She indicated two hard, shiny chairs with backs profusely and most uncomfortably carved, and left them. The hall was the narrow hall of a London house.
The stairs ran up on the right. Two doors opened on the left. A lamp with a red shade hung from the ceiling. A black and gold mirror reflected it.
The two girls sat and waited. Mabel was very glad to sit—her shoes were too tight. She freed her left heel, and then wondered if she would be able to get the shoe on again in a hurry. She thought she would give it five minutes. And then she hoped she wasn’t going to drop asleep. The relief to her feet and the warmth of the hall were making her drowsy. She had sat up late the night before to finish a frock for a dance—a cream lace frock—with yellow roses—her old shoes would have to do—Tom liked her in yellow—Tom—
She woke with a start. The hall door was half open. The cold and the fog struck in and roused her. Two people were coming in, a man and a woman. They were talking. The man had just said something. Funny that she should know that; because she hadn’t heard him say it. She had the feeling that a harsh grinding sound had just stopped.
She stood up, startled and confused; and there was Madame Ferrans speaking to her,
“You’re from Santa’s with the hats?”
Not a bit handsome Madame Ferrans—very foreign looking, very French—smart. She had a cigarette between her fingers, and the smoke hung thickly on the fog that had come into the hall. The man loomed up through it, very tall—very—Mabel couldn’t get a word to describe him. She didn’t want to describe him, or think about him, or stay anywhere near him.
These were all the impressions of a single bewildered moment. As they passed, she looked instinctively to Elsie for support. And Elsie wasn’t there. Her boxes were there. They had each carried two of the big light cartons. And Elsie was gone.
Mabel looked back in bewilderment. The tall man no longer stood there stooping forward through the smoke. He was moving away down the passage. As Madame Ferrans addressed her, he opened the second door on the left and disappeared.
“I have business.” The lady had a very decided accent. “You understand? I will not keep you more than I can help, and not in this hall—no—it is cold, foggy, atrocious. Take the boxes. They are light? You can carry them? Bien! Then take them up the stair, just so far as you can see. There is my little boudoir, and you shall wait for me there. I will not be long. You have brought me some good hats, I hope? Miss Lester speaks ver’ well of your hats.”
Mabel picked up two of the boxes in each hand. The string cut her fingers. She walked up a short flight of stairs and in at an open door. She was not a quick thinker. Elsie was gone, and she required to adjust herself to this idea before she could begin to wonder why Elsie had gone, or where, or how. She put on the light in the little room at the top of the stairs and, leaving the door ajar, sat down to wait.
The voice of Madame Ferrans brought her to her feet again.
“Shut the door if you please.”
Mabel shut the door.
Elsie Manning had been wide awake on her hard, shiny chair when the click of the latchkey announced Madame Ferrans’ return. She stood up, her head turned towards the door, glad that the time of waiting was over. She wanted to get back to her room, to take off her things—to take off her working self, to let herself go, to think. She wanted—
The key clicked, the door began to open, and she heard the voice she had not heard for eight years say,
“I cannot stay.”
In a flash the eight years were gone, rolled up and done away to the grating sound of a man’s voice. And in the same flash she was across the hall, pushing at the first door she came to, stumbling into a dark room, and leaning on the inner side of the door, her heart thudding against it so hard that she thought its desperate beating must be heard in the hall beyond. For a time she could hear nothing else. Then a woman’s voice came through. That was Madame Ferrans speaking to Mabel. What would Mabel say? She didn’t hear her say anything, but Madame Ferrans said “Upstairs”—something about upstairs. And then there was a sound of cardboard boxes knocking against each other, and the sound of quick footsteps passing the door and going on down the passage. Another door opened, and shut again. She heard the man’s voice—the harsh, grating voice that had rolled back the years.
She came back to herself with a long shudder and stood up straight. Now was her chance. She could open this door and the front door and get away before anyone saw her. The room was quite dark. She felt for the handle. And then, just then, she heard Trevor’s name. The harsh voice said, “Trevor Fothering,” and her hand dropped to her side.
She was steadying. The first shock was past. She stood there, poised, listening, taking stock of the situation. The house was the ordinary small London house with two rooms on a floor. She was in the front room, and at the back, behind folding doors, there were those two. There must be folding doors or she would not have heard the words so plainly. She wondered whether it would be possible to hear something more, and whether she dare try. Her courage was coming back. She went groping across the room with her hands out, touching a high-backed chair, the sharp corner of what she guessed to be a sideboard, the pole of a standard lamp. Then the door. The tips of her fingers slid across a painted panel that felt smooth and cold, and from behind it came the voice. It said, with harsh emphasis:
“What’s behind that door?”
An agony of terror sent her back across the room with outstretched hands, feeling for the door into the hall. And behind her the voices were nearer. They would open the door and switch on the light.
She heard the handle turn, and blundered into something heavy and soft. She had passed the door, because this was a window curtain, a heavy plush window curtain. She was behind it in the half light that came from the street outside, when the electric light clicked on in the room and she heard Madame Ferrans say in her fluent foreign English:
“What did I say? There is no one there. And who you should expect to be there? You fatigue me, my friend. In my house one does not listen at doors. One thinks about one’s young man who is a ver’ respectable—what you call omnibus conductor. But if you like, I will go and see that Violette—” she laughed—“Vylet; that is how she calls it—is in the kitchen.”
“There is another girl. You should have sent her away.”
Madame laughed.
“Send away all my beautiful new hats? Ah mais—” She was interrupted.
“Lock that door!”
“The key is on the outside.”
“Lock it!”
“And my reputation?”
There was no reply to that. Elsie heard the sound of a turning key.
Well, now she was in for it. The door was locked. She couldn’t get away if she wanted to. They were going back to the other room. The light clicked off again.
Elsie drew a deep breath of relief. She looked round the edge of the curtain and saw the folding doors half open, and a light in the room beyond—a light, and against the light a man’s hand stretched out to emphasize low-spoken words:
“You will do what you are told, and so will he.”
She shrank back as if the words had been addressed to herself. She had heard them so often on the other side of that eight years’ gap: “You will do as you are told”—and however rebelliously your heart beat, you had done it.
She leaned back against the window, fighting the pictures that came up out of the past. Then she heard Trevor’s name again. It was Madame Ferrans who said it.
“This Fot’ering—what is he?”
The man laughed contemptuously.
“A police dog!”
Elsie stopped thinking about the past. Here was matter for the present. She was on the right-hand side of the window. Across the dark room the left side of the folding door stood open eight inches or so. Through it she could see a knee, and the movement
of a hand. She crossed the window, as he laughed and spoke. When she slipped from behind the curtain the slant of the door was towards her. She could not see anything now; but she could hear, and she could not be seen.
Madame Ferrans exclaimed in French. Then she repeated his words:
“A police dog? You are sure?”
“Yes, my dear Léonie, I am sure.”
“And you will do—what?”
“It is not what I will do—it is what I have done.”
“And what have you done?”
“I have put a collar round the dog’s neck and offered him a bone.”
There was the sound of an impatient movement.
“And you think you can trust him?”
“My dear Léonie, I trust no one. I have a whip as well as a bone. You need not be afraid—Fothering will be safe because it is to his interest to be safe.”
There was a pause. Then Madame Ferrans said in a lower voice:
“There are interests and interests, my friend.” Then after a moment, “Don’t you ask me what I mean by that?”
“It doesn’t interest me in the least,” said the harsh voice. “Keep to the point. Fothering will do as he is told for his own private reasons, and for his own private interest. He’s got my collar round his neck. Also when once he has been used as I shall use him, he will be too deeply dipped himself to give anything away.”
“How are you going to use him?” asked Madame curiously.
“That is my business. Now we will transact yours. I told you I could not stay. Here are your instructions. You will return to Paris, and you will see F, J, and N. F is not satisfactory—he is not carrying out his undertaking—his last two articles have been useless. Tell him that he will not receive a second warning. A definitely provocative article must appear in next week’s issue. J has been doing well—you can commend him. But say that he can emphasize the Italian question a little more—a crescendo is required. Here are some notes which you will give to N. They are quite rough. He will embody them in the next speech he makes in the Chamber. I suggest that he concentrates on producing some calculated indiscretion which will be repeated in foreign newspapers. Do you follow me? A speech generally antagonistic in tone, with a single sentence sufficiently violent and pithy to be sure of a wide circulation.”
Elsie was standing in the dark. Her right hand just touched the edge of the dining-table. She had no idea what all this was about. She was concerned for Trevor and for herself—only Trevor was safe enough—safe out of England. It was the other one who wasn’t safe—the one who looked like Trevor, and wasn’t Trevor. He wasn’t safe. And she herself was in a simply frightful position. The dining-room door was locked on the outside. At any moment they might come in here again. It was madness for her to stand out in the middle of the room like this.
She edged backwards a step at a time and reached the shelter of the curtains. That was all very well, but how was she going to get away? If she dared open the window … She didn’t dare. She heard the voices in the next room, but could not have told what they were saying. Her whole thought was concentrated on the question of escape. The voices were like sounds heard from far away; they no longer concerned her. She heard Madame Ferrans laugh once, but she didn’t hear what she said. Then the voices stopped. With a click the light in the farther room went out. She heard footsteps, and the slam of the front door. Then a small and most blessed sound—the sound of a turning key. Madame Ferrans had unlocked the dining-room door.
Elsie held her breath in a moment’s fear. Suppose she came in. … She didn’t come in. She was going upstairs. A door opened and shut.
Elsie ran across the room and into the hall with its crimson shaded lamp. As she pulled back the latch of the front door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. Her face looked as if it was floating on dark water. It looked white against the dark. The red light shone on it and frightened her.
She got the front door open, and drew a long breath of relief.
CHAPTER XV
ELSIE MANNING STOOD ON the top step and shut the door softly behind her. Her hands were shaking. She had to control them. If she made the least noise, someone might come. She managed to shut the door without making any noise at all, but the moment she took her hand off it panic came over her and she ran down the steps blindly. There was only one thought in her mind—to get away before someone came out of the house and caught her. She had even forgotten for the moment that the man she was afraid of had already left the house. Blind panic knows no past and no future.
She ran down the steps and into the fog. It was much thicker than it had been an hour ago. She ran into it without knowing where she was going. She heard nothing, saw nothing, until suddenly there was a man’s hand on her arm. She was never sure afterwards whether she screamed or not. Quite suddenly, in thick fog, to feel yourself caught and held—it was like the most awful moment of the most awful nightmare. And then—how blessed! Jimmy’s voice, startled and a little exasperated:
“Hold on, Elsie! Where are you off to? It’s only me.”
The fog went black. Jimmy Thurloe was not a little alarmed. Elsie, of all girls, to bolt like a rabbit and then go all limp in his arms! Who’d have thought it? And what on earth had she been up to? It was a good thing it was foggy. He had to put both arms round her to hold her up.
“Elsie—I say—come off it!”
She said, “I’m all right,” in a far-away voice that he would not have recognized as hers.
He patted her shoulder.
“What’s up?”
“I’m all right.”
She was still on the edge of the dark. Jimmy’s arms were very warm and safe and comforting. She leaned against him, and he went on patting her shoulder.
“What’s up, old thing?”
Elsie drew a long breath and came back.
“I— Oh, Jimmy, did you ever see a ghost?”
Jimmy chuckled.
“Met one five minutes ago. No—honest Injun I did. Have you been meeting him too? Anyhow I don’t know why you wanted to faint.”
“I didn’t.”
“Jolly good imitation, old thing. Flopping Extraordinary, by our Miss Manning! Reeling, Writhing, and Fainting in Coils! How to Swoon Gracefully, by one who has done it!”
Miss Manning extricated herself from Mr Thurloe’s arms.
“Display of haughty dignity entirely wasted owing to fog!” said Jimmy cheerfully. “You were very comfortable where you were. Some girls never know when they’re well off. However, if you return, all shall be forgiven and forgotten. I might even kiss you—you never know your luck.”
“Jimmy, you’re a beast!”
“That’s better,” said Jimmy. “We’re ourselves again. Now suppose you tell me what put the wind up you like that.”
“Oh, I was a fool.”
“I—Yes, sweetheart, I know that. But what about the ghost?”
Elsie thought for a moment.
“I—saw—someone—I used to—be very frightened of lost my head.”
“We really are twin souls,” said Jimmy earnestly. “If one of us sees a ghost, the other plays up and sees one too.”
“What did you see?” She sounded a little breathless. Jimmy couldn’t have known—him. It wasn’t possible—no—that is what one always says when one simply can’t bear a thing to be true.
Jimmy put his arm round her shoulders again.
“Hi! Don’t wobble like that, my child! The odds are about a million to one against my ghost having anything to do with you.”
“Who was it?” said Elsie in a shaky whisper.
“Well, it was a pretty queer sort of start. I went round to your old emporium and drew a blank, but the girl with the marcelled hair—you know, subhuman as far as intelligence goes but quite a good sort—”
“Gladys.”
“That’s it! Call-me-Gladys!”
“She didn’t!”
“No, but she’s got that sort of expression. If I got to know her well and love her, I should probably call her Tweety— Ow! Don’t pinch!”
“I can pinch a lot harder than that,” said Miss Manning severely.
“I was digressing. Call-me-Gladys was all that is kind and tactful. She told me you’d gone out with some hats, and she told where you’d gone, so I stepped along with the idea of waiting for you—the reward of virtue and all that sort of thing.”
“Where’s your ghost?”
“We are approaching him. In your delicate state of nerves I couldn’t spring a ghost on you suddenly. No look here, I bar pinching!
“I don’t believe you saw a ghost at all.”
“Well, I did. I shall write to the Psychical Research Society about it. I was just coming round the corner of the square, when a little puff of wind came down the street and blew away the fog. Just for a moment I could see right across the road.”
“What did you see?”
“Well, I saw a ghost.”
“Who?”
“A fellow I know quite well. Topping fellow—got killed flying the other day.”
“Oh—” It was a breath of pure relief.
“He was standing on the edge of the kerb looking quite ordinary and natural.”
“It must have been a likeness.”
“M—I don’t know. He recognized me just about a second after I recognized him. He turned round and went off, and next minute the fog was as thick as ever again. It was odd, the whole thing. We weren’t great friends, but I liked him—a quiet sort of chap.”
“What was his name?”
“Lindsay Trevor,” said Jimmy.
Elsie Manning said “Oh!” Thoughts swirled suddenly in her head. Lindsay Trevor—Trevor—Trevor Fothering—Trevor. Who had Jimmy seen? She felt a little giddy. He had gone by in the fog—the man to whom she never willingly gave a name—the one man in the world who had the power to shake her with fear—he had gone by. And somewhere about the same time Jimmy had seen a dead man walking in the fog, and the dead man’s name was Lindsay Trevor. She thought she had met Lindsay Trevor too and talked with him. She wasn’t sure, but she thought that the man who called himself Trevor Fothering might be Lindsay Trevor. If she saw him again. … The recollection of what she had overheard came to her sharply. She must see him again.
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