Chapter IX

Luke Maddison walked into his office so calmly that Stiles, who from his glass-partitioned office saw him pass, did not dream of the devastating catastrophe which had shattered the life of his young employer. Stiles glanced up at the clock and grunted his satisfaction. Evidently the matter of the check had been satisfactorily adjusted.

The house ’phone rang and he took up the instrument.

“Will you come in?”

Luke’s voice was even; not by so much as a tremor did he betray his emotion.

There was nothing remarkable to betray. He was astounded at his own amazing calm, and it was some time before he had discovered a reason for his abnormal serenity. He was living entirely in the present, not daring to look backward, indifferent to what waited on the morrow.

Stiles, who had known him from a child, saw something in his face that he had never seen before, and was alarmed.

“Anything wrong, sir?” he asked anxiously.

Luke Maddison pursed his lips as though he were going to whistle.

“I don’t know. I haven’t quite got things into perspective. Sit down, Stiles.”

Again he pursed his lips, staring past his manager; and then, in measured, deliberate tones, he told the man just what had happened. It was not a moment for reticence, nor did he feel the necessity for covering up or excusing Margaret’s action. He was dealing with definite and final facts, and he set them forth with a sort of cold-blooded precision, as he would have set forth the values in a prospectus.

Stiles heard but at first could not comprehend the magnitude of the disaster. At last he made a little moaning sound, and this seemed to appeal to some latent sense of humour in Luke Maddison, for he smiled.

“You’ll have to do the best you can, Stiles. I suppose one has friends in the City who would help, but I haven’t the faith to go to them--faith in anything. No, I’m not stunned, I’m destroyed. But I’m not feeling sorry for myself--I wish I could. That at least would bring me back to realities.”

“What are you going to do?” Stiles’ voice was little above a whisper.

Luke Maddison shook his head.

“I don’t know exactly,” he frowned. “What does one do in these circumstances? Go away and shoot lions! Isn’t that the usual course for broken-hearted men to take? I don’t know.”

Stiles glanced at his watch and got up from the table.

“I’m going to see the bank,” he said, with remarkable energy. “I think we can lodge those Artificial Silk shares against an overdraft.”

Luke made no comment. He heard the staccato explosion of Stiles’ voice--the old man invariably got that way when he was excited. He was conscious that Stiles had gone and shut the door behind him.

For ten minutes he sat at the desk, looking straight ahead, trying hard to reëstablish touch with life. Then he rose, took his hat from the stand, mechanically drew on his gloves and went down the private staircase into the street.

As he opened the door of his flat he heard the telephone bell ringing, and had time to stop the butler as he was going to it to answer.

“Leave it, will you, please,” he said.

The ’phone was in his own little study leading from his bedroom. He lifted the receiver and put it on the table. Then, locking the door, he changed his clothes. He took the first garments that came to him; was unaware, till he was dressed, that trousers and coat were a bad match. Counting the money in his pockets, he found he had a little over fifty pounds. He grew thoughtful at this. Was that his or hers? It was a ridiculous problem, yet he battled it out for a long while; but all the time realities avoided him. He could only think of Margaret as A, himself as B. There was C, which stood for money--did this belong to A or B?

He threw the notes on the table, retaining the silver, and went out into the hall. He was taking down a light overcoat when the butler appeared at his elbow to ask the inevitable question.

“No, no, I’m dining out to-night.” And then, with the open door in his hand, he remembered. “I left some money on the table in my study. Take half for yourself and half for the cook--I shall not want you after this week.”

He left the man petrified with amazement and dismay.

Why he gravitated to the Embankment he could never tell; it seemed a natural objective. He had no thought of suicide, no intention of finding that gross way to forgetfulness. Walking slowly by the parapet, he came to a halt before Scotland Yard and eyed that Gothic building incuriously. That big detective was there, the Sparrow--the Sparrow, who righted so many wrongs, could hardly disentangle the problem which deadened the mind of Luke Maddison. The “children of the poor”! He smiled mirthlessly. He was one of the children of the poor, the natural charge of that big man. To protect the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer. Who had done wrong? Margaret? He tried hard to apportion all blame to her, to hate her. He shook his head and walked slowly back toward Blackfriars.

Opposite the Temple station he rested again. There was a narrow street running up to the Strand--Norfolk Street, wasn’t it? And his lawyer had his office there. Why not see him and tell him all that had happened? It was the sane thing to do. But then Luke Maddison realized that he was not sane. He was the maddest being in the maddest world.

He went on toward Blackfriars and came to a halt before the tram station. There was a long queue of people waiting to board the cars which arrived empty and went rolling along the Embankment crowded with humanity. Husbands and wives, possibly; young men going back to sweethearts who loved them; girls who had faith in some men or other and were ready to make every sacrifice for them. To Luke Maddison every car that drew away was laden with happy people, their day’s work ended, the recreations and pleasures of the night before them. Old men, young men; girls looking trim and smart; young men smoking big pipes, with a newspaper under their arms; bespectacled students--they hypnotized him, these great, blazing tramcars. He watched men and women mounting to the top, tried to identify them through the glazed windows.

He was standing with his back to the parapet, his elbows resting on the stone.

“Are you waiting for anybody?”

The voice had authority, though it was quite kind. He looked up to meet the suspicious scrutiny of a City policeman. The City police do not like to see men lingering indecisively, one hand on the parapet, the swirling black river below--especially a white-faced man, with a tense face and an almost horrified stare.

“N-no,” stammered Luke, “I’m--just watching.”

The policeman was looking at him curiously, as though he was trying to remember his face.

“I’ve seen you before somewhere, haven’t I?”

“I dare say,” said Luke, and turned away abruptly.

He followed the homeward-wending crowd across Blackfriars Bridge. It was dark and cold, and he struggled into the overcoat which he had been carrying on his arm. He remembered somewhere in the borough that he entered a little coffee-house, redolent of burning lard.

At eleven o’clock it began to rain, a fine drizzle that very soon soaked through the light coat. He was walking aimlessly along York Road in the direction of Westminster. A man ahead of him was walking more slowly, a slouching man with his hands in his pockets and his coat collar turned up. Luke was wearing rubber-soled shoes, and came up to the walker before he was aware of his presence. He saw the night wanderer lurch sideways with a snarl, stoop forward as though he were going to run, and then something in Luke’s face or appearance checked his flight.

“Hullo!” he said huskily. “Thought you was a busy.”

Luke recognized him.

“You’re Lewing, aren’t you?”

The man peered into his face.

“Blimey, if it ain’t Mr. What’s-your-name?--Maddison! What you doing down here? You should have come and seen me down Tooley Street: this ain’t my pitch.”

Twice he looked back furtively over his shoulder.

“You thought I was a detective?”

The thin lips of the man twisted in a leer.

“That’s what I said. No, I thought you was one of Connor’s lot. They chased me out of Rotherhithe to-night, said I’d been ‘nosing’ on ’em. That’s why I’m round here. Connor’s crowd always thinks that someone’s been nosing if one of his gang’s dragged.”

“Nosing? You mean spying?”

“Giving ’em away to the police,” explained Mr. Lewing. “Connor’s brother got caught the other night and they got a yarn down Tooley Street that I’d done it.”

Luke began dimly to understand.

“Come down here.”

The clawlike hands of Lewing caught him and dragged him down a narrow, ill-lit street.

“I’m nervous to-night,” he said, and here he was speaking the truth, for his voice became a little whimpering gasp. “You’re a gentleman, Mr. Maddison. You’d help a pore feller to get away. You know what Connor is--he’d knife you for twopence. Bumping off, he calls it--he’s an American; at least, he’s been in Sing Song.… Sing Sing, is it? Anyway, it’s a stir. A couple of quid’d get me out of London.”

“I haven’t got a couple of pounds with me,” said Luke.

He was already weary of the companionship, and, but for being in his present condition, would never have submitted to being dragged into this foul little street.

“Perhaps I can call at your office in the morning?” Lewing’s voice betrayed his anxiety. And then, as he remembered: “I give that ten pounds to the Gunner----”

“You gave nothing to the Gunner,” said Luke coldly. “Mr. Bird told me all about you.”

There was an embarrassed silence.

“Anyway, I’d like you to stay with me, sir,” said the man. “I called you a busy just now, and you look like a busy. If any of them Connors see me with a busy they’ll----”

They had just turned the corner into an even narrower street, and Lewing stopped suddenly, Four dark shapes, two on the pavement, two in the roadway, confronted them. Luke surveyed them curiously. They all seemed to have caps drawn over their eyes; each man had both hands in his pockets.

“Here, what’s the idea, Joe?” Lewing’s voice was a whine. “This gentleman is taking me round----”

The leader of the four laughed harshly.

“You’ve got to have a busy with you, have you?” he said with an oath. “You ain’t satisfied with nosing on us Connors, but you got to carry Scotland Yard strapped under your arm. That’s yours, Lewing!”

To Luke it only seemed that the man had edged a little closer to Lewing as he spoke. Lewing coughed and fell groggily against Luke.

“Get the busy,” said a snarling voice.

Luke swung back but not quite in time. He saw the glitter of steel and felt as though a hot iron had been drawn across his breast; and then a curious weakness came on him, and he leaned back against the wall and gradually slipped into a sitting position. His last conscious impression was the clattering feet of running men; four dark shapes vanished into a greater darkness, and he was left alone, with something that sprawled across the pavement, staring with unseeing eyes at the flickering light of the street lamps.