit. The powerful good +spirits natural to him, a heritage better than a fortune, were his +again. Life seemed wonderfully well worth living, and the game before +him the only game worth playing. + +Then the Mechanism came into the room and began to act. James was the +name of this individual. Dumb and serious and active as an insect, this +man always filled Jones' mind with wonderment; he seemed less a man than +a machine. But at least he was a perfect machine. + +Fully dressed now, he was preparing to go down when a knock came to the +door and Mr. Church came in with a big envelope on a salver. + +"This is what you requested me to fetch from Jermyn Street, my Lord." + +"Oh, you've been to Jermyn Street?" + +"Yes, my Lord, directly I had served your tea at quarter to eight, I +took a taxi." + +"Good!" said Jones. + +He took the envelope, and, Church and the Mechanism having withdrawn, he +sat down by the window to have a look at the contents. + +The envelope contained letters. + +Letters from a man to a woman. Letters from the Earl of Rochester to +Sapphira Plinlimon. The most odiously and awfully stupid collection of +love letters ever written by a fool to be read by a wigged counsel in a +divorce court. + +They covered three months, and had been written two years ago. + +They were passionate, idealistic in parts, drivelling. He called her his +"Ickle teeny weeny treasure." Baby language--Jones almost blushed as he +read. + +"He sure was moulting," said he, as he dropped letter after letter on +the floor. "And he paid eight thousand to hold these things back--well, +I don't know, maybe I'd have done the same myself. I can't fancy seeing +myself in the _Philadelphia Ledger_ with this stuff tacked on to the end +of my name." + +He collected the incriminating documents, placed them in the envelope, +and came downstairs with it in his hand. + +Breakfast was an almost exact replica of the meal of yesterday; the pile +of letters brought in by Church was rather smaller, however. + +These letters were a new difficulty, they would all have to be answered, +the ones of yesterday, and the ones of to-day. + +He would have to secure the services of a typist and a typewriter: that +could be arranged later on. He placed them aside and opened a newspaper. +He was accustomed enough now to his situation to be able to take an +interest in the news of the day. At any moment his environment might +split to admit of a new Voles or Spicer, or perhaps some more dangerous +spectre engendered from the dubious past of Rochester; but he scarcely +thought of this, he had gone beyond fear, he was up to the neck in the +business. + +He glanced at the news of the day, reading as he ate. Then he pushed the +paper aside. The thought had just occurred to him that Rochester had +paid that eight thousand not to shield a woman's name but to shield his +own. To prevent that gibberish being read out against him in court. + +This thought dimmed what had seemed a brighter side of Rochester, that +obscure thing which Jones was condemned to unveil little by little and +bit by bit. He pushed his plate away, and at this moment Mr. Church +entered the breakfast room. + +He came to the table and, speaking in half lowered voice said: + +"Lady Plinlimon to see you, your Lordship." + +"Lady Plinlimon?" + +"Yes, your Lordship. I have shown her into the smoking room." + +Jones had finished breakfast. He rose from the table, gathered the +letters together, and with them in his hand followed Church from the +breakfast room to the smoking room. A big woman in a big hat was seated +in the arm chair facing the door. + +She was forty if an hour. She had a large unpleasant face. A dominating +face, fat featured, selfish, and made up by art. + +"Oh, here you are," said she as he entered and closed the door. "You see +I'm out early." + +Jones nodded, went to the cigarette box, took a cigarette and lit it. + +The woman got up and did likewise. She blew the cigarette smoke through +her nostrils, and Jones, as he watched, knew that he detested her. Then +she sat down again. She seemed nervous. + +"Is it true what I hear, that your sister has left you and gone to live +with your mother?" + +"Yes," said Jones, remembering the bird woman of yesterday morning. + +"Well, you'll have some peace now, unless you let her back--but I +haven't come to talk of her. It's just this, I'm in a tight place." + +"Oh!" + +"A very tight place. I've got to have some money--I've got to have it +to-day." + +"Oh!" + +"Yes. I ought to have had it yesterday, but a deal I had on fell +through. You've got to help me, Arthur." + +"How much do you want?" + +"Fifteen hundred. I'll pay it back soon." + +"Fifteen hundred pounds?" + +"Yes, of course." + +A great white light, cold and clear as the dawn of Truth, began to steal +across the mind of Jones. Why had this woman come to him this morning so +quickly after the defeat of Voles who held her letters? How had Voles +obtained those letters? This question had occurred to him before, and +this question seemed to his practical mind pregnant now with +possibilities. + +"What do you want the money for?" asked he. + +"Good heavens, what a question, what does a woman want money for? I want +it, that's enough--What else will you ask?" + +"What was the deal you expected money from yesterday?" + +"A stock exchange business." + +"What sort of business?" + +She crimsoned with anger. + +"I haven't come to talk of that. I came as a friend to ask you for help. +If you refuse, well, there that ends it." + +"Oh, no, it doesn't," said he. "I want to ask you a question." + +"Well, ask it." + +"It's just a simple question." + +"Go on." + +"You expected to receive fifteen hundred pounds yesterday?" + +"I did." + +"Did you expect to receive it from Mr. A. S. Voles?" + +He saw at once that she was guilty. She half rose from her chair, then +she sat down again. + +"What on earth do you mean?" she cried. + +"You know quite well what I mean," replied he, "you would have had +fifteen hundred of Voles' takings on those letters. You heard last night +I had refused to part. He was only your agent. There's no use in denying +it. He told me all." + +Her face had turned terrible, white as death, with the rouge showing on +the white. + +"It is all untrue," she stuttered. "It is all untrue." She rose +staggering. He did not want to pursue the painful business, the pursuit +of a woman was not in his line. He went to the door and opened it for +her. + +"It is all untrue. I'll write to you about this--untrue." + +She uttered the words as she passed out. He reckoned she knew the way to +the hall door, and, shutting the door of the room, he turned to the fire +place. + +He was not elated. He was shocked. It seemed to him that he had never +touched and handled wickedness before, and this was a woman in the +highest ranks of life! + +She had trapped Rochester into making love to her, and used Voles to +extort eight thousand pounds from him on account of his letters. + +She had hypnotized Rochester like a fowl. She was that sort. Held the +divorce court over him as a threat--could Humanity descend lower? He +went to "Who's Who" and turned up the P's till he found the man he +wanted. + +Plinlimon: 3rd Baron, created 1831, Albert James, b. March 10th 1862. O. +S. of second Baron and Julia d. of J. H. Thompson, of Clifton, m. +Sapphira. d. of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. privately. Address The Roost, +Tite Street, Chelsea. + +Thus spake, "Who's Who." + +"I bet my bottom dollar that chap's been in it as well as she," said +Jones, referring to Plinlimon, Albert James. Then a flash of humour lit +the situation. Voles had returned eight thousand pounds; as an agent he +had received twenty five per cent., say, therefore, he stood to lose at +least six thousand. This pleased Jones more even than his victory. He +had a racial, radical, soul-rooted antipathy to Voles. Not an anger +against him, just an antipathy. "Now," said he, as he placed "Who's +Who" back on the bureau, "let's get off and see Mortimer Collins." + +He left the house, and, calling a taxi cab, ordered the driver to take +him to Sergeant's Inn. He had no plan of campaign as regards Collins. He +simply wanted to explore and find out about himself. Knowledge to him in +his extraordinary position was armour, and he wanted all the armour he +could get, fighting, as he was, not only the living present, but also +another man's past--and another man's character, or want of character. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE COAL MINE + + +Sergeant's Inn lies off Fleet Street, a quiet court surrounded with +houses given over to the law. The law has always lived there ever since +that time when, as Stow quaintly put it, "There is in and about the city +a whole University as it were, of students, practicers, and pleaders, +and judges of the laws of this realm, not living of common stipends, as +in other universities it is for the most part done, but of their own +private maintenance, as being fed either by their places or practices, +or otherwise by their proper revenue, or exhibition of parents or +friends--of their houses, there be at this day fourteen in all; whereof +nine do stand within the liberties of this city, and five in the suburbs +thereof." + +Sergeant's Inn stood within the liberties, and there to-day it still +stands, dusty, sedate, once the abode of judges and sergeants, now the +home of solicitors. On the right of entrance lay the offices of Mortimer +Collins, an elderly man, quiet, subfusc in hue, tall, sparsely bearded, +a collector of old prints in his spare hours, and one of the most +respected members of his profession. + +His practice lay chiefly amongst the nobility and landed gentry, a fact +vaguely hinted at by the white or yellow lettering on the tin deed +boxes that lined the walls of his offices, setting forth such names and +statements as: "The Cave Estate," "Sir Jardine Jardine," "The Blundell +Estate," and so forth and so on. He knew everyone, and everything about +everyone, and terrible things about some people, and he was to be met +with at the best houses. People liked him for himself, and he inspired +the trust that comes from liking. + +It was to this gentleman that Jones was shown in, and it was by this +gentleman that he was received coldly, it is true, but politely. + +Jones, with his usual directness, began the business. + +"I have come to have a serious talk with you," said he. + +"Indeed," said the lawyer, "has anything new turned up?" + +"No. I want to talk about my position generally. I see that I have made +a fool of myself." + +The man of law raised his hands lightly with fingers spread, the gesture +was eloquent. + +"But," went on the other, "I want to make good, I want to clear up the +mess." + +The lawyer sighed. Then he took a small piece of chamois leather from +his waistcoat pocket and began to polish his glasses. + +"You remember what I told you the day before yesterday," said he; "have +you determined to take my advice? Then you had nothing to offer me but +some wild talk about suicide." + +"What advice?" + +Collins made an impatient gesture. + +"Advice--why to emigrate and try your luck in the Colonies." + +"H'm, h'm," said Jones. "Yes, I remember, but since then I have been +thinking things out. I'm going to stay here and make good." + +Again the lawyer made a gesture of impatience. + +"You know your financial position as well as I do," said he. "How are +you to make good, as you express it, against that position? You can't, +you are hopelessly involved, held at every point. A month ago I told you +to reduce your establishment and let Carlton House Terrace; you said you +would and you didn't. That hurt me. I would much sooner you had refused +the suggestion. Well, the crash if it does not come to-day will come +to-morrow. You are overdrawn at Coutts', you can raise money on nothing, +your urgent debts to tradesmen and so forth amount, as you told me the +day before yesterday, to over two thousand five hundred pounds. See for +yourself how you stand." + +"I say again," said Jones, "that I am going to make good. All these +affairs seem to have gone to pieces because--I have been a fool." + +"I'm glad you recognise that." + +"But I'm a fool no longer. You know that business about Voles?" + +The man of affairs nodded. + +"Well, what do you think of that?" He took Voles' cheque from his pocket +and laid it before the lawyer. + +"Why, what is this?" said the other. "Eight thousand pounds." + +"He called on me for more blackmail," replied Jones, "and I squeezed +him, called in a--policeman, made him disgorge, and there's his cheque. +Do you, think he has money enough to meet it?" + +"Oh, yes, he is very wealthy, but you told me _distinctly_ he had only +got a thousand out of you." + +Jones swore mentally. To take up the life and past of a rogue is bad, to +take up the life and past of a weak-kneed and shifty man is almost +worse. + +"I told you wrong," said he. + +Collins suppressed a movement of irritation and disgust. He was used to +dealing with Humanity. + +"What can a doctor do for a patient who holds back essential facts?" +asked he. "Nothing. How can I believe what you say?" + +"I don't know," replied the other. "But I just ask you to. I ask you to +believe I'm changed. I've had a shock that has altered my whole nature. +I'm not the same man who talked to you the day before yesterday." + +Collins looked at him curiously. + +"You have altered," said he, "your voice is different, somehow, too. I +am not going to ask you _what_ has brought about this change in your +views. I only trust it may be so--and permanent." + +"Bedrock," said Jones. "I'm going to begin right now. I'm going to let +that caravan--" + +"Caravan!" + +"The Carlton House place, your idea is good, will you help me through +with it? I don't know how to start letting places." + +"I will certainly assist you. In fact I believe I can get you a tenant +at once. The Bracebridges want just such a house, furnished. I will get +my clerk to write to them--if you really mean it." + +"I mean it." + +"Well, that's something. I pressed the point about your really meaning +it, because you were so violently opposed to such a course when I spoke +of it before. In fact you were almost personal, as though I had proposed +something disgraceful--though it was true you came to agree with me at +last." + +"I guess the only disgrace is owing money and not being able to pay," +said the present Lord Rochester. "I've come to see that now." + +"Thank God!" said Collins. + +"I'll take rooms at a quiet hotel," went on the other, "with this eight +thousand and the rent from that Gazabo, I ought to tide over the rocks." + +"I don't see why not, I don't really see why not," replied Collins +cheerfully, "if you are steadfast in your purpose. Fortunately your +wife's property is untouched, and how about her?" + +"Yes," said Jones, with a cold shiver. + +"The love of a good wife," went on the other, "is a thing not to be +bought, and I may say I have very good reason to believe that, despite +all that has occurred, you still have your wife's affection. Leaving +everything else aside I think your greatest mistake was having your +sister to live with you. It does not do, and, considering Miss +Birdbrook's peculiar temper, it especially did not do in your case. Now +that things are different would you care to see your wife, and have a +quiet talk over matters?" + +"No," said Jones, hurriedly. "I don't want to see her--at least, not +yet." + +"Well, please yourself," replied the other. "Perhaps later on you will +come to see things differently." + +The conversation then closed, the lawyer promising to let him know +should he secure an offer for the house. + +Jones, so disturbed by this talk about his wife that he was revolving in +his mind plans to cut the whole business, said good-bye and took his +departure. But he was not destined to leave the building just yet. + +He was descending the narrow old stairs when he saw some people coming +up, and drew back to let them pass. + +A stout lady led the way and was followed by an elderly gentleman and a +younger lady in a large hat. + +"Why it is Arthur," cried the stout woman. "How fortunate. Arthur, we +have come to see Mr. Collins, such a terrible thing has happened." + +The unfortunate Jones now perceived that the lady with the huge hat was +the bird woman, the elderly gentleman he had never seen before, but the +elderly gentleman had evidently often seen him, was most probably a near +relative, to judge by the frigidity and insolence of his nod and general +demeanour. This old person had the Army stamp about him, and a very +decided chin with a cleft in it. + +"Better not talk out here," said he, "come in, come in and see Collins." + +Jones did not want in the least to go in and see Collins, but he was +burning to know what this dreadful thing was that had happened. He half +dreaded that it had to do with Rochester's suicide. He followed the +party, and next moment found himself again in Collins' room, where the +lawyer pointed out chairs to the ladies, closed the door, and came back +to his desk table where he seated himself. + +"Oh, Mr. Collins," said the elderly lady, "such a dreadful thing has +happened--coal--they have found coal." She collapsed. + +The old gentleman with the cleft chin took up the matter. + +"This idiot," said he, indicating Jones, "has sold a coal mine, worth +maybe a million, for five thousand. The Glanafwyn property has turned up +coal. I only heard of it last night, and by accident. Struthers said to +me straight out in the club, 'Do you know that bit of land in Glamorgan, +Rochester sold to Marcus Mulhausen?' Yes, I said. 'Well,' said he, 'it's +not land, it's the top of the biggest coal mine in Wales, steam coal, +and Mulhausen is going to work it himself. He was offered two hundred +and fifty thousand for the land last week, they have been boring there +for the last half year,' that's what he told me, and I verified it this +morning. Of course Mulhausen spotted the land for what it was worth, and +laid his trap for this fool." + +Jones restrained his emotions with an effort, not knowing in the least +his relationship to the violent one. Mr. Collins made it clear. + +"Your nephew has evidently fallen into a trap, your Grace," said he. +Then turning to Jones: + +"I warned you not to sell that land--Heaven knows I knew little enough +of the district and less of its mineral worth; still, I was adverse from +parting with land--always am--and especially to such a sharp customer as +Mulhausen. I told you to have an expert opinion. I had not minerals in +my mind. I thought, possibly, it might be some railway extension in +prospect--and it was your last bit of property without mortgage on it. +Yes, I told you not to do it, and it's done." + +"Oh, Arthur," sighed the elderly woman. "Your last bit of land--and to +think it should go like that. I never dreamed I should have to say those +words to my son." Then stiffening and turning to Collins. "But I did not +come to complain, I came to see if justice cannot be done. This is +robbery. That terrible man with the German name has robbed Arthur. It is +quite plain. What can be done?" + +"Absolutely nothing," replied Collins. + +"Nothing?" + +"Your ladyship must believe me when I say nothing can be done. What +ground can we have for moving? The sale was perfectly open and above +board. Mulhausen made no false statement--I am right in saying that, am +I not?" turning to Jones. + +Jones had to nod. + +"And that being the case we are helpless." + +"But if it can be proved that he knew there was coal in the land, and if +he bought it concealing that knowledge, surely, surely the law can make +him give it back," said the simple old lady, who it would seem stood in +the place of Rochester's unfortunate mother. + +Mr. Collins almost smiled. + +"Your ladyship, that would give no handle to the law. Now, for instance, +if I knew that the Canadian Pacific Railway, let us say, had discovered +large coal bearing lands, and if I used that private knowledge to buy +your Canadian Pacific stock at, say, one hundred, and if that stock rose +to three hundred, could you make me give you your stock back? Certainly +not. The gain would be a perfectly legitimate product of my own +sharpness." + +"Sharpness," said the bird woman, "that's just it. If Arthur had had +even sense, to say nothing of sharpness, things would have been very +different all round--all round." + +She protruded her head from her boa and retracted it. Jones, furious, +dumb, with his hands in his pockets and his back against the window, +said nothing. + +He never could have imagined that a baiting like this, over a matter +with which he had nothing to do, could have made him feel such a fool, +and such an ass. + +He saw at once how Rochester had been done, and he felt, against all +reason, the shame that Rochester might have felt--but probably wouldn't. +His uncle, the Duke of Melford, for that was the choleric one's name, +his mother, the dowager Countess of Rochester, and his sister, the Hon. +Venetia Birdbrook, now all rose up and got together in a covey before +making their exit, and leaving this bad business and the fool who had +brought it about. + +You can fancy their feelings. A man in Rochester's position may be +anything, almost, as long as he is wealthy, but should he add the crime +of poverty to his other sins he is lost indeed. And Rochester had not +only flung his money away, he had flung a coal mine after it. + +No wonder that his uncle did not even glance at him again as he left the +room, shepherding the two women before him. + +"It's unfortunate," said Collins, when they found themselves alone. It +was the mildest thing he could say, and he said it. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +THE GIRL IN THE VICTORIA + + +When Jones found himself outside the office at last, and in the bustle +of Fleet Street, he turned his steps west-wards. + +He had almost forgotten the half formed determination to throw down his +cards and get up from this strange game, which he had formed when +Collins had asked him whether he would not have an interview with his +wife. This coal mine business pushed everything else aside for the +moment; the thought of that deal galvanized the whole business side of +his nature, so that, as he would have said himself, bristles stood on +it. A mine worth a million pounds, traded away for twenty five thousand +dollars! + +He was taking the thing to heart, as though he himself had been tricked +by Mulhausen, and now as he walked, a block in the traffic brought him +back from his thoughts, and suddenly, a most appalling sensation came +upon him. For a moment he had lost his identity. For a moment he was +neither Rochester nor Jones, but just a void between these two. For a +moment he could not tell which he was. For a moment he was neither. That +was the terrible part of the feeling. It was due to over taxation of the +brain in his extraordinary position, and to the intensive manner in +which he had been playing the part of Rochester. It lasted perhaps, only +a few seconds, for it is difficult to measure the duration of mental +processes, and it passed as rapidly as it had come. + +Seeing a bar he entered it, and a small glass of brandy closed the +incident and made him forget it. He asked the way to Coutts' Bank, which +in 1692 was situated at the "Three Crowns" in the Strand, next door to +the Globe Tavern, and which still holds the same position in the world +of commerce, and nearly the same in the world of bricks and mortar. + +He reached the door of the bank and was about to enter, when something +checked him. It was the thought that he would have to endorse the cheque +with Rochester's signature. + +He had copied it so often that he felt competent to make a fair +imitation, but he had begun life in a bank and he knew the awful eye a +bank has for a customer's signature. His signature--at least +Rochester's--must be well known at Coutts'. It would never do to put +himself under the microscope like that, besides, and this thought only +came to him now, it might be just as well to have his money in some +place unknown to others. Collins and all that terrible family knew that +he was banking at Coutts', events might arise when it would be very +necessary too for him to be able to lay his hands on a secret store of +money. + +He had passed the National Provincial Bank in the Strand, the name +sounded safe and he determined to go there. + +He reached the bank, sent his name into the manager, and was at once +admitted. The manager was a solid man, semi-bald, with side whiskers, +and an air of old English business respectability delightful in these +new and pushing days, he received the phantom of the Earl of Rochester +with the respect due to their mutual positions. + +Jones, between Coutts' and the National Provincial, had done a lot of +thinking. He foresaw that even if he were to give in a passable +imitation of Rochester's signature, all cheques signed in future would +have to tally with that signature. Now a man's handwriting, though +varying, has a personality of its own, and he very much doubted as to +whether he would be able to keep up that personality under the +microscopic gaze of the bank people. He decided on a bold course. He +would retain his own handwriting. It was improbable that the National +Provincial had ever seen Rochester's autograph; even if they had, it was +not a criminal thing for a man to alter his style of writing. He +endorsed the cheque Rochester, gave a sample of his signature, gave +directions for a cheque book to be sent to him at Carlton House Terrace, +and took his departure. + +He had changed Rochester's five pound note before going to Collins, and +he had the change in his pocket, four pounds sixteen and sixpence. Five +pounds, less the price of a cigar at the tobacconist's where he had +changed his note, the taxi to Sergeants' Inn, and the glass of liqueur +brandy. He remembered that he still owed for his luncheon yesterday at +the Senior Conservative, and he determined to go and pay for it, and +then lunch at some restaurant. Never again would he have luncheon at +that Conservative Caravanserai, so he told himself. + +With this purpose in mind, he was standing waiting to cross the road +near Southampton Street, when a voice sounded in his ear and an arm took +his. + +"Hello, Rochy," said the voice. + +Jones turned, and found himself arm in arm with a youth of eighteen--so +he seemed, a gilded youth, if there ever was a gilded youth, +immaculately dressed, cheery, and with a frank face that was entirely +pleasing. + +"Hello," said Jones. + +"What became of you that night?" asked the cheery one, as they crossed +the road still arm in arm. + +"Which night?" + +"Which night? Why the night they shot us out of the Rag Tag Club. Are +you asleep, Rawjester--or what ails you?" + +"Oh, I remember," said Jones. + +They had unlinked now, and walking along together they passed up +Southampton Street and through Henrietta Street towards Leicester +Square. The unknown doing all the talking, a task for which he seemed +well qualified. + +He talked of things, events, and people, absolutely unknown to his +listener, of horses, and men, and women. He talked Jones into Bond +Street, and Jones went shopping with him, assisting him in the choice of +two dozen coloured socks at Beale and Inmans. Outside the hosier's, the +unknown was proposing luncheon, when a carriage, an open Victoria, +going slowly on account of the traffic, drew Jones' attention. + +It was a very smart turn out, one horsed, but having two liveried +servants on the box. A coachman, and a footman with powdered hair. + +In the Victoria was seated one of the prettiest girls ever beheld by +Jones. A lovely creature, dark, with deep, dreamy, vague blue-grey +eyes--and a face! Ah, what pen could describe that face, so mobile, +piquante, and filled with light and inexpressible charm. + +She had caught Jones' eye, she was gazing at him curiously, half +mirthfully, half wrathfully, it seemed to him, and now to his amazement +she made a little movement of the head, as if to say, "come here." At +the same moment she spoke to the coachman. + +"Portman, stop please." + +Jones advanced, raising his hat. + +"I just want to tell you," said the Beauty, leaning a little forward, +"that you are a silly old ass. Venetia has told me all--It's nothing to +me, but don't do it--Portman, drive on." + +"Good Lord!" said Jones, as the vehicle passed on its way, bearing off +its beautiful occupant, of whom nothing could now be seen but the lace +covered back of a parasol. + +He rejoined the unknown. + +"Well," said the latter, "what has your wife been saying to you?" + +"My _wife_!" said Jones. + +"Well, your late wife, though you ain't divorced yet, are you?" + +"No," said Jones. + +He uttered the word mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was saying. + +That lovely creature his wife! Rochester's wife! + +"Get in," said the unknown. He had called a taxi. + +Jones got in. + +Rochester's wife! The contrast between her and Lady Plinlimon suddenly +arose before him, together with the folly of Rochester seen gigantically +and in a new light. + +The taxi drew up in a street off Piccadilly; they got out; the unknown +paid and led the way into a house, whose front door presented a modest +brass door plate inscribed with the words: + + "MR. CARR" + +They passed along a passage, and then down stairs to a large room, where +small card tables were set out. An extraordinary room, for, occupying +nearly half of one side of it stood a kitchen range, over which a cook +was engaged broiling chops and kidneys, and all the other elements of a +mixed grill. Old fashioned pictures of sporting celebrities hung on the +walls, and opposite the range stood a dresser, laden with priceless old +fashioned crockery ware. Off this room lay the dining room, and the +whole place had an atmosphere of comfort and the days gone by when days +were less laborious than our days, and comfort less allied to glitter +and tinsel. + +This was Carr's Club. + +The unknown sat down before the visitor's book, and began to write his +own name and the name of his guest. + +Jones, looking over his shoulder, saw that his name was Spence, Patrick +Spence. Sir Patrick Spence, for one of the attendants addressed him as +Sir Patrick. A mixed grill, some cheese and draught beer in heavy pewter +tankards, constituted the meal, during which the loquacious Spence kept +up the conversation. + +"I don't want to poke my nose into your affairs," said he, "but I can +see there's something worrying you; you're not the same chap. Is it +about the wife?" + +"No," said Jones, "it's not that." + +"Well, I don't want to dig into your confidences, and I don't want to +give you advice. If I did, I'd say make it up with her. You know very +well, Rochy, you have led her the deuce of a dance. Your sister got me +on about it the other night at the Vernons'. We had a long talk about +you, Rochy, and we agreed you were the best of chaps, but too much given +to gaiety and promiscuous larks. You should have heard me holding forth. +But, joking apart, it's time you and I settled down, old chap. You can't +put old heads on young shoulders, but our shoulders ain't so young as +they used to be, Rochy. And I want to tell you this, if you don't hitch +up again in harness, the other party will do a bolt. I'm dead serious. +It's not the thing to say to another man, but you and I haven't any +secrets between us, and we've always been pretty plain one to the +other--well, this is what I want to say, and just take it as it's meant. +Maniloff is after her. You know that chap, the _attache_ at the Russian +Embassy, chap like a billiard marker, always at the other end of a +cigarette--other name's Boris. Hasn't a penny to bless himself with. I +know he hasn't, for I've made kind enquiries about him through Lewis, +reason why--he wanted to buy one of my racers for export to Roosia. +Seven hundred down and the balance in six months. Lewis served up his +past to me on a charger. The chap's rotten with debt, divorced from his +wife, and a punter at Monte Carlo. That's his real profession, and card +playing. He's a sleepy Slav, and if he was told his house was on fire +he'd say, "nichevo," meaning it don't matter, it's well insured--if he +had a house to insure, which he hasn't. But women like him, he's that +sort. But Heaven help the woman that marries him. He'd take her money +and herself off to Monte, and when he'd broken her heart and spoiled her +life and spent her coin, he'd leave her, and go off and be Russian +_attache_ in Japan or somewhere. I know him. Don't let her do it, +Rochy." + +"But how am I to help it?" asked the perplexed Jones, who saw the +meaning of the other. It did not matter in reality to him, whether a +woman whom he had only seen once were to "bolt" with a Russian and find +ruination at Monte Carlo, but this world is not entirely a world of +reality, and he felt a surprisingly strong resentment at the idea of +the girl in the Victoria "bolting" with a Russian. + +It will be remembered that in Collins' office, the lawyer's talk about +his "wife" had almost decided him to throw down his cards and quit. This +shadowy wife, first mentioned by the bird woman, had, in fact, been the +one vaguely felt insuperable obstacle in the way of his grand +determination to make good where Rochester had failed, to fight +Rochester's battles, to be the Earl of Rochester permanently maybe, or, +failing that, to retire and vanish back to the States with honourable +pickings. + +The sight of the real thing had, however, altered the whole position. +Romance had suddenly touched Victor Jones; the gorgeous but sordid veils +through which he had been pushing had split to some mystic wand, and had +become the foliage of fairy land. + +"I want to tell you--you are an old ass." + +Those words were surely enough to shatter any dream, to turn to pathos +any situation. In Jones' case they had acted as a most potent spell. He +could still hear the voice, wrathful, but with a tinge of mirth in it, +golden, individual, entrancing. + +"How are you to help it?" said Spence. "Why, go and make up with her +again, kick old Nichevo. Women like chaps that kick other chaps; they +pretend they don't, but they do. Either do that or take a gun and shoot +her, she'd be better shot than with that fellow." + +He lit a cigarette and they passed into the card room, where Spence, +looking at his watch, declared that he must be off to keep an +appointment. They said good-bye in the street, and Jones returned to +Carlton House Terrace. + +He had plenty to think about. + +The pile of letters waiting to be answered on the table in the smoking +room reminded him that he had forgotten a most pressing necessity--a +typist. He could sign letters all right, with a very good imitation of +Rochester's signature, but a holograph letter in the same hand was +beyond him. Then a bright idea came to him, why not answer these letters +with sixpenny telegrams, which he could hand in himself? + +He found a sheaf of telegraph forms in the bureau, and sat down before +the letters, dealing with them one by one, and as relevantly as he +could. It was a rather interesting and amusing game, and when he had +finished he felt fairly satisfied. "Awfully sorry can't come," was the +reply to the dinner invitations. The letter signed "Childersley" worried +him, till he looked up the name in "Who's Who" and found a Lord +answering to it at the same address as that on the note paper. + +He had struck by accident on one of the alleviations of a major misery +of civilized life, replying to Letters, and he felt like patenting it. + +He left the house with the sheaf of telegrams, found the nearest post +office--which is situated directly opposite to Charing Cross +Station--and returned. Then lighting a cigar, he took the friendly and +indefatigable "Who's Who" upon his knee, and began to turn the pages +indolently. It is a most interesting volume for an idle moment, full of +scattered romance, tales of struggle and adventure, compressed into a +few lines, peeps of history, and the epitaphs of still living men. + +"I want to tell you--you are an old ass." + +The words still sounding in his ears made him turn again to the name +Plinlimon. The contrast between Lady Plinlimon and the girl, whose +vision dominated his mind, rose up again sharply at sight of the printed +name. + +Ass! That name did not apply to Rochester. To fit him with an +appropriate pseudonym would be impossible. Fool, idiot, sumph--Jones +tried them all on the image of the defunct, but they were too small. + +"Plinlimon: 3rd Baron," read Jones, "created 1831, Albert James, b. +March 10th, 1862. O. S. of second Baron and Julia d. of J. H. Thompson +of Clifton, m. Sapphira, d. of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. privately. +Address The Roost, Tite Street, Chelsea." + +Mulhausen! He almost dropped the book. Mulhausen! Collins, his office, +and that terrible family party all rose up before him. Here was the +scamp who had diddled Rochester out of the coal mine, the father of the +woman who had diddled him out of thousands. The paragraph in "Who's Who" +turned from printed matter to a nest of wriggling vipers. He threw the +book on the table, rose up, and began to pace the floor. + +The girl-wife in the Victoria, his own position--everything was +forgotten, before the monstrous fact half guessed, half seen. + +Rochester had been plucked right and left by these harpies. He had +received five thousand pounds for land worth a million from the father, +he had paid eight thousand, or a good part of eight thousand to the +daughter. Fine business that! + +I compared Jones, when he was fighting Voles, to a terrier. He had a +good deal of the terrier in his composition, the honesty, the rooting +out instinct, and the fury before vermin. Men run in animal groups, and +if you study animals you will be surprised by nothing so much as the old +race fury that breaks out in the most civilized animal before the old +race quarry or enemy. + +For a few seconds, as he paced the floor, Jones was in the mental +condition of a dog in proximity to a hutched badger. Then he began to +think clearly. The obvious fact before him was that Voles, the +Plinlimons and Mulhausen were a gang; the presumptive fact was that the +money paid in blackmail had gone back to Mulhausen, or at least a great +part of it. + +Was Mulhausen the spider of the web? Were all the rest his tools and +implements? + +Jones had a good deal of instinctive knowledge of women. He did not in +his heart believe that a woman could be so utterly vile as to use love +letters directed to her for the purpose of extracting money from the man +who wrote them. Or rather that, whilst she might use them, it was +improbable that she would invent the method. The whole business had the +stamp of a mind masculine and utterly unscrupulous. Even at first he had +glimpsed this vaguely, when he considered it probable that Lord +Plinlimon had a hand in the affair. + +"Now," thought Jones, "if I could bring this home to Mulhausen, I could +squeeze back that coal mine from him. I could sure." + +He sat down and lit another cigar to assist him in dealing with this +problem. + +It was very easy to say "squeeze Mulhausen," it was a different thing to +do it. He came to this conclusion after a few minutes' earnest +concentration of mind on that problematical person. Hitherto he had been +dealing with small men and wasters. Voles was a plain scoundrel, quite +easily overthrown by direct methods. But Marcus Mulhausen he guessed to +be a big man. The first thing to be done was to verify this supposition. +He rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church. + +"Come in," said he, when the latter appeared, "and shut the door. I want +to ask you something." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"It's just this. I want you to tell me what you think of Lord Plinlimon, +and what you have heard said about him. I have my own opinions--I want +yours." + +"Well, my Lord," began Church. "It's not for me to say anything against +his Lordship, but since you ask me I will say that it's generally the +opinion that his Lordship is a bit--soft." + +"Do you think he's straight?" + +"Yes, my Lord--that is to say--" + +"Spit it out," said Jones. + +"Well, my Lord, he owes money, that's well known; and I've heard it said +a good deal of money has been lost at cards in his house, but not +through his fault. Indeed, you yourself said something to me to that +effect, my Lord." + +"Yes, so I did--But what I want to get at is this. Do you think he's a +man who would do a scoundrelly thing--that's plain?" + +"Oh, no, my Lord, he's straight enough. It's the other party." + +"Meaning his wife?" + +"No, my Lord--her brother, Mr. Julian." + +"Ah!" + +Church warmed a bit. "He's always about there, lives with them mostly. +You see, my Lord, he has no what you may call status of his own, but he +manages to get known to people through her Ladyship." + +"Kind of sucker," said Jones. + +Mr. Church assented. The expression was new to him, but it seemed to +apply. + +Then Jones dismissed him. + +The light was becoming clearer and clearer. Here was another member of +the gang, another instrument of Marcus Mulhausen. + +"To-morrow," said Jones to himself, "I will go for these chaps. Voles is +the key to the lot of them, and I have Voles completely under my thumb." + +Then he put the matter from his mind for a while, and fell to thinking +of the girl--his wife--Rochester's wife. + +The strange thought came to him that she was a widow and did not know +it. + +He dined out that night, going to a little restaurant in Soho, and he +returned to bed early, so as to be fresh for the business of the morrow. + +He had looked himself up again in "Who's Who," and found that his wife's +name was Teresa. Teresa. The name pleased him vaguely, and now that he +had captured it, it stuck like a burr in his mind. If he could only make +good over the Mulhausen proposition, re-capture that mine, prove +himself--would she, if he told her all--would she--? + +He fell asleep murmuring the word Teresa. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +TERESA + + +He woke up next morning, to find the vision of Teresa, Countess of +Rochester--so he called her--standing by his bedside. + +Have you ever for a moment considered the influence of women? Go to a +public meeting composed entirely of men and see what a heavy affair it +can be, especially if you are a speaker; sprinkle a few women through +the audience, and behold the livening effect. At a party or a public +meeting in the Wheat Pit or the battlefield, women, or the recollection +of a woman, form or forms one of the greatest liveners to conversation, +speech, or action. Most men fight the battle of life for a woman. Jones, +as he sat up and drank his morning tea, gazing the while at the vision +of Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had found, almost unknown to himself, +a new incentive to action. + +The position yesterday had begun to sag, very little would have made him +"quit," take a hundred pounds from the eight thousand and a passage by +the next boat to the States; but that girl in the Victoria, those eyes, +that voice, those words--they had altered everything. + +Was he in love? Perhaps not, but he was fascinated, held, dazzled. + +More than that, the world seemed strange--brighter; he felt younger, +filled with an energy of a new brand. He whistled as he crossed the +floor to look out of the window, and as he tubbed he splashed the water +about like a boy. + +It was easy to see that the unfortunate man had tumbled into a position +more fantastic and infinitely more dangerous than any position he had +hitherto occupied since setting foot in the house of Rochester. + +That vanished and fantastic humourist would have found plenty to feed +his thoughts could he have returned. + +The cheque book from the National Provincial Bank arrived by the first +post, and after breakfast he put it aside in a drawer of the bureau in +the smoking room. He glanced through the usual sheaf of letters from +unknown people, tradesmen, whose accounts were marked "account rendered" +and gentlemen who signed themselves with the names of counties. One of +the latter seemed indignant. + + "I take this d--d bad of you, Rochester," said he. "I've found + it out at last, you are the man responsible for that telegram. I + lost three days and a night's sleep rushing up to Cumberland on + a wild goose chase, and I'm telling people all about it. Some + day you'll land yourself in a mess. Jokes that may be funny + amongst board school boys are out of place amongst men. + + "LANGWATHBY." + +Jones determined to send Langwathby a telegram of apology when he had +time to look his name up in "Who's Who"; then he put the letters aside, +called for his hat and cane and left the house. + +He was going to Voles first. + +Voles was his big artillery. He guessed that the fight with Marcus +Mulhausen would be a battle to the death. He reckoned a lot on Voles. In +Trafalgar Square he called a taxi and told the driver to take him to +Jermyn Street. + + + + +PART III + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE ATTACK + + +A. S. Voles, money lender and bill discounter, lived over his business. +That is to say his office was his dining room. He owned the house in +Jermyn Street. Jones, dismissing the taxi, rang the bell and was +admitted by a man servant, who, not sure whether Mr. Voles was in or +not, invited the visitor into a small room on the right of the entrance +hall and closed the door on him. + +The room contained a desk table, three chairs, a big scale map of +London, a Phoenix Insurance Almanac, and a photogravure reproduction of +Mona Lisa. The floor was covered with linoleum, and the window gave upon +a blank wall. + +This was the room where creditors and stray visitors had to wait. Jones +took a chair and looked about him. + +Humanity may be divided into three classes: those who, having seen, +adore, those who tolerate, and those who detest Mona Lisa. Jones +detested her. That leery, sleery, slippery, poisonous face was hateful +to him as the mask of a serpent. + +He was looking at the lady when the door opened and in came Voles. + +Voles looked yellower and older this morning, but his face showed +nothing of resentment. The turning of the Earl of Rochester upon him had +been the one great surprise of his life. He had always fancied that he +knew character, and his fancy was not ill founded. His confidence in +himself had been shaken. + +"Good morning," said Jones. "I have come to have a little talk with +you." + +"Sit down," said Voles. + +They seated themselves, Voles before the desk. + +"I haven't come to fight," said Jones, "just to talk. You known that +Marcus Mulhausen has got that Welsh land from me for five thousand, and +that it is worth maybe a million now." + +Voles nodded. + +"Well, Mulhausen has to give that property back." + +Voles laughed. + +"You needn't laugh. You have seen my rough side. I'm holding the smooth +towards you now--but there is no occasion to laugh. I'm going to skin +Mulhausen." + +"Well," said Voles. "What have I to do with that?" + +"You are the knife." + +"Oh!" + +"Yes, indeed. Let's talk. When you got that eight thousand from me, you +were only the agent of the Plinlimon woman, and she was only the agent +of Marcus. She got something, you got something, but Marcus got the +most. Julian got something too, but it was Marcus got the joints. He +gave you three the head, and the hoofs, and the innards, and the tail. +I've had it out with the Plinlimon woman and I know. You were a gang." + +Voles heaved up in his chair. + +"What more have you to say?" asked he thickly. + +"A lot. There is nothing more difficult to get at than a gang, because +they cover each other's traces. I pay you a certain sum in cash, you +deduct your commission and hand the remainder over to the Plinlimon +woman, she pays her Pa, and gets a few hundred to pay her milliner. +Who's to prove anything? No cheques have passed." + +"Just so," said Voles. + +"I'm glad you see my point," replied Jones. "Now if you can't untie a +knot, you can always cut it if you have a knife--can't you?" + +Voles shrugged his shoulders. + +"Well, I said you were a knife, didn't I, and I'm going to cut this knot +with you, see my point?" + +"Not in the least." + +"I'm sorry, because that makes me speak plain, and that's unpleasant. +This is my meaning. I have to get that property back, or else I will go +to the police and rope in the whole gang. Tell the whole story. I will +accuse Marcus. Do you understand that? Marcus, and Marcus' daughter, and +Marcus' son, and you. And I won't do that to-morrow, I'll do it to-day. +To-night the whole caboodle of you will be in jail." + +"You said you hadn't come to fight," cried Voles. "What do you want? +Haven't you had enough from me? Yet you drive me like this. It's +dangerous." + +"I have not come to fight. At least not you. On the contrary, when I get +this property back, if it turns out worth a million, I'll maybe pay you +your losses. You've been paying the piper for Marcus, it seems to me." + +"I have," groaned Voles. + +The two words proved to Jones that he was right all through. + +"Well, it's Marcus I'm up against, and you have to help me." + +Then Voles began to speak. The something Oriental in his nature, the +something that had driven him rushing with outspread arms at the +constable that evening, began now to talk. + +Help against Marcus! What could he do against Marcus? Why Marcus +Mulhausen held him in the hollow of his hand. Marcus held everyone: his +daughter, her husband, his own son Julian, to say nothing of A. S. Voles +and others. + +Jones listened with patient attention to all this, and when the other +had finished and wiped the palms of his hands on his handkerchief, said: + +"But all the same, Marcus is held by the fact that he forms one of a +gang." + +Voles made a movement with his hand. + +"Don't interrupt me. The head of a shark is the cleverest part of it, +but it has to suffer with the body when the whole shark is caught; +that's the fix Marcus is in. When I close on the lot of you, Marcus +will be the first to go into the jug. Now, see here, you have got to +take my orders; they won't be hard." + +"What are they?" + +"You have got to write me a note, which I will take to Marcus, telling +him the game's up, the gang's burst, and to deliver." + +"Why d--n it, what ails you?" said Voles. + +"What ails me?" + +"You aren't talking like yourself--you have never been like yourself +since you've taken this line." + +Jones felt himself changing colour. In his excitement he had let his +voice run away with him. + +"It doesn't matter a button whether I'm like myself or not," said he, +"you've got to write that note, and do it now while I dictate." + +Voles drummed on the desk with his fingers, then he took a sheet of +paper and an envelope from a drawer. + +"Well," said he, "what is it to be?" + +"Nothing alarming," said the other. "Just three words. 'It's all +up'--how do you address him?" + +Without reply Voles wrote. + + "Dear M. + + "It's all up." + +"That'll do," said Jones, "now sign your name and address the envelope." + +Voles did so. + +Jones put the letter in his pocket. + +"Well," said he, "that ends the business. I hope, with this, and what I +have to say to him, Marcus will part, and as I say, if things turn out +as I hope, maybe I'll right your losses--I have no quarrel with +you--only Marcus." + +Suddenly Voles spoke. + +"For God's sake," said he, "mind how you deal with that chap; he's never +been got the better of, curse him. Go cautiously." + +"You never fear," said Jones. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE ATTACK (Continued) + + +Jones had already obtained Marcus Mulhausen's address from the +invaluable Kelly. + +Mulhausen was a financier. A financier is a man who makes money without +a trade or profession, and Mulhausen had made a great deal of money, +despite this limitation, during his twenty years of business life, which +had started humbly enough behind the counter of a pawnbroker's in the +Minories. + +His offices were situated in Chancery Lane. They consisted of three +rooms: an outer waiting room, a room inhabited by three clerks, that is +to say a senior clerk, Mr. Aaronson, and two subordinates, and an inner +room where Mulhausen dwelt. + +Jones, on giving his name, was shown at once into the inner room where +Mulhausen was seated at his desk. + +Mulhausen was a man of sixty or so, small, fragile looking, with grey +side whiskers and drowsy heavy-lidded eyes. + +He nodded to Jones and indicated a chair. Then he finished his work, the +reading of a letter, placed it under an agate paper weight, and turned +to the newcomer. + +"What can I do for you this morning?" asked Mulhausen. + +"You can just read this letter," said Jones. + +He handed over Voles' letter. + +Mulhausen put on his glasses, opened the letter, and read it. Then he +placed the open letter on top of the one beneath the agate paper weight, +tore up the envelope, and threw the two fragments into the waste paper +basket behind him. + +"Anything more?" asked he. + +"Yes," replied the other, "a lot more. Let us begin at the beginning. +You have obtained from me a piece of real estate worth anything up to a +million pounds; you paid five thousand for it." + +"Yes!" + +"You have got to hand me that property back." + +"I beg your pardon," said Mulhausen. "Do you refer to the Glanafwyn +lands?" + +"Yes." + +"I see. And I have to hand those back to you--anything more?" + +"No, that's all. I received your daughter's letters back from Voles +yesterday--Let's be plain with one another. Voles has confessed +everything. I have his confession under his own handwriting, you are all +in a net, the whole gang of you--you, your daughter, your son and Voles. +You plucked me like a turkey. You know the whole affair as well as I do, +and if I do not receive that property back before five o'clock to-day, I +shall go to the nearest police office and swear an information against +you." + +"I see," said Mulhausen, without turning a hair, "you will put us all in +prison, will you not? That would be very unpleasant. Very unpleasant +indeed." + +He rose, went to some tin boxes situated on a ledge behind him, took out +his keys and opened one. + +Jones, fancying that he was going to produce the title deeds, felt a +little jump at his thyroid cartilage. This was victory without a battle. +But Mr. Marcus Mulhausen took no title deeds from the box. He produced a +letter case, came back with it to the table, and sat down. + +Then holding the letter case before him he looked at Jones over his +glasses. + +"You rogue," said Mulhausen. + +That was the most terrific moment in Jones' life. Mulhausen from a +criminal had suddenly become a judge. He spoke with such absolute +conviction, ease, sense of power and scorn, that there could be no +manner of doubt he held the winning cards. He opened the letter case and +produced a paper. + +"Here is the bill of exchange for two hundred and fifty pounds, to which +you forged Sir Pleydell Tuffnell's name," said Marcus Mulhausen, +spreading the paper before him. "That was two years ago. We all know Sir +Pleydell and his easy going ways. He is so careless you thought he would +never find out; so good, he would never prosecute. But it came into my +hands, it is my property, and I have no hesitation in dealing with +rogues. Now do you suppose for a moment that if I were moving against +you in any unlawful way--which I deny--I would have done so without a +protector? Could you find a better protection than this? The punishment +for forgery let me remind you, is five years penal servitude at the +least." He looked down at the document with a cold smile, and then he +glanced up again at his victim. Jones saw that he was done; done not by +Marcus Mulhausen, but by Rochester. He had tripped over a kink in +Rochester's character, just as a man trips over a kink in a carpet. Then +rage came to him. The sight of the horrible scoundrel with whiskers, +triumphant and gloating, roused the dog in his nature, and all the craft +that lay hidden in him. + +He heaved a sigh, rose brokenly, and approached the desk, and the +creature behind it. + +"You are a cleverer man than I am," said he, "shake hands and call it +quits." + +Next moment he had snatched the paper from the fingers that held it, +crumpled it, crammed it into his mouth. He rushed to the door and locked +it, whilst Mulhausen, screaming like a woman, reached him and clutched +him by the shoulders. + +Then, swiftly turning, Jones gripped the financier by both arms and held +him so, chewing, chewing, chewing, mute and facing the shouting other +one. + +They were hammering at the door outside. Mr. Aaronson and the clerks, +useless people for breaking-down-door purposes, were assisting their +employer with their voices--mainly, the whole block of offices was +raised, and boys and telephones were summoning the police. + +Meanwhile, Jones was chewing, and the bill was slowly being converted +into what the physiologist terms a bolus. It took three minutes before +the bolus, properly salivated and raised by the tongue, passed the +anterior pillars of the fauces, then the epiglottis shut down, and the +bolus slipping over it and seized by the muscles of the esophagus passed +to its destined abode. + +Jones had swallowed Rochester's past, or at least a most important part +of it. The act accomplished, he sat down as a boa constrictor recoils +itself, still gulping. Marcus Mulhausen rushed to the door and opened +it. A vast policeman stood before him, behind the policeman crowded Mr. +Aaronson and the clerks, and behind these a dozen or two of the block +dwellers, eager for gory sights at a distance. + +Marcus looked round. + +"What's all this?" said he. "There is nothing wrong, just a little +dispute with a gentleman. It is all over--Mr. Aaronson, clear the +office. Constable, here is two shillings for your trouble. Good day." + +He shut the door on the disappointed crowd and turned to Jones. + +The battle was over. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +A WILD SURPRISE + + +At five o'clock that day the transference of the property was made out +and signed by Marcus Mulhausen in Mortimer Collins' office, and the +Glanafwyn lands became again the property of the Earl of Rochester--"for +the sum of five thousand pounds received and herewith acknowledged," +said the document. + +Needless to say no five thousand pounds passed hands. Collins, +mystified, asked no questions in the presence of Mulhausen. When the +latter had taken his departure, however, he turned to Jones. + +"Did you pay him five thousand?" asked the lawyer. + +"Not a cent," replied the other. + +"Well, how have you worked the miracle, then?" + +Jones told. + +"You see how I had them coopered," finished he. "Well, just as I was +going to grab the kitty he played the ace of spades, produced an old +document he held against me." + +"Yes?" + +"I pondered for a moment--then I came to a swift conclusion--took the +doc from him and ate it." + +"You ate the document?" + +"Sure." + +Jones rubbed his stomach and laughed. + +"Well, well," said the solicitor with curious acquiescence and want of +astonishment after the first momentary start caused by this surprising +statement, "we have the property back, that's the main thing." + +"You remember," said Jones, "I talked to you about letting that place." + +"Carlton House Terrace?" + +"Yes--well, that's off. I've made good. Do you see?" + +"M--yes," replied Collins. + +"I'll have enough money now to pay off the mortgages and things." + +"Undoubtedly," said Collins, "but, now, don't you think it would be a +good thing if you were to tie this property up, so that mischance can't +touch it. You have no children, it is true, but one never knows. +Honestly, I think you would be well advised if you were to take +precautions." + +"Don't worry," said Jones brightly. "I'll give the whole lot to--my +wife--when I can come to terms with her." + +"That's good hearing," replied the other. Then Jones took his departure, +leaving the precious documents in the hands of the lawyer. + +He was elated. He had proved the facts which he had only guessed by +instinct up to this, that a rogue is the weakest person in the world +before a plain dealer, if the plain dealer has a weapon in his hand. The +almost instantaneous collapse of Voles and Mulhausen was due to the +fact that they stood on rotten foundations. He told himself now as he +walked along homeward that he need not have eaten that document. +Mulhausen would never have used it. If he had just gone out and called +in a policeman, Mulhausen, seeing him in earnest, would have collapsed. + +However the thing was eaten and done with and there was no use in +troubling any more on the matter. He had other things to think of. He +had made good. He had saved the Rochester name and estates, he had +recaptured one million, eight thousand pounds, reckoning that the coal +bearing lands were worth a million, and, more than that; he was a sane +man, able to look after what he had recaptured. + +The Rochester family, if they knew, would have no cause to grumble at +the interloper and the substitution of new brains and push in the place +of decadence, craziness and sloth. The day when he had changed places +with Rochester was the best day that had ever dawned for them. + +He was thinking this when all of a sudden that horrible, unreal feeling +he had suffered from once before, came upon him again. This time it was +not a question of losing his identity, it was a shuffle of his own taxed +brain between two identities. Rochester--Jones--Jones--Rochester. It +seemed to him for the space of a couple of seconds that he could not +tell which of those two individuals he was, then the feeling passed and +he resumed his way, reaching Carlton House Terrace shortly after six. + +He gave his hat and cane and gloves to the flunkey who opened the door +for him--He had obtained a latch-key from Church that morning but forgot +to use it--and was crossing the hall when a strain of music brought him +to a halt. The tones of a piano came from a door on the right. Someone +was playing Chaminade's _Valse Tendre_ and playing it to perfection. + +Jones turned to the man-servant. + +"Who is that?" he asked. + +"It is her ladyship, my Lord, she arrived half an hour ago. Her luggage +has gone upstairs." + +Her ladyship! + +Jones thrown off his balance hesitated for a moment, _what_ ladyship +could it be. Not, surely, that awful mother! + +He crossed to the door, opened it, found a music-room, and there, seated +at a piano, the girl of the Victoria. + +She was in out-door dress and had not removed her hat. + +She looked over her shoulder at him as he came in, her face wore a half +smile, but she did not stop playing. Anything more fascinating, more +lovely, more distracting than that picture it would be hard to imagine. + +As he crossed the room she suddenly ceased playing and twirled round on +the music-stool. + +"I've come back," said she. "Ju-ju, I couldn't stand it. You are bad but +you are a lot, lot better than your mother--and Venetia. I'm going to +try and put up with you a bit longer--_Ju-Ju_, what makes you look so +stiff and funny?" + +"I don't know," said Jones, passing his hand across his forehead. "I've +had a hard day." She looked at him curiously for a moment, then +pityingly, then kindly. + +Then she jumped up, made him sit down on a big couch by the wall, and +took her seat beside him. + +Then she took his hand. + +"Ju-Ju--why will you be such a fool?" + +"I don't know," said Jones. + +The caress of the little jewelled hand destroyed his mental powers. He +dared not look at her, just sat staring before him. + +"They told me all about the coal mine," she went on, "at least Venetia +did, and how they all bully-ragged you--Venetia was great on that. +Venetia waggled that awful gobbly-Jick head of hers while she was +telling me--they're _mad_ over the loss of that coal thing--oh, Ju-Ju, +I'm so glad you lost it. It's wicked, I suppose, but I'm glad. That's +what made me come back, the way they went on about you. I listened and +listened and then I broke out. I said all I've wanted to say for the +last six months to Venetia. You know she told me how you came home the +other night. I said nothing then, just listened and stored it up. Then, +last night, when they all got together about the coal mine I went on +listening and storing it up. Blunders was there as well as your mother +and Venetia. Blunders said he had called you an ass and that you were. +Then I broke out. I said a whole lot of things--well, there it is. So I +came back--there were other reasons as well. I don't want to be alone. I +want to be cared for--I want to be cared for--when I saw you in Bond +Street, yesterday--I--I--I--Ju-Ju, do you care for me?" + +"Yes," said Jones. + +"I want to confess--I want to tell you something." + +"Yes." + +"If you didn't care for me--if I felt you didn't, I'd--" + +"Yes." + +"Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn't go on as I have been +going, lonely, like a lost dog." + +She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips. + +"You will not be lonely," said the unfortunate man in a muted voice. +"You need not be afraid of that." The utter inadequacy of the remark +came to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as a +rule only in Dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mind +perhaps being engaged elsewhere. + +"What would you have said if I had run away from you for good?" asked +she. "Would you have been sorry?" + +"Yes--dreadfully." + +"Are you glad I've come back?" + +"I am." + +"Honestly glad?" + +"Yes." + +"Really glad?" + +"Yes." + +"Truthfully, really, honestly glad?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, so am I," said she. She released his hand. + +"Now go and play me something. I want something soothing after +Venetia--play me Chopin's Spianato--we used to be fond of that." + +Now the only thing that Jones had ever played in his life was the Star +Spangled Banner and that with one finger--Chopin's Spianato! + +"No," he said. "I'd rather talk." + +"Well, talk then--mercy! There's the first gong." + +A faint and far away sound invaded the room, throbbed and ceased. She +rose, picked up her gloves, which she had cast on a chair, and then +peeped at herself in a mirror by the piano. + +"You have never kissed me," said she, speaking as it were half to +herself and half to him, seeming to be more engaged in a momentary +piercing criticism of the hat she was wearing than in thoughts of +kisses. He came towards her like a schoolboy, then, as she held up her +face he imprinted a chaste kiss upon her right cheek bone. + +Then the most delightful thing that ever happened to mortal man happened +to him. Two warm palms suddenly took his face between them and two moist +lips met his own. + +Then she was gone. + +He took his seat on the music stool, dazed, dazzled, delighted, shocked, +frightened, triumphant. + +The position was terrific. + +Jones was no Lothario. He was a straight, plain, common-sensical man +with a high respect for women, and the position of leading character in +a bad French comedy was not for him. Jones would just as soon have +thought of kissing another man's wife as of standing on his head in the +middle of Broadway. + +To personate another man and to kiss the other man's wife under that +disguise would have seemed to him the meanest act any two-legged +creature could perform. + +And he had just done it. And the other man's wife had--heu! his face +still burned. + +She had done it because of his deception. + +He found himself suddenly face to face with the barrier that Fate had +been cunningly constructing and had now placed straight before him. + +There was no getting over it or under it, he would have to declare his +position _at once_--and what a position to declare! + +She loved Rochester. + +All at once that terrific fact appeared before him in its true +proportions and its true meaning. + +She loved Rochester. + +He had to tell her the truth. Yet to tell her the truth he would have to +tell her that the man she loved was dead. + +Then she would want proofs. + +He would have to bring up the Savoy Hotel people, fetch folk from +America--disinter Rochester. Horror! He had never thought of that. What +had become of Rochester? Up to this he had never thought once of what +had become of the mortal remains of the defunct jester, nor had he cared +a button--why should he? + +But the woman who loved Rochester would care. And he, Jones, would +become in her eyes a ghoul, a monstrosity, a horror. + +He felt a tinge of that feeling towards himself now. Up to this +Rochester had been for him a mechanical figure, an abstraction, but the +fact of this woman's love had suddenly converted the abstraction into a +human being. + +He could not possibly tell her that he had left the remains of this +human being, this man she loved, in the hands of unknown strangers, +callously, as though it were the remains of an animal. + +He could tell her nothing. + +The game was up, he would have to quit. Either that, or to continue the +masquerade which was impossible; or to tell her all, which was equally +impossible. + +Yet to quit would be to hit her cruelly. She loved Rochester. + +Rochester, despite all his wickedness, frivolity, shiftlessness and +general unworthiness--or perhaps because of these things--had been able +to make this woman love him, take his part against his family and return +to him. + +To go away and leave her now would be the cruelest act. Cruel to her and +just as cruel to himself, fascinated and held by her as he was. Yet +there was no other course open to him. So he told himself--so he tried +to tell himself, knowing full well that the only course open to him as a +man of honour was a full confession of the facts of the case. + +To sneak away would be the act of a coward; to impose himself on her as +Rochester, the act of a villain; to tell her the truth, the act of a +man. + +The result would be terrific, yet only by facing that result could he +come clear out of this business. For half an hour he sat, scarcely +moving. He was up against that most insuperable obstacle, his own +character. Had he been a crook, everything would have been easy; being a +fairly straight man, everything was impossible. + +He had got to this bed-rock fact when the door opened and a servant made +his appearance. + +"Dinner is served, my Lord." + +Dinner! + +He rose up and came into the hall. Standing there for a moment, +undecided, he heard a laugh and looked up. She was standing in evening +dress looking over the balustrade of the first landing. + +"Why, you are not dressed!" she said. + +"I--I forgot," he answered. + +Something fell at his feet, it was a rose. She had cast it to him and +now she was coming down the stairway towards him, where he stood, the +rose in his hand and distraction at his heart. + +"It is perfectly disgraceful of you," said she, looking him up and down +and taking the rose from him, "and there is no time to dress now; you +usen't to be as careless as that," she put the rose in his coat. "I +suppose it's from living alone for a fortnight with Venetia--what would +a month have done!" She pressed the rose flat with her little palm. + +Then she slipped her fingers through the crook of his elbow and led him +to the breakfast-room door. + +She entered and he followed her. + +The breakfast table had been reduced in size and they dined facing one +another across a bowl of blush roses. + +That dinner was not a conversational success on the part of Jones, a +fact which she scarcely perceived, being in high spirits and full of +information she was eager to impart. + +It did not seem to matter to her in the least whether the flunkeys in +waiting were listening or not, she talked of the family, of "your mater" +and "Blunders" and "V" and other people, touching, it seemed on the most +intimate matters and all with a lightness of tone and spirit that would +have been delightful, no doubt, had he known the discussed ones more +intimately, and had his mind been open to receive pleasurable +impressions. + +He would have to tell her directly after dinner the whole of his +terrible story. It was as though Fate were saying to him, "You will have +to kill her directly after dinner." + +All that light-hearted chatter and new found contentment, all that +brightness would die. Grief for the man she loved, hatred of the man who +had supplanted him, anguish, perplexity, terror, would take their +places. + +When the terrible meal was over, she ordered coffee to be served in the +music-room. He lingered behind for a moment, fiddling with a cigarette. +Then, when he came into the hall with the sweat standing in beads upon +his forehead, he heard the notes of the piano. + +It was a Mazurka of Chopin's, played with gaiety and brilliancy, yet no +funeral march ever sounded more fatefully in the ears of mortal. + +He could not do it. Then--he turned the handle of the music-room door +and entered. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE SECOND HONEYMOON + + +Only three of the electric lights were on in the music-room. In the rosy +light and half shadows the room looked larger than when seen in +daylight, and different. + +She had wandered from the Mazurka into Paderewski's Melodie Op. 8. No. +3, a lonesome sort of tune it seemed to him, as he dropped into a chair, +crossed his legs and listened. + +Then as he listened he began to think. Up to this his thoughts had been +in confusion, chasing one another or pursued by the monstrosity of the +situation. Now he was thinking clearly. + +She was his, that girl sitting there at the piano with the light upon +her hair, the light upon her bare shoulders and the sheeny fabric of her +dress. He had only to stretch out his hand and take her. Absolutely his, +and he had only met her twice. She was the most beautiful woman in +London, she had a mind that would have made a plain woman attractive, +and a manner delightful, full of surprises and contrarieties and +tendernesses--and she loved him. + +The Arabian Nights contained nothing like this, nor had the brain that +conceived Tantalus risen to the heights achieved by accident and +coincidence. + +She finished the piece, rose, turned over some sheets of music and then +came across the room--floated across the room, and took her perch on the +arm of the great chair in which he was sitting. Then he felt her fingers +on his hair. + +"I want to feel your bumps to see if you have improved--Ju-ju, your head +isn't so flat as it used to be on top. It seems a different shape +somehow, nicer. Blunders is as flat as a pancake on top of his head. +Flatness runs in families I suppose. Look at Venetia's feet! Ju-ju, have +you ever seen her in felt bath slippers?" + +"No." + +"I have--and a long yellow dressing gown, and her hair on her shoulders +all wet, in rat tails. I'm not a cat, but she makes me feel like one and +talk like one. I want to forget her. Do you remember our honeymoon?" + +"Yes." + +She had taken his hand and was holding it. + +"We were happy then. Let's begin again and let this be our second +honeymoon, and we won't quarrel once--will we?" + +"No, we won't," said Jones. + +She slipped down into the chair beside him, pulled his arm around her +and held up her lips. + +"Now you're kissing me really," she murmured; "you seemed half +frightened before--Ju-ju, I want to make a confession." + +"Yes?" + +"Well--somebody pretended to care for me very much a little while ago." + +"Who was that?" + +"Never mind. I went last night to a dance at the Crawleys' and he was +there." + +"Yes." + +"Yes--is that all you have to say? You don't seem to be very much +interested." + +"I am though." + +"I don't want you to be too much interested, and go making scenes and +all that--though you couldn't for you don't know his name. Suffice to +tell you--as the books say--he is a very handsome man, much, much +handsomer than you, Ju--Well, listen to me. He asked me to run off with +him." + +"Run off with him?" + +"Yes--to Spain. We were to go to Paris first and then to Spain--Spain, +at this time of year!" + +"What did you say?" + +"I said: 'Please don't be stupid.' I'd been reading a novel where a girl +said that to a man who wanted to run off with her--she died at the +end--but that's what she said at first--Fortunate I remembered it." + +"Why?" + +"Because--because--for a moment I felt inclined to say 'yes.' I know it +was dreadful, but think of my position, you going on like that, and me +all alone with no one to care for me--It's like a crave for drink. I +must have someone to care for me and I thought you didn't--so I nearly +said 'yes.' Once I had said what I did I felt stronger." + +"What did he say?" + +"He pleaded passionately--like the man in the book, and talked of roses +and blue seas--he's not English--I sat thinking of Venetia in her felt +bath room slippers and yellow wrapper. You know she reads St. Thomas a +Kempis and opens bazaars. She opened one the other day, and came back +with her nose quite red and in a horrid temper--I wonder what was inside +that bazaar?--Well, I knew if I did anything foolish Venetia would +exult, and that held me firm. She's not wicked. I believe she is really +good as far as she knows how, and that's the terrible thing about her. +She goes to church twice on Sunday, she takes puddings and things to old +women in the country, she opens bazaars and subscribes to ragged +schools--yet with one word she sets everyone by the ears--Well, when I +got home from the dance I began to think, and to-day, when they were all +out, I had my boxes packed and came right back here. I'd have given +anything to see their faces when they got home and found me gone." + +She sprang up suddenly. A knock had come to the door, it opened and a +servant announced Miss Birdbrook. + +Venetia had not changed that evening, she was still in her big hat. She +ignored Jones, and, standing, spoke tersely to Teresa. + +"So you have left us?" + +"Yes," replied the other. "I have come back here, d'you mind?" + +"I?" said Venetia. "It's not a question of my minding in the least, only +it was sudden, and as you left no word as to where you were going we +thought it best to make sure you were all right." + +She took her seat uncomfortably on a chair and the Countess of Rochester +perched herself again by Jones. + +"Yes, I am all right," said she, with her hand resting on his shoulder. + +Venetia gulped. + +"I am glad to know it," she said. "We tried to make you comfortable--I +cannot deny that mother feels slightly hurt at having no word from you +before leaving, and one must admit that it cannot but seem strange to +the servants your going like that--but of course that is entirely a +question of taste." + +"You mean," said Teresa, "that it was bad taste on my part--well, I +apologise. I am sorry, but the sudden craving to get--back here was more +than I could resist. I would have written to-night." + +"Oh, it does not matter," said Venetia, "the thing is done. Well, I must +be going--but have you both thought over the future and all that it +implies?" + +"Have we, Ju-ju?" asked the girl, caressingly stroking Jones' head. + +"Yes," said Jones. + +"I'm sure," went on Venetia with a sigh, "I have always done my best to +keep things together. I failed. Was it my fault?" + +"No," said Teresa, aching for her to be gone. "I am sure it was not." + +"I am glad to hear you say that. I always tried to avoid interfering in +your life. I never did--or only when ordinary prudence made me speak, as +for instance, in that baccarat business." + +"Don't rake up old things," said Teresa suddenly. + +"And the Williamson affair," got in Venetia. "Oh, I am the very last to +rake up things, as you call it. I, for one, will say no more of things +that have happened, but I _must_ speak of things that affect myself." + +"What is affecting you?" + +"Just this. You know quite well the financial position. You know what +the upkeep of this house means. You can't do it. You plainly can't do +it. Your income is not sufficient." + +"But how does that affect you?" + +"When tradespeople talk it affects me; it affects us all. Why not let +this house and live quietly, somewhere in the country, 'til things blow +over?" + +"What do you mean by things blowing over?" asked Teresa. "One would +think that you were talking of some disgrace that had happened." + +Venetia pulled up her long left hand glove and moved as though about to +depart. She said nothing but looked at her glove. + +During the whole of this time she had neither looked at nor spoken to +Jones, nor included him by word in the conversation. Her influence had +been working upon him ever since she entered the room. He began now +more fully to understand the part she had played in the life of +Rochester. He felt that he wanted to talk to Venetia as Rochester had, +probably, never talked. + +"A man once said to me that the greatest mistake a fellow can make is to +have a sister to live with him after his marriage," said Jones. + +Venetia pulled up her right hand glove. + +"A sister that has had to face mad intoxication and _worse_, can endorse +that opinion," said she. + +"What do you mean by worse?" fired Teresa. + +"I mean exactly what I say," replied Venetia. + +"That is no answer. Do you mean that Arthur has been unfaithful to me?" + +"I did not say that." + +"Well, what can be worse than intoxication--that is the only thing worse +that I know of--unless murder. Do you mean that he has murdered +someone?" + +"I will not let you drag me into a quarrel," said Venetia; "you are +putting things into my mouth. I think mad extravagance is worse than +intoxication, inasmuch as it is committed by reasonable people +uninfluenced by drugs or alcohol. I think insults levelled at +inoffensive people are worse than the wildest deeds committed under the +influence of that demon alcohol." + +"Who are the inoffensive people who have been insulted?" + +"Good gracious--well, of course you don't know--you have not had to +interview people." + +"What people?" + +"Sir Pleydell Harcourt for instance, who had sixteen pianos sent to him +only last week, to say nothing of pantechnicon vans and half the +contents of Harrods' and Whiteleys', so that Arlington Street was +blocked, simply blocked, the whole of last Friday." + +"Did he say Arthur had sent them?" + +"He had no direct proof--but he knew. There was no other man in London +would have done such a thing." + +"Did you send them, Ju-ju?" + +"No," said Jones. "I did not." + +Venetia rose. + +"You admitted to me, yourself, that you did," said she. + +"I was only joking," he replied. + +Teresa went to the bell and rang it. + +"Good night," said Venetia, "after that I have nothing more to say." + +"Thank goodness," murmured Teresa when she was gone. "She made me shiver +with her talk about extravagance. I've been horribly extravagant the +last week--when a woman is distracted she runs to clothes for +relief--anyhow I did. I've got three new evening frocks and I want to +show you them. I've never known your taste wrong." + +"Good," said Jones, "I'd like to see them." + +"Guess what they cost?" + +"Can't." + +"Two hundred and fifty--and they are a bargain. You're not shocked, are +you?" + +"Not a bit." + +"Well, come and look at them--what's the time? Half past ten." She led +the way upstairs. + +On the first landing she turned to the left, opened a door and disclosed +a bed-room where a maid was moving about arranging things and unpacking +boxes. + +A large cardboard box lay open on the floor, it was filled with snow +white lingerie. The instinct to bolt came upon Jones so strongly that he +might have obeyed it, only for the hand upon his arm pressing him down +into a chair. + +"Anne," said the Countess of Rochester, "bring out my new evening gowns, +I want to show them." + +Then she turned to the cardboard box. "Here's some more of my +extravagance. I couldn't resist them, Venetia nearly had a fit when she +saw the bill--Look!" + +She exhibited frilled and snow white things, delicate and diaphanous and +fit to be worn by angels. Then the dresses arrived, and were laid out on +the bed and inspected. There was a black gown and a grey gown and a +confection in pale blue. If Jones had been asked to price them he would +have said a hundred dollars. Like most men he was absolutely unconscious +of the worth of a woman's dress. To a woman a Purdy and a ten guinea +Birmingham gun are just the same, and to a man, a ten guinea Bayswater +dress is little different, if worn by a pretty girl, from a seventy +guinea Bond Street--is it Bond Street--rig out. Unless he is a man +milliner. + +Jones said "beautiful," gave the palm to the blue, and watched them +carried off again by the maid. + +He had left his cigarettes down stairs; there were some in a box on a +table, she made him take one and lit it for him, then she disappeared +into a room adjoining, returning in a few minutes dressed in a kimono +covered with golden swallows and followed by the maid. Then she took her +seat before a great mirror and the maid began to take down her hair and +brush it. + +As the brushing went on she talked to the maid and to Jones +upon all sorts of subjects. To the maid about the condition of +her--Teresa's--hair, and a new fashion in hair dressing, to Jones about +the Opera, the stoutness of Caruso, and kindred matters. + +The hair having been arranged in one great gorgeous plait, Jones +suddenly breaking free from a weird sort of hypnotism that had held him +since first entering the room, rose to his feet. + +"I'll be back in a minute," said he. + +He crossed the room, reached the door, opened it and passed out closing +the door. In the corridor he stood for half a moment with his hand to +his head. + +Then he came down the stairs, crossed the hall, seized a hat and +overcoat, put them on and opened the hall door. + +All the way down the stairs and across the hall, he felt as though he +were being driven along by some viewless force, and now, standing at the +door, that same force pushed him out of the house and on to the steps. + +He closed the door, came down the steps, and turned to the right. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE MENTAL TRAP + + +It was a beautiful night, warm and starlit, the waning moon had just +begun to rise in the east and as he turned into the green Park a breath +of tepid wind, grass-scented and balmy blew in his face. + +He walked in the direction of Buckingham Palace. + +Where was he to go? He had no ideas, no plans. + +He had failed in performing the Duty that Fate had arranged for him to +perform. He had failed, but not through cowardice, or at least not +through fear of consequences to himself. + +The man who refuses to cut a lamb's throat, even though Duty calls him +to the act, has many things to be said for him. + +His distracted mind was not dealing with this matter, however. What held +him entirely was the thought of her waiting for him and how she would +feel when she found he had deserted her. He had acted like a brute and +she would hate him accordingly. Not him, but Rochester. + +It was the same thing. The old story. Hatred, obloquy, disdain levelled +against Rochester affected him as though it were levelled against +himself. He could not take refuge in his own personality. Even on the +first day of his new life he had found that out at the club. Since then +the struggle to maintain his position and the battles he had fought had +steadily weakened his mental position as Jones, strengthened his +position as Rochester. + +The strange psychological fact was becoming plain, though not to him, +that the jealousy he ought to have felt on account of this woman's love +for Rochester was not there. + +This woman had fascinated him, as women had perhaps never fascinated a +man before; she had kissed him, she loved him, and though his reason +told him quite plainly that he was Victor Jones and that she loved and +had kissed another man, his heart did not resent that fact. + +Rochester was dead. It seemed to him that Rochester had never lived. + +He left the Park and came along Knightsbridge still thinking of her +sitting there waiting for him, his mind straying from that to the kiss, +the dinner, the bowl of roses that stood between them--her voice. + +Then all at once these considerations vanished, all at once, and like an +extinguisher, fell on him that awful sensation of negation. + +His mind pulled this way and that between contending forces, became a +blank written across with letters of fire forming the question: + +"Who am I?" + +The acutest physical suffering could not have been worse than that +torture of the over-taxed brain, that feeling that if he did not clutch +at _himself_ he would become nothing. + +He ran for a few yards--then it passed and he found himself beneath a +lamp-post recovering and muttering his own name rapidly to himself like +a charm to exorcise evil. + +"Jones--Jones--Jones." + +He looked around. + +There were not many people to be seen, but a man and woman a few yards +away were standing and looking at him. They had evidently stopped and +turned to see what he was about and they went on when they saw him +observing them. + +They must have thought him mad. + +The hot shame of the idea was a better stimulant than brandy. He walked +on. He was no longer thinking of the woman he had just left. He was +thinking of himself. + +He had been false to himself. + +The greatest possession any man can have in the world is himself. Some +men let that priceless property depreciate, some improve it, it is given +to few men to tamper with it after the fashion of Jones. + +He saw this now, and just as though a pit had opened before him he drew +back. He must stop this double life at once and become his own self in +reality; failing to do that he would meet madness. He recognised this. +No man's brain could stand what he had been going through for long; had +he been left to himself he might have adapted his mind gradually to the +perpetual shifting from Jones to Rochester and vice versa. The woman had +brought things to a crisis. The horror that had now suddenly fallen on +him, the horror of the return of that awful feeling of negation, the +horror of losing himself, cast all other considerations from his mind. + +He must stop this business at once. + +He would go away, return straight to America. + +That was easy to be done--but would that save him? Would that free him +from this horrible clinging personality that he had so lightly cast +around himself? + +Nothing is stranger than mind. From the depth of his mind came the +whisper, "No." Intuition told him that were he to go to Timbuctoo, +Rochester would cling to him, that he would wake up from sleep fancying +himself Rochester and then that feeling would return. What he required +was the recognition by other people that he was himself, Jones, that the +whole of this business was a deception, a stage play in real life. Their +abuse, their threats would not matter. Their blows would be welcome, so +he thought. Anything that would hit him back firmly into his real +position in the scheme of things and save him from the dread of some day +losing himself. + +After a while the exercise and night air calmed his mind. He had come to +the great decision. A decision immutable now, since it had to do with +the very core of his being. He would tell her everything. To-morrow +morning he would confess all. Her fascination upon him had loosened its +hold, the terror had done that. He no longer loved her. Had he ever +loved her? That was an open question, or in other words, a question no +man could answer. He only knew now that he did not crave for her regard, +only for her recognition of himself as Jones. + +She was the door out of the mental trap into which his mind had +blundered. + +These considerations had carried him far into a region of mean streets +and suburban houses. It was long after twelve o'clock and he fell to +thinking what he should do with himself for the rest of the night. It +was impossible to walk about till morning and he determined to return to +Carlton House Terrace, let himself in with his latch key and slip +upstairs to his room. If by any chance she had not retired for the night +and he chanced to meet her on the stairs or in the hall then the +confession must be made forthwith. + +It was after two o'clock when he reached the house. He opened the door +with his key and closing it softly, crossed the hall and went up the +stairs. One of the hall lamps had been left burning, evidently for him: +a lamp was burning also, in the corridor. He switched on the electric +light in his room and closed the door. + +Then he heaved a sigh of relief, undressed and got into bed. + +All across the hall, up the stairs, and along the corridor he had been +followed by the dread of meeting her and having to enter on that +terrible explanation right away. + +The craving to tell her all had been supplanted for the moment by the +dread of the act. + +In the morning it would be different. He would be rested and have more +command over himself, so he fancied. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +ESCAPE CLOSED + + +He was awakened by Mr. Church--one has always to give him the +prefix--pulling up the blinds. His first thought was of the task before +him. + +The mind does a lot of quiet business of its own when the blinds are +down and the body is asleep, and during the night, his mind, working in +darkness, had cleared up matters, countered and cut off all sorts of +fears and objections and drawn up a definite plan. + +He would tell her everything that morning. If she would not take his +word for the facts, then he would have a meeting of the whole family. He +felt absolutely certain that explaining things bit by bit and detail by +detail he could convince them of the death of Rochester and his own +existence as Jones; absolutely certain that they would not push matters +to the point of publicity. He held a trump card in the property he had +recovered from Mulhausen, were he to be exposed publicly as an impostor, +all about the Plinlimon letters, Voles and Mulhausen would come out. +Mulhausen, that very astute practitioner, would not be long in declaring +that he had been forced to return the title deeds to protect his +daughter's name. Voles would swear anything, and their case would stand +good on the proved fact that he, Jones, was a swindler. No, assuredly +the family would not press the matter to publicity. + +Having drunk his tea, he arose, bathed, and dressed with a calm mind. + +Then he came down stairs. + +She was not in the breakfast-room, where only one place was laid, and, +concluding that she was breakfasting in her own room, he sat down to +table. + +After the meal, and with another sheaf of the infernal early post +letters in his hand, he crossed to the smoking-room, where he closed the +door, put the letters on the table and lit a cigar. Then, having smoked +for a few minutes and collected his thoughts, he rang the bell and sent +for Mr. Church. + +"Church," said he when that functionary arrived, "will you tell--my wife +I want to see her?" + +"Her ladyship left last night, your Lordship, she left at ten o'clock, +or a little after." + +"Left! where did she go to?" + +"She went to the South Kensington Hotel, your Lordship." + +"Good heavens! what made her--why did she go--ah, was it because I did +not come back?" + +"I think it was, your Lordship." + +Mr. Church spoke gravely and the least bit stiffly. It could easily be +seen that as an old servant and faithful retainer he was on the woman's +side in the business. + +"I had to go out," said the other. "I will explain it to her when I see +her--It was on a matter of importance--Thanks, that will do, Church." + +Alone again he finished his cigar. + +The awful fear of the night before, the fear of negation and the loss of +himself had vanished with a brain refreshed by sleep and before this +fact. + +What a brute he had been! She had come back forgiving him for who knows +what, she had taken his part against his traducers, kissed him. She had +fancied that all was right and that happiness had returned--and he had +coldly discarded her. + +It would have been less cruel to have beaten her. She was a good sweet +woman. He knew that fact, now, both instinctively and by knowledge. He +had not known it fully till this minute. + +Would it, after all, have been better to have deceived her and to have +played the part of Rochester? That question occurred to him for a moment +to be at once flung away. It was not so much personal antagonism to such +a course nor the dread of madness owing to his double life that cast it +out so violently, but the recognition of the goodness and lovableness of +the woman. Leaving everything else aside to carry on such a deception +with her, even to think of it, was impossible. + +More than ever was he determined to clear this thing up and tell her +all, and, to his honour be it said, his main motive now was to do his +best by her. + +He finished his cigar, and then going into the hall obtained his hat and +left the house. + +He did not know where the South Kensington Hotel might be, but a taxi +solved that question and shortly before ten o'clock he reached his +destination. + +Yes, Lady Rochester had arrived last night and was staying in the hotel, +and whilst the girl in the manager's office was sending up his name and +asking for an interview Jones took his seat in the lounge. + +A long time--nearly ten minutes--elapsed, and then a boy brought him her +answer in the form of a letter. + +He opened it. + + "Never again. This is good-bye." + "T." + +That was the answer. + +He sat with the sheet of paper in his hand, contemplating the shape and +make of an armchair of wicker-work opposite him. + +What was he to do? + +He had received just the answer he might have expected, neither more nor +less. It was impossible for him to force an interview with her. He had +overthrown Voles, climbed over Mulhausen, but the flight of stairs +dividing him now from the private suite of the Countess of Rochester was +an obstacle not to be overcome by courage or direct methods, and he knew +of no indirect method. + +He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel +and took his way back to Carlton House Terrace. + +If she would not see him she could not refuse to read a letter. He +would write to her and explain all. He would write in detail giving the +whole business, circumstance by circumstance. It would take him a long +while; he guessed that, and ordinary note-paper would not do. He had +seen a stack of manuscript paper, however, in one of the drawers of the +bureau, and having shut the door and lit a cigarette he took some of the +sheets of long foolscap, ruled thirty four lines to the page, and sat +down to the business. This is what he said: + + "Lady Rochester, + + "I want you to read what follows carefully and not to form any + opinion on the matter till all the details are before you. This + document is not a letter in the strict sense of the term, it's more + in the nature of an invoice of the cargo of stupidity and bad luck, + which I, the writer, Victor Jones of Philadelphia, have been + freighted with by an all-wise Providence for its own + incomprehensible ends." + +Providence held him up for a moment. Was Providence neuter or +masculine?--he risked it and left it neuter and continued. + +When the servant announced luncheon he had covered twenty sheets of +paper and had only arrived at the American bar of the Savoy. + +He went to luncheon, swallowed a whiting and half a cutlet, and +returned. + +He sat down, read what he had written, and tore it across. + +That would never do. It was like the vast prelude to a begging letter. +She would never read it through. + +He started again, beginning this time in the American bar of the Savoy, +writing very carefully. He had reached, by tea-time, the reading of +Rochester's death in the paper. + +Well satisfied with his progress he took afternoon tea, and then sat +down comfortably to read what he had written. + +He was aghast with the result. The things that had happened to him were +believable because they had happened to him, but in cold writing they +had an air of falsity. She would never believe this yarn. He tore the +sheets across. Then he burned all he had written in the grate, took his +seat in the armchair and began to think of the devil. + +Surely there was something diabolical in the whole of this business and +the manner in which everything and every circumstance headed him off +from escape. After dinner he was sitting down to attempt a literary +forlorn hope, when a sharp voice in the hall made him pause. + +The door opened, and Venetia Birdbrook entered. She wore a new hat that +seemed bigger than the one he had last beheld and her manner was wild. + +She shut the door, walked to the table, placed her parasol on it and +began peeling off a glove. + +"She's gone," said Venetia. + +Jones had risen to his feet. + +"Who's gone?" + +"Teresa--gone with Maniloff." + +He sat down. Then she blazed out. + +"Are you going to do nothing--are you going to sit there and let us all +be disgraced? She's gone--she's going--to Paris. It was through her maid +I learned it; she's gone from the hotel by this--gone with Maniloff--are +you deaf or simply stupid? You _must_ follow her." + +He rose. + +"Follow her now, follow her and get her back, there is just a chance. +They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything--I will go with +you. There is a train at nine o'clock from Victoria, you have only just +time to catch it." + +"I have no money," said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly, +"only about four pounds." + +"I have," replied she, "and our car is at the door--are you afraid, or +is it that you don't mind?" + +"Come on," said Jones. + +He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute was +buried in a stuffy limousine with Venetia's sharp elbow poking him in +the side. + +He was furious. + +There are people who seem born for the express purpose of setting other +people by the ears. Venetia was one of them. Despite Voles, Mulhausen, +debts and want of balance one might hazard the opinion that it was +Venetia who had driven the unfortunate Rochester to his mad act. + +The prospect of a journey to Paris with this woman in pursuit of another +man's wife was bad enough, but it was not this prospect that made Jones +furious, though assisting. No doubt, it was Venetia herself. + +She raised the devil in him, and on the journey to the station, though +she said not a word, she managed to raise his exasperation with the +world, herself, himself and his vile position to the limit just below +the last.--The last was to come. + +At the station they walked through the crowd to the booking-office where +Venetia bought the tickets. Reminiscences of being taken on journeys as +a small boy by his mother flitted across the mind of Jones and did not +improve his temper. + +He looked at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes of the starting time +and he was in the act of evading a barrow of luggage when Venetia +arrived with the tickets. + +It had come into the mind of Jones that not only was he travelling to +Paris with the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook, in pursuit of the wife of another +man, but that they were travelling without luggage. If, in Philadelphia, +he had dreamt of himself in such a position he would have been disturbed +as to the state of his health and the condition of his liver, yet now, +in reality, the thing did not seem preposterous, he was concerned as to +the fact about the want of luggage. + +"Look here," said he, "what are we to do--I haven't even a night-suit +of pyjamas. I haven't even a toothbrush. No hotel will take us in." + +"We don't want an hotel," said Venetia, "we'll come back straight if we +can save Teresa. If not, if she insists in pursuing her mad course, you +had better not come back at all. Come on and let us take our places in +the train." + +They moved away and she continued. + +"For if she does you will never be able to hold up your head again, +everyone knows how you have behaved to her." + +"Oh, stop it," said he irritably. "I have enough to think about." + +"You ought to." + +Only just those three words, yet they set him off. + +"Ought I? Well, what of yourself? She told me last night things about +_you_." + +"About me. What things?" + +"Never mind." + +"But I do," she stopped and he stopped. + +"I mind very much. What things did she tell you?" + +"Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and that +though I was bad you were worse." + +Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train +when she stopped dead like a pointer. + +"That's them," she said, in a hard, tense whisper. + +Jones looked. + +A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella under +his arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were +making their way through the crowd towards the train. + +The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she. + +It was then that Venetia's effect upon him acted as the contents of the +white-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the +blue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder. + +Venetia saw his face. + +"Don't make a scene," she cried. + +That was the stirring of the spoon. + +He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded +one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a +powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the +part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their "power" and +manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips. + +Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe +Hennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, +Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger. + +He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right +under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella--and then--swift +as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the +jaw. + +The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under +them, then, shouting for help--that was the humorous and pitiable part +of it--scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again. + +Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally +injured. + +The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds. + +You can fancy the scene. + +Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the +display--and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to +see worse--were moving away together through the throng, the floored one +with arms still out, was murmuring: "Brandee--brandee," into the ear of +a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones' side. + +Jones took him apart a few steps. + +"I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, in a half whisper. "That guy has +got what he wanted--never mind what he was doing--kick the beast awake +and ask him if he wants to prosecute." + +The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who was +now leaning on one arm. + +"Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?" asked the constable. + +"Nichevo," murmured the other. "No. Brandee." + +"Thought so," said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with +the constable. + +"My address is Carlton House Terrace," said he. "When you get that chap +on his pins you can tell him to come there and I'll give him another +dose. Here's a sovereign for you." + +"Thanks, your Lordship," said the guardian of the Peace, "you landed him +fine, I will say. I didn't see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw the +knock out--you won't have any more bother with him." + +"I don't think so," said Jones. + +He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind, all his +evil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting +jaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circumstance and +the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when +someone ran up from behind. + +It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering. + +"Teresa is in the car--You have done it now--you have done it now. What +_made_ you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open +station--before everyone--you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace on +us--on _me_." + +"Oh, shut up," said Jones. + +He sighted the car, ran to it and opened the door. A whimpering bundle +in the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off. + +"Oh! oh! oh!" sighed and murmured the bundle. + +Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in and kissed it. Then he turned +to Venetia who had followed him. + +"Get in," he said. + +She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put her +head out of the window: + +"Home," cried she to the chauffeur. + +Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then he +began to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in a +weird sort of monologue. + +"All this is nothing," said he, "you must both forget it. When you hear +what I have to tell you to-morrow you won't bother to remember all this. +No one that counts saw that, they were all strangers and making for the +cars--I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this--I must +have a meeting of the whole family to-morrow, to-morrow morning. Not +about this affair, about something else, something entirely to do with +me. I have been trying to explain all day--tried to write it out but +couldn't. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you all +out of time." + +Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate. + +"I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it--I hate him--oh, Ju-Ju, +if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it, +never, never, never." + +"I know," he replied, "but it was not my fault leaving you like that. I +had to go. You will know everything to-morrow--when you hear all you +will very likely never speak to me again--though I am innocent enough, +Lord knows." + +Then came Venetia's voice: + +"This is new--Heaven _knows_ we have had disgrace enough--what else is +going to fall on us?--Why put it off till to-morrow--what new thing have +you done?" + +Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceased +sniffing and turned on Venetia. + +"No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right to +accuse him." + +"Accuse him!" cried the outraged Venetia. + +"Yes, accuse him; you don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd be +glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible." + +Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen. + +Teresa had put her finger on the spot. + +Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, a +Righteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of other +people's sins gave her pleasure. + +Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had +suddenly entered his practical mind. + +"Good heavens," said he, "what has become of your luggage?" + +"I don't know and I don't care," replied the roused one, "let it go with +the rest." + +The car drew up. + +"You will stay with us to-night, I suppose," said Venetia coldly. + +"I suppose so," replied the other. + +Jones got out. + +"I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock," said he. "I want +the whole family present."--Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct +Rochester--"Don't worry about what took place this evening. It was all +my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the +morning." + +She sighed and passed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in a +dream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house, +then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It was +Curzon street. Then he walked home. + +Come what might he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did he +feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love. + +What a woman! and what a fate! + +It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace, +that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and +lurid light. + +Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, but +up to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman +showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual +likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have +a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never +thought of her, or he had not cared. + +And such a wife! + +"That fellow ought to be dug up and--cremated," said Jones to himself as +he opened the door with his latch key. "He ought, sure. Well, I hope +I'll cremate his reputation to-morrow." + +Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed. + +He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the +morrow, of what he would say to start with--then he gave up the attempt, +determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE FAMILY COUNCIL + + +He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, +and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his +seat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best he +could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to +the sounds of the house and the street outside. + +He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices. + +Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, +for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though two +servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words. + +One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs +lightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door opened +and the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff +waistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing his +eye glasses. + +He nodded at Jones. + +"Morning," said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. "The +women will be up in a moment." He took his seat and spread open the +paper as if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles, +"Glad to hear from Collins you've got that land back. I was in there +just after you left and he told me." + +"Yes," said Jones, "I've got it back." He had no time to say more as at +that moment the door opened and the "women" appeared, led by the Dowager +Countess of Rochester. + +Venetia shut the door and they took their seats about the room whilst +Jones, who had risen, reseated himself. + +Then, with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began: + +"I have asked you all to come here this morning--I asked you to meet me +this morning because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruder +into your family--" + +"An intruder," cried the mother of the defunct. "Arthur, what _are_ you +saying?" + +"One moment," he went on. "I want to begin by explaining what I have +done for you all and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest man +even though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have got +back one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mine +property and other money as well, one million and eight thousand pounds +that would have been a dead loss only for me." + +"You have acted like a man," said the Duke of Melford, "go on--what do +you mean about intrusion?" + +"Let me tell the thing in my own way," said Jones irritably. "The late +Lord Rochester got dreadfully involved owing to his own stupidity with a +woman--I call him the late Lord Rochester because I have to announce now +the fact of his death." + +The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat like +frozen corpses for a moment, then they moved, casting terrified eyes at +one another. It was the Duke of Melford who spoke. + +"We will leave your father's name alone," said he; "yes, we know he is +dead--what more have you to say?" + +"I was not talking of my father," said Jones, beginning to get bogged +and slightly confused, also angry, "he was not my father. If you will +only listen to me without interrupting I will make things plain. I am +talking of myself--or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earl +of Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester, he is dead--" +He turned to Rochester's wife. "I _hate_ to have to tell you this right +out and in such a manner, but it has to be told. I am not your husband. +I am an American. My name is Victor Jones, and I come from +Philadelphia." + +The Dowager Countess of Rochester who had been leaning forward in her +chair, sank back, she had fainted. + +Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife of +Rochester who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner ran from +the room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread. + +Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned +to consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from +the room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused in +lamentation: + +"My boy--my poor boy." + +Venetia had said nothing. + +Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was something +in all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, +seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially. + +The Duke of Melford shut the door. + +"Your mother--I mean Lady Rochester's heart is not strong," said he, +going to the bell and touching it. "I must send for the doctor to see +her." + +Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat down +again. + +"Look here," said he, "I can't make you all out--you've called me no +names--you haven't let me fully explain, the old lady is the only one +that seems to have taken the news in. Can't you understand what I have +told you?" + +"Perfectly," said the old gentleman, "and it's the most extraordinary +thing I have ever heard--and the most interesting--I want to have a long +talk about it.--James," to the servant who had answered the bell, +"telephone for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack." + +"Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. +Simms." + +"That will do," said his grace. + +"Yes, 'pon my soul, it's quite extraordinary," he took a cigar case from +his pocket, proffered a cigar which Jones took, and then lit one +himself. + +"Look here," said Jones suddenly alarmed by a new idea, "you aren't +guying me, are you?--you haven't taken it into your heads that I've gone +dotty--mad?" + +"Mad!" cried the old gentleman with a start. "Never--such an idea never +entered my mind. Why--why should it?" + +"Only you take this thing so quietly." + +"Quietly--well, what would you have? My dear fellow, what is the good of +shouting--ever? Not a bit. It's bad form. I take everything as it +comes." + +"Well, then, listen whilst I tell you how all this happened. I came over +here some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Government +over some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. +Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than ten +pounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy lounge when in came a +man whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn't place his name on him. +We had drinks together in the American bar, then we went upstairs to the +lounge. He would not tell me who he was. 'Look in the looking-glass +behind you,' said he, 'and you will see who I am.' I looked and I saw +him. I was his twin image. I must tell you first that I had been having +some champagne cocktails and a whisky and soda. I'm not used to drink. +We had a jamboree together and dinner at some place, and then he sent +me home as himself--I was blind. + +"When I woke up next morning I said nothing but lay low, thinking it was +all a joke. I ought to have spoken at once, but didn't, one makes +mistakes in life--" + +"We all do that," said the other; "yes--go on." + +"And later that day I opened a newspaper and saw my name and that I had +committed suicide. It was Rochester, of course, that had committed +suicide; did it on the underground.--Then I was in a nice fix. There I +was in Rochester's clothes, with not a penny in my pockets; couldn't go +to the hotel, couldn't go anywhere--so I determined to be Rochester, for +a while, at least. + +"I found his affairs in an awful muddle. You know that business about +the coal mine. Well, I've managed to right his affairs. I wasn't +thinking of any profit to myself over the business, I just did it +because it was the right thing to do. + +"Now I want to be perfectly plain with you. I might have carried on this +game always and lived in Rochester's shoes only for two things, one is +his wife, the other is a feeling that has been coming on me that if I +carried on any longer I might go dotty. Times I've had attacks of a +feeling that I did not know who I was. It's leading this double life, +you know. Now I want to get right back and be myself and cut clear of +all this. You can't think what it has been, carrying on this double +life, hearing the servants calling me 'your lordship.' I couldn't have +imagined it would have acted on the brain so. I've been simply crazy to +hear someone calling me by my right name--well, that's the end of the +matter, I want to settle up and get back to the States--" + +The door opened and a servant appeared. + +"Dr. Simms has arrived, your grace." + +The Duke of Melford rose from his chair. + +"One moment," said he to Jones. He left the room closing the door. + +Jones tipped the ash of his cigar into a jardiniere near by. + +He was astonished and a bit disturbed by the cool manner in which his +wonderful confession had been received. "Can it be they are laying low +and sending for the police?" thought he. + +He was debating this question when the door opened and the Duke walked +in, followed by a bald, elderly, pleasant-looking man; after this latter +came a cadaverous gentleman, wearing glasses. + +The bald man was Dr. Simms, the cadaverous, Dr. Cavendish. + +Simms nodded at Jones as though he knew him. + +"I have asked these gentlemen as friends of the family to step in and +talk about this matter before seeing Lady Rochester," said the Duke. +"She has been taken to her room, and is not yet prepared for visitors." + +"I shall be delighted to help in any way," said Simms; "my services, +professional or private, are always at your disposal, your grace." He +sat down and turned to Jones. "Now tell us all about it," said he. + +Cavendish took another chair and the Duke remained standing. + +Jones felt irritated, felt somewhat as a maestro would feel who, having +finished that musical obstacle race The Grand Polonnaise, finds himself +requested to play it again. + +"I've told the whole thing once," said he, "I can't go over it +again--the Duke knows." + +Suddenly Cavendish spoke: + +"I understand from what his grace said on the stairs, that there is some +trouble about identity?" + +"Some trouble," said Jones; "I reckon you are right in calling it some +trouble." + +"You are Mr. Jones, I think," said Simms. + +"Victor Jones was the name I was christened by," answered Jones. + +"Quite so, American?" + +"American." + +"Now, Mr. Jones, as a matter of formality, may I ask where you live in +America?" + +"Philadelphia." + +"And in Philadelphia what might be your address?" + +"Number one thousand, one hundred and one, Walnut Street," replied +Jones. + +Cavendish averted his head for a moment and the Duke shifted his +position on the hearthrug, leaving his elbow on the mantel and caressing +for a moment his chin. + +Simms alone remained unmoved. + +"Just so," said Simms. "Have you any family?" + +"Nope." + +"I beg your pardon." + +"No." + +"I thought you said nope--my mistake." + +"Not a bit, I did say nope--it's short for no." + +"_Short_ for no--I see, just so." + +Cavendish interposed with an air of interest. + +"How would you spell that word?" asked he. Jones resented Cavendish +somehow. + +"I don't know," said he, "this isn't a spelling bee. N-o-p-e I suspect. +You gentlemen have undertaken to question me on behalf of the family as +to my identity, I think we had better stick to that point." + +"Just so," said Simms, "precisely--" + +"Excuse me," said the Duke of Melford, "I think if Mr. er--Jones wishes +to prove his identity as Mr. Jones he will admit that his actions will +help. Now Lord Rochester was a very, shall we say, fastidious person, +quiet in his actions." + +"Oh, was he," said Jones, "that's news." + +"Quiet, that is to say, in his movements--let it stand at that. Now my +friend Collins said to me something about the eating of a document--" + +Jones bristled. "Collins had no right to tell you that," said he, "I +told him that privately. When did he tell you that?" + +"When I called, just after his interview with you--he did not say it in +anyway offensively. In fact he seemed to admire you for your--energy and +so forth." + +"Did you, in fact, eat a document?" asked Simms, with an air of bland +interest. + +"I did--and saved a very nasty situation, _and_ a million of money." + +"What was the document?" asked Cavendish. + +"A bill of exchange." + +"Now may I ask why you did that?" queried Simms. + +"No, you mayn't," replied Jones, "it's a private affair affecting the +honour of another person." + +"Quite so," said Simms, "but just one more question. Did you hear a +voice telling you to--er--eat this paper?" + +"Yes." + +"What sort of voice was it?" + +"It was the sort of voice that belongs to common-sense." + +"Ha, ha," laughed Cavendish. "Good, very good,--but there is just +something I want to ask. How was it, Mr.--er--Jones, that you turned +into your present form, exchanged your position as it were with the Earl +of Rochester?" + +"O Lord," said Jones. Then to the Duke of Melford, "Tell them." + +"Well," said the Duke. "Mr. Jones was sitting in the lounge of an hotel +when a gentleman entered whom he knew but could not recognize." + +"Couldn't place his name," cut in Jones. + +"Precisely. The gentleman said 'turn round and look in that mirror'--" + +"You've left the drinks out," said Jones. + +"True. Mr. Jones and the gentleman had partaken of certain drinks." + +"What were the drinks?" put in Simms. + +"Champagne cocktails, whisky and soda, then a bottle of +Bollinger--after," said Jones. + +"Mr. Jones looked into the mirror," continued the Duke, "and saw that he +was the other gentleman, that is to say, Lord Rochester." + +"No, the twin image," put in Jones. + +"The twin image--well, after that more liquor was consumed--" + +"The chap doped me with drink and sent me home as himself," cut in +Jones, "and I woke up in a strange bed with a guy pulling up the window +blinds." + +"A guy?" put in Cavendish. + +"A chap. Church is his name--I thought I was being bamboozled, so I +determined to play the part of Lord Rochester--you know the rest." +Turning to the Duke of Melford. + +"Well," said Cavendish, "I don't think we need ask any more questions of +Mr. Jones; we are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones and--er--the Earl +of Rochester are different." + +"Quite so," said Simms, "we are sure of his _bonafides_ and of course it +is for the family to decide how to meet this extraordinary situation. I +am sure they will sympathize with Mr. Jones and make no trouble. It is +quite evident he had no wrong intent." + +"Now you are talking," said Jones. + +"Quite so--One more question, does it seem to you I have not been +talking at all up to this?" + +Jones laughed. "It seems to me you have uttered _one_ word or two--ask a +bee in a bottle, has it been buzzing." + +The cadaverous Cavendish, who, from his outward appearance presented no +signs of a sense of humour, exploded at this hit, but Simms remained +unmoved. + +"Quite so," said he. "Well, that's all that remains to be said--but, now +as a professional man, has not all this tried you a good deal, Mr. +Jones?--I should think it was enough to try any man's health." + +"Oh, my health is all right," said Jones. "I can eat and all that, but, +times, I've felt as if I wasn't one person or the other, that's one of +my main reasons for quitting, leaving aside other things. You see I had +to carry on up to a certain point, and, if you'll excuse me blowing my +own horn, I think I've not done bad. I could have put my claws on all +that money--If I hadn't been a straight man, there's a lot of things I +could have done, 'pears to me. Well, now that everything is settled, I +think that ought to be taken into consideration. I don't ask much, just +a commission on the money salved." + +"Decidedly," said Simms. "In my opinion you are quite right. But as a +professional man my concern just a moment ago was about your health." + +"Oh, the voyage back to the States will put that right." + +"Quite so, but you will excuse my professional instinct--and I am giving +you my services for nothing, if you will let me--I notice signs of nerve +exhaustion--Let's look at your tongue." + +Jones put out his tongue. + +"Not bad," said Simms. "Now just cross your legs." + +Jones crossed his legs, right over left, and Simms, standing before him, +gave him a little sharp tap just under the right knee cap. The leg flew +out. + +Jones laughed. + +"Exaggerated patella reflex," said Simms. "Nerve fag, nothing more. A +pill or two is all you want. You don't notice any difficulty in speech?" + +"Not much," said Jones, laughing. + +"Say--'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.'" + +"'Peter Peter piped a pick--'" began Jones, then he laughed. + +"You can't say it," said Simms, cocking a wise eyebrow. + +"You bet I can," said the patient. "'Peter Piper pucked a pick'"-- + +"Nerve exhaustion," said Simms. + +"Say, Doc," cut in Jones, beginning to feel slight alarm. "What are you +getting at, you're beginning to make me feel frightened, there's not +anything really wrong with me, is there?" + +"Nothing but what can be righted by care," replied Simms. + +"Let me try Mr. Jones with a lingual test," said Cavendish. "Say: 'She +stood at the door of the fish-sauce shop in the Strand welcoming him +in.'" + +"She stood at the door of the fish shauce shop in the Strand welcom-om +ming im," said Jones. + +"H'm, h'm," said Cavendish. + +"That's crazy," said Jones, "nobody could say that--Oh, I'm all right--I +reckon a little liver pill will fix me up." + +The two doctors withdrew to a window and said a few words together. Then +they both nodded to the Duke of Melford. + +"Well," said the Duke, "that's settled and now, Mr. Jones, I hope you +will stay here for luncheon." + +Jones had had enough of that house. + +"Thanks," said he, "but I think I'll be getting back. I want a walk. +You'll find me at Carlton House Terrace where we can finish up this +business. It's a weight off my mind now everything is over--whew! I can +tell you I'm hungry for the States." + +He rose and took his hat which he had placed on the floor, nodded to the +Duke of Melford and turned to the door. + +Simms was standing in front of the door. + +"Excuse me," said Simms, "but I would not advise you to go out in your +condition, much better stay here till your nerves have recovered." + +Jones stared at him. + +"My nerves are all right," said he. + +"Don't, my dear fellow," said Cavendish. + +Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door. + +Simms was barring the way still. + +"Don't talk nonsense," said Jones, "think I was a baby. I tell you I'm +all right--what on earth do you mean--upon my soul, you're like a lot +of children." + +He tried to pass Simms. + +"You must not leave this room yet," said Simms. "Pray quiet yourself." + +"You mean to say you'll stop me?" + +"Yes." + +Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend the +Dowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they considered +him to be Rochester--Rochester gone mad. + +Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a mad +man, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old lady +had fainted, that was why his wife--at least Rochester's wife, had run +from the room like a blind woman. + +He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then he +spoke: + +"Open that door--get away from that door." + +"Sit down and _quiet_ yourself," said Simms, staring him full in the +eye, "you--will--not--leave-this--house." + +It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones. + +Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouted +directions, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free of +Cavendish, the rough and tumble began. + +They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinieres, little +tables, costly china. + +Jones' foot went into a china cabinet carrying destruction amongst a +concert party of little Dresden figures; Simms' portly behind bumped +against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess +of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust, and the Duke of +Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business with +the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin that +recalled Eton across a long vista of years. + +Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back +with the Duke's bandanna handkerchief. + +Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping and +banging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came to +the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it. + +"Nothing," said he, "nothing wrong. Off with you." + +He shut the door and turned to the couch. + +Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily un-smashed, +caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and towsled with Simms beside +him and Cavendish standing by, re-fixing his glasses. + +He recognised a terrible fact; though he had smashed hundreds of pounds' +worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, now +that the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. +Simms was patting his shoulder. + +He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, to +fight without raising ire in one's antagonists, to smash with +impunity--to murder without being brought to justice. + +Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like a +mad-man--that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and +madness have awful similarities. + +He moved slightly away from Simms. + +"I reckon I've been a fool," said he, "three to one is not fair play. +Come, let my hands free, I won't fight any more." + +"Certainly," said Simms. "But let me point out that we were not fighting +you in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimental +to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd +handkerchief?" + +Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists. + +"What are you going to do now?" asked he. + +"Nothing," said Simms, "you are perfectly free, but we don't want you to +go out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say that +you feel all right. No matter, take a physician's advice and just remain +here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you can +amuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a little +prescription for you?" + +"Look here," said Jones. "Let's talk quietly for a moment--you think I'm +mad." + +"Not in the least!" said Simms. "You are only suffering from a nerve +upset." + +"Well, if I'm not mad you have no right to keep me here." + +This was cunning, but, unfortunately, cunning like anger, is an +attribute of madness as well as of sanity. + +"Now," said Simms, with an air of great frankness, "do you think that it +is for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are not +keeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library and +I will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have considered +matters a bit you can use your own discretion about going." + +Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight this +man with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His tale +was such that no man would believe it, and, persisting in that tale, he +would be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester's bad +reputation for sanity. They called him mad Rochester. + +Then as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspiration +seized him. + +He stopped at the drawing-room door. + +"Look here," said he, "one moment. I can prove what I say. You send out +a man to Philadelphia and make enquiries, fetch some of the people over +that knew me. You'll find I'm--myself and that I've told you no lie." + +"We will do anything you like," said Simms, "but first let us go down to +the library." + +They went. It was a large, pleasant room lined with books. + +Simms sat down at the writing-table, whilst the others took chairs. He +wrote a prescription, and the Duke, ringing the bell, ordered a servant +to take the prescription to the chemists. + +Then during the twenty minutes before the servant returned they talked. +Jones, giving again his address, that fantastic address which was yet +real, and the names and descriptions of people he knew and who would +know him. + +"You see, gentlemen," said he, "it's just this, I have only one crave in +life just now, to be myself again. Not exactly that, but to be +recognized as myself. You can't imagine what that feeling is. You +needn't tell me. I know exactly what you think, you think I'm Rochester +gone crazy. I know the yarn I've slung you sounds crazy, but it's the +truth. The fact is I've felt at times that if I didn't get someone to +recognize me as myself I'd _go_ crazy. Just one person to believe in me, +that's all I want and then I'd feel free of this cursed Rochester. Put +yourself in my place. Imagine that you have lost touch with everything +you ever were, that you were playing another man's part and that +everyone in the world kept on insisting you were the other guy. Think of +that for a position. Why, gentlemen, you might open that door wide. I +wouldn't want to go out, not till I had convinced one of you at all +events that my story was true. I wouldn't want to go back to the States, +not till I had convinced you that I am who I am. It seems foolish but +it's a bed-rock fact. I have to make good on this position, convince +someone who knows the facts, and so get myself back. It wouldn't be any +use my going to Philadelphia. I'd say to people I know there, 'I'm +Jones.' They'd say, 'Of course you are,' and believe me. But then, do +you see, they wouldn't know of this adventure and their belief in me +wouldn't be a bit of good. Of course I _know_ I'm Jones, all the same +I've been playing the part of Rochester so hard that times I've almost +believed I'm him, times I've lost myself, and I have a feeling at the +back of my mind that if I don't get someone to believe me to be who I +am, I may go dotty in earnest. It's a feeling without reason, I know. +It's more like having a grit in the eye than anything else. I want to +get rid of that grit, and I can't take it out myself, someone else must +do it. One person would be enough, just one person to believe in what I +say and I would be myself again. That's why I want you to send to +Philadelphia. The mind is a curious thing, gentlemen, the freedom of the +body is nothing if the mind is not free, and my mind can never be free +till another person who knows my whole story believes in what I say. I +could not have imagined anyone being trapped like this--I've heard of an +actor guy once playing a part so often he went loony and fancied himself +the character. I'm not like that, I'm as sane as you, it's just this +uneasy, uncomfortable feeling--this want to get absolutely clean out of +this business, that's the trouble." + +"Never mind!" said Simms cheerfully, "we will get you out only you must +_not_ worry yourself. I admit that your story is strange, but we will +send to Philadelphia and make all enquiries--come in." + +The servant had knocked at the door. He entered with the medicine. Simms +sent him for a wine glass and when it arrived he poured out a dose. + +"Now take a dose of your medicine like a man," said the kindly +physician, jocularly, "and another in four hours' time, it will re-make +your nerves." + +Jones tossed the stuff off impatiently. + +"Say," said he, "there's another point I've forgot. You might go to the +Savoy and get the clerk there, he'd recognize me, the bar tender in the +American bar, he'd maybe be able to recognise me too, he saw us +together--I say I feel a bit drowsy, you haven't doped me, have you?" + +Simms and Cavendish, leaving the house together five minutes later, had +a moment's conversation on the steps. + +"What do you think of him?" said Simms. + +"Bad," said Cavendish. "He reasons on his own case, that's always bad, +and did you notice how cleverly he worked that in about wanting someone +to believe in him." + +They walked down the street together. + +"That smash has been coming for a long time," said Simms--"it's an +heirloom. It's a good thing it has come, he was getting to be a +bye-word--I wonder what it is that introduces the humorous element into +insanity; that address, for instance, one thousand one hundred and +ninety one Walnut Street, could never have strayed into a sane person's +head." + +"Nor a luncheon on bills of exchange," said Cavendish. "Well, he will be +all right at Hoover's. What was the dose you gave him?" + +"Heroin, mostly," replied the other. "Well, so long." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +HOOVER'S + + +Jones, after the magic draught administered by Simms, entered into a +blissful condition of twilight sleep, half sleep, half drowsiness, +absolute indifference. He walked with assistance to the hall door and +entered a motor car, it did not matter to him what he entered or where +he went, he did not want to be disturbed. + +He roused himself during a long journey to take a drink of something +held to his lips by someone, and sank back, tucking sleep around him +like a warm blanket. + +In all his life he had never had such a gorgeous sleep as that, his +weary and harassed brain revelled in moments of semi-consciousness, and +then sank back into the last abysms of oblivion. + +He awoke a new man, physically and mentally, and with an absolutely +clear memory and understanding. He awoke in a bed-room, a cheerful +bed-room, lit by the morning sun, a bed-room with an open window through +which came the songs of birds and the whisper of foliage. + +A young man dressed in a black morning coat was seated in an armchair by +the window, reading a book. He looked like a superior sort of servant. + +Jones looked at this young man, who had not yet noticed the awakening of +the sleeper, and Jones, as he looked at him, put facts together. + +Simms, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where he +was, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, +whatever it was; they had thought him mad--they had carted him off to a +mad-house, this was a mad-house, that guy in the chair was an attendant. +He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger and +little surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed by +profound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light. + +It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in a +mad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because he +knew that he was sane. The situation was amusing, it was also one to get +free from--but there was plenty of time, and there was no room for +making mistakes. + +Curiously enough, now, the passionate or almost passionate desire to +recover his own personality had vanished, or at least, was no longer +active in his mind; his brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was no +longer tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curious +craving to have others believe in his story and to have others recognize +him as Jones. + +No, it did not matter to him just now whether he recovered his +personality in the eyes of others; what did matter to him was the +recovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution. Like Brer Rabbit, he +determined to "lie low." + +"Say," said Jones. + +The young man by the window started slightly, rose, and came to the +bedside. + +"What o'clock?" said the patient. + +"It has just gone half past eight, sir," replied the other. "I hope you +have slept well." + +Jones noticed that this person did not "my Lord" him. + +"Not a wink," said he, "tossed and tumbled all night--oh, say--what do +_you_ think--" + +The young man looked puzzled. + +"And would you like anything now, sir?" + +"Yes--my pants. I want to get up." + +"Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready," replied the other. + +He went to the fire-place and touched an electric button, then he +bustled about the room getting Jones' garments together. + +The bed-room had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to a +bath-room; in a minute the bath-room door opened and a voice queried, +"Hot or cold?" + +"Hot," said Jones. + +"Hot," said the attendant. + +"Hot," said the unseen person in the bath-room, as if registering the +order in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple of +minutes the voice: + +"Gentleman's bath ready." + +Jones bathed, and though the door of the bath-room had been shut upon him +and there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone was +watching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the other +door, and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid on +a small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and bacon +and sausages, he chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by the +pleasant summery sound of croquet balls knocking together, he looked out +of the window. + +Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet; stout elderly +gentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flannel +trousers and a grey tweed coat was seated watching the game and smoking +cigarettes. + +He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happy +enough, and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast. + +He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poor +quality--of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heed +much. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given him +a shock. Instinctively he knew them to be "inmates." He had never +considered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vague +recollections of Edgar Allan Poe and the works of Charles Reade had +surrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of feather beds +and brutality; the word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of a +man obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quite +ordinary and pleasant in appearance, and these sane looking gentlemen +lunatics, gave him a grue. + +The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisoner +was beginning to steal upon him, that a man might be able to play +croquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life and +yet, just because of some illusion, be held as a prisoner. + +He did not fully realise this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But he +did fully realise that he had lost his liberty. + +Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute. + +The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly; all that +haunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, he +would go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in the +National Provincial Bank; no one knew that it was there. He could seize +it with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow of +Rochester--oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actual +fact of lost liberty--so he told himself. + +A servant brought up the _Times_ and he opened it, and lit a cigarette. + +Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, an +extraordinary feeling came upon him; all this printed matter was +relative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk down +the street, if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the world +through bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things had +been removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bed-room +adjoining. + +Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carried +away the things, and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor lay +outside, and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made him +turn. + +"Do you require anything, sir?" + +It was the attendant. + +"Nothing," said Jones. "I was just looking to see where this place led +to." He came back into the room. + +He knew now that every movement of his was watched, and he accepted the +fact without comment. He sat down and took up the _Times_ whilst the +attendant went back to the bed-room. + +He had said to himself on awaking, that a sane man, held as insane, +could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line of +reasoning now and casting about him for a method. + +He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that had all +at once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor. +Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called the +attendant. + +"I want to see the gentleman who runs this place." + +"Dr. Hoover, sir?" + +"Yes." + +"Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for." + +He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message. + +Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutes +passed and then the door opened and a gentleman entered. + +A pleasant faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue serge and +with a rose in his button-hole, such was Doctor Hoover. But the eye of +the man held him apart from others; a blue grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, +for all the smile upon the pleasant face. + +Jones rose up. + +"Dr. Hoover, I think," said he. + +"Good morning," said the other in a hearty voice. "Fine day, isn't it? +Well, how are we this morning?" + +"Oh, I'm all right," said Jones. "I want to have a little talk with +you." He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closed +it. + +"For your sake," said Jones, "it's just as well we have no one +listening, the attendant is in there--you are sure he cannot hear what +we say, even with the door shut?" + +"Quite," said Hoover, with a benign smile. + +He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications +concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food. + +He did not expect what followed. + +"I am not going to grumble at your having me here," said Jones; "it's my +fault for playing practical jokes. I didn't think they'd go the length +of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them." + +"And what name was that?" asked Hoover kindly. + +"Jones." + +"Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?" + +"Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I'm the Earl of Rochester." + +This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman's face shewed +nothing. + +"Indeed," said he, "then why did you call yourself Jones?" + +"For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me +a draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty, +and I drank it--you must have seen the condition I was in when I got +here." + +"Hum, hum," said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways of +gentlemen off their balance, and he had a profound belief in Simms and +Cavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he had +received with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones. + +"Well," he said, with an air of absolute frankness, "this takes me by +surprise; a practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke?" + +"I know," said Jones, "it was stupid, just a piece of tom-foolery--but +you see how I am landed." + +Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst noting it. + +Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions seemingly irrelevant +enough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying out +such a practical joke? Why did he not say at once it was a practical +joke after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory as +good as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl of +Rochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochester he could hold that +title against a claim that he was not the Earl? Give details and so +forth? + +"Now suppose," said Dr. Hoover, "I were to contest the title with you +and say 'you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester,' how would +you establish your claim. I am simply asking, to find out whether what +you consider to be a practical joke was in fact a slight lapse of memory +on your part, a slight mind disturbance such as is easily caused by +fatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeks +or months. + +"Now I must point out to you that, as--practical joke or not--you came +here calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you for +proof that you are _not_ Mr. Jones. See my point?" + +"Quite." + +"Well, then, prove your case," said the physician jovially. + +"How can I?" + +"Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is +your banker?" + +"Coutts." + +Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester's banker might be, but the +promptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth, the promptness was +also an index of sanity. He passed at a venture to a subject on which he +was acquainted. + +"And how many brothers and sisters have you?" + +That was fatal. + +Jones' eye fell under the pressure of Hoover's. + +"There is no use in going on with these absurd questions," said he, "a +thing everyone knows." + +"But I just want to prove to you," said Hoover, gently, "that your mind, +which in a week from now, will have quite recovered, is still a little +bit shaky--now how long is it since you succeeded to the title? It's +just a test memory question." + +Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained an +appreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Simms and the cadaverous +Cavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense. + +Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was a +blind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questions +of which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came to +the grand determination to try back. + +"Look here," said he, "let's be straight with one another. I can't +answer your questions. Now if you are a man of sense, as I take you to +be, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselves +is mad, you will recognize _why_ I can't answer your questions. I'm not +Rochester. I thought I'd get out of here by pretending that I'd played a +practical joke on those guys; it was a false move, I acknowledge it, but +when I fixed on the idea, I didn't know the man I had to deal with. If +you will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all this +business came about." + +"Go on," said Hoover. + +Jones told, and Hoover listened and when the tale was over, at the end +of a quarter of an hour or so, Jones scarcely believed it himself. It +sounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke of +Melford and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There was +something in Hoover's eye, something in his make up and personality, +something veiled and critical, that destroyed confidence. + +"I have asked them to make enquiries," finished Jones, "if they will +only do that everything will be cleared up." + +"And you may rest content we will," said Hoover. + +"Now for another thing," said Jones. "Till I leave this place, which +will be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendant +not to be always watching me. I don't know whether you think me mad or +sane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me, I'm not going to do +anything foolish, but if anything would drive me crazy, it would be +feeling that I am always watched like a child." + +Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Then +he said: + +"You will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as you +like. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuse +yourself. I'll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds till +your health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it's a +sanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstowe for +neuritis, got it in India. You will like them. There are several others +who make up my household--you can come on down with me now--are you a +billiard player?" + +"Yes, I can play--but, see here, before we go down, where is this +place?--I don't even know what part of the country it's in." + +"Sandbourne-on-sea," replied Hoover, leading the way from the room. + +Now in London on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Simms, at +a dinner-party, given by Doctor Took of Bethlem Hospital had, relative +to the imagination of lunatics, given an instance: + +"Only to-day," said Simms, "I had a case in point. A man gave me as his +supposed address, one thousand one hundred and ninety one, Walnut +Street, Philadelphia." + +"But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia," said Took, "and it's ten +miles long, and the numbers run up well towards that." + +Half an hour later, Simms got into his carriage. + +"Savoy Hotel, Strand," said he to the coachman. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +AN INTERLUDE + + +Simms in his electric brougham passed through the gas-lit streets in the +direction of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, but +seeing nothing. + +I love to linger over Simms, but what pages of description could +adequately describe him; buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with the +appearance of having been born and bred in a frock-coat, above all +things discreet; you can fancy him stepping out of his brougham, passing +into the hall of the hotel and presenting his card to the clerk with a +request for an interview with the manager. The manager being away, his +deputy supplied his place. + +"Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hotel +and on the night of the first of June had met with 'an accident' on the +underground railway. The police had taken charge of the business. What +address had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. +Walnut Street, Philadelphia." + +"Thanks," said Simms, "I came to enquire because a patient of mine +fancied, seeing the report, that it might be a relative. She must have +been mistaken, for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thank +you--quite so--good evening." + +In the hall Simms hesitated for a moment, then he asked a page boy for +the American bar, found it and ordered a glass of soda water. + +There were only one or two men in the bar and as Simms paid for his +drink he had a word with the bar tender. + +"Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who were +very much alike?" + +The bar tender did, and as an indication how in huge hotels dramatic +happenings may pass unknown to the staff not immediately concerned, he +had never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappy +demise he had read in the papers. + +He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, +never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, but +still like. His assistant had seen them too. + +"Quite so," said Simms; "they are friends of mine and I hoped to see +them again here this evening--perhaps they are waiting in the lounge." + +He finished his soda water and walked off. He sought the telephone +office and rang up Curzon Street. + +The Duke of Melford had dined at home but had gone out. He was at the +Buffs' Club in Piccadilly. + +Simms drove to the Club. + +The Duke was in the library. + +His Grace had literary leanings. His "History of the Siege of +Bundlecund," of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remained +unsold, had not deterred him from attempting the "Siege of Jutjutpore." +He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and to-night he was in +the act of taking down some notes on the character of Fooze Ali, the +leader of the besiegers, when Simms was announced. + +The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting together +into a cosy corner, the two men talked. + +"Your Grace," said Simms, "we have made a mistake. Your nephew is dead +and that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himself +to be." + +"What! What! What!" cried the Duke. + +"There can be no doubt at all," said Simms. "I have made enquiries." + +He gave details. The Duke listened, his narrow brain incensed at this +monstrous statement that had suddenly risen up to confront it. + +"I don't believe a word of it," said he, when the recital was over, "and +what's more, I won't believe it. Do you mean to tell me I don't know my +own nephew?" + +"It's not a question of that," said Simms. "It's just a question of the +facts of the case. There is no doubt at all that a man exactly like the +late--your nephew, in fact, stayed at this hotel, that he there met +the--your nephew. There is no doubt that this man gave the address to +the hotel people he gave to us, and there is no doubt in my mind that he +could make out a very good case if he were free. That there would be a +very great scandal--a world scandal. Even if he were not to prove his +case, the character of--your nephew--would be held up for inspection. +Then again, he would have very powerful backers. Now you told me of this +man Mulhausen. How would that property stand were this man to prove his +claim and prove that Lord Rochester was dead when the transfer of the +property was made to him? I am not thinking of my reputation," finished +the ingenuous Simms, "but of your interests, and I tell you quite +plainly, your Grace, that were this man to escape we would all be in a +very unpleasant predicament." + +"Well, he won't escape," said the Duke. "I'll see to that." + +"Quite so, but there is another matter. The Commissioners in Lunacy." + +"Well, what about them?" + +"It is the habit of the Commissioners to visit every establishment +registered under the act and unfortunately, they are men--I mean of +course that, fortunately, they are men of the most absolute probity, but +given to over-riding, sometimes, the considered opinion of those in +close touch with the cases they are brought in contact with. They would +undoubtedly make strict enquiries into the truth of the story that Lord +Rochester has just put up, and the result--I can quite see it--would +drift us into one of those _exposes_, those painful and interminable +lawsuits, destructive alike to property, to dignity, and that ease of +mind inseparable from health and the enjoyment of those positions to +which my labours and your Grace's lineage entitle us." + +"Damn the Commissioners," suddenly broke out his Grace. "Do you mean to +say they would doubt my word?" + +"Unfortunately, it is not a question of that," said Simms. "It is a +question of what they call the liberty of the subject." + +"Damn the liberty of the subject--liberty of the subject. When a man's +mad what right has he to liberty--liberty to cut people's throats maybe. +Look at that fool Arthur, liberty! Look at the use he made of his +liberty when he had it. Look what he did to Langwathby: sent a telegram +leading him to believe that his wife had broken out again--you know how +she drinks--and had been gaoled in Carlisle. And the thing was so +artfully constructed, it said almost nothing. You couldn't touch him on +it. Simply said, 'Go at once to police court Carlisle.' See the art of +it? Never mentioned the woman's name. There was no libel. Langwathby, to +prosecute, would have to explain all about his wife. He went. What +happened! You know his temper. He went to Langwathby Castle before going +to the police court, and the first person he saw was his wife. Before +all the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, he said to her, 'So +they have let you out of prison and now you'd better get out of my +house.' You know her temper. Before all the servants. Before all the +servants, mind you, she accused him of that disgraceful affair in Pont +Street when he was turned out in his pyjamas--and they half ripped off +him--by Lord Tango's brother. Tango never knew anything of it. Never +would, but he knows now, for Lucy Jerningham was at Langwathby when the +scene occurred and she's told him. The result is poor Langwathby will +find himself in the D. C. Liberty! What right has a man like that to +talk of liberty?" + +"Quite so," said Simms, utterly despairing of pressing home the truth of +the horrible situation upon this brain in blinkers. "_Quite_ so. But +facts are facts and the fact remains that this man--I mean--er--Lord +Rochester, possesses on your own shewing great craft and subtlety. And +he will use that with the Commissioners in Lunacy when they call." + +"When do they call?" + +"Ah, that's just it. They visit asylums and registered houses at their +own will, and the element of surprise is one of their methods. They may +arrive at Hoover's any time. I say, literally, any time. Sometimes they +arrive at a house in the middle of the night; they may leave an asylum +unvisited for a month and then come twice in one week, and they hold +everyone concerned literally in the hollows of their hands. If denied +admittance they would not hesitate to break the doors down. Their power +is absolute." + +"But, good God, sir," cried the Duke, "what you tell me is monstrous. +It's un-English. Break into a man's house, spy upon him in the middle of +the night! Why, such powers vested in a body of men make for +terrorisation. This must be seen to. I will speak about it in the +House." + +"Quite so, but, meanwhile, there is the danger, and it must be faced." + +"I'll take him away from Hoover's." + +"Ah," said Simms. + +"I'll put him somewhere where these fellows won't be able to interfere. +How about my place at Skibo?" + +Simms shook his head. + +"He is under a certificate," said he. "The Commissioners call at +Hoover's, inspect the books, find that Lord Rochester has been there, +find him gone, find you have taken him away. They will simply call upon +you to produce him." + +"How about my yacht?" asked the other. + +"A long sea voyage for his health?" + +"Ah," said Simms, "that's better, but voyages come to an end." + +"How about my villa at Naples? Properly looked after there he will be +safe enough." + +"Of course," said Simms, "that will mean he will always have to be +there--always." + +"Of course, always. D'you think now I have got him in safety I will let +him out?" + +Simms sighed. The business was drifting into very dangerous waters. He +knew for a matter of fact and also by intuition that Jones was Jones and +that Rochester was dead and his unfortunate position was like this: + +1. If Jones escaped from Hoover's unsoothed and furious he might find +his way to the American Consul or, _horror!_ to some newspaper office. +Then the band would begin to play. + +2. If Jones were transferred on board the Duke's yacht and sequestrated, +the matter at once became _criminal_, and the prospect of long years of +mental distress and dread lest the agile Jones should break free stood +before him like a nightmare. + +3. It was impossible to make the Duke believe that Jones was Jones and +that Rochester was dead. + +The only thing to be done was to release Jones, soothe him, bribe him +and implore of him to get back to America as quick as possible. + +This being clear before the mind of Simms, he at once proceeded to act. + +"It is not so much the question of your letting him out," he said, "as +of his escaping. And now I must say this. My professional reputation is +at stake and I must ask you to come with me to Curzon Street and put the +whole matter before the family. I wish to have a full consultation." + +The Duke demurred for a moment. Then he agreed and the two men left the +club. + +At Curzon Street they found the Dowager Countess and Venetia Birdbrook +about to retire for the night. Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had +already retired, and, though invited to the conference, refused to leave +her room. + +Then, in the drawing-room with closed doors, Simms, relying on the +intelligence of the women as a support, began, for the second time, his +tale. + +He convinced the women, and by one o'clock in the morning, still +standing by his guns after the fashion of the defenders of Bundlecund, +the Duke had to confess that he had no more ammunition. Surrendered in +fact. + +"But what is to be done?" asked the distracted mother of the defunct. +"What will this terrible man do if we release him?" + +"Do," shouted the Duke. "Do--why the impostor may well ask what will we +do to him." + +"We can do nothing," said Venetia. "How can we? How can we expose all +this before the servants--and the public? It is all entirely Teresa's +fault. If she had treated Arthur properly none of this would ever have +happened. She laughed and made light of his wickedness, she--" + +"Quite so," said Simms, "but, my dear lady, what we have to think of now +is the man, Jones. We must remember that whilst being an extremely +astute person, inasmuch as he recovered for you that large property from +the man Mulhausen, he seems honest. Indeed, yes, it is quite evident +that he is honest. I would suggest his release to-morrow and the +tendering to him of an adequate sum, say one thousand pounds, on the +condition that he retires to the States. Then, later, we can think of +some means to account for the demise of the late Earl of Rochester or +simply leave it that he has disappeared." + +The rest of this weird conclave remains unreported, Simms, however, +carrying his point and departing next day, after having seen his +patients, for Sandbourne-on-Sea, where he arrived late in the afternoon. + +When the hired fly that carried him from Sandbourne Station arrived at +the Hoover establishment, it found the gate wide open, and at the gate +one of the attendants standing in an expectant attitude glancing up and +down the road as though he were looking for something, or waiting for +somebody. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +SMITHERS + + +Hoover, leading the way downstairs, shewed Jones the billiard-room on +the first floor, the dining-room, the smoke-room. All pleasant places, +with windows opening on the gardens. Then he introduced him to some +gentlemen. To Colonel Hawker, just come in from an after breakfast game +of croquet, to Major Barstowe, and to a young man with no chin to speak +of, named Smithers. There were several others, very quiet people, the +three mentioned are enough for consideration. + +Colonel Hawker and Major Barstowe were having an argument in the +smoking-room when Hoover and Jones entered. + +"I did not say I did not believe you," said Barstowe, "I said it was +strange." + +"Strange," cried the Colonel, "what do you mean by strange--it's not the +word I object to, it's the tone you spoke in." + +"What's the dispute?" asked Hoover. + +"Why," said Barstowe, "the Colonel was telling me he had seen pigs in +Burmah sixteen feet long, and sunflowers twenty feet in diameter." + +"Oh, that story," said Hoover; "yes, there's nothing strange in that." + +"I'll knock any man down that doubts my word," said the Colonel, "that's +flat." + +Hoover laughed, Jones shivered. + +Then the disputants went out to play another game of croquet, and Jones, +picking up with Smithers, played a game of billiards, Hoover going off +and leaving them alone. + +After playing for about five minutes, Smithers, who had maintained an +uncanny silence, broke off the game. + +"Let's play something better than this," said he. "Did you know I was +rich?" + +"No," said Jones. + +"Well, I'm very rich--Look here," he took five sovereigns from his +pocket and shewed them with pride. "I play pitch and toss with these," +said he. "Hoover doesn't mind so long as I don't lose them. Pitch and +toss with sovereigns is fine fun, let's have a game?" + +Jones agreed. + +They sat on the divan and played pitch and toss. At the end of ten +minutes, Jones had won twenty pounds. + +"I think I will stop now," said Smithers. "Give me back that sovereign I +lent you to toss with." + +"But you owe me twenty pounds," said Jones. + +"I'll pay you that to-morrow," said Smithers; "these sovereigns are not +to be spent, they are only for playing with." + +"Oh, that doesn't matter," said Jones, handing back the coin, and +recognising that, penniless as he was, here was a small fund to be +drawn upon by cunning, should he find a means of escape. "I'm rich. I'm +worth ten millions." + +"Ten million sovereigns?" + +"Yes." + +"Golden ones, like these?" + +"Yes." + +"I say," said Smithers, "could you lend me one or two?" + +"Yes, rather." + +"But you mustn't tell Hoover." + +"Of course I won't." + +"When will you lend me them?" + +"When I get my bag of sovereigns from London. They are coming down +soon." + +"I like you," said Smithers. "We'll be great friends, won't we?" + +"Rather, come out in the garden." + +They went out. + +The garden encircled the house, big wrought iron gates, locked, gave +upon the road. + +The tennis and croquet lawns lay at the back of the house, brick walls, +covered in part with fruit trees, surrounded the whole place. The wall +on the left of the house struck Jones as being practicable, and he +noticed that none of the walls were spiked or glassed. Hoover's patients +were evidently not of the dangerous and agile type. + +"What's at the other side of this wall?" asked Jones, as they passed +along by the left hand barrier. Smithers giggled. + +"Girls," said he. + +"Girls! what sort of girls?" + +"Little ones with long hair and bigger ones; they learn their lessons +there, it's a school. The gardener left his ladder there one day and I +climbed up. There were a lot of girls there. I nodded to them, and they +all came to the wall. I made them all laugh. I asked them to come over +the wall and toss for sovereigns--then a lady came and told me to go +away. She didn't seem to like me." + +Jones, all during luncheon--the meal was served in his own +apartments--revolved things in his mind, Smithers amongst others. +Smithers' mania for handling gold had evidently been satisfied by giving +him these few coins to play with. They were real ones, Jones had +satisfied himself of that. Smithers, despite his want of chin, was +evidently not a person to be put off with counterfeit coin. Jones had +come down from London dressed just as he had called at Curzon Street. +That is to say in a black morning coat and grey trousers. His tall hat +had evidently been forgotten by his deporters. After luncheon he asked +for a cap to wear in the garden, and was supplied with a grey tweed +shooting cap of Hoover's. + +With this on his head he took his seat in an arbour, an arbour which, he +noticed, had its opening facing the house. + +Here, smoking, he continued revolving his plans, and here afternoon tea +was served to him. + +Ten minutes later the colonel and the major began another game of +croquet, and five minutes after that, came from the house Smithers, +with a butterfly net in his hand. + +Jones left the arbour and joined Smithers. + +"The sovereigns have come," said Jones. + +"The bag of sovereigns?" + +"Yes, with a big red seal from the bankers. I'm going to give you +fifty." + +"Oh, Lord," said Smithers, "but you haven't said anything to Hoover?" + +"Not a word--but you must do something for me before I give you them." + +"What's that?" + +"I want you to go up to Colonel Hawker and take him aside." + +"Yes?" + +"And tell him that Major Barstowe says he's a liar." + +"Yes." + +"That's all." + +"That's easy enough," said Smithers. + +"I'll stand by the wall here, and if any of the girls look over, as they +probably will, for I'm going to whistle to them, I'll make them come +over and toss for sovereigns." + +"That would be a lark," said the unfortunate. + +"Bother," said Jones, "I've forgot." + +"What?" + +"All my sovereigns are upstairs in the bag--I know--lend me yours whilst +I'm waiting." + +"I--I never lend sovereigns," said Smithers. + +"Why, I'm going to _give_ you fifty--and I only ask you to lend me five +for a moment in case those girls--" + +Smithers put his hand in his pocket and produced the coins; they were in +a little chamois leather bag. "Don't open the bag," said he, "just shake +it and they'll know there are sovereigns in it by the noise." + +"Right," said Jones. "Now go and tell Colonel Hawker that Major Barstowe +says he's a liar." + +Smithers went off, butterfly net in hand. + +Jones was under no delusion. He reckoned that the garden was always +under surveillance, and that a man getting over a wall would have little +chance of reaching the street, unless he managed to distract the +attention of watchers. He thought it probable that his conversation with +Smithers had been watched, and possibly the handing over of some article +noted. + +There was a seat just here, close to the wall. He sat down on it, pulled +his cap over his eyes, and stretched out his legs. Then under the peak +of the cap, he watched Smithers approaching Colonel Hawker, interrupt +him just as he was on the point of making a stroke, and lead him aside. + +The effect on the colonel's mind of the interruption to his stroke, +followed by the sudden information that his veracity had been impeached, +was miraculous and sudden as the slap on the side of the face that sent +the butterfly hunter flying. The attack on Barstowe, who seemed to fight +well, the cries, the shouts, the imprecations, the fact that half a +dozen people, inmates and attendants, joined in the confusion as if by +magic, all this was nothing to Jones, nor was the subsidiary fact that +one of the inmates, a quiet mannered clergyman, with a taste for arson, +had taken advantage of the confusion and was patiently and sedulously at +work, firing the thatch of the summer house in six different places, +with a long concealed box of matches. + +Jones, on the stroke of the Colonel, had risen from the seat, and with +the aid of a wall-trained plum tree, had reached the top of the wall and +dropped on the other side into a bed of mignonette. It was a hockey day +at the school, and there were no girls in the garden. He ran across it +to the open front gate and reached the road, ran down the road, which +was deserted, and burning in the late afternoon sunshine, reached a side +road and slackened his pace. All the roads were of the same pattern, +broad, respectable, and lined with detached and semi-detached houses set +in gardens, and labelled according to the owner's fancy. Old +Anglo-Indian colonels and majors lived here, and one knew their houses +by such names as "Lucknow," "Cawnpore," etc., just as one knows azaleas +by their blossoms. Jones, like an animal making for cover, pushed on +till he reached a street of shops. A long, long street, running north +and south with the shop fronts on the eastern side, sun-blinded and +sunlit. A peep of blue and perfect sea shewed at the end of the street, +and on the sea the white sail of a boat. Sandbourne-on-Sea is a pleasant +place to stay at, but Jones did not want to stay there. + +His mind was working feverishly. There was sure to be a railway station +somewhere, and, as surely, the railway station would be the first place +they would hunt for him. + +London was his objective. London and the National Provincial Bank, but +of the direction or the distance to be travelled, he knew no more than +the man in the moon. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +HE RUNS TO EARTH + + +As the fox seeks an earth, he was seeking for a hole to hide in. Across +the road a narrow house, set between a fishmonger's shop and a sea-side +library, displayed in one of its lower windows a card with the word +"Apartments." Jones crossed the road to this house and knocked at the +hall door. He waited a minute and a half, ninety seconds, and every +second a framed vision of Hoover in pursuit, Hoover and his assistants +streaming like hounds on a hot scent. Then he found a decrepit bell and +pulled it. + +Almost on the pull the door opened, disclosing a bustless, sharp-eyed +and cheerful-looking little woman of fifty or so, wearing a cameo brooch +and cornelian rings. She wore other things but you did not notice them. + +"Have you rooms to let?" asked Jones. + +"Well, sir, I have the front parlour unoccupied," replied the landlady, +"and two bed-rooms on the top floor. Are there any children?" + +"No," said Jones. "I came down here alone for a holiday. May I see the +rooms?" + +She took him to the top front bed-room first. It was clean and tidy, just +like herself, and gave a cheery view of the shop fronts on the opposite +side of the street. + +Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a +moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion. +Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked +like a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about them +as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse +or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He +turned to the landlady. + +"I like this room," said he, "it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of +place I want. Now let's see the parlour." + +The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to +match, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday +Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida's "Moths" in the +old, yellow-back, two shilling edition. + +"Very nice indeed," said Jones. "What do you charge?" + +"Well, sir," said the landlady--her name was Henshaw--"it's a pound a +week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with." + +"Any extras?" asked the artful Jones. + +"No, sir." + +"Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, +and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labelled for here, and +the porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to the +station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing +I haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance." + +She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. + +When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have for +supper, or would he prefer late dinner. + +"Supper," replied Jones, "oh, anything. I'm not particular." + +Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think. +Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, that +was highly improbable. Hoover's was a high class establishment, he would +avoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to use +the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act +with caution. + +Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtful +point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed. + +One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from +Sandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover +was a logical man. + +There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this +thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and +horsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow. +Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk without +creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get +out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweed +hanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat all +day in his room in the face of such weather, would create a most +unhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whatever +else he might do he could not lurk. + +The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things +that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet +that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run +away with all your money, and left you with seven children to look +after, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose in +her hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was under +the obsession of _the_ picture of the room, whose place was above the +mantelpiece. + +It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince +Consort, correct, sane, urbane--a terrible comparison for a man in an +insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or +its productions--though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in +both. + +A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He +heard the door answered, a voice outside saying "N'k you" and the door +shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending +the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened +it, inspected the contents, and chose "Moths." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +MOTHS + + +In ill-health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinary +mind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons of +Charles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few classics that will stand the test +of a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, or +a minor tragedy. Here the writer of "light fiction" stands firm. + +Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two, +but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to the +uplands where the grass is improving. + +Colour, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, and +now--he suddenly found himself on the beach at Trouville. + +On the beach at Trouville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in the +sea. + +He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to the +wicked Russian Prince, when the door opened and the supper tray entered, +followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honour and her own initiative she had +produced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dull +looking jam tarts on a willow pattern plate. + +When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on with +the book. The lovely heroine had become for him Teresa, Countess of +Rochester, the Opera singer himself, and the Russian Prince Maniloff. + +Then the deepening dusk tore him from the book. Work had to be done. + +He rang the bell, told Mrs. Henshaw that he was going to the railway +station to see after his luggage, took his cap, and went out. Strangely +enough he did not feel nervous. The first flurry had passed, and he had +adapted himself to the situation, the deepening darkness gave him a +sense of security, and the lights of the shops cheered him somehow. + +He turned to the left towards the sea. + +Fifty yards down the street he came across a Gentlemen's Outfitters, in +whose windows coloured neckties screamed, and fancy shirts raised their +discordant voices with Gent's summer waistcoats and those panama hats, +adored in the year of this story by the river and sea-side youth. + +Jones, under the hands of Rochester's valet, and forced by circumstances +to use Rochester's clothes, was one of the best dressed men in London. +Left to himself in this matter he was lost. He had no idea of what to +wear or what not to wear, no idea of the social damnation that lies in +tweed trousers not turned up at the bottom, fancy waistcoats, made +evening ties, a bowler worn with a black morning coat, or dog-skin +gloves. Heinenberg and Obermann of Philadelphia had dressed him till +Stultz unconsciously took the business over. He was barely conscious of +the incongruity of his present get-up topped by the tweed shooting cap +of Hoover's, but he was quite conscious of the fact that some alteration +in dress was imperative as a means towards escape from +Sandbourne-on-Sea. + +He entered the shop of Towler and Simpkinson, bought a six and +elevenpenny panama, put it on and had the tweed cap done up in a parcel. +Then a flannel coat attracted him, a grey flannel tennis coat price +fifteen shillings. It fitted him to a charm, save for the almost +negligible fact that the sleeves came down nearly to his knuckles. Then +he bought a night shirt for three and eleven, and had the whole lot done +up in one parcel. + +At a chemist's next door he bought a tooth brush. In the mirror across +the counter he caught a glimpse of himself in the panama. It seemed to +him that not only had he never looked so well in any other head gear, +but that his appearance was completely altered. + +Charmed and comforted he left the shop. Next door to the chemist's and +at the street corner was a public house. + +Jones felt certain from his knowledge of Hoover that the very last place +to come across one of his assistants would be a public house. He entered +the public bar, took a seat by the counter and ordered a glass of beer +and a packet of cigarettes. The place was rank with the fumes of cheap +tobacco and cigarettes and the smell of beer. Hard gas light shewed no +adornment, nothing but pitch pine panelling, spittoons, bottles on +shelves and an almanac. The barmaid, a long-necked girl with red hands, +and cheap rings and a rose in her belt, detached herself from earnest +conversation with a youth in a bowler inhabiting the saloon bar, pulled +a handle, dumped a glass of beer before Jones and gave him change +without word or glance, returning to her conversation with the bowlered +youth. She evidently had no eyes at all for people in the public bar. +There are grades, even in the tavern. + +Close to where Jones had taken his seat was standing a person in broken +shoes, an old straw hat, a coat, with parcels evidently in the tail +pockets, and trousers frayed at the heels. He had a red unshaven face, +and was reading the _Evening Courier_. + +Suddenly he banged the paper with the tips of the fingers of his right +hand and cast it on the counter. + +"Govinment! Govinment! nice sort of govinment, payin' each other four +hundred a year for followin' Asquith and robbin' the landowners to get +the money--God lumme." + +He paused to light a filthy clay pipe. He had his eyes on Jones, and +evidently considered him, for some occult reason, of the same way of +political thinking as himself, and he addressed him in that impersonal +way in which one addresses an audience. + +"They've downed and outed the House o' Lords, an' now they're scraggin' +the Welsh Church, after that they'll go for the Landed Prepriotor and +finish _him_. And who's to blame? the Radicals--no, they ain't to +blame, no more than rats for their instincts; we're to blame, the +Conservatives is to blame, we haven't got a fightin' man to purtect us. +The Radicals has got all the tallant--you look at the fight Bonna Lor's +been makin' this week. Fight! A blind Tom cat with his head in an old +t'marter tin would make a better fight than Bonna Lor's put up. Look at +Churchill, that chap was one of us once, he was born to lead the +clarses, an' now look at him leadin' the marses, up to his neck in +Radical dirt and pretendin' he likes it. He doesn't, but he's a man with +an eye in his head and he knows what we are, a boneless lot without +organisation. I say it myself, I said it only larst night in this here +bar, and I say it again, for two pins I'd chuck my party. I would so. +For two pins I'd chuck the country, and leave the whole lot to stew in +their own grease." + +He addressed himself to his beer, and Jones, greatly marvelling, lit a +cigarette. + +"Do you live here?" asked he. + +"Sh'd think I did," replied the other. "Born here and bred here, and +been watchin' the place going down for the last twenty years, turnin' +from a decent residential neighbourhood to a collection of schools and +lodgin' houses, losin' clarse every year. Why the biggest house here is +owned by a chap that sells patent food, there's two socialists on the +town council, and the Mayor last year was Hoover, a chap that owns a +lunatic 'sylum. One of his loonies got out last March and near did for a +child on the Southgate Road before he was collared; and yet they make a +Mayor of him." + +"Have another drink?" said Jones. + +"I don't mind if I do." + +"Well, here's luck," said he, putting his nose into the new glass. + +"Luck!" said Jones. "Do Hoover's lunatics often escape?" + +"Escape--why I heard only an hour ago another of them was out. Gawd help +him if the town folk catch him at any of his tricks, and Gawd help +Hoover. A chap has no right comin' down and settin' up a business like +that in a place like this full of nursemaids and children. People bring +their innercent children down here to play on the sands, and any minit +that place may break loose like a bum-shell. _That's_ not marked down on +the prospectices they publish with pictures done in blue and yaller, and +lies about the air and water, and the salubriarity of the South Coast." + +"No, I suppose not," said Jones. + +"Well, I must be goin'," said the other, emptying his glass and wiping +his mouth on the back of his hand. "Good night to you." + +"Good night." + +The upholder of Church and State shuffled out, leaving Jones to his +thoughts. Wind of the business had got about the town, and even at that +moment no doubt people were carefully locking back doors and looking in +out houses. + +It was unfortunate that the last man to escape from the Hoover +establishment had been violently inclined, that was the one thing needed +to stimulate Rumour and make her spread. + +Having sat for ten minutes longer and consumed another glass of tepid +beer, he took his departure. + +Mrs. Henshaw let him in, and having informed her of his journey to the +station, the fruitlessness of his quest, and his opinion of the railway +company, its servants and its methods, he received his candle and went +to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +A TRAMP, AND OTHER THINGS + + +He was awakened by a glorious morning, and, looking out of his window, +he saw the street astir in the sunshine, stout men in white flannels +with morning newspapers in their hands, children already on their way to +the beach with spades and buckets, all the morning life of an English +seacoast town in Summer. + +Then he dressed. He had no razor, his beard was beginning to show, and +to go about unshaved was impossible to his nature. For a moment the wild +idea of letting his beard grow--that oldest form of disguise--occurred +to him, only to be dismissed immediately. A beard takes a month to grow, +he had neither the time nor the money to do it, nor the inclination. + +At breakfast--two kippered herrings and marmalade--he held a council of +war with himself. + +Nature has equipped every animal with means for offence and defence. To +man she has given daring, and that strange indifference in cool blood to +danger, when danger has become familiar, which seems the attribute of +man alone. + +Jones determined to risk everything, go out, prospect, find some likely +road of escape, and make a bold dash. The eight thousand pounds in the +London Bank shone before him like a galaxy of eight stars; no one knew +of its existence. What he was to do when he had secured it was a matter +for future consideration. Probably he would return right away to the +States. + +One great thing about all this Hoover business was the fact that it had +freed him from the haunting dread of those terrible sensations of +duality and negation. Fighting is the finest antidote to nerve troubles +and mental dreads, and he was fighting now for his liberty, for the fact +stood clearly before him, that, whether the Rochester family believed +him to be Rochester or believed him to be Jones, it was to their +interest to hold him as a lunatic in peaceful retirement. + +Having breakfasted he lit a cigarette, asked Mrs. Henshaw for a latch +key so that he might not trouble her, put on his panama and went out. +There was a barber's shop across the way, he entered it, found a vacant +chair and was shaved. Then he bought a newspaper and strolled in the +direction of the beach. The idea had come to him that he might be able +to hire a sailing boat and reach London that way, a preposterous and +vague idea that still, however, led him till he reached the esplanade, +and stood with the sea wind blowing in his face. + +The only sailing boats visible were excursion craft, guarded by +longshoremen, loading up with trippers, and showing placards to allure +the innocent. + +The sands were swarming, and the bathing machines crawling towards the +sea. + +He came on to the beach and took his seat on the warm, white sands, with +freedom before him had he been a gull or a fish. To take one of those +cockleshell row boats and scull a few miles down the coast would lead +him where? Only along the coast, rock-strewn beyond the sands and faced +with cliffs. Of boat craft he had no knowledge, the sea was choppy, and +the sailing boats now out seemed going like race horses over hurdles. + +No, he would wait till after luncheon, then in that somnolent hour when +all men's thoughts are a bit dulled, and vigilance least awake, he would +find some road, on good hard land, and make his dash. + +He would try and get a bicycle map of this part of Wessex. He had +noticed a big stationers' and book-sellers' near the beach, and he would +call there on his way back. + +Then he fell to reading his paper, smoking cigarettes, and watching the +crowd. + +Watching, he was presently rewarded with the sight of the present day +disgrace of England. Out of a bathing tent, and into the full sunlight, +came a girl with nothing on, for skin tight blue stockinette is nothing +in the eyes of Modesty; every elevation, every depression, every crease +in her shameless anatomy exposed to a hundred pairs of eyes, she walked +calmly towards the water. A young man to match followed. Then they +wallowed in the sea. + +Jones forgot Hoover. He recalled Lady Dolly in "Moths"--Lady Dolly, who, +on the beach of Sandbourne-on-Sea would have been the pink of +propriety, and the inhabitants of this beach were not wicked society +people, but respectable middle class folk. + +"That's pretty thick," said Jones to an old gentleman like a goat +sitting close to him, whose eyes were fixed in contemplation on the +bathers. + +"What?" + +"That girl in blue. Don't any of them wear decent clothes?" + +"The scraggy ones do," replied the other, speaking in a far away and +contented manner. + +At about half past eleven Jones left the beach, tired of the glare and +the bathers, and the sand digging children. He called at the book shop, +and for a shilling obtained a bicycle map of the coast, and sitting on a +seat outside the shop scanned it. + +There were three roads out of Sandbourne-on-Sea; the London road; a road +across the cliffs to the west; and a road across the cliffs to the east. +The easterly road led to Northbourne, a sea-side town some six or seven +miles away, the westerly road to Southbourne, some fifteen miles off. +London lay sixty miles to the north. The railway touched the London road +at Houghton Admiral, a station some nine miles up the line. + +That was the position. Should he take the London road and board a train +at Houghton Admiral, or take the road to Northbourne and get a train +from there? + +The three ways lay before him like the three Fates, and he determined on +the London road. + +However, Man proposes and God disposes. + +He folded up the map, put it in his pocket and started for home--or at +least Mrs. Henshaw's. + +Just at the commencement of the street he paused before a +photographer's to inspect the pictures exposed for view. Groups, family +parties, children, and girls with undecided features. He turned from the +contemplation of these things and found himself face to face with +Hoover. + +Hoover must have turned into the street from a bye way, for only sixty +seconds before the street had been Hooverless. He was dressed in a +Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and his calves showed huge. + +"Hello!" said Jones. + +The exclamation was ejected from him so to speak, by the mental shock. + +Hoover's hand shot out to grasp his prey. What happened then was +described by Mr. Shonts, the German draper across the way, to a friend. + +"The thin man hit Mr. Hoover in the stomack, who sat down, but lifted +himself at wance and pursued him." + +Jones ran. After him followed a constable, sprung from nowhere, boys, a +dog that seemed running for exercise, and Hoover. + +He reached the house of Mrs. Henshaw, pulled the latch key from his +pocket, plunged it in the lock, opened the door and shut it. So close +was the pursuit on him that the "bang-bang" of the knocker followed at +once on the bang of the door. + +Then the bell went, peal after peal. + +Jones made for the kitchen stairs and bolted down them, found a passage +leading to the back door, and, disregarding the bewildered Mrs. Henshaw, +who was coming out of the kitchen with her hands all over flour, found +the back yard. + +A blank wall lay before him, another on the right, and another on the +left. The left and right walls divided the Henshaw back yard from the +yards of the houses on either side, the wall immediately before him +divided it from the back yard of a house in Minerva Terrace, which was +parallel to the High Street. + +Jones chose this wall. A tenantless dog kennel standing before it helped +him, and next moment he was over, shaken up with a drop of twelve feet +and facing a clothes line full of linen. He dived under a sheet and +almost into the back of a broad woman hanging linen on a second clothes +line, found the back door of the house, which the broad woman had left +open, ran down a passage, up a kitchen stairs and into a hall. An old +gentleman in list slippers, coming out of a room on the right, asked him +what he wanted. Jones, recalling the affair later, could hear the old +gentleman's voice and words. + +He did not pause to reply. He opened the hall door, and the next moment +he was in Minerva Terrace. It was fortunately deserted. He ran to the +left, found a bye way and a terrace of artisans' dwellings, new, +hideous, and composed of yellow brick. In front of the terrace lay +fields. A gate in the hedge invited him, he climbed over it, crossed a +field, found another gate which led him to another field, and found +himself surrounded by the silence of the country, a silence pierced and +thrilled by the songs of larks. Larks make the sea lands of the south +and east coasts insufferable. One lark in a suitable setting, and, for a +while, is delightful, but twenty larks in all grades of ascent and +descent, some near, some distant, make for melancholy. + +Jones crouched in a hedge for a while to get back his breath. He was +lost. Road maps were not much use to him here. The larks insisted on +that, jubilantly or sorrowfully according to the stage of their flight. + +Then something or someone immediately behind him on the other side of +the hedge breathed a huge sigh, as if lamenting over his fate. He jumped +up. It was a cow. He could see her through the brambles and smell her +too, sweet as a Devonshire dairy. + +Then he sat down again to think and examine the map, which he had +fortunately placed in his pocket. The roads were there but how to reach +them was the problem, and the London road, to which he had pinned his +faith, was now impossible. It would be surely watched. He determined, +after a long consultation with himself, to make for Northbourne, +striking across the fields straight ahead, and picking up the cliff road +somewhere on its course. + +He judged, and rightly enough, that Hoover would hunt for him, not along +the coast but inland. Northbourne was not the road to London, even +though a train might be caught from Northbourne. The whole business was +desperate, but this course seemed the least desperate way out of it. And +he need not hurry, speed would be of no avail in this race against +Fate. + +He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Out of the nine pounds +he started with from Hoover's there remained only five pounds eleven and +ninepence. + +He had spent as follows: + + Mrs. Henshaw L2 0 0 + Panama 6 11 + Nightshirt 3 11 + Coat 15 0 + Public House 10 + Shave and Newspaper 7 + Road Map 1 0 + ---------- + L3 8 3 + +He went over these accounts and checked them in his head. Then he put +the money back in his pocket and started on his way across the fields. + +Despite all his worries this English country interested him, it also +annoyed him. Fields, the size of pocket handkerchiefs, divided one from +the other by monstrous hedges and deep ditches. To cross this country in +a straight line one would want to be a deer or a bounding kangaroo. +Gates, always at corners and always diagonal to his path, gave him +access from one field to the other. Trees there were none. The English +tree has an antipathy to the sea, and keeps away from it, but the hedge +has no sensitiveness of this sort. These hedges seemed to love the sea, +to judge by their size. + +He was just in the act of clambering over one of the innumerable gates +when a voice hailed him. He looked back. A young man in leggings, who +had evidently been following him unperceived, raised a hand. Jones +finished his business with the gate, and then, with it between him and +the stranger, waited. He was well dressed in a rough way, evidently a +superior sort of farmer, and physically a person to be reckoned with. He +was also an exceedingly cantankerous looking individual. + +"Do you know that you are trespassing?" asked he, when they were within +speaking distance. + +"No," said Jones. + +"Well, you are. I must ask you for your name and address, please." + +"What on earth for--what harm am I doing your old fields?" Jones had +forgotten his position, everything, before the outrage on common sense. + +"You are trespassing, that's all. I must ask you for your name and +address." + +Now to Jones came the recollection of something he had read somewhere. A +statement, that in England there was no law of trespass in the country +places, and that a person might go anywhere to pick mushrooms or wild +flowers, and no landlord could interfere so long as no damage was done. + +"Don't you know the law?" asked Jones. He recited the law accordingly, +to the Unknown. + +The other listened politely. + +"I ask you for your name and address," said he. "Our lawyers will settle +the other matter." + +Then anger came to Jones. + +"I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, "and my address is Carlton House +Terrace, London. I have no cards on me." + +Then the queerest sensation came to Jones, for he saw that the other had +recognised him. Rochester was evidently as well known to the ordinary +Englishman, by picture and repute, as Lloyd George. + +"I beg your pardon," said the other, "but the fact is that my land is +over-run with people from Sandbourne--sorry." + +"Oh, don't mention it," replied the Earl of Rochester. "I sha'n't do any +damage. Good day." They parted and he pursued his way. + +A mile farther on he came upon a person with broken boots, a beery face, +and clothes to match his boots. This person was seated in the sunshine +under a hedge, a bundle and a tin can beside him. + +He hailed Jones as "Guvernor" and requested a match. + +Jones supplied the match, and they fell into conversation. + +"Northbourne," said the tramp. "I'm goin' that way meself. I'll shew you +the quickest way when I've had a suck at me pipe." + +Jones rested for a moment by the hedge whilst the pipe was lit. The +trespass business was still hot in his mind. The cave-in of the Landlord +had not entirely removed the sense of outrage. + +"Aren't you afraid of being held up for trespass?" asked he. + +"Trespass," replied the other, "not me. I ain't afeared of no farmers." + +Jones gave his experience. + +"Don't you be under no bloomin' error," said the tramp, when the recital +was finished. "That chap was right enough. That chap couldn't touch the +likes of me, unless he lied and swore I'd broke fences, but he could +touch the likes of you. I know the Lor. I know it in and out. Landlords +don't know it as well as me. That chap knows the lor, else he wouldn't +a' been so keen on gettin' your name and where you lived." + +"But how could he have touched me if he cannot touch you?" + +The tramp chuckled. + +"I'll tell you," said he, "and I'll tell you what he'll do now he's got +where you live. He'll go to the Co't o' Charncery and arsk for a +'junction against you to stop you goin' over his fields. You don't want +to go over his fields any more, that don't matter. He'll get his +'junction and you'll have to pay the bloomin' costs--see--the bloomin' +costs, and what will that amahnt to? Gawd knows, maybe a hundred pound. +Lots of folks take it into their silly heads they can go where they +want. They carnt, not if the Landlord knows his Lor, not unless they're +hoofin' it like me. Lot o' use bringin' _me_ up to the Co't o' +Charncery." + +"Do you mean to say that just for walking over a field a man can be had +up to the court of Chancery and fined a hundred pounds?" + +"He ain't fined, it's took off him in costs." + +"You seem to know a lot about the law," said Jones, calling up the man +of the public house last night, and coming to the conclusion that +amongst the English lower orders there must be a vast fund of a peculiar +sort of intelligence. + +"Yes," said the tramp. "I told you I did." Then interestedly, "What +might your name be?" + +Jones repeated the magic formula to see the effect. + +"I am the Earl of Rochester." + +"Lord Rochester. Thought I knew your face. Lost half a quid over your +horse runnin' at Gatwood Park last Spring twel' months. 'White Lady' +came in second to 'The Nun,' half a quid. I'd made a bit on 'Champane +Bottle' in the sellin' plate. Run me eye over the lists and picked out +'White Lady.' Didn't know nothin' abaht her, said to a fren', 'here's my +fancy. Don't know nothin' abaht her, but she's one of Lord Rawchester's, +an' his horses run stright'--That's what I said--'His horses run +stright' and give me a stright run boss with a wooden leg before any of +your fliers with a dope in his belly or a pullin' jockey on his back. +But the grown' did her, she was beat on the post by haff an 'eck, you'll +remember. She'd a won be two lengths, on'y for that bit o' soggy grown' +be the post. That grown' want over-haulin', haff a shower o' rain, and +boss wants fins and flippers instead o' hoofs." + +"Yes," said Jones, "that's so." + +"A few barra' loads o' gravel would put it rite," continued the other, +"it ain't fair on the hosses, and it ain't fair on the backers, 'arf a +quid I dropped on that mucky bit o' grown'. Last Doncaster meetin' I +was sayin' the very same thing to Lor' Lonsdale over the Doncaster +Course. I met him, man to man like, outside the ring, and he handed me +out a cigar. We talked same as you and me might be talkin' now, and I +says to him: 'What we want's more money put into drains on the courses. +Look at them mucky farmers they way they drains their land,' said I, +'and look at us runnin' hosses and layin' our bets and let down, hosses +and backers and all, for want of the courses bein' looked after proper.'" + +He tapped the dottle out of his pipe, picked up the bundle, and rose +grumbling. + +Then he led the way in the direction of Northbourne. + +It was a little after three o'clock now, and the day was sultry. Jones, +despite his other troubles, was vastly interested in his companion. The +height of Rochester's position had never appeared truly till shown him +by the farmer and this tramp. They knew him. To them, without any doubt, +the philosophers and poets of the world were unknown, but they knew the +Earl of Rochester, and not unfavourably. + +Millions upon millions of the English world were equally acquainted with +his lordship, he was most evidently a National figure. His +unconventionality, his "larks," his lavishness, and his horse racing +propensities, however they might pain his family, would be meat to the +legions who loved a lord, who loved a bet, who loved a horse, and a +picturesque spendthrift. + +To be Rochester was not only to be a lord, it was more than that. It was +to be famous, a national character, whose picture was printed on the +retina of the million. Never had Jones felt more inclined to stick to +his position than now, with the hounds on his traces, a tramp for his +companion, and darkness ahead. He felt that if he could once get to +London, once lay his hands on that eight thousand pounds lying in the +National Provincial Bank, he could fight. Fight for freedom, get lawyers +to help him, and retain his phantom coronet. + +He had ceased to fear madness; all that dread of losing himself had +vanished, at least for the moment. Hoover had cured him. + +Meanwhile they talked as they went, the tramp laying down the law as to +rights over commons and waste lands, seeming absolutely to forget that +he was talking to, or supposed to be talking to, a landed proprietor. At +last they reached the white ribbon that runs over the cliffs from +Sandbourne to Northbourne and beyond. + +"Here's the road," said the tramp, "and I'll be takin' leave of your +lor'ship. I'll take it easy for a bit amongst them bushes, there's no +call for me to hurry. I shawnt forget meetin' your lor'ship. Blimy if I +will. Me sittin' there under that hedge an' thinkin' of that half quid I +dropped over 'White Lady' and your lor'ship comin' along--It gets me!" + +Up to this moment of parting he had not once Lordshipped Jones. + +Jones, feeling in his pocket, produced the half sovereign, which, with +five pounds one and nine pence made up his worldly wealth at the moment. + +He handed it over, and the tramp spat on it for luck. + +Then they parted, and the fugitive resumed his way with a lighter pocket +but a somewhat lighter heart. + +There are people who increase and people who reduce one's energy, it is +sometimes enough to look at them without even talking to them. The tramp +belonged to the former class. He had cheered Jones. There was nothing +particularly cheery in his conversation, all the same the effect had +been produced. + +Now, along the cliff road and coming from the direction of Northbourne a +black speck developed, resolving itself at last into the form of an old +man carrying a basket. The basket was filled with apples and Banbury +cakes. Jones bought eight Banbury cakes and two apples with his one and +nine pence, and then took his seat on the warm turf by the way to devour +them. He lay on his side as he ate and cursed Hoover. + +To lie here for an hour on this idyllic day, to watch the white gulls +flying, to listen to the whisper of the sea far below, what could be +better than that? He determined if ever he should win freedom and money +to return here for a holiday. + +He was thinking this, when, raised now on his elbow, he saw something +moving amongst the bushes and long grass of the waste lands bordering +the cliff road. + +It was a man, a man on all fours, yet moving swiftly, a sight natural +enough in the deer-stalking Highlands, but uncanny on these Wessex +downs. + +Jones leaving four Banbury cakes uneaten on the grass, sprang to his +feet, so did the crawling one. + +Then the race began. + +The pursuer was handicapped. + +Any two sides of a triangle are longer than the third. A right line +towards Jones would save many yards, but the going would be bad on +account of the brambles and bushes, a straight line to the road would +lenghten the distance to be covered, but would give a much better course +when the road was reached. He chose the latter. + +The result was, that when the race really started the pursuer was nearly +half a mile to the bad. But he had not recently consumed four Banbury +cakes and two apples. Super-Banbury cakes of the dear old days, when +margarine was ninepence a pound, flour unlimited, and currants unsought +after by the wealthy. + +Jones had not run for years. And in this connection it is quite +surprising how Society pursues a man once he gets over the barrier--and +especially when he has to run for his liberty. + +The first mile was bad, then he got his second wind handed to him, +despite everything, by a fair constitution and a fairly respectable +life, but the pursuer was now only a quarter of a mile behind. Up to +this the course had been clear with no spectators, but now came along +from the direction of Northbourne an invalid on the arm of an attendant, +and behind them a boy on a bicycle. The bicycle was an inspiration. + +It was also yellow painted, and bore a carrier in front blazoned with +the name of a Northbourne Italian Warehouseman. It contained parcels, +evidently intended for one of the few bungalows that strewed the cliff. + +The boy fought to defend his master's property, briefly, but still he +fought, till a happy stroke in the wind laid him on the sun-warmed turf. +The screams of the invalid--it was a female--sounded in the ears of +Jones like part of some fantastic dream, so seemed the bicycle. It had +no bell, the saddle wanted raising at least two inches, still it went, +and the wind was behind. + +On the right was a sheer drop of two hundred feet, and the road here +skirted the cliff edge murderously close, for the simple reason that +cliff falls had eaten the bordering grass to within a few feet of the +road. This course on an unknown and questionable bicycle laden with +parcels of tea and sugar, was open to a good many objections; they did +not occur to Jones; he was making good speed, or thought he was till the +long declivity leading to Northbourne was reached. Here he began to know +what speed really was, for he found on pressing the lever that the brake +would not act. Fortunately it was a free wheel. + +This declivity runs between detached villas and stone walls, sheltering +prim gardens, right on to the west end of the esplanade, which is, in +fact, a continuation of it. For the first few hundred yards Jones +thought that nothing could go quicker than the houses and walls rushing +past him, towards the end he was not thinking. + +The esplanade opened out, a happy band of children with buckets and +wooden spades, returning home to tea, opened out, gave place to rushing +apartment houses with green balconies on the left, rushing sea scape and +bathing machines on the right. Then the speed slackened. + +He got off shaking, and looked behind him. He had reached the east end +of the promenade. It lay, as it always lies towards five o'clock, +absolutely deserted by visitors. In the distance and just stepped out of +a newspaper kiosk a woman was standing, shading her eyes and looking +towards him. Two boatmen near her were looking in the same direction. +They did not seem excited, just mildly interested. + +At that moment appeared on the long slope leading down to the esplanade +the figure of a man running. He looked like a policeman--a sea-side +policeman. + +Jones did not pause to verify. He propped the bicycle against the rails +of a verandahed house and ran. + +The esplanade at this, the eastern end, ascends to the town by a zig-zag +road. As he took this ascent the mind of Jones, far from being clouded +or dulled, was acutely active. It saw that now the railway station of +Northbourne was out of count, flight by train was impossible, for the +station was the very first place that would be watched. The coast line, +to judge by present results, was impossible, for it seemed that to keep +to it he might go on for ever being chased till he reached John o' +Groats. + +Northbourne is the twin image of Sandbourne-on-Sea, the same long high +street, the same shops with blinds selling the same wares, the same +trippers, children with spades, and invalids. + +The two towns are rivals, each claiming the biggest brass band, the +longest esplanade, the fewer deaths from drowning, the best drains, the +most sunlight, and the swiftest trains from London. Needless to say that +one of them is not speaking the truth, a fact that does not seem to +disturb either of them in the least. + +Jones, walking swiftly, passed a sea-side boot shop, a butcher's, +greengrocer's, and Italian warehouse--the same, to judge by the name +over the door--that had sent forth the messenger boy on the bicycle. +Then came a cinema palace, with huge pictures splashed across with +yellow bands announcing: + + "TO-NIGHT" + +Then a milliner's, then a post office, and lastly a livery stable. + +In front of the latter stood a char-a-banc nearly full. A blackboard +announced in white chalk: "Two hours drive two shillings," and the +congregation in the char-a-banc had that stamp. Stout women, children, a +weedy man or two, and a honeymoon couple. + +Jones, without the slightest hesitation, climbed into the char-a-banc. +It seemed sent by Heaven. It was a seat, it went somewhere, and it was +a hiding place. Seated amongst these people he felt intuitively that a +viewless barrier lay between him and his pursuers, that it was the very +last place a man in search of a runaway would glance at. + +He was right. Whilst the char-a-banc still lingered on the chance of a +last customer, the running policeman--he was walking now, appeared at +the sea end of the street. He was a young man with a face like an apple, +he wore a straw helmet--Northbourne serves out straw helmets for its +police and straw hats for its horses on the first of June each year--and +he seemed blown. He was looking about him from right to left, but he +never looked once at the char-a-banc and its contents. He went on, and +round the corner of the street he vanished, still looking about him. + +A few moments later the vehicle started. The contents were cheerful and +communicative one with the other, conversing freely on all sorts of +matters, and Jones, listening despite himself, gathered all sorts of +information on subjects ranging from the pictures then exhibiting at the +cinema palace, to the price of butter. + +He discovered that the contents consisted of three family +parties--exclusive of the honeymoon couple--and that the appearance of +universal fraternity was deceptive, that the parties were exclusive, the +conversation of each being confined to its own members. + +So occupied was his mind by these facts that they were a mile and a half +away from Northbourne and in the depths of the country before a great +doubt seized him. + +He called across the heads of the others to the driver asking where they +were going to. + +"Sandbourne-on-Sea," said the driver. + +Now, though the Sandbournites hate the Northbournites as the Guelphs the +Ghibellines, though the two towns are at advertisemental war, the +favourite pleasure drive of the char-a-bancs of Sandbourne is to +Northbourne, and vice versa. It is chosen simply because the road is the +best thereabouts, and the gradients the easiest for the horses. + +"Sandbourne-on-Sea?" cried Jones. + +"Yes," said the driver. + +The vision of himself being carted back to Sandbourne-on-Sea with that +crowd and then back again to Northbourne--if he were not +caught--appeared to Jones for the moment as the last possible grimace of +Fate. He struggled to get out, calling to the driver that he did not +want to go to Sandbourne. The vehicle stopped, and the driver demanded +the full fare--two shillings. Jones produced one of his sovereigns but +the man could not make change, neither could any of the passengers. + +"I'll call at the livery stables as I go back," said Jones, "and pay +them there." + +"Where are you stayin' in the town?" asked the driver. + +"Belinda Villa," said Jones. + +It was the name of the villa against whose rails he had left the +bicycle. The idiocy of the title had struck him vaguely at the moment +and the impression had remained. + +"Mrs. Cass?" + +"Yes." + +"Mrs. Cass's empty." + +This unfortunate condition of Mrs. Cass did not floor Jones. + +"She was yesterday," said he, "but I have taken the front parlour and a +bed-room this afternoon." + +"That's true," said a fat woman, "I saw the gentleman go in with his +luggage." + +In any congregation of people you will always find a liar ready to lie +for fun, or the excitement of having a part in the business on hand; +failing that, a person equipped with an imagination that sees what it +pleases. + +This amazing statement of the fat woman almost took Jones' breath away. +But there are other people in a crowd beside liars. + +"Why can't the gentleman leave the sovereign with the driver and get the +change in the morning?" asked one of the weedy looking men. This +scarecrow had not said a word to anyone during the drive. He seemed born +of mischance to live for that supreme moment, diminish an honest man's +ways of escape, and wither. + +Jones withered him: + +"You shut up," said he. "It's no affair of yours--cheek." Then to +the driver: "You know my address, if you don't trust me you can come +back with me and get change." + +Then he turned and walked off whilst the vehicle drove on. + +He waited till a bend of the road hid it from view, and then he took to +the fields on the left. + +He had still the remains of the packet of cigarettes he had bought at +Sandbourne, and, having crossed four or five gates, he took his seat +under a hedge and lit a cigarette. + +He was hungry. He had done a lot of work on four Banbury cakes and an +apple. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD WHO WOULD BELIEVE HIM + + +The tobacco took the edge from his desire for food, increased his blood +pressure, and gave rest to his mind. + +He sat thinking. The story of "Moths" rose up before his mind and he +fell to wondering how it ended and what became of the beautiful heroine +with whom he had linked Teresa Countess of Rochester, of Zouroff with +whom he had linked Maniloff, of Correze with whom he had linked himself. + +The colour of that story had tinctured all his sea-side experiences. Then +Mrs. Henshaw rose up before his mind. What was she thinking of the +lodger who had flashed through her life and vanished over the back +garden wall? And the interview between her and Hoover--that would have +been well worth seeing. Then the boy on the bicycle and the screaming +invalid rose before him, and that mad rush down the slope to the +esplanade; if those children with spades and buckets had not parted as +they did, if a dog had got in his way, if the slope had ended in a +curve! He amused himself with picturing these possibilities and their +results; and then all at once a drowsiness more delightful than any +dream closed on him and he fell asleep. + +It was after dark when he awoke with the remnant of a moon lighting the +field before him. From far away and borne on the wind from the sea came +a faint sound as of a delirious donkey with brass lungs braying at the +moon. It was the sound of a band. The Northbourne brass band playing in +the Cliff Gardens above the moonlit sea. Jones felt to see that his +cigarettes and matches were safe in his pocket, then he started, taking +a line across country, trusting in Providence as a guide. + +Sometimes he paused and rested on a gate, listening to the faint and +indeterminate sounds of the night, through which came occasionally the +barking of a distant dog like the beating of a trip hammer. + +It was a perfect summer's night, one of those rare nights that England +alone can produce; there were glow worms in the hedges and a scent of +new mown hay in the air. Though the music of the band had been blotted +out by distance, listening intently he caught the faintest suspicion of +a whisper, continuous, and evidently the sound of the sea. + +An hour later, that is to say towards eleven o'clock, weary with finding +his way out of fields into fields, into grassy lanes and around farm +house buildings, desperate, and faint from hunger, Jones found a road +and by the road a bungalow with a light in one of the windows. + +A dauntingly respectable-looking bungalow in the midst of a well +laid-out garden. + +Jones opened the gate and came up the path. He was going to demand food, +offer to pay for it if necessary, and produce gold as an evidence of +good faith. + +He came into the verandah, found the front door which was closed, struck +a match, found the bell, pulled and pulled it. There was no response. He +waited a little and then rang again, with a like result. Then he came to +the lighted window. + +It was a French window, only half closed, and a half turned lamp showed +a comfortably furnished room and a table laid out for supper. + +Two places were set. A cold fowl intact on a dish garnished with parsley +stood side by side with a York ham the worse for wear, a salad, a roll +of cowslip coloured butter, a loaf of home-made bread and a cheese +tucked around with a snow-white napkin made up the rest of the eatables +whilst a decanter of claret shone invitingly by the seat of the carver. +There was nothing wanting, or only the invitation. + +The fowl supplied that. + +Jones pushed the window open and entered. Half closing it again, he took +his seat at the table placing his hat on the floor beside him. Taking a +sovereign from his pocket, he placed it on the white cloth. Then he fell +to. + +You can generally tell a man by his claret, and judging from this claret +the unknown who had supplied the feast must have been a most estimable +man. + +A man of understanding and parts, a man not to be deluded by specious +wine lists, a generous warmhearted and full-blooded soul--and here he +was. + +A step sounded on the verandah, the window was pushed open and a man of +forty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark and saturnine stood +before the feaster. + +He showed no surprise. Removing his hat he bowed. + +Jones half rose. + +"Hello," said he confusedly, with his mouth full--then he subsided into +his chair. + +"I must apologise for being late," said the tall man, placing his hat on +a chair, rubbing his long hands together and moving to the vacant seat. +"I was unavoidably detained. But I'm glad you did not wait supper." + +He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself out +a glass of claret. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon the +cloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it in +his pocket. + +"That's right," said the unknown. Then as if in reply to a question: "I +will have a wing, please." + +Jones cut a wing of the fowl, placed it in the extra plate which he had +placed on one side of the table and presented it. The other cut himself +some bread, helped himself to salad, salt and pepper and started eating, +absolutely as though nothing unusual had occurred or was occurring. + +For half a minute or so neither spoke. Then Jones said: + +"Look here," said he, "I want to make some explanations." + +"Explanations," said the long man, "what about?" + +Jones laughed. + +"That sovereign which I put on the table and which I have put back in my +pocket. I must apologise. Had I gone away before you returned that would +have been left behind to show that your room had been entered neither by +a hobo nor a burglar, nor by some cad who had committed an +impertinence--perhaps you will believe that." + +The long man bowed. + +"But," went on Jones, "by a man who was driven by circumstances to seek +hospitality without an invitation." + +The other had suddenly remembered the ham and had risen and was helping +himself, his pince-nez which he wore on a ribbon and evidently only for +reading purposes, dangling against his waistcoat-buttons. + +"By circumstance," said he, "that is interesting. Circumstance is the +master dramatist--are you interested in the Drama?" + +"Interested!" said Jones. "Why, I _am_ a drama. I reckon I'm the biggest +drama ever written, and that's why I am here to-night." + +"Ah," said the other, "this is becoming more interesting still or +promising to become, for I warn you, plainly, that what may appear of +intense interest to the individual is generally of little interest to +the general. Now a man may, let's say, commit some little act that the +thing we call Justice disapproves of, and eluding Justice finds himself +pressed by Circumstance into queer and dramatic positions, those +positions though of momentary and intense interest to the man in +question would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls or +the girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by that +thread of--what shall we call it--that is the backbone of the thing we +call Story." + +"Oh, Justice isn't bothering after me," said Jones--Then vague +recollections began to stir in his mind, that long glabrous face, the +set of that jaw, that forehead, that hair, brushed back. + +"Why, you're Mr. Kellerman, aren't you?" said he. + +The other bowed. + +"Good heavens," said Jones, "I ought to have known you. I've seen your +picture often enough in the States, and your cinema plays--haven't read +your books, for I'm not a reading man--but I've been fair crazy over +your cinema plays." + +Kellerman bowed. + +"Help yourself to some cheese," said he, "it's good. I get it from +Fortnum and Masons. When I stepped into this room and saw you here, for +the first moment I was going to kick you out, then I thought I'd have +some fun with you and freeze you out. So you're American? You are +welcome. But just tell me this. Why did you come in, and how?" + +"I came in because I am being chased," said Jones. "It's not the law, I +reckon I'm an honest citizen--in purpose, anyhow, and as to how I came +in I wanted a crust of bread and rang at your hall door." + +"Servants don't sleep here," said Kellerman. "Cook snores, bungalow like +a fiddle for conveying sounds, come here for sleep and rest. They sleep +at a cottage down the road." + +"So?" said Jones. "Well, getting no reply I looked in at the window, saw +the supper, and came in." + +"That's just the sort of thing that might occur in a photo play," said +Kellerman. "When I saw you, as I stepped in, sitting quietly at supper +the situation struck me at once." + +"You call that a situation," said Jones. "It's bald to some of the +situations I have been in for the last God knows how long." + +"You interest me," said Kellerman, helping himself to cheese. "You talk +with such entire conviction of the value of your goods." + +"How do you mean the value of my goods?" + +"Your situations, if you like the term better. Don't you know that good +situations are rarer than diamonds and more valuable? Have you ever read +Pickwick?" + +"Yep." + +"Then you can guess what I mean. Situations don't occur in real life, +they have to be dug for in the diamond fields of the mind and--" + +"Situations don't occur in real life!" said Jones. "Don't they--now, see +here, I've had supper with you and in return for your hospitality I'll +tell you every thing that's happened to me if you'll hear it. I guess +I'll shatter your illusions. I'll give you a sample: I belong to the +London Senior Conservative Club and yet I don't. I have the swellest +house in London yet it doesn't belong to me. I'm worth one million and +eight thousand pounds, yet the other day I had to steal a few +sovereigns, but the law could not touch me for stealing them. I have an +uncle who is a duke yet I am no relation to him. Sounds crazy, doesn't +it, all the same it's fact. I don't mind telling you the whole thing if +you care to hear it. I won't give you the right names because there's a +woman in the case, but I bet I'll lift your hair." + +Kellerman did not seem elated. + +"I don't mind listening to your story," said he, "on one condition." + +"What's that?" + +"That you will not be offended if I switch you off if the thing palls +and hand you your hat, for I must tell you that though I came down here +to get sleep, I do most of my sleeping between two in the morning and +noon. I work at night and I had intended working to-night." + +"Oh, you can switch me off when you like," said Jones. + +Supper being finished, Kellerman fastened the window, and, carrying the +lamp, led the way to a comfortably furnished study. Here he produced +cigars and put a little kettle on a spirit stove to make tea. + +Then, sitting opposite to his host, in a comfortable armchair, Jones +began his story. + +He had told his infernal story so often that one might have fancied it a +painful effort, even to begin. It was not. He had now an audience in +touch with him. He suppressed names, or rather altered them, +substituting Manchester for Rochester and Birdwood for Birdbrook. The +audience did not care, it recked nothing of titles, it wanted Story--and +it got it. + +At about one o'clock the recital was interrupted whilst tea was made, at +two o'clock or a little after the tale finished. + +"Well?" said Jones. + +Kellerman was leaning back in his chair with eyes half closed, he seemed +calculating something in his head. + +"D' you believe me?" + +Kellerman opened his eyes. + +"Of course I believe you. If you had invented all that you would be +clever enough to know what your invention is worth and not hand it out +to a stranger. But I doubt whether anyone else will believe +you--however, that is your affair--you have given me five reels of the +finest stuff, or at least the material for it, and if I ever care to use +it I will fix you up a contract giving you twenty-five per cent +royalties. But there's one thing you haven't given me--the denouement. +I'm more than interested in that. I'm not thinking of money, I'm a film +actor at heart and I want to help in the play. Say, may I help?" + +"How?" + +"Come along with you to the end, give all the assistance in my power--or +even without that just watch the show. I want to see the last act for +I'm blessed if I can imagine it." + +"I'd rather not," said Jones. "You might get to know the real names of +the people I'm dealing with, and as there is a woman in the business I +don't feel I ought to give her name away even to you. No. I reckon I'll +pull through alone, but if you'd give me a sofa to sleep on to-night I'd +be grateful. Then I can get away in the morning." + +Kellerman did not press the point. + +"I'll give you better than a sofa," he said. "There's a spare bed, and +you'd better not start in the morning; give them time to cool down. Then +towards evening you can make a dash. The servants here are all right, +they'll think you are a friend run down from town to see me. I'll +arrange all that." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +PEBBLEMARSH + + +At five o'clock next day, Jones, re-dressed by Kellerman in a morning +coat rather the worse for wear--a coat that had been left behind at the +bungalow by one of Kellerman's friends--and a dark cloth cap, took his +departure from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, but +quite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a grey flannel +tennis coat and wearing a Panama--and that was the main point. + +Kellerman had also worked up a history and personality for the newly +attired one. + +"You are Mr. Isaacson," said he. + +"Here's the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago, put it in +your pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card, +you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only five +miles down the road; there's a station there, but you'd better avoid +that. There's a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, +scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worst +comes to the worst refer to me and come back here. I would love that +interview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly +excited, and myself." + +He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his +uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote he +talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the +only really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel. + +"You see, all black faces are pretty much the same," said he. "Their +predominant expression is black, but I haven't got the fixings nor the +coloured pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo, so I reckon you'll +just have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the God of the Hebrews I +haven't made you an old clothes man--watches are respectable. Here are +your letters, they are short but credible. Have you enough money?" + +"Lots," said Jones, "and I don't know in the least how to thank you for +what you have done. I'd have been had, sure, wearing that hat and +coat--well, maybe we'll meet again." + +They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road in +the direction of Pebblemarsh, Kellerman watching till a bend hid him +from view. + +Kellerman had in some mysterious way added a touch of the footlights to +this business. This confounded Kellerman who thought in terms of reels +and situations, had managed to inspire Jones with the feeling that he +was moving on the screen, and that any moment the hedgerows might give +up an army of pursuers to the delight of a hidden audience. + +However, the hedgerows of the Pebblemarsh road gave up nothing but the +odours of briar and woodbine, nothing pursued him but the twitter of +birds and the songs of larks above the summer-drowsy fields. + +There is nothing much better to live in the memory than a real old +English country road on a perfect summer afternoon, no pleasanter +companion. + +Pebblemarsh is a town of some four thousand souls. It possesses a dye +factory. It once possessed the only really good trout stream in this +part of the country, with the inevitable result, for in England when a +really good trout stream is discovered a dye factory is always erected +upon its banks. Pebblemarsh now only possesses a dye factory. + +The main street runs north and south, and as Jones passed up it he might +have fancied himself in Sandbourne or Northbourne, so much alike are +these three towns. + +Half way up and opposite the post office, an archway disclosed itself +with, above it, the magic word, + + "GARAGE" + +He entered the place. There were no signs of cars, nothing of a movable +description in that yard, with the exception of a stout man in leggings +and shirtsleeves, who, seeing the stranger, came forward to receive him. + +"Have you a car?" asked Jones. + +"They're all out except a Ford," said the stout man. "Did you want to go +for a drive?" + +"No. I want to run up to London in a hurry--what's the mileage from +here?" + +"We reckon it sixty three miles from here to London--that is to say the +Old Kent Road." + +"That's near enough," said Jones. "What's the price?" + +"A shilling a mile to take you, and a sixpence a mile for the car coming +back." + +"What's the total?" + +The proprietor figured in his head for a moment. "Four, fifteen and +six," said he. + +"I'll take the car," said Jones, "and I'll pay you now. Can I have it at +once?" + +The proprietor went to a door and opened it. "Jim," cried he, "are you +there? Gentleman wants the Ford taken to London, get her out and get +yourself ready." + +He turned to Jones. + +"She'll be ready inside ten minutes if that will do?" + +"That'll do," said Jones, "and here's the money." He produced the +chamois leather bag, paid the five sovereigns, and received five and +sixpence change--and also a receipt which he put in his pocket. Then Jim +appeared, an inconspicuous looking man, wriggling into a driving coat +that had seen better days, the Ford was taken from its den, the tyres +examined, and the petrol tank filled. + +"Haven't you an overcoat?" asked the proprietor. "It'll be chilly after +sundown." + +"No," said Jones. "I came down without one, the weather was so fine--It +won't hurt." + +"Better have a coat," said the proprietor. "I'll lend you one. Jim will +fetch it back." He went off, and returned with a heavy coat on his arm. + +"That's good of you," said Jones. "Thanks--I'll put it on now to save +trouble." Then a bright idea struck him. "What I'm afraid of most is my +eyes, the wind tries them. Have you any goggles?" + +"I believe there's an old pair in the office," said the proprietor, +"hold on a minute." He went off and returned with the goggles. Jones +thanked him, put them on, and got into the car. + +"Pleasant journey to you," said the proprietor. + +Then they started. + +They turned up the street and along the road by which Jones had come. +Then they struck into the road where the "Lucknows" and "Cawnpores" +hinted of old Indian Colonels. + +They passed the gates of the Hoover establishment. It was open, and an +attendant was gazing up and down the street. He looked at the car but he +did not recognize the occupant, then several more residential roads were +left behind, a highly respectable cemetery, a tin chapel, and the car, +taking a hill as Fords know how, dropped Sandbourne-on-Sea to +invisibility and surrounded itself with vast stretches of green and sun +warmed country, June scented, and hazy with the warmth of summer. + +They passed hop gardens and hamlets, broad meadows and grazing cattle, +bosky woods and park lands. + +Jones, though he had taken the goggles off, saw little of the beauty +around him. He was recognising facts, and asking questions of himself. + +If Hoover or the police were to call at the garage, what would happen? +Knowing the route of the car could they telegraph to towns on the way +and have him arrested? How did the English law stand as regards escaped +gentlemen with hallucinations? Could they be arrested like criminals? +Surely not--and yet as regards the law, who could be sure of anything? +Jim, the speechless driver, could tell him nothing on these points. + +Towards dusk they reached a fairly big town, and in the very centre of +the main street, Jim stopped the car to light the headlamps. A +policeman, passing on his beat, paused to inspect the operation and then +moved on, and the car resumed its way, driving into a world of twilight +and scented hedges, where the glowworms were lighting up, and over which +the sky was showing a silvery sprinkle of stars. + +Two more towns they passed unhindered, and then came the fringe of +London, a maze of lights and ways and houses, tram lines, and then an +endless road, half road, half street, lines of shops, lines of old +houses and semi gardens. + +Jim turned in his seat. "This here's the Kent Road," said he. "We're +about the middle of it, which part did you want?" + +"This will do," said Jones, "pull her up." + +He got out, took the four and sixpence from his pocket, and gave Jim two +shillings for a tip. + +"Going all the way back to-night?" asked he, as he wriggled out of the +coat, and handed it over with the goggles. + +"No," said Jim. "I'll stop at the last pub we passed for the night. +There ain't no use over taxin' a car." + +"Well, good night to you," said Jones. He watched the car turning and +vanishing, then, with a feeling of freedom he had never before +experienced, he pushed on London-wards. + +With only two and sixpence in his pocket, he would have to wander about +all night, or sit on the embankment. He had several times seen the +outcasts on the embankment seats at night, and pitied them; he did not +pity them now. They were free men and women. + +The wind had died away and the night was sultry, much pleasanter out of +doors than in, a general term that did not apply to the Old Kent Road. + +The old road leading down to Kent was once, no doubt, a pleasant enough +place, but pleasure had long forsaken it, and cleanliness. It was here +that David Copperfield sold his jacket, and the old clothiers' shops are +so antiquated that any of them might have been the scene of the +purchase. To-night the old Kent Road was swarming, and the further Jones +advanced towards the river the thicker seemed the throng. + +At a flaring public house, and for the price of a shilling, he obtained +enough food in the way of sausages and mashed potatoes, to satisfy his +hunger, a half pint tankard of beer completed the satisfaction of his +inner man, and having bought a couple of packets of navy cut cigarettes +and a box of matches, he left the place and pursued his way towards the +river. + +He had exactly tenpence in his pocket, and he fell to thinking as he +walked, of the extraordinary monetary fluctuations he had experienced in +this city of London. At the Savoy that fatal day he had less than ten +pounds, next morning, though robed as a Lord, he had only a penny, the +penny had been reduced to a halfpenny by the purchase of a newspaper, +the halfpenny swelled to five pounds by Rochester's gift, the five +pounds sprang in five minutes to eight thousand, owing to Voles, the +eight thousand to a million eight thousand, owing to Mulhausen, Simms +and Cavendish had stripped him of his last cent, the Smithers affair had +given him five pounds, now he had only ten pence, and to-morrow at nine +o'clock he would have eight thousand. + +It will be noted that he did not consider that eight thousand his, till +it was safe in his pocket in the form of notes--he had learned by bitter +experience to put his trust in nothing but the tangible. He reached the +river and the great bridge that spans it here, and on the bridge he +paused, leaning his elbow on the parapet, and looking down stream. + +The waning moon had risen, painting the water with silver; barge lights +and the lights of tugs and police boats shewed points of orange and +dribbles of ruffled gold, whilst away down stream to the right, the airy +fairy tracery of the Houses of Parliament fretted the sky. + +It was a nocturne after the heart of Whistler, and Jones, as he gazed at +it, felt for the first time the magic of this wonderful half revealed +city with its million yellow eyes. He passed on, crossing to the right +bank, and found the Strand. Here in a bar, and for the price of half a +pint of beer, he sat for some twenty minutes watching the customers and +killing Time, then, with his worldly wealth reduced to eightpence, he +wandered off westward, passing the Savoy, and pausing for a moment to +peep down the great archway at the gaily lit hotel. + +At midnight he had gravitated to the embankment, and found a seat not +overcrowded. + +Here he fell in with a gentleman, derelict like himself, a free spoken +individual, whose conversation wiled away an hour. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +THE BLIGHTED CITY + + +Said the person after a request for a match: "Warm night, but there's a +change in the weather coming on, or I'm greatly mistaken. I've lost +nearly everything in the chops and changes of life, but there's one +thing I haven't lost--my barometer--that's to say my rheumatism. It +tells me when rain is coming as sure as an aneroid. London is pretty +full for the time of year, don't you think?" + +"Yes," said Jones, "I reckon it is." + +They talked, the gentleman with the barometer passing from the weather +to politics, from politics to high finance, from high finance to +himself. He had been a solicitor. + +"Disbarred, as you see, for nothing, but what a hundred men are doing at +the present moment. There's no justice in the world, except maybe in the +Law Courts. I'm not one of those who think the Law is an ass, no, +there's a great deal of common sense in the Law of England. I'm not +talking of the Incorporated Law Society that shut me out from a living, +for a slip any man might make. I'm talking of the old Laws of England as +administered by his Majesty's Judges; study them, and you will be +astonished at their straight common-sense and justice. I'm not holding +any brief for lawyers--I'm frank, you see--the business of lawyers is to +wriggle round and circumvent the truth, to muddy evidence, confuse +witnesses and undo justice. I'm just talking of the laws." + +"Do you know anything of the laws of lunacy?" asked Jones. + +"Something." + +"I had a friend who was supposed to be suffering from mind trouble, two +doctors doped him and put him away in an asylum--he was quite harmless." + +"What do you mean by doped him?" asked the other. + +"Gave him a drug to quiet him, and then took him off in an automobile." + +"Was there money involved?" + +"You may say there was. He was worth a million." + +"Anyone to benefit by his being put away?" + +"Well, I expect one might make out a case of that; the family would have +the handling of the million, wouldn't they?" + +"It all depends--but there's one thing certain, there'd be a thundering +law case for any clever solicitor to handle if the plaintiff were not +too far gone in his mind to plead. Anyhow, the drugging is out of +order--whole thing sounds fishy." + +"Suppose he escaped," said Jones. "Could they take him back by force?" + +"That's a difficult question to answer. If he were cutting up shines it +would be easy, but if he were clever enough to pretend to be sane it +might be difficult. You see, he would have to be arrested, no man can go +up and seize another man in the street and say: You're mad, come along +with me, simply because, even if he holds a certificate of lunacy +against the other man the other man might say you've made a mistake, I'm +not the person you want. Then it would be a question of swearing before +a magistrate. The good old Laws of England are very strict about the +freedom of the body, and the rights of the individual man to be heard in +his own defence. If your lunatic were not too insane, and were to take +refuge in a friend's house, and the friend were to back him, that would +make things more difficult still." + +"If he were to take refuge in his own house?" + +"Oh, that would make the thing still more difficult, very much more so. +If, of course, he were not conducting himself in a manner detrimental to +the public peace, firing guns out of windows and so forth. The laws of +England are very strict about entering a man's house. Of course, were +the pursuers to go before a magistrate and swear that the pursued were a +dangerous lunatic, then a right of search and entry might be obtained, +but on the pursuers would lie the onus of proof. Now pauper lunatics are +very easily dealt with: the Relieving Officer, on the strength of a +certificate of lunacy, can go to the poor man's cottage or tenement, and +take him away, for, you see, the man possessing no property it is +supposed that no man is interested in his internment, but once +introduce the property element and there is the very devil to pay, +especially in cases where the lunatic is only eccentric and does not +come into court with straws in his hair, so to speak." + +"I get you," said Jones. He offered cigarettes, and presently the +communicative one departed, having borrowed fourpence on the strength of +his professional advice. + +The rest of that night was a very good imitation of a nightmare. Jones +tried several different seats in succession, and managed to do a good +deal of walking. Dawn found him on London Bridge, watching the birth of +another perfect day, but without enthusiasm. + +He was cheerful but tired. The thought that at nine o'clock or +thereabouts, he would be able to place his hands on eight thousand +pounds, gave him the material for his cheerfulness. He had often read of +the joy of open air life, and the freedom of the hobo; but open air life +in London, on looking back upon it, did not appeal to him. He had been +twice moved on by policemen, and his next door neighbours, after the +departure of the barometer man, were of a type that inspired neither +liking nor trust. + +He heard Big Ben booming six o'clock. He had three hours still before +him, and he determined to take it out in walking. He would go citywards, +and then come back with an appetite for breakfast. + +Having made this resolve, he started, passing through the deserted +streets till he reached the Bank, and then onwards till he reached the +Mile End Road. + +As he walked he made plans. When he had drawn his money he would +breakfast at a restaurant, he fixed upon Romanos', eggs and bacon and +sausages, coffee and hot rolls would be the _menu_. Then he fell to +wondering whether Romanos' would be open for breakfast, or whether it +was of the type of restaurant that only serves luncheons and dinners. If +it were, then he could breakfast at the Charing Cross Hotel. + +These considerations led him a good distance on his way. Then the Mile +End Road beguiled him, lying straight and foreign looking, and empty in +the sunlight. The Barometer man's weather apparatus must have been at +fault, for in all the sky there was not a cloud, nor the symptom of the +coming of a cloud. + +Away down near the docks, a clock over a public house pointed to half +past seven, and he judged it time to return. + +He came back. The Mile End Road was still deserted, the city round the +bank was destitute of life, Fleet Street empty. + +Pompeii lay not more utterly dead than this weird city of vast business +palaces, and the Strand shewed nothing of life or almost nothing, every +shop was shuttered though now it was close upon nine o'clock. + +Something had happened to London, some blight had fallen on the +inhabitants, death seemed everywhere, not seen but hinted at. Stray +recollections of weird stories by H. G. Wells passed through the mind +of Jones. He recalled the city of London when the Martians had done with +it, that city of death, and horror, and sunlight and silence. + +Then of a sudden, as he neared the Law Courts, the appalling truth +suddenly suggested itself to him. + +He walked up to a policeman on point of duty at a corner, a policeman +who seemed under the mesmerism of the general gloom and blight, a +policeman who might have been the blue concrete core of negation. + +"Say, officer," said Jones, "what day's to-day?" + +"Sunday," said the policeman. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +A JUST MAN ANGERED + + +When things are piled one on top of another beyond a certain height, +they generally come down with a crash. + +That one word "Sunday" was the last straw for Jones, sweeping away +breakfast, bank and everything; coming on top of the events of the last +twenty-four hours, it brought his mental complacency to ruin, ruin from +which shot blazing jets of wrath. + +Red rage filled him. He had been made game of, every man and everything +was against him. Well, he would bite. He would strike. He would attack, +careless of everything, heedless of everything. + +A mesmerised looking taxi-cab, crawling along on the opposite side of +the way, fortunately caught his eye. + +"I'll make hay!" cried Jones, as he rushed across the street. He stopped +the cab. + +"10A, Carlton House Terrace," he cried to the driver. He got in and shut +the door with a bang. + +He got out at Carlton House Terrace, ran up the steps of 10A, and rang +the bell. + +The door was opened by the man who had helped to eject Spicer. He did +not seem in the least surprised to see Jones. + +"Pay that taxi," said Jones. + +"Yes, my Lord," replied the flunkey. + +Jones turned to the breakfast-room. The faint smell of coffee met him at +the door as he opened it. There were no servants in the room. Only a +woman quietly breakfasting with the Life of St. Thomas a Kempis by her +plate. + +It was Venetia Birdbrook. + +She half rose from her chair when she saw Jones. He shut the door. The +sight of Venetia acted upon him almost as badly as the word "Sunday" had +done. + +"What are you doing here?" said he. "I know--you and that lot had me +tucked away in a lunatic asylum; now you have taken possession of the +house." + +Venetia was quite calm. + +"Since the house is not yours," said she, "I fail to see how my presence +here affects you. We know the truth. Dr. Simms has arrived at the +conclusion that your confession was at least based on truth. That you +are what you proclaimed yourself to be, a man named Jones. We thought +you were mad, we see now that you are an impostor. Kindly leave this +house or I will call for a policeman." + +Jones' mind lost all its fire. Hatred can cool as well as inflame and he +hated Venetia and all her belongings, including her dowager mother and +her uncle the duke, with a hatred well based on reason and fact. All his +fear of mind disturbance should he go on playing the part of Rochester +had vanished, the fires of tribulation had purged them away. + +"I don't know what you are talking about," said he. "Do you mean that +joke I played on you all? I am the Earl of Rochester, this is my house, +and I request you to leave it. Don't speak. I know what you are going to +say. You and your family will do this and you will do that. You will do +nothing. Even if I were an impostor you would dare to do nothing. Your +family washing is far, far too much soiled to expose it in public. + +"If I were an impostor, who can say I have not played an honourable +game? I have recovered valuable property--did I touch it and take it +away? Did I expose to the public an affair that would have caused a +scandal? You will do nothing and you know it. You did not even dare to +tell the servants here what has happened, for the servant who let me in +was not a bit surprised. Now, if you have finished your breakfast, will +you kindly leave my house?" + +Venetia rose and took up her book. + +"_Your_ house," said she. + +"Yes, my house. From this day forth, my house. But that is not all. +To-morrow I will get lawyers to work and I'll get apologies as big as +houses from the whole lot of you--else I'll prosecute." He was getting +angry, "prosecute you for doping me." Recollections of the Barometer +man's advice came to him, "doping me in order to lay your hands on that +million of money." + +He went to the bell and rang it. + +"We want no scene before the servants," said Venetia hurriedly. + +"Then kindly go," said Jones, "or you will have a perfect panorama +before the servants." + +A servant entered. + +"Send Church here," said Jones. He was trembling like a furious dog. + +He had got the whole situation in hand. He had told his tale and acted +like an honourable man, the fools had disbelieved him and doped him. +They had scented the truth but they dared do nothing. Mulhausen and the +recovered mine, the Plinlimon letters, Rochester's past, all these were +his bastions, to say nothing of Rochester's suicide. + +The fear of publicity held them in a vice. Even were they to go to +America and prove that a man called Jones exactly like the Earl of +Rochester had lived in Philadelphia, go to the Savoy and prove that a +man exactly like the Earl of Rochester had lived there, produce the +clothes he had come home in that night--all of that would lead them, +where--to an action at law. + +They could not arrest him as an impostor till they had proved him an +impostor. To prove that, they would have to turn the family history +inside out before a gaping public. + +Mr. Church came in. + +"Church," said Jones, "I played a practical joke on--on my people. I met +a man called Jones at the Savoy--well, we needn't go into details, he +was very like me, and I told my people for a joke that I was Jones. The +fools thought I was mad. They called in two doctors and drugged me and +hauled me off to a place. I got out, and here I am back. What do you +think of that?" + +"Well, my Lord," said Church, "if I may say it to you, those practical +jokes are dangerous things to play--Lord Langwathby--" + +"Was he here?" + +"He came last night, my Lord, to have a personal explanation about a +telegram he said you sent him as a practical joke, some time ago, taking +him up to Cumberland." + +"I'll never play another," said Jones. "Tell them to bring me some +breakfast, and look here, Church, I've told my sister to leave the house +at once. I want no more of her here. See that her luggage is taken down +at once." + +"Yes, my Lord." + +"And see here, Church, let no one in. Lord Langwathby, or anyone else. I +want a little peace. By the way, have a taxi sent for, and tell me when +my sister's luggage is down." + +In the middle of breakfast, Church came in to say that Miss Birdbrook +was departing and Jones came into the hall to verify the fact. + +Venetia had brought a crocodile skin travelling bag and a trunk. + +These were being conveyed to a taxi. + +Not one word did she say to relieve her outraged feelings. The fear of a +"scene before the servants" kept her quiet. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +HE FINDS HIMSELF + + +That evening at nine o'clock, Jones sat in the smoking-room, writing. He +had trusted Church with an important mission on the upshot of which his +whole future depended. + +If you will review his story, as he himself was reviewing it now, you +will see that, despite a strong will and a mind quick to act, the +freedom of his will had always been hampered by circumstance. + +Circumstance from the first had determined that he should be a Lord. + +I leave it to philosophers to determine what Circumstance is. I can only +say that from a fair knowledge of life, Circumstance seems to me more +than a fortuitous happening of things. Who does not know the man of +integrity and ability, the man destined for the Presidency or the +College chair, who remains in an office all his life? Luck is somehow +against him. Or the man who, starting in life with everything against +him, arrives, not by creeping, but by leaps and bounds. + +I do not wish to cast a shade on individual effort; I only say this: If +you ever find Circumstance, whose other name is Fortune, feeling for you +in order to make you a lord, don't kick, for when Fortune takes an +interest in a man, she is cunning as a woman. She is a woman in fact. + +At half past nine, a knock came to the door. It was opened by Church, +who ushered in Teresa, Countess of Rochester. + +Jones rose from his chair, Church shut the door, and they found +themselves alone and face to face. + +The girl did not sit down. She stood holding the back of a chair, and +looking at the man before her. She looked scared, dazed, like a person +suddenly awakened from sleep, in a strange place. + +Jones knew at once. + +"You have guessed the truth," said he, "that I am not your husband." + +"I knew it," she replied, "when you told us in the drawing-room-- The +others thought you mad. I knew you were speaking the truth." + +"That was why you ran from the room." + +"Yes; what more have you to say?" + +"I have a very great deal more to say; will you not sit down?" + +She sat down on the edge of a chair, folded her hands and continued +looking at him with that scared, hunted expression. + +"I want to say just this," said Jones. "Right through this business from +the very start I have tried to play a straight game. I can guess from +your face that you fear me as if I were something horrible. I don't +blame you. I ask you to listen to me. + +"Your husband took advantage of two facts: the fact that I am his twin +image, as he called it, and the fact that I was temporarily without +money and stranded in London. I am not a drunkard, but that night I came +under the influence of strong drink. He took advantage of that to send +me home as himself. I am going to say a nasty thing; that was not the +action of a gentleman." + +The girl winced. + +"Never," went on Jones, "would I say things against a man who is dead, +yet I am forced to tell you the truth, so that you may see this man as +he was--wait." + +He went to the bureau and took out some papers. He handed her one. She +read the contents: + + "Stick to it--if you can. You'll see why I couldn't. + + "ROCHESTER." + +"That is your husband's handwriting?" + +"Yes." + +"Now think for a moment of his act as regards yourself. He sent me, a +stranger, home, never thinking a thought about you." + +Her breath choked back. + +"As for me," went on Jones, "from the very first moment I saw you, I +have thought of you and your welfare. I told my story for your sake, so +that things might be cleared up, and they put me in an asylum for my +pains. I escaped, I am here, and for your sake I am saying all this. +Does it give me pleasure to show you your husband's character? I would +sooner cut off my right hand, but that would not help you. You have got +to know, else I cannot possibly get out of this. Read these." + +He handed her the Plinlimon letters. + +She read them carefully. Whilst she was doing so, he sat down and +waited. + +"These were written two years ago," said she in a sad voice, as she +folded them together, "a year after we were married." + +It was the tone of her voice that did it--as she handed the letters back +to him, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. + +He put them back in the bureau without a word. He felt that he had +struck the innocent again and most cruelly. + +Then he came back to the chair on which he had been sitting and stood +holding its back. + +"You see how we are both placed," said he. "To prove your husband's +death, all my business would have to be raked up. I don't mind, because +I have acted straight, but you would mind. The fact of his suicide, the +fact of his sending me home--everything, that would hit you again and +again. Yet, look at your position--I do not know what we are to do. If I +go away and go back to the States, I leave you before the world as the +wife of a man still living who has deserted you, if I stay and go on +being the Earl of Rochester, you are tied to a phantom." + +He paced the floor, head down, wrestling with an insoluble problem, +whilst she sat looking at him. + +"Which is the easiest for you to do?" asked she. + +"Oh, me," said he; "I'm not thinking of myself--back to the States, of +course, but that's out of the question--there are lots of easy things to +do, but when my case comes in contact with yours, there's nothing easy +to do. Do you think it was easy for me to go off that night and leave +you waiting for me, feeling that you thought me a skunk? No, that was +not easy." + +She had been sitting very calm and still up till now, then suddenly she +looked down. She burst into tears. + +"Oh," she cried, "why were you not him--if he had only been you. He +cared nothing for me, yet I loved him--you--you--" + +"I care for nothing at all but you," said he. + +She shuddered all over and turned her head away. + +"That's the mischief of it as far as I am concerned," he went on. "I +can't escape without injuring you and so myself--yet I don't wonder at +your hating me." + +She turned her face to him, it was flushed and wet. + +"I do not hate you," said she; "you are the only man I ever +met--unselfish." + +"No," he said, "I'm selfish. It's just because I love you that I think +of you more than myself, and I love you because you are good and sweet. +I could not do you wrong just because of that. If you were another +woman, I would not bother about you. I'd be cruel enough, I reckon, and +go off and leave you tied up, and get back to the States--but you are +you, and that's my bother. I did not know till now how I was tied to +you; yesterday at that asylum place and all last night I did not think +of you. My one thought was to get away. I came here to-day, driven by +want of money. I was so angry with the whole business, I determined to +go on being Rochester--then you came into my mind and I sent Church to +ask you to come and see me--much good it has done." + +"I don't know," she said. + +He looked at her quickly. Her glance fell. + +Next moment he was beside her, kneeling and holding her hand. + +For a moment, they said not one word. Then he spoke as though answering +questions. + +"We can get married-- Oh, I don't mind going on being the Earl of +Rochester. There were times when I thought I'd go cracked--but now you +know the truth, I reckon I can go on pretending. People can have the +marriage ceremony performed twice--of course, it would have to be +private--I can't think this is true--I don't believe you can ever care +for me--I don't know, maybe you will--do you care for me for myself in +the least--I reckon I'm half mad, but say--when did you begin to like me +for myself--was it only just because you thought I was unselfish--was +it--" + +"If I like you at all," she said, with a little catch in her voice, +"perhaps it was that--night--" + +"What night?" + +"The night you struck--" + +"The Russian--but you thought I was _him_ then." + +"Perhaps," said she, dreamily, "but, I thought it was unlike him--do you +understand?" + +"I don't know. I understand nothing but that I have got you to care for +always, to worship, to lay myself down for you to trample on." + + * * * * * + +"Good-night," said she at last. + +She was standing, preparing to go. "The family know the truth, at least +they are sure of the truth, but, as you say, they can do nothing. +Imagine their feelings when I tell them what we have agreed on! With me +on your side they are absolutely helpless." + + * * * * * + +There is, fortunately enough, no law preventing two married people being +re-married, privately; the good old lawyers of England considering, no +doubt, that a man having gone through the ceremony once would think it +enough. + + * * * * * + +All this that I have been telling you happened some years ago, years +marked by some very practical and brilliant speeches in the House of +Lords and the death of the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook from liver complaint. +It is a queer story, but not queerer than the face of the Dowager +Countess of Rochester when she reads in private all the nice +complimentary things that the papers have to say about her son. + + THE END + + * * * * * * + + + BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + Sea Plunder $1.30 net + The Gold Trail $1.30 net + The Pearl Fishers $1.30 net + Poppyland $2.00 net + The New Optimism $1.00 net + The Poems of Francois Villon. + Translated by H. 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