Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “You’re an early bird this morning,” said he. “What’s up? If you are going over to Lewes we could motor together.”

  But the younger man’s demeanour was peculiar and ungracious. He disregarded the hand which was held out to him, and he stood pulling at his own long moustache and staring with troubled, questioning eyes at the county magistrate.

  “Well, what’s the matter?” asked the latter.

  Still the young man did not speak. He was clearly on the edge of an interview which he found it most difficult to open. His host grew impatient.

  “You don’t seem yourself this morning. What on earth is the matter? Anything upset you?”

  “Yes,” said Ronald Barker, with emphasis.

  “What has?”

  “You have.”

  Sir Henry smiled. “Sit down, my dear fellow. If you have any grievance against me, let me hear it.”

  Barker sat down. He seemed to be gathering himself for a reproach. When it did come it was like a bullet from a gun.

  “Why did you rob me last night?”

  The magistrate was a man of iron nerve. He showed neither surprise nor resentment. Not a muscle twitched upon his calm, set face.

  “Why do you say that I robbed you last night?”

  “A big, tall fellow in a motor-car stopped me on the Mayfield road. He poked a pistol in my face and took my purse and my watch. Sir Henry, that man was you.”

  The magistrate smiled.

  “Am I the only big, tall man in the district? Am I the only man with a motor-car?”

  “Do you think I couldn’t tell a Rolls-Royce when I see it — I, who spend half my life on a car and the other half under it? Who has a Rolls-Royce about here except you?”

  “My dear Barker, don’t you think that such a modern highwayman as you describe would be more likely to operate outside his own district? How many hundred Rolls-Royces are there in the South of England?”

  “No, it won’t do, Sir Henry — it won’t do! Even your voice, though you sunk it a few notes, was familiar enough to me. But hang it, man! What did you do it for? That’s what gets over me. That you should stick up me, one of your closest friends, a man that worked himself to the bone when you stood for the division — and all for the sake of a Brummagem watch and a few shillings — is simply incredible.”

  “Simply incredible,” repeated the magistrate, with a smile.

  “And then those actresses, poor little devils, who have to earn all they get. I followed you down the road, you see. That was a dirty trick, if ever I heard one. The City shark was different. If a chap must go a-robbing, that sort of fellow is fair game. But your friend, and then the girls — well, I say again, I couldn’t have believed it.”

  “Then why believe it?”

  “Because it is so.”

  “Well, you seem to have persuaded yourself to that effect. You don’t seem to have much evidence to lay before any one else.”

  “I could swear to you in a police-court. What put the lid on it was that when you were cutting my wire — and an infernal liberty it was! — I saw that white tuft of yours sticking out from behind your mask.”

  For the first time an acute observer might have seen some slight sign of emotion upon the face of the baronet.

  “You seem to have a fairly vivid imagination,” said he.

  His visitor flushed with anger.

  “See here, Hailworthy,” said he, opening his hand and showing a small, jagged triangle of black cloth. “Do you see that? It was on the ground near the car of the young women. You must have ripped it off as you jumped out from your seat. Now send for that heavy black driving-coat of yours. If you don’t ring the bell I’ll ring it myself, and we shall have it in. I’m going to see this thing through, and don’t you make any mistake about that.”

  The baronet’s answer was a surprising one. He rose, passed Barker’s chair, and, walking over to the door, he locked it and placed the key in his pocket.

  “You are going to see it through,” said he. “I’ll lock you in until you do. Now we must have a straight talk, Barker, as man to man, and whether it ends in tragedy or not depends on you.”

  He had half-opened one of the drawers in his desk as he spoke. His visitor frowned in anger.

  “You won’t make matters any better by threatening me, Hailworthy. I am going to do my duty, and you won’t bluff me out of it.”

  “I have no wish to bluff you. When I spoke of a tragedy I did not mean to you. What I meant was that there are some turns which this affair cannot be allowed to take. I have neither kith nor kin, but there is the family honour, and some things are impossible.”

  “It is late to talk like that.”

  “Well, perhaps it is; but not too late. And now I have a good deal to say to you. First of all, you are quite right, and it was I who held you up last night on the Mayfield road.”

  “But why on earth—”

  “All right. Let me tell it my own way. First I want you to look at these.” He unlocked a drawer and he took out two small packages. “These were to be posted in London to-night. This one is addressed to you, and I may as well hand it over to you at once. It contains your watch and your purse. So, you see, bar your cut wire you would have been none the worse for your adventure. This other packet is addressed to the young ladies of the Gaiety Theatre, and their properties are enclosed. I hope I have convinced you that I had intended full reparation in each case before you came to accuse me?”

  “Well?” asked Barker.

  “Well, we will now deal with Sir George Wilde, who is, as you may not know, the senior partner of Wilde and Guggendorf, the founders of the Ludgate Bank of infamous memory. His chauffeur is a case apart. You may take it from me, upon my word of honour, that I had plans for the chauffeur. But it is the master that I want to speak of. You know that I am not a rich man myself. I expect all the county knows that. When Black Tulip lost the Derby I was hard hit. And other things as well. Then I had a legacy of a thousand. This infernal bank was paying 7 per cent. on deposits. I knew Wilde. I saw him. I asked him if it was safe. He said it was. I paid it in, and within forty-eight hours the whole thing went to bits. It came out before the Official Receiver that Wilde had known for three months that nothing could save him. And yet he took all my cargo aboard his sinking vessel. He was all right — confound him! He had plenty besides. But I had lost all my money and no law could help me. Yet he had robbed me as clearly as one man could rob another. I saw him and he laughed in my face. Told me to stick to Consols, and that the lesson was cheap at the price. So I just swore that, by hook or by crook, I would get level with him. I knew his habits, for I had made it my business to do so. I knew that he came back from Eastbourne on Sunday nights. I knew that he carried a good sum with him in his pocket-book. Well it’s my pocket-book now. Do you mean to tell me that I’m not morally justified in what I have done? By the Lord, I’d have left the devil as bare as he left many a widow and orphan, if I’d had the time!”

  “That’s all very well. But what about me? What about the girls?”

  “Have some common sense, Barker. Do you suppose that I could go and stick up this one personal enemy of mine and escape detection? It was impossible. I was bound to make myself out to be just a common robber who had run up against him by accident. So I turned myself loose on the high road and took my chance. As the devil would have it, the first man I met was yourself. I was a fool not to recognise that old ironmonger’s store of yours by the row it made coming up the hill. When I saw you I could hardly speak for laughing. But I was bound to carry it through. The same with the actresses. I’m afraid I gave myself away, for I couldn’t take their little fal-lals, but I had to keep up a show. Then came my man himself. There was no bluff about that. I was out to skin him, and I did. Now, Barker, what do you think of it all? I had a pistol at your head last night, and, by George! whether you believe it or not, you have one at mine this morning!”

  The young man rose slowly, and with a broad smile he wrung the ma
gistrate by the hand.

  “Don’t do it again. It’s too risky,” said he. “The swine would score heavily if you were taken.”

  “You’re a good chap, Barker,” said the magistrate. “No, I won’t do it again. Who’s the fellow who talks of ‘one crowded hour of glorious life’? By George! it’s too fascinating. I had the time of my life! Talk of fox-hunting! No, I’ll never touch it again, for it might get a grip of me.”

  A telephone rang sharply upon the table, and the baronet put the receiver to his ear. As he listened he smiled across at his companion.

  “I’m rather late this morning,” said he, “and they are waiting for me to try some petty larcenies on the county bench.”

  DANGER STORY III. A POINT OF VIEW

  It was an American journalist who was writing up England — or writing her down as the mood seized him. Sometimes he blamed and sometimes he praised, and the case-hardened old country actually went its way all the time quite oblivious of his approval or of his disfavour — being ready at all times, through some queer mental twist, to say more bitter things and more unjust ones about herself than any critic could ever venture upon. However, in the course of his many columns in the New York Clarion our journalist did at last get through somebody’s skin in the way that is here narrated.

  It was a kindly enough article upon English country-house life in which he had described a visit paid for a week-end to Sir Henry Trustall’s. There was only a single critical passage in it, and it was one which he had written with a sense both of journalistic and of democratic satisfaction. In it he had sketched off the lofty obsequiousness of the flunkey who had ministered to his needs. “He seemed to take a smug satisfaction in his own degradation,” said he. “Surely the last spark of manhood must have gone from the man who has so entirely lost his own individuality. He revelled in humility. He was an instrument of service — nothing more.”

  Some months had passed and our American Pressman had recorded impressions from St. Petersburg to Madrid. He was on his homeward way when once again he found himself the guest of Sir Henry. He had returned from an afternoon’s shooting, and had finished dressing when there was a knock at the door and the footman entered. He was a large cleanly-built man, as is proper to a class who are chosen with a keener eye to physique than any crack regiment. The American supposed that the man had entered to perform some menial service, but to his surprise he softly closed the door behind him.

  “Might I have a word with you, sir, if you can kindly give me a moment?” he said in the velvety voice which always got upon the visitor’s republican nerves.

  “Well, what is it?” the journalist asked sharply.

  “It’s this, sir.” The footman drew from his breast-pocket the copy of the Clarion. “A friend over the water chanced to see this, sir, and he thought it would be of interest to me. So he sent it.”

  “Well?”

  “You wrote it, sir, I fancy.”

  “What if I did.”

  “And this ‘ere footman is your idea of me.”

  The American glanced at the passage and approved his own phrases.

  “Yes, that’s you,” he admitted.

  The footman folded up his document once more and replaced it in his pocket.

  “I’d like to ‘ave a word or two with you over that, sir,” he said in the same suave imperturbable voice. “I don’t think, sir, that you quite see the thing from our point of view. I’d like to put it to you as I see it myself. Maybe it would strike you different then.”

  The American became interested. There was “copy” in the air.

  “Sit down,” said he.

  “No, sir, begging your pardon, sir, I’d very much rather stand.”

  “Well, do as you please. If you’ve got anything to say, get ahead with it.”

  “You see, sir, it’s like this: There’s a tradition — what you might call a standard — among the best servants, and it’s ‘anded down from one to the other. When I joined I was a third, and my chief and the butler were both old men who had been trained by the best. I took after them just as they took after those that went before them. It goes back away further than you can tell.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “But what perhaps you don’t so well understand, sir, is the spirit that’s lying behind it. There’s a man’s own private self-respect to which you allude, sir, in this ‘ere article. That’s his own. But he can’t keep it, so far as I can see, unless he returns good service for the good money that he takes.”

  “Well, he can do that without — without — crawling.”

  The footman’s florid face paled a little at the word. Apparently he was not quite the automatic machine that he appeared.

  “By your leave, sir, we’ll come to that later,” said he. “But I want you to understand what we are trying to do even when you don’t approve of our way of doing it. We are trying to make life smooth and easy for our master and for our master’s guests. We do it in the way that’s been ‘anded down to us as the best way. If our master could suggest any better way, then it would be our place either to leave his service if we disapproved it, or else to try and do it as he wanted. It would hurt the self-respect of any good servant to take a man’s money and not give him the very best he can in return for it.”

  “Well,” said the American, “it’s not quite as we see it in America.”

  “That’s right, sir. I was over there last year with Sir Henry — in New York, sir, and I saw something of the men-servants and their ways. They were paid for service, sir, and they did not give what they were paid for. You talk about self-respect, sir, in this article. Well now, my self-respect wouldn’t let me treat a master as I’ve seen them do over there.”

  “We don’t even like the word ‘master,’” said the American.

  “Well, that’s neither ‘ere nor there, sir, if I may be so bold as to say so. If you’re serving a gentleman he’s your master for the time being and any name you may choose to call it by don’t make no difference. But you can’t eat your cake and ‘ave it, sir. You can’t sell your independence and ‘ave it, too.”

  “Maybe not,” said the American. “All the same, the fact remains that your manhood is the worse for it.”

  “There I don’t ‘old with you, sir.”

  “If it were not, you wouldn’t be standing there arguing so quietly. You’d speak to me in another tone, I guess.”

  “You must remember, sir, that you are my master’s guest, and that I am paid to wait upon you and make your visit a pleasant one. So long as you are ‘ere, sir, that is ‘ow I regard it. Now in London—”

  “Well, what about London?”

  “Well, in London if you would have the goodness to let me have a word with you I could make you understand a little clearer what I am trying to explain to you. ‘Arding is my name, sir. If you get a call from ‘Enery ‘Arding, you’ll know that I ‘ave a word to say to you.”

  * * * * *

  So it happened about three days later that our American journalist in his London hotel received a letter that a Mr. Henry Harding desired to speak with him. The man was waiting in the hall dressed in quiet tweeds. He had cast his manner with his uniform and was firmly deliberate in all he said and did. The professional silkiness was gone, and his bearing was all that the most democratic could desire.

  “It’s courteous of you to see me, sir,” said he. “There’s that matter of the article still open between us, and I would like to have a word or two more about it.”

  “Well, I can give you just ten minutes,” said the American journalist.

  “I understand that you are a busy man, sir, so I’ll cut it as short as I can. There’s a public garden opposite if you would be so good as talk it over in the open air.”

  The Pressman took his hat and accompanied the footman. They walked together down the winding gravelled path among the rhododendron bushes.

  “It’s like this, sir,” said the footman, halting when they had arrived at a quiet nook. “
I was hoping that you would see it in our light and understand me when I told you that the servant who was trying to give honest service for his master’s money, and the man who is free born and as good as his neighbour are two separate folk. There’s the duty man and there’s the natural man, and they are different men. To say that I have no life of my own, or self-respect of my own, because there are days when I give myself to the service of another, is not fair treatment. I was hoping, sir, that when I made this clear to you, you would have met me like a man and taken it back.”

  “Well, you have not convinced me,” said the American. “A man’s a man, and he’s responsible for all his actions.”

  “Then you won’t take back what you said of me — the degradation and the rest?”

  “No, I don’t see why I should.”

  The man’s comely face darkened.

  “You will take it back,” said he. “I’ll smash your blasted head if you don’t.”

  The American was suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a very ugly proposition. The man was large, strong, and evidently most earnest and determined. His brows were knotted, his eyes flashing, and his fists clenched. On neutral ground he struck the journalist as really being a very different person to the obsequious and silken footman of Trustall Old Manor. The American had all the courage, both of his race and of his profession, but he realised suddenly that he was very much in the wrong. He was man enough to say so.

  “Well, sir, this once,” said the footman, as they shook hands. “I don’t approve of the mixin’ of classes — none of the best servants do. But I’m on my own to-day, so we’ll let it pass. But I wish you’d set it right with your people, sir. I wish you would make them understand that an English servant can give good and proper service and yet that he’s a human bein’ I after all.”