THE dark hours crept by, the hours of temporary oblivion. On a hard wooden floor outside a bottomless cupboard an out-of-work sailor slept. Near a front door with a sliding panel a stunted bloke whose nose was almost as crooked as his character strove not to sleep. In a study an old man nodded. By an oblong chest a big man dozed. And elsewhere, at other points in the enveloping blackness of night, lay others who were to awaken to a day of varying emotions.
But two people of our acquaintance did not sleep. One was Mahdi. The other was Mr Eustace Moberley Hope. Business and pleasure kept these two from their respective beds.
The clocks chimed three, and four; then five, and six. The towers of churches grew gradually distinct. The tower of the church nearest to Jowle Street, however, remained almost obliterated. Although the hue of the concealing curtain changed from black to gray, there was no other indication that the night was being slain.
Few people passed through Jowle Street. None from choice. A milkman took it in his round. A postman trudged its length. From one or two doors, as the morning advanced, depressed people emerged, and went to work, or to look for work. But, for the most part, the residents of Jowle Street stayed inside, as though they had lost their heart for movement and adventure. A town can take it out of you. So can a street.
The milkman, the postman, a shabby youth delivering papers, five residents, and a cart, provided the only signs of movement in the gloomy, foggy thoroughfare until five minutes to ten. Then another figure slipped into Jowle Street, a dark, lithe figure, like, a shadow in the mist. At No. 26 it vanished. Jowle Street was empty again.
But not for long. A second figure, more portly, turned into the street, trudging along with even, measured steps. A constable, this time, whose mind was very far away from the horror through which he unconsciously walked. He was absorbed in the homely occupation of a cross-word puzzle, and he was trying to capture nothing more forbidding than a vegetable of seven letters ending in ‘i.’
Unlike the figure that had preceded him, he did not pause at No. 26. The house meant nothing to him. He trudged on, seeking his vegetable, and vanished beyond. And, as he vanished, a third figure appeared.
The third figure did pause at No. 26. It was a girl. She paused and stared at the front door, and afterwards, still hesitating, glanced up and down the road. Then, as though suddenly afraid of her hesitation, she ran quickly up the low steps and rang.
Other visitors had been kept waiting on that doorstep. She was not. The door opened almost immediately, and an old man peered at her.
‘I’m glad you’ve come, Miss Sherwin,’ said the old man. ‘I was afraid you might not.’
‘Even after your letter?’ demanded the girl.
‘Yes, even after my letter,’ replied the old man. ‘Every one is not as wise as you. Let us go into my study and talk there.’
‘The quicker the better,’ she answered. ‘I want to get this over.’
‘So do I,’ nodded the old man, as they crossed the hall to the study door. ‘So do I. And if I could have got it over when you called last night I would have done so. But the—the people we have to meet were not here then, and, in the circumstances—’
‘The people we have to meet?’ interposed the girl. ‘Who are those?’
Her voice was terribly anxious. Her eyes, when you peered into them, betrayed a sleepless night. The old man smiled sympathetically at her.
‘You will know very soon, Miss Sherwin,’ he said. ‘But let us take things in their proper sequence. It will be best. We must enter into this matter with clear minds. No confusion. Don’t you agree?’
‘Oh, please stop talking like that!’ she exclaimed. They were now in the study, and she sank into a chair. ‘Tell me at once what you meant by your letter. Why is Douglas—Mr Randall—in danger, and how can my coming here prevent it?’
‘You will learn that, also, very soon. But please answer one or two questions of my own first. You have not spoken to Mr Randall about this?’
‘You told me particularly not to.’
‘We do not always do what we are told.’
‘But you said it would increase his danger if I spoke to him—or to anybody! It was difficult, though. Last night he took me to a dance, and when he saw how worried I was—naturally I couldn’t help showing that—he kept on questioning me. In the end I made him take me home. I couldn’t stand any more. And I haven’t slept a wink.’
‘Poor child!’ murmured the old man. ‘And you have no idea at all what this danger is?’
‘I’m waiting for you to tell me, Mr Clitheroe.’
‘No suspicion of any kind? Not from any other source?’
‘None.’
Mr Clitheroe nodded. He seemed relieved. The front door bell rang.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here is another visitor.’
The girl jumped to her feet, all nerves.
‘Who is it?’ she exclaimed.
‘Excuse me a second,’ he said. ‘I will let him in.’
He left the room, and the girl waited with her hand at her breast. Voices sounded in the hall. Suddenly she started.
‘Douglas!’ she cried,
A young man entered. He looked as anxious as she, and no less astonished.
‘Doris!’ he exclaimed, stopping short. ‘Why, how—?’
He turned to the old man behind him, and his voice was almost threatening.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Miss Sherwin would be here?’ he demanded.
‘Be patient, be patient, my dear young people!’ responded Mr Clitheroe reprovingly. ‘Here am I, in a terribly difficult position, doing my best for your happiness, and you both jump down my throat as though I were some—some malefactor! Sit down again, Miss Sherwin, I beg. And you sit down, too, Mr Randall. Then I will tell you the whole story, and I think you will agree that I have acted for the best. One moment.’
He ran back to the door and looked into the hall. The young man and the girl watched him, then glanced at each other.
‘We had better not raise our voices,’ said Mr Clitheroe, returning into the room and closing the door. ‘If what I am about to tell you angers you, or excites you—as it may—try and keep calm, I beg. You can do so by remembering that the trouble will have been completely dealt with by the time you leave. At least,’ he added, with a little frown, ‘that is my intention and my hope.’
‘But what is the trouble?’ demanded the young man. ‘What is this danger that threatens Miss Sherwin? And why all this secrecy?’
‘Threatens me?’ cried the girl. ‘I thought it threatened you!’
‘It threatens both of you,’ interposed Mr Clitheroe, ‘since when people are engaged the happiness of one involves the happiness of the other. Is that not so? And may I once more remind you of the necessity for keeping control of ourselves and for lowering our voices? I don’t know whether you noticed a rather unpleasant little fellow in the hall? He is not supposed to be there, but I caught a glimpse of him as I went to the front door just now—’ He paused, and looked towards the door, then made a sudden dart and opened it. As he did so, Ted Flitt scurried away. ‘There! What did I tell you?’ muttered Mr Clitheroe, as he closed the door again with a frown. ‘Now I hope you are satisfied that we must keep hold of ourselves.’
As the door closed behind him, Ted Flitt grinned. The grin vanished, however, as a voice addressed him from out of the shadows.
‘Do not smile yet, Mr Flitt,’ said the voice smoothly. ‘This is only the beginning. There is a long way to go yet.’
‘Dam that Indian!’ thought Mr Flitt. ‘I’d send ’im a longer way if I knew ’ow!’
Meanwhile, in the study, Mr Clitheroe continued with his discourse.
‘In order to explain the letters I wrote to each of you,’ he was saying, ‘I must go back quite a number of years. I am a stranger to you, but I knew your father well, Mr Randall, and at one time we were actually in partnership together. That was when you were quite a small boy, and when I was nearly appointed your guardian.’
‘My guardian!’ exclaimed Douglas.
‘Yes. But, unfortunately, there was a—a misunderstanding concerning the matter of profits, and—well, it ended our association. I imagined I was entitled to a larger share than actually fell to me, but I preferred not to push the point. Perhaps you should not be ungrateful to me for that, Mr Randall, since you are at this moment enjoying the full fruits of your late father’s business.’
‘Look here, sir!’ interposed Douglas. ‘Are you insinuating that my father—’
‘I am insinuating nothing,’ retorted Mr Clitheroe. ‘I am simply explaining a position that bears upon the present situation. Otherwise I would not dig up the past. There would be no object in it. I am explaining to you, Mr Randall, how I enter into the present situation, and how a rascal who is attempting to blackmail you came to approach me first.’
His two listeners stared at him unbelievingly. They seemed incapable of speech.
‘I see you do not like the word blackmail,’ remarked the old man. ‘Nor do I. It is a horrid word. But sometimes it has to be dealt with. And when this rascal wrote to me, imagining that I was actually your guardian, Mr Randall, what was I to do? He thought I was your guardian because he had been employed in your father’s business at the! time I was in it, and he knew of what was on the carpet—but he was dismissed for theft before your father and I quarrelled. So now, like a bad penny, he turns up again, having apparently raked up something reflecting on your honour, Mr Randall—or purporting, shall we say, to reflect on your honour—and demands money from me—from me, Mr Randall to keep him quiet.’
‘Where is the lying beast?’ asked Douglas, pale with indignation. ‘Let me deal with him.’
‘I intend that you shall,’ answered Mr Clitheroe, with a grim smile, ‘but let me finish my story first. There isn’t much more. When he first approached me I could have turned him straight on to you, if I had chosen—’
‘Yes, why didn’t you?’ demanded Douglas hotly.
‘Because it occurred to me that the matter could be settled much more quietly at my house than at yours or Miss Sherwin’s,’ said Mr Clitheroe, ‘and I was willing to undergo that inconvenience for the sake of my old partner’s son. Of course, if you wish, I can drop right out of it,’ he added. ‘You can both go home, and our friend will follow you and create his scandal right under the noses of your families and friends. I thought, however, that—with my assistance—we might deal with him more effectively here. Was I right, or wrong?’
‘You were right, Mr Clitheroe!’ exclaimed Doris gratefully. ‘Please forgive me for my doubts when I first came in.’
‘Not at all!’ he protested. ‘Not at all! Your doubts were perfectly natural. And the only reason I couldn’t explain matters more fully to you before was because I hesitated to put anything definite in writing. I indicated the danger, and trusted—rightly, as matters have turned out—to your good sense to take a hint.’
‘Yes, but what I want to know is this,’ interposed Douglas, growing more indignant every moment. His hot temper was being roused to fever point. ‘What has the skunk got against me? There’s nothing he could have! You believe that, don’t you, Doris?’ he cried, turning to her swiftly.
‘Of course, she believes it,’ said Mr Clitheroe soothingly, and moving to the cupboard under his desk, ‘and of course I believe it. The trouble is that the world isn’t so kind, and that, as our “skunk”—most satisfactory term that, eh?—as our “skunk” well knows, mud sticks. Now, I suggest a little drink before we proceed any farther—to reinforce ourselves for the next step, eh, Mr Randall?’
Douglas hesitated, and Doris looked at him warningly.
‘Just a small tot,’ urged the old man, already producing the decanter. ‘The next step is not going to be an easy one, and our “skunk”—yes, the term is admirable—is an ugly customer. This will help you to deal with him.’
He held out the glass. Douglas took it with a short laugh.
‘He’s right, Doris,’ he said. ‘This’ll make me twice my size!’
He drained the glass. The effect was not cooling.
‘Now then, I’m ready for him,’ declared Douglas ‘By Jove, sir, that was good! Just right. Well, when’s he coming?’
‘Be careful, dear!’ warned Doris.
‘He’s the one that’s got to be careful,’ responded Douglas. ‘Thinks he can come along and upset the universe with his dirty yarns! Well, he’s going to find out his mistake. When is he coming, Mr Clitheroe? I want to meet him now. Now!’
‘He is waiting to meet you now,’ answered Mr Clitheroe quietly.
‘Do you mean he’s here, in the house, at this moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘What—is it that miserable little toad you chased in the hall—’
‘No, not him. That miserable little toad—really, your terms are most happy—that miserable little toad is merely one of—one of the brotherhood. The unbrotherly brotherhood. He has come along with the skunk to see there’s fair play. He didn’t quite trust me, you see. And—well, perhaps he had no cause to, eh?’
Mr Clitheroe chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Douglas laughed also.
‘You bet,’ he agreed. ‘But where is the skunk, then?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Good! We’ll go up now. At least, you and I will. Come along.’
Mr Clitheroe glanced at the girl. She was paler than ever, and her eyes were full of apprehension. .
‘Well—do you stay here, my dear?’ he inquired. ‘Or—do you think—it might be wiser if you came up with us?’
‘You stay here, Doris!’ ordered Douglas. ‘Mr Clitheroe, can I pour myself out one more small dose? Just a small one? Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.’
He did not wait for permission. Mr Clitheroe continued to look at Doris.
‘He may need you, to restrain him,’ murmured the old man. ‘Really, I’m getting a little alarmed.’
‘Of course, I’m coming up with you,’ said the girl definitely. ‘I wouldn’t dream of staying away.’
‘Very wise, very wise,’ nodded Mr Clitheroe. ‘Quite apart from anything else, it will be much happier in the end if you, also, hear what our friend upstairs has to say.’ He turned to the young man. ‘Well, Mr Randall, we’re ready. I wouldn’t touch any more of that, if I were you.’
‘I’m not going to,’ responded Douglas, having now worked himself up to the necessary degree of courage. Normally, he was not overburdened with it. ‘I know when to stop. Come along, come along!’
He was first out of the room. Doris followed quickly, and laid a restraining hand on his arm. She had entered the house in fear. Now she was terrified.
‘Douglas!’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Let’s go away!’
‘Go away!’ exclaimed Douglas thickly. ‘Before we’ve dealt with this blackguard.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
‘Please! Please!’
Douglas frowned, and shook her arm off.
‘But you heard what Mr Clitheroe said,’ he cried.
‘And he was damn right! If we don’t settle this now, we’ll never settle it. He’ll follow us home. He’ll kick up all the mud he can invent, and we’ll have him on our heels all our lives.’
‘But who’s going to believe him, Douglas?’
‘Everybody.’
‘Except me,’ she whispered, taking his arm again.
Douglas hesitated. A momentary doubt flashed through his brain. Was she right?…
Standing in the kitchen doorway, Ted Flitt felt himself projected forward. He did not see the arm that projected him, quietly and firmly, but he guessed its colour. As though a will stronger than his own had entered into him, he walked forward after that preliminary propulsion till he came within the vision of the young man hesitating by the staircase. And there he stood, smiling evilly, and fulfilling the design of the stronger will.
For, on seeing Ted Flitt, Douglas Randall hesitated no longer. The sight inflamed him, recreating his spasmodic ferocity.
‘Hallo—there’s the toad, isn’t it?’ he cried. ‘We’ll deal with him later, eh?’
Mr Clitheroe nodded and, as Flitt retreated from sight—drawn back once more by the stronger will, the design of which had now been accomplished—the old man moved to the stairs and invited Douglas to follow him.
A few seconds later Mahdi stood in the hall alone, listening to the sound of ascending footsteps.