Voices poured all about him. He felt like a lawn being sprayed by a vocal fountain. Some of the voices were recognisable, some were not. Some had a right to be there, some, by all the rules of logic, hadn’t.
Time went mad. People and places played hide-and-seek in it. A large man, but not as large as Don Manuel, was hugging Miss Holbrooke. That was yesterday, wasn’t it? A young man with a vaguely familiar face was running about like an excited little dog. That was tomorrow. Now he was hugging Miss Holbrooke. That’d be about half-past three. A comic opera soldier was sitting on Don Manuel’s head, and another comic opera soldier was sitting on his feet. That’d be Tuesday and Friday. An officer was yelling orders. That’d be next week.
But, equally confusing, was a series of illogicalities in which he himself figured. Now he was on the floor. Now he wasn’t on the floor. Now he was in the middle of a crowd of questioning faces. Now the large man was hysterically shoving notes in his pocket. Now he was all by himself again. Now he was leaning against a wall. Now he was tripping over a stone stair. Now he was in a hall that seemed to have had an accident. Now there wasn’t any hall, but just rain and darkness.
And why was all this happening? Why hadn’t he remained on the floor, or in the middle of the crowd of faces? Was it because one particular face wasn’t there? Because, since people were kissing and hugging each other, and comic opera soldiers were sitting on comic opera brigands’ chests, the centre of Ben’s necessity had changed and he was free to follow other hazy impulses?
Certainly, no one was now worrying about him. The only person who might have done so was herself in a state of collapse. So why not totter up, and slip out, and search for one who surely ought to be present to make that chaotic party complete?
Darkness and rain! Was she out in it somewhere? He must find out! He turned to the left, that led to where he had last seen her. She was to wait in the empty cottage until he could come to her … and now he was coming to her …
Was he? Or—was she coming to him?
He stopped suddenly, and strained his eyes. Out of the moist blackness resolved a figure.
‘’Allo, Molly,’ he said rapidly.
Now the figure stopped and stared at him.
‘Ben!’ she gasped.
They advanced towards each other, and almost fell into each other. For several seconds neither spoke. Then, with sudden intelligence, Ben told the longed-for news in half a dozen words.
‘They’ve come,’ he announced, ‘and it’s orl right.’
For an instant the amazing news made the girl rigid. Then, suddenly, reaction set in, and she began to sob. As suddenly, she stopped.
‘Little fool I am!’ she muttered angrily.
‘Then so’m I,’ replied Ben. ‘I’ve blubbed buckets!’
‘Stop talking like that, or you’ll set me off again!’ she gulped, and took his hand. A little warm tear fell upon the hand in the middle of the cold rain. ‘If everything’s all right, what are you out here for?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ retorted Ben.
‘Do you mean—you were coming for me?’
‘’Corse! Wotcher tike me for?’
‘A pal, if ever there was one! I say, you’re a good sort! But you must go back now.’
‘Yus. We’re both goin’ back.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘I said—I’m not.’
‘Go on! Why?’
She raised her head quickly. Rapid steps sounded on the road. She dived for the trees.
Wondering, he dived after her. The rapid steps drew nearer the spot on which they had stood. They passed the spot, and faded towards the inn.
‘Do you know what that was?’ whispered Molly.
‘’Oo?’ asked Ben.
‘Some Spanish policemen. You’d better follow them.’
‘Not if you ain’t goin’ ter.’
‘But I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘My job here is done now—and—have you forgotten?—I’m wanted for another job at home!’
A poster grew into Ben’s mind with startling incongruity on this lonely Spanish road:
‘OLD MAN MURDERED
AT HAMMERSMITH’
The poster had formed her first background! Was it to form her last?
He rebelled at the idea. The murder had been Faggis’s! Not hers! She herself was merely a misguided little pickpocket—and, lummy, look at what she’d done since!
‘Doncher worry, miss,’ he said seriously. ‘Arter orl yer done in this ’ere job, they won’t think nothin’ o’ that other!’
‘Yes, they will,’ she responded definitely. ‘Law’s law, and I’ll always be on the wrong side of it.’
‘Not if yer git on the right side!’ he urged.
‘I was born on the wrong side,’ she answered.
‘Then wot abart me pullin’ yer hover, like?’
She looked at him long and earnestly. The rain descended on their upturned faces, but they were unconscious of it. Then, abruptly, she shook her head.
‘Listen, Ben,’ she said, and her voice was very solemn. ‘You’re a pal, if ever there was one. I shan’t forget you. But, though we’re both down-and-outs, we’re made of different stuff, and the stuff we’re made of doesn’t mix. Do you get what I mean?’
‘No,’ replied Ben doggedly.
‘What do you do when you’re hungry and haven’t got a penny?’ she challenged.
‘’Old a ’orse,’ answered Ben.
‘Well, I pick a pocket. Some difference! So, you see you’re better without me. Good-bye.’
Better without her? He considered the proposition. Without her, he would go back to the inn, and join in the rejoicings, and receive his meed of praise and profit. He would return to England, doubtless, not as a stowaway but as the legal passenger of a steamship or a railway company. Mr Holbrooke would shower cheese upon him. He might even get his picture in a paper. Lummy, that’d tickle his mother, wherever she was—up or down!
Yes—but all that was without Molly Smith … And now she was suddenly slipping away from him! He stopped thinking, and slipped after her.
‘Oi!’ he panted.
She turned at his voice, and he caught her up.
‘Didn’t you hear me tell you to go back?’ she cried tremulously.
‘Yer know, miss, you ain’t got me right,’ he answered. ‘I’m a fair blinkin’ sticker, I am, and I’m agoin’ ter see you ’ome!’
They walked through the night; away from an inn where ugly scenes had led to strange reunions; away from an empty cottage where two disillusioned rascals awaited the uncomfortable processes of the law; away from a little village where, for many a day to come, the odd habits of the Inglés would be discussed, and also the strange return of a native in a comic foreign suit; away from a long precipitous mountain track, and a broken foot-bridge above a yawning precipice, and a lonely hut where two prone bodies had been found under a neatly spread table-cloth; and away from an ocean liner that had slid out of the Thames one day with queer folk aboard, and was now throbbing across distant seas.
And, while they walked, Sims waited in an isolated, uncharted spot for a man who never came …
‘Funny thing, life, ain’t it?’ said Ben.
THE END