The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

“It was nice of you to say that, and most kindly meant. I won’t say that I don’t care very much how I look, because that would be an ungracious return for your compliment and it wouldn’t be quite true. There are times when one is quite glad to feel that one looks presentable; the present moment, for instance.”

  I acknowledged the compliment, with a bow. “Thank you.” I said. “That was more than I deserved. I only wish that your fortune was equal to your looks, but I am afraid it isn’t. I have an uncomfortable feeling that you are not very happy.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not,” she replied. “Life is rather a lottery, you know, and the worst of it is that you can only take a single ticket. So, when you find that you’ve drawn the wrong number and you realize that there is no second chance—well, it isn’t very inspiriting, is it?”

  I had to admit that it was not; and, after a short pause, she continued: “Women are poor dependent creatures, Dr. Jardine; dependent, I mean, for their happiness on the people who surround them.”

  “But that is true of us all.”

  “Not quite. A man—like yourself, for instance—has his work and his ambitions that make him independent of others. But, for a woman, whatever pretences she may make as to larger interests in life, a husband, a home and one or two nice children form the real goal of her ambition.”

  “But you are not a lone spinster, Mrs. Samway,” I reminded her.

  “No, I am not. But I have no children, no proper home, and not a real friend in the world—unless I may think of you as one.”

  “I hope you always will,” I exclaimed impulsively; for there was, to me, something very pathetic in the evident loneliness of this woman. She must, I felt, be friendless indeed if she must needs appeal for friendship to a comparative stranger like myself.

  “I am glad to hear you say that,” she replied, “for I am making you bear a friend’s burden. I hope you will forgive me for pouring out my complaints to you in this way.”

  “It isn’t difficult,” said I, “to bear other people’s troubles with fortitude. But if sympathy is any good, believe me, Mrs. Samway, when I tell you that I am really deeply grieved to think that you are getting so much less out of life than you ought. I only wish that I could do something more than sympathize.”

  “I believe you do,” she said. “I felt, at Folkestone, how kind you were—as a good man is to a woman in her moments of weakness. That is why, I suppose, I was impelled to talk to you like this. And that is why,” she added, after a little pause, “I felt a pang of envy when I saw you pass with your pretty companion.”

  I started somewhat at this. Where the deuce could she have seen us near enough to tell whether my companion was pretty or not? I turned the matter over rapidly in my mind, and meanwhile, I said: “I don’t quite see why you envied me, Mrs. Samway.”

  “I didn’t say that I envied you,” she replied, with a faint smile and the suspicion of a blush.

  “Or her either,” I retorted. “We are only the merest acquaintances.”

  My conscience smote me somewhat as I made this outrageous statement, but Mrs. Samway took me up instantly. “Then you’ve only known her quite a short time?”

  The rapidity with which she had jumped to this conclusion fairly took my breath away, and I had answered her question before I was aware of it. “But,” I added, “I don’t quite see how you arrived at your conclusion.”

  “I thought,” she replied, “that you seemed to like one another very well.”

  “So we do, I think. But can’t acquaintances like one another?”

  “Oh, certainly; but if they are a young man and a maiden they are not likely to remain mere acquaintances very long. That was how I argued.”

  “I see. Very acute of you. By the way, where did you see us? I didn’t see you.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Yet you passed quite close to me on the Spaniard’s Road, immersed in conversation, and little suspecting that the green eyes of envy were fixed on you.”

  “Oh, now, Mrs. Samway, I can’t have that. They’re not green, you know, although what their exact colour is I shouldn’t like to say offhand.”

  “What! Not after that careful inspection?”

  “That didn’t include the eyes. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I made another, just to satisfy my curiosity and settle the question for good.”

  “Oh, do, by all means, if it is such a weighty question.”

  We both halted and I stared into the clear depths of her singular, pale hazel eyes with an impertinent affectation of profound scrutiny, while she looked up smilingly into mine. Suddenly, to my utter confusion, her eyes filled and she turned away her head. “Oh! please forgive me!” she exclaimed. “I beg your pardon—I do beg your pardon most earnestly for being such a wretched bundle of emotions. You would forgive me if you knew—what I can’t tell you.”

  “There is no need, dear Mrs. Samway,” I said very gently, laying my hand on her arm. “Are we not friends? And may I not give you my warmest sympathy without asking too curiously what brings the tears to your eyes?”

  I was, in truth, deeply moved, as a young man is apt to be by a pretty woman’s tears. But more than this, something whispered to me that my playful impertinence had suddenly brought home to her the void that was in her life; the lack of intimate affection at which she had seemed to hint. And, instantly, all that was masculine in me had risen up with the immemorial instinct of the male in defence of the female; for, whatever her faults may have been, Mrs. Samway was feminine to the fingertips.

  She pressed my hand for a moment and impatiently brushed the tears from her eyes. “I do hope, Dr. Jardine.” she said, looking up at me with a smile,” that your wife will be a good woman. You’ll be a dreadful victim if she isn’t, with your quick sympathy and your endless patience with feminine silliness. And now I won’t plague you any more with my tantrums. I hope I am not bringing you a great deal out of your way. You do live in this direction, don’t you?”

  “Yes; and I have been assuming that my direction was yours, too. Is that right? Are you going back to Hampstead Road?”

  “Not at once. I’m going to make a call at Highgate first.”

  “Then you’ll want to go up Highgate Rise or Swain’s Lane; and I will walk up with you if you’ll let me.”

  “I think my nearest way will be up the little path that leads out of Swain’s Lane. You know it, I expect?”

  “Yes. It is locally known as Love Lane: it leads to the crest of the hill.”

  “That is right. You shall see me to the top of it and then I’ll take myself off and leave you in peace.”

  We had by this time crossed Parliament Hill Fields and passed the end of the Highgate Ponds. A few paces more brought us out at the top of the Grove and a few more to the entrance of the rather steep and very narrow lane. For some time Mrs. Samway walked by my side in silence, and, by the reflective way in which she looked at the ground before her, seemed to be wrapped in meditation, which I did not disturb. As we entered the lane, however, she looked up at me thoughtfully and said: “I wonder what you think of me, Dr. Jardine.”

  It was a fine opening for a compliment, but somehow, compliments seemed out of place, after what had passed between us. I accordingly evaded the question with another. “What do you suppose I think of you?”

  “I don’t know. I hardly know what I think of myself. You would be quite justified in thinking me rather forward, to waylay you in this deliberate fashion.”

  “Well, I don’t. Your curiosity about that Folkestone affair seems most natural and reasonable.”

  “I’m glad you don’t think me forward,” she said; “but, as to my curiosity, I am beginning to doubt whether it was that alone that determined me of a sudden to come here and talk to you. I half suspect that I was feeling a little more solitary than usual, and that some instinct told me that you would be kind to me and say nice things and pet me just a little—as you have done.”

  I was deeply touched by her pathetic little confession; so deepl
y that I could find nothing to say in return. “You don’t think any the worse of me,” she continued, “for coming to you and begging a little sympathy and friendship?”

  As she spoke, she looked up very wistfully and earnestly in my face, and rested her hand for a moment on my arm. I took it in mine and drew her arm under my own as I replied: “Of course I don’t. Only I think it a wonder and a shame that my poor friendship and sympathy should be worth the consideration of a woman like you.”

  She pressed my arm slightly, and, after a little interval, said in a low voice with just the suspicion of a tremor in it: “You have been very kind to me, Dr. Jardine; more kind than you know. I am very, very grateful to you for taking what was really an intrusion so nicely.”

  “It was not in the least an intrusion,” I protested; “and as to gratitude, a good many men would be very delighted to earn it on the same terms. You don’t seem to set much value on your own exceedingly agreeable society.”

  She smiled very prettily at this, and again we walked on for a while up the slope without speaking. Once she turned her head as if listening for some sound from behind us, but our feet were making so much noise on the loose gravel, and the sound reverberated so much in the narrow space between the wooden fences that I, at least, heard nothing. Presently we turned a slight bend and came in sight of the opening at the top of the hill, guarded by a couple of posts. Within a few yards of the latter she halted, and withdrawing her hand from my arm, turned round and faced me. “We must say ‘Good-bye’ here,” said she. “I wonder if I shall ever see you again.”

  For a moment I felt a strong impulse to propose some future meeting at a definite date, but fortunately some glimmering of discretion—and perhaps some thought of Sylvia—restrained me. “Why shouldn’t you?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But mine is rather a vagabond existence, and I suppose you will be travelling about I hope we shall meet again soon; but if we do not, I shall always think of you as my friend, and you will have a kind thought for me sometimes, won’t you?”

  “I shall indeed. I shall think of you very often and hope that your life is brighter than it seems to be now.”

  “Thank you,” she said earnestly; “and now ‘Good-bye!’”

  She held out her hand, and, as I grasped it, she looked in my face with the wistful, yearning expression that I had noticed before, and which so touched me to the heart that, yielding to a sudden impulse, I drew her to me and kissed her. Dim as was the light of the fading winter’s day, I could see that she had, in an instant, turned scarlet. But she was not angry; for, as she drew away from me, shyly and almost reluctantly, she gave me one of her prettiest smiles and whispered “Good-bye” again. Then she ran out between the posts, and, turning once again—and still as red as a peony—waved me a last farewell.

  I stood in the narrow entrance looking out after her with a strange mixture of emotions; pity, wonder and admiration and a little doubt as to my own part in the late transaction. For I had never before kissed a married woman, and cooling judgment did not altogether approve the new departure; for if Mr. Samway was not all that he might be, still he was Mr. Samway and I wasn’t. Nevertheless, I stood and watched my late companion with very warm interest until she faded into the dusk; and even then I continued to stand by the posts, gazing out into the waning twilight and cogitating on our rather strange interview.

  Suddenly my ear caught a sound from behind me, down the lane; a sound which, while it set my suspicion on the alert, brought a broad grin to my face. It was what I suppose I must call a stealthy footstep, but the stealthiness might have stood for the very type and essence of futility, for, as I have said, the ground sloped pretty steeply and was covered with loose pebbles, whereby every movement of the foot was rendered as audible as a thunderclap. However, absurd as the situation seemed—if the unseen person was really trying to approach by stealth—it was necessary to be on my guard. Moreover, if this should chance to be the person with the nystagmus, the present seemed to be an excellent opportunity for coming to some sort of understanding with him.

  Accordingly I wheeled about and began to walk back down the lane. Instantly, the steps—no longer stealthy—began to retire. I quickened my pace; the unknown and invisible eavesdropper quickened his. Then I broke into a run, and so did he, notwithstanding which, I think I should have had him but for an untoward accident. The ground was not only sloping, but, under the loose gravel, was as hard as stone.

  Consequently, the foothold was none of the best, as I presently discovered, for, as I raced down one of the steepest slopes, the pebbles suddenly rolled away under my foot and I lost my balance. But I did not fall instantly. Half recovering, I flew forward, clawing the air, stamping, staggering, kicking up the gravel, and making the most infernal hubbub and clatter, before I finally subsided into a sitting posture on the pebbles. When I rose, the footsteps were no longer audible, though the lower end of the lane was still some distance away.

  I resumed my progress at a more sedate pace and kept a sharp lookout for a possible ambush, though the lane was too narrow, even in the darkness that now pervaded it, to furnish much cover to an enemy. Some distance down, I came to an opening in the fence, where one or two boards had become loose, and was half disposed to squeeze through and explore. But I did not, for, on reflection, it occurred to me that if the man was not there it would be useless for me to go, while if he should be hiding behind the fence it would be simply insane of me to put my head through the hole.

  When I emerged into the road at the bottom, I looked about vaguely, but, of course there was no sign of the fugitive—nor, indeed, could I have identified him if I had met him. I loitered about undecidedly for a minute or two, and then, realizing the futility of keeping a watch on the entrance of the lane for a man whom I could not recognize, and becoming conscious of a ravenous desire for food I made my way down the Grove in the direction of my lodgings.

  CHAPTER XV

  EXIT DR. JARDINE

  My second visit to “The Hawthorns,” to which I had looked forward with some eagerness, had, after all, to be postponed indefinitely. I say “had,” since, under the circumstances, it appeared to be so unsafe that I could not fairly take the risk that it involved. I had made the engagement thoughtlessly, and, in my preoccupation with Mrs. Samway, had not realized the indiscretion to which I had committed myself until I was brought back sharply to the actual conditions by the incident in Love Lane which I have mentioned. But, after that, I saw that it would be the wildest folly to show myself in the vicinity of Sylvia’s house. Evidently the spy, after we had given him the slip so neatly, had made direct for my lodgings and lurked in the neighbourhood, and there it must have been that he had picked me up again as I passed with Mrs. Samway. Of course it was possible that the unseen person in the lane was not really shadowing me at all; but his stealthy approach, his hasty retreat and his mysterious disappearance, left me in very little doubt on the subject.

  I was not very nervous about this enigmatical person on my own account. In spite of my alarming experiences, I found it difficult to take him as seriously as I should have done, and still felt a quite unjustifiable confidence in my capability of taking care of myself. But on Sylvia’s account I was exceedingly uneasy. The interest that this man had shown in the unlucky little ornament that she wore, associated itself in my mind most disagreeably with her mysterious and terrifying adventure in Millfield Lane, and made me feel that it would be sheer insanity for me to go from my house to hers and so possibly give this unknown villain the clue to her whereabouts.

  This conclusion, at which I had arrived overnight, was confirmed on the following morning, for, having taken a brisk walk out in the direction of Harrow, and having kept a very sharp lookout, I was distinctly conscious of the fact that there always appeared to be a man in sight. I never got near him and was not able to recognize him, but at intervals throughout the morning he continually reappeared in the distance, even on the comparatively solitary country roads and the
hedge-divided meadows.

  It was excessively irritating. Yet what could I do? Even if I could have identified him with the man who had apparently shadowed me before, I really had nothing against him. And cogitating on the matter, with no little annoyance, I determined to take counsel with Thorndyke, and meanwhile to avoid the neighbourhood of “The Hawthorns.”

  After lunch, I wrote a letter to Sylvia, briefly explaining the state of affairs, and, having given it to our maid to deliver, I took the precaution to go out and saunter towards Kentish Town with the object of engaging the spy’s attention and preventing him from following my messenger to North End. The rest of the day I spent at home and occupied my time in writing a long letter to Thorndyke in which I gave a pretty detailed account of my recent experiences; which letter was duly posted by Mrs. Blunt herself in time for the evening collection.

  I had barely seated myself at the breakfast table on the following morning when a telegram was brought to me. On opening it I found that it was from Thorndyke, advising me that a letter had been dispatched by hand and asking me to stay at home until I had received it; which I did; and within an hour it arrived and was delivered into my own hands by a messenger boy.

  It was curt and rather peremptory in tone, desiring me to meet him at one o’clock at Salter’s Club in a turning off St. James’s Street and concluding with these somewhat remarkable instructions: “I want you to wear an overcoat and hat of a distinctive and easily recognizable character and to take every means that you can of being seen and, if possible, followed to the club. You had better put a few necessaries in a bag or suitcase and tell your landlady that you may not be home tonight. Follow these instructions to the letter and bring this note with you.”

  At the latter part of these directions I was somewhat disposed to boggle, remembering my worthy teacher’s threat to put me somewhere out of harm’s way. But Thorndyke was a difficult man to disobey. Suave and persuasive as his manners were, he had a certain final and compelling way with him that silenced objections and produced a sort of frictionless obedience without any sense of compulsion. Hence, notwithstanding a slight tendency to bluster and tell myself that I would see him hanged before I would submit to being mollycoddled like an idiot, I found myself, presently, walking down the Grove in a buff overcoat and a grey felt hat, carrying a green canvas suitcase in which were packed the necessaries for a brief stay away from home, and bearing in my pocket the incriminating letter.