Chapter III: Part 3

The guests glanced at each other and became intent upon cigars. One or two wetted fingers and adjusted an unbroken leaf, thus escaping the inquiring look sent by Mr. Amherst.

“Tell you what,” he cried, “I’ll put down a trifle to make a start.” He called to the waiter and said in a loud, distinct voice, “Onker.” The other seemed puzzled, and the girl translated. The waiter brought ink, and on it being pointed out, somewhat bitterly, that this, by itself, was of little use, found pen and paper.

“There you are,” said Mr. Amherst jovially. “Now pass it down this side and up the other. This is a tiled meeting, remember.” He sat back and gazed at some cupids painted high up on the walls; the models apparently engaged after they had dined at the restaurant. A nudge presently at his elbow told him the list had returned. He put on his pince-nez and inspected it. “Henry Amherst, £50,” was the first item; the only other entry was in pencil, “Mary Amherst, threepence.”

“And this,” he said bitterly, “is, I suppose, what you call backing up the Chairman. Well, you’re the best judges of your own actions. I never dictate to other people.”

A murmur indicated doubt.

“Idea seems to be, sir,” mentioned Burnham, “that we ought to leave well alone.” A few shy “Hear hears.” “We’re very much obliged to you, Mr. Amherst, for your kind hospitality, and we’ve enjoyed meeting at your festive board—if I may be allowed to use such an expression at this time of the year—but you must understand we’ve none of us got money to throw away. We’re devoted to footer, same as you are, and we’ve planked down as much as we could afford. We’re pretty safe to cut a very fair figure this year, and—”

“Burnham,” interrupted Mr. Amherst, “you’ll excuse me, but perhaps you don’t mind if I just say one syllable.” He appeared to be under the impression that his voice had not hitherto been heard. “I’ve a great respect for you. You’ve got a shop in the borough that you’ve worked up from small beginnings, and, so far as I know, you’ve always paid your way.”

“Come on,” said Burnham desperately. “Let’s hear what you are going to say on the other side.”

“What I’m going to say on the other side is simply this. That, with all your estimable qualities, I’ve never, for a single, solitary moment, looked on you as anything but a fool.”

“Father,” reminded the girl, “these gentlemen are your guests.”

“If you are so jolly keen on it,” said Burnham, with spirit, “and if you particularly want to strengthen our team next season, why don’t you put all the money down, and buy James McWinter for us?”

Mr. Amherst struck the table with the side of his large fist.

“Just,” he declared emphatically, “just exactly what I intend to do.”

The waiter came forward in the character of a hat-stand, and Mr. Amherst, grabbing at the nearest, found his irritation in no way lessened on discovering that it was headgear of insufficient size. Mary Amherst, turning to the waiter who stood now arms filled with overcoats, remarked pleasantly that a night like this must surely make him think of the clear blue skies and the dazzling sunshine of his native country; the waiter appeared to have acquired some of the useful idioms of the country, for he said in appealing undertones, “Half-time, half-time!” The head waiter came with the bill, which Mr. Amherst, in his annoyance, had forgotten. Miss Amherst was called upon to check the addition, and it became her duty to point out that the head waiter had by an excusable oversight in making a total reckoned the date at the top. This remedied, with profuse apologies, the party was conducted to the doorway.

“Also I don’t mind telling you,” said her father, speaking outside as though no interval had occurred since his last decisive remark, “exactly how much I’m prepared to go up to.” He named a figure. “Not a farthing more,” he declared resolutely. “What’s that, my dear?”

“Only saying, father, that I was quite sure you couldn’t afford it.”

“That is my business, Mary.”

“It was the business I was thinking about.”

Mr. Amherst, never one to allow pasture land to flourish extensively under his boots, wrote a letter that night, posted it at the corner of Trafalgar Square, and walked three times around the pedestal of the Nelson Statue, partly because he had a great belief in the value of exercise, partly to enjoy the thought that he had, in sending the note, started the ball a-rolling. Coming into the hotel he was told by the porter that Miss Amherst had retired to rest, and he went upstairs humming cheerfully. The porter, it would seem, had been misinformed, for later the girl was leaning over the low balcony chatting with a youth who carried a kit bag. You would have said he was the young waiter at the Soho Restaurant, only that he wore no moustache and she called him Willie, which, as one knows, is rarely counted an Italian name.

“It’s all right, dear girl,” he said. “Now that I know his limit, I can easily arrange.”

“I don’t want him to waste his money,” she explained.

“Leave everything to me,” he begged. “Don’t forget the match to-morrow. By the by, just go in and borrow a lucifer for me. My box is empty.”

She returned with a supply taken from the smoking-room, and leaning over the balcony struck one and just managed to reach his cigar. No one was about, excepting the driver of a four-wheeler on the rank opposite; the cabman remarked confidentially to his horse: “Romeo and Juliet. Played nightly all over the blooming world.” The horse waggled his nose-bag to show that he, too, was acquainted with standard literature.

Mr. Amherst had announced the intention of taking his daughter home by the eight-thirty the following morning, and she was to knock at the wall not later than half-past seven; Miss Amherst was able at nine o’clock breakfast to exhibit her watch and blame it for her omission. She read from a morning paper the fixtures of the day, repeating the announcement concerning the match, whereupon her father announced that he was as ready to be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and gave her permission to catch the ten-five, and to travel alone. Miss Amherst agreed, but finding in another part of the journal an account of a deplorable case of a communication cord refusing to act, became suddenly terrified and begged her father to accompany her. He said “No!” There was reason in all things. Devoted as he was to his daughter, and ready as he might be to make sacrifices, this was asking too much. He had decided to see James McWinter play once more, before advancing a further stage in the negotiations, and the opportunity was one not to be missed.

“But I tell you what, Mary,” he said firmly; “you do some shopping, buy presents for relatives, and we can both go back together this evening.”

“The best places in London close on Saturday afternoons.”

“Then come to the match with me.”

“I suppose I’d better,” she said.

In London you see no such spectacle as can be witnessed in Midland and Northern towns, with the entire male population walking solidly in one direction, returning later in less regular order, and excited or depressed according to the fate of the home team. All the same, the compartments of the suburban train were well filled, and Mr. Amherst, fearful of being delayed, shouted on the crowded platform an instruction to his daughter.

“Look after yourself!”

An instruction she complied with the more readily because a hand waved to her from a carriage next to the engine. Half a dozen young men sprang up and offered places; she thanked them, and, apparently anxious not to be accused of favouritism, decided to hold by the rack and talk to young Pangbourne. As the train took a curve he had to hold her by the arm, but this she did not seem to mind. Pangbourne’s directors were, of course, to be present at the game. A hurried conference had taken place that morning in the waiting-room of a London terminal station, and the price of James McWinter, on Mr. Pangbourne’s urgent suggestion, had been fixed at a price that far exceeded the limit mentioned by Miss Amherst’s father.

“That’s capital!” she declared gratefully—“capital in more senses than one. You see, Willie, I can remember the time when we were hard up at home, and I recollect how my mother had to scheme and contrive. I don’t want to find myself going back. And the sum represents such an awful lot of money. Football’s a good sport, but there are other games.”

“Marriage, for instance?”

“We can talk of that,” she said composedly, “later on. Let’s settle one matter first. We mustn’t be seen talking to each other, mind.”

Mr. Amherst apologised to his daughter, as they made their way to the entrance to the ground, for his apparent neglect, and she accepted his excuses so readily that he felt bound to point out that, in a general way, he did look after her very carefully, adding that there was no one else to do this. Everything, said Mr. Amherst, with a touch of importance and a hint at real affection, devolved upon him, and he was not the man to flinch responsibilities. She inquired, deferentially, whether he considered it wise to pay out such a large sum of money for James McWinter. He replied that James was worth the figure mentioned the previous night, but not a penny, not a halfpenny more. If the other club began to haggle and bargain and huckster, he, Mr. Amherst, would instantly withdraw.

“And what I say,” he declared, “as you very well know, is what I stick to. My first word is my last word. Is that so, my dear, or isn’t it?”

“You’re an extraordinary man, father.” He appeared content with this vague admission.

Quite a good number had taken advantage of the hospitable offer to ladies, and Mr. Amherst, in spite of his recent declaration, showed relief on encountering the wife of another director, willing and ready to take charge of his daughter. Silk hat at back of head, he hurried off. “Highly important business!” he explained. Mrs. Burnham, a matronly person, confessed that she knew nothing and cared nothing for the game, but had to affect an interest in order to make opportunity of keeping an eye on her husband. Husbands required a lot of watching. Husbands were kittle cattle, if the truth was known. Husbands being what they were, the wonder was that any married lady remained in possession of her senses; she herself foresaw clearly the time when she would be taken away to the County Asylum. Having said all this, and having mentioned that she counted herself among the few who could respect and keep a secret, Mrs. Burnham lowered her voice that folk around might not hear, and urged it was high time Miss Amherst thought of getting married. Mrs. Burnham’s advice was that Miss Amherst should pick out some desirable young gentleman of good birth and excellent prospects.

“And then go for him,” recommended the matronly lady, with earnestness. “Go for him, for all you know. Takes a bit of doing, of course, but it’s worth while.”

The commencement of the game did not interrupt Mrs. Burnham’s counsel, but it interfered with the girl’s power of giving attention. Standing on a chair she watched eagerly, describing the progress in brief ejaculatory sentences to her chaperon; joined in the appeals of a few members of the crowd addressed to the visiting team; refrained from giving assistance to the majority in cheering and encouraging the home side. Privately, she criticised James McWinter, who, a large young man, appeared to be doing as little as possible, the while the rest scurried about on the slightly frosted turfed ground, doing everything in a strenuous manner with no result. What a football crowd likes is the scoring of goals, and when at half-time it proved that not one had been recorded on either side, the two teams, exhausted and limp (with the exception of James McWinter) were followed by regretful looks; men described what they themselves would have done, if they were but a few years younger or older, and less occupied with other affairs. Mr. Amherst bustled around, fanning himself with his silk hat, and looking greatly perturbed. He mentioned to his daughter that they (meaning Pangbourne’s directors) had the cheek to ask so much—quoting the large figure—that he would see them further before planking down that amount; he went so far as to hint at the well-warmed direction they could select.

The teams took up their new positions. The whistle sounded. Before Miss Amherst had disengaged herself from her companion’s inquiries and counsel, the outside left, amidst erroneous cries of “Off-side!” centred across to the inside right, who centred again, and James McWinter trapped the ball, dodged the two backs and shot hard; the goalkeeper fumbled it, and even supporters of the home side could scarce restrain a cheer. The other team prepared for a change of tactics, and in exactly four minutes precisely the same thing happened, and the goalkeeper dealt with the ball in almost the same manner; tears stood in his eyes; he glanced with reproach at his gloves, and bowed his head penitently to the observations of colleagues. Miss Amherst had to apologise more than once when crying “Shoot!” for kicking the back of a stout gentleman standing just in front of her. When at the end of the ninety minutes’ traffic the visiting side had scored five to none, and four of these goals were to be credited to James McWinter, she turned to her companion. Her father was in a kind of scrum not far off; she recognised the light in his eyes of one to whom money was of no consequence, and into her eyes came the light of one resolved to act promptly. Under cover of the cheering, she made an enthusiastic and apparently genuine declaration.

“Oh, but, my dear,” cried Mrs. Burnham alarmedly, “you mustn’t talk like this. This is dreadful. When I said what I did just now, I never meant you should go and throw yourself away on a great clumsy hulk like that, earning not more than £4 a week. Besides, his people are meat salesmen.”

“I’m not a vegetarian.”

Mr. Amherst, scarlet, almost blue with eagerness, was hurrying by.

“Not a word, please,” begged the girl, with extravagant signs of distress, “not a syllable to my father. Promise me you won’t tell him. My mind’s made up; but I don’t want him to know.”

Mrs. Burnham put out the hooked handle of her umbrella and caught Mr. Amherst neatly.

“Very sorry,” he panted, “can’t spare a moment.”

“You just come here first,” ordered the lady resolutely. “There’s something you’ve got to know, and I mean to tell it to you before I go and look after my husband. I’m not going to be blamed afterwards, and have you say it was my fault.”

“Do hurry up,” begged Mr. Amherst piteously. “If you knew how urgent it all was, you wouldn’t chatter on like this. I’m going to give them whatever they ask for him. He’s a bachelor, and he won’t mind where he lives.”

“Your daughter,” said Mrs. Burnham, speaking with tragic emphasis, “tells me—that she’s fallen in love—at first sight—with that six foot three—called James McSomething—who’s been kicking the ball—like a young demon—between the two posts. And my advice to you is—keep ’em well apart—keep ’em hundreds of miles apart from each other!”

* * * * *

Mr. Pangbourne’s club, with the aid of James and the rest, made its way later into the Second League, and he himself secured three well-paid official appointments from the Corporation and other bodies, who were probably actuated by feelings of gratitude; the entire town joined in giving him and Miss Amherst a notable wedding present. Mr. Amherst, now honorary secretary of the Bowling Club, has married a lady of forty-five, hitherto interested only in deep-sea fishermen. And all intend to live more or less happily ever afterwards.

VII—A CASE OF SUSPICION

IT was pleasant to get about the square of the station—where luggage had to be labelled and heated passengers stormed at porters and a rather stout brass bell was rung, and where at moments of pressure it did seem that the world had suddenly gone mad—pleasant to stroll there and to feel you were one of the few who recognised the identity of the quiet man smoking a briar pipe and carrying an umbrella, over near the label case. He was middle-aged, with an unobtrusive manner; in the summer he wore a straw hat sedately; he seemed to be always waiting for a train that never arrived. If a loiterer made his way into the station and stood about the bookstall longer than seemed necessary, the quiet man would go near to him, moving when he moved, stopping when he stopped, and losing no sight of him until he went off. The quiet man had apparently no friends, and the staff addressed him rarely.

Now the Station Master’s boy knew that this man was a retired member of the police force, the plain-clothes detective attached to the terminus. And in connection with a predecessor of this mysterious official they told him, in the Up Parcels Office, an incident.

* * * * *

Sergeant Bellchambers had not succeeded in gaining the popularity that most men, in this world, desire, but one or two of his first investigations received favourable comment from the General Manager, and this repaid him for lack of sympathy from others. It was said that in the M division they had been glad to see him take his pension and go, the opinion of the Inspector’s desk being that Bellchambers was a born muddler. This might have been the invention of the station staff; what was quite certain was that in his reports on blue paper in the early cases referred to he fixed blame on men whom the station considered innocent, and these men were, in consequence, fined or reduced. Moreover, he had not been content with singling out individuals and recommending them for the stocks, but he condemned an entire department; for which reason the station said darkly:

“We shall ’ave to get our own back.”

This was the state of things when the cigar robberies began. Parcels of cigars came up regularly from a certain firm and from a certain local station, sometimes for delivery in London, sometimes for transfer to another railway; one parcel in four reached its destination in good appearance outwardly, but with part of the contents abstracted. The firm made heavy claims, wrote furious letters, and at last managed to get a communication into the public press in which bitter reference was made to the supineness and slothful behaviour of the railway company. The Superintendent of the Line sent for Bellchambers, withdrawing him from easy duties on the station square.

“The only question is—” said the high official.

“Where do these robberies take place?” suggested Bellchambers. “That’s the point,” he added sagely, “that’s what we’ve got to get at.”

“What is your opinion, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Bellchambers made a fine pretence of taking thought before he answered. Then with red-ink pen he wrote on an envelope and passed it across the table.

“Up Office,” read the Superintendent.

“’Ush,” said Bellchambers warningly.

“Do you think you can find the thieves?”

“If I’m given a free hand,” said Bellchambers, “and no quibble raised, sir, about my petty disbursements.”

“Go in and win,” said the Superintendent. “When do you start?”

“This very night, sir?”

“Let me have a report in the morning.”

That evening the head of the department sent to the Up Office a new hand to assist the late-duty men. He was black-bearded with a very ruddy face, and he wore a uniform that had apparently belonged to a shorter and a slimmer person. His name, he said, was Edward Jones, but the Up Office seemed not contented with this and decided on the suggestion of a junior clerk to call him by the title of “Sunset.” He settled to the work with moderate determination, calling off parcels and sorting them into bins for delivery with perhaps more intelligence than the raw amateur usually showed: he spoke in a hoarse voice, and this he accounted for by confessing himself a slave to tobacco; he discussed the matter with the other men, between the arrival of trains, and seemed, not unnaturally, more interested in those who smoked than in the one or two who limited themselves to a cigarette a week, consumed after dinner on Sundays. The Up Office always had a composite scent, in which fruit, game, cheese, and other things mixed, with sometimes one gaining ascendancy, sometimes another; a new flavour of a more pleasant and a vaguer character was contributed presently by a small brown-paper-covered box, brought in from an arrival platform, bearing a proud label:—

VALUABLE CIGARS.

KEEP DRY.

“’Ere’s a chance for some one,” said the porter, as he called it off. “Sunset, old chum, these’d do your palate good.”

“Silly thing to mark ’em like that,” remarked the new man. “It’s throwing temptation in anybody’s way. I should say they’re likely enough worth about fifteen pence to one-and-six a-piece.”

“How d’you know?”

“I don’t profess to know,” said the new man hurriedly. “I’m only giving a rough estimate. But bless my soul,” he went on after a pause, “what a refining influence a cigar has.”

“If it’s a good one,” suggested a boy porter.

“They’re all good,” declared the new man with enthusiasm. “They’re like the ladies in that respect. Some are better’n others, but they’re all good.”

“Not a married man, then?” asked a foreman.

“I’m a bloomin’ bachelor,” said the new chum. “And what a thing it is on your Sunday off, when you’re waiting at the end of her road, to light up a cigar with a fine aroma to it. It not only gives you an air of belonging to the ’igher aristocracy, but it also carries away any suspicion of corduroy that might be ’anging about.”

“I’ve never give less than twopence,” remarked the boy porter.

“I’m sorry for you,” said the new man. “I should have thought a chap with your fore’ead had got more ambition. Why, when I was a lad of your height—”

“Pardon me,” interrupted the foreman, “you seem to ’ave a most extr’ordinary flow of conversation.”

“I’m celebrated for it.”

“I wonder,” said the foreman curiously, “whether you’d mind stopping it for a moment and doing a bit of work instead. Reason I suggest it is that the Company pays you for what you do and not for what you talk.”

“I can take a ’int,” said the new man coldly.

There seemed a desire on the part of the others that night to make Porter Jones work as hard as it is possible for a man to work. The heaviest hampers were confided to his care; the slimiest cases of fish were placed upon his shoulder; he it was who was told off to see to some consignments of rather advanced venison. The parcel of valuable cigars remained in the Number Five bin to be transferred to another Company by the first delivery in the morning, and it was observed that whenever Porter Jones came into the office he glanced in that direction. Now the Up Office, as I have hinted, had been perturbed over the recent complaints, and the mere fact that they had to fill up memoranda in regard to the various investigations, to the effect that, “I beg to say in reference to the attached papers that I know nothing whatever of the matter, I am, sir, your obedient servant,” this in itself was enough to put a keener edge on observation. Wherefore, a secret meeting was held near the gas-stove by the booking-up desk, and it was decided that the new man should be watched closely; it was felt it would be a proud and estimable thing for the office, the character of which was at this period slurred, if it could itself detect a wrong-doer and take him to justice. And should it happen that the detected one proved to be a new man with no friends in the department to lament his fall, then the most doubtful would have to revert to old beliefs in a wise and thoughtful Providence. Their suspicions were increased by the fact that whenever Porter Jones, in the brief intervals between work from nine o’clock onwards, resumed conversation, he invariably bent its direction towards the subject of cigars.

“Take no notice,” whispered the foreman to his colleagues. “At least when I say take no notice, I mean take all the notice you can, but keep your little heads shut as tight as possible.”

“Shall one of us lay up for him?”

“Who’s the smallest?” asked the foreman, with an air of having already thought of this device.

“I are,” said the boy porter.

“Evidently,” remarked the foreman, looking down at him, “evidently a chap of superior education. Country born, ain’t you?”

“I were.”

“Then,” said the foreman, “up you jump behind them ‘books off’ and you watch, my lad, watch Sunset for all you are worth.”

The Up Office closed at midnight in order to sleep for a few hours. Before that time the men had made preparations for departure, packing shining hand-bags and exchanging the official cap for a bowler hat, and brushing their boots; this last act is one of which the railway man never tires. Porter Jones alone seemed to be taking no preliminary steps, and when asked where he lived replied lightly and evasively that he should probably finish up at the Carlton Club. The gas lights were turned down one by one and darkness increased its possession of the office. Porter Jones went up to the end where Bin Number Five was situated; the others hummed to give a suggestion of unconcern. Suddenly there was commotion at the darkened end of the office, and seizing hand lamps, they hurried forward.

“’Old him, ’old him,” cried the boy porter. The counsel seemed unnecessary, for he gripped Porter Jones most effectively by the collar of the corduroy jacket. “Set on his ’ead. Lam him one.”

“What’s all this fuss about?” demanded the foreman.

“He’s got it,” screamed the boy porter. “Sunset’s got it hid under his jacket.”

“Got what hid?” asked the foreman. “Let’s ’ave the facts first of all.”

“I can easily explain,” gasped the new man. “I only wanted to see if— Make him leave go. He’s—he’s throttling me.”

“He’s a-trying to,” admitted the boy porter.

“Let him loose,” ordered the foreman. “Men, stand around him so as he can’t make his escape. What’s that bulging under your arm, matey?”

The new man gave an awkward laugh, as he withdrew the labelled parcel.

“I can explain it all to you,” he said, addressing the foreman and trying to rebutton his torn collar, “if you will favour me with two minutes alone outside.”

“Don’t you do it,” advised the others. “See him ’anged first.”

“Whatsoever you ’ave to say,” declared the foreman steadily, “you’d better say it here and now.”

“Well, it’s like this. I’m the detective.”

“Ho!” said the foreman satirically. “Detective and thief in one, eh? Vurry ’appy combination, I must say.”

“See here,” said the other, annoyed at the incredulous tone, “I’ll take off this beard and then you can some of you identify me.”

As he did so the foreman held up his hand lamp, examining the features carefully.

“Do any of you chaps recognise him?”

The staff replied at once that to the best of their belief they had never before in this world set eyes on him.

“Don’t play the goat,” he urged anxiously. “We’ve all got our duties to perform.”

“That’s true; we shall ’ave to lock you up for the night.”

“Right you are,” said the other gleefully. “Take me round to the nearest police station and then—”

“That would mean losing our last train ’ome,” pointed out the foreman.

“I s’pose,” said the boy porter respectfully, “it wouldn’t do to put him in the lamp room?”

“Chaps,” said the foreman, “my idea is we’d better, I think, put him in the lamp room. Get Porter Swan to lend you the keys, my lad. As for you, you scoundrel—”

“If you so much as dare to lock me up there I’ll see that you regret it every day of your lives.” He argued vehemently.

“Look ’ere, me man,” said the boy porter, returning with the keys, “we want none of your empty threats. If you think we’re going to be bluffed by a chap of your calibre—”

“My what?” shouted the indignant man, struggling to get at the lad.

“Go on, my child,” said the foreman approvingly. “Let him have some of your long ones.” The foreman turned to the others.

“This is where your school teaching comes in ’andy,” he whispered.

“A chap of your calibre,” repeated the boy porter, encouraged; “you’re labouring under the very worst misapprehension—”

“Good!” said the others.

“Worst misapprehension that you ever suffered from or endured or tolerated or submitted to or underwent or—”

“That’s enough for him,” interrupted the foreman, “we’d best not overdo it. Got his arms tied, lads?”

“You’ll suffer for this,” he cried.

“I’ll take me oath you will,” said the foreman. “Now then, two of you at each arm and—march! Boy, blow out the gas and lock up.”

No one was encountered on the way to the lamp room who had authority to interfere with the plans of the Up Office, and the unfortunate man was conducted at a sharp walk to that gloomy, sooty, greasy haven. The place reeked with oily waste, and some appeared to have been smouldering, giving a result that nice people would call displeasing. The uneven flooring was laid out with lakes of dirty water; zinc counters did not permit themselves to be touched. The foreman turned out the one glimmer of light as though by accident.

“Got a match on you?” he asked the prisoner in a kindly tone.

“Only one box.”

“Hand it over,” ordered the foreman, “for a moment. Thanks,” slipping it into his pocket. “Now we can catch our twelve-fifteen. Good night, old sort.”

“’Appy dreams,” cried the others.

“Don’t be late in the morning,” called out the boy porter.

The imprisoned man, not daring to trust himself to reply, heard the door close, heard the lock shoot. He groaned, and began to reckon the black hours that he would have to endure in the place; at the least, the number would be six; he did not care to think what it might be at the most. Throughout the whole of the time he was unable to close his eyes, and his only relief to the length of the hours came by thinking of the report that he would indite the following morning. He polished up in his mind some of the references to the boy porter, and to the man who gripped his arm in bringing him from the Up Office; it seemed that his suspicions in regard to the pilferages were centred, for some reason, on those who had most aggrieved him. Before daylight began to grin at him through the barred window of the lamp room he had mentally completed his report, and the last paragraph he felt was especially good.

“I am able to speak with absolute certainty, and I can go so far as
to say the men who are undoubtedly responsible for the recent
pilferages are those I have named, and I beg to suggest respectfully
that steps be taken to relieve them of their present duties at the
earliest possible moment. The only alternative is a clean sweep of
the whole of the Up Office staff, and this, sir, I hesitate to
recommend. But for reasons that I have stated, and for others which
I think it wise not to place upon paper, I earnestly hope that the
recommendation I have made will be acted upon without delay.

“W. BELLCHAMBERS.

“P.S.—Especially the foreman and the junior.”

“Can’t make it hotter for them,” said Sergeant Bellchambers to himself regretfully, “without it looking as though I’d got some personal spite.”

The night seemed endless, but it proved to have a finish, and Bellchambers, when the lamp-man opened the door in the morning, went out, a tired, oil-scented, yawning, but a determined official. A wash and a shave increased the last quality, and when the Superintendent arrived at nine o’clock, morning paper under his arm, Sergeant Bellchambers was waiting for him in the lobby of the office with confidence written all over his face in large letters.

“Evening, sir.”

“Good-morning, Sergeant.”

“I mean morning,” corrected Bellchambers. “I’ve been up all night over that little affair you spoke about.”

“Ah!” said the Superintendent, sitting down in his arm-chair, “with no result?”

“On the contrary, sir,” said Sergeant Bellchambers importantly. “If it isn’t troubling you too much I’ll trouble you to cast your eyes over this report of mine.”

The Superintendent let his glasses flick open and adjusted them on his nose. The Sergeant, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, watched his superior officer, waiting for the sign of gratified approval. This, to his great astonishment, did not come, and the Superintendent’s face remained unchanged when he had thrown the report on the shining table.

“Do you mean to say that you want me to get rid of these men?”

“That was the impression,” said the Sergeant, with a touch of acidity, “I intended to convey.”

“And you think they’re guilty?”

“I’ll stake my reputation on it, sir,” said Sergeant Bellchambers.

“That is not much of a bet,” remarked the other.

“You can take it from me that these pilferages will never cease until the men I’ve referred to are turned out.”

“I’m very anxious to do something,” said the Superintendent, taking up a ruler thoughtfully.

“Like myself, sir,” said Bellchambers. “That’s me all over.”

“But not,” said the Superintendent, hitting the table, “not in the direction you suggest. Read this!”

He handed over the morning paper to Sergeant Bellchambers, pointing to a letter headed “Recent Complaints of Pilferages.”

“Ah!” said the Sergeant exultingly, “they’re going for us again, then. ‘Dear Sir,’ he read. ‘With reference to our letters to you complaining of abstraction from our parcels of cigars sent by railway, we think it only right to inform you that we have discovered these pilferages were made by one of our own men. It appears that after delivering the parcels at the station here, and after they were weighed, he was in the habit of offering to take them to the train, and whilst doing this effected the robberies to which reference has been made. We need scarcely point out that if the station had been wisely managed these lamentable occurrences would in all probability never have taken place; the only question is, who is responsible? We are, dear sir, yours faithfully—’”

“A paltry trick to play on anybody,” said the Sergeant. “At the same time, sir, I think there’ll be no harm in making a change in the staff.”

“I intend to do so. Will you keep your eyes open, Sergeant—”

“Ain’t they always?”

“And,” said the Superintendent, “look out for another berth. Shut the door quietly after you.”

VIII—QUESTION OF TEMPERATURE

L.O.M. caught sight of M.R. two or three times on the journey, and M.R. made more than one effort to obtain completer details by inspection of the blue card label on L.O.M.’s bag. A certain coolness on M.R.’s side marked their first meeting, but this was the fault of the English Channel; it certainly looked like a practical joke, not quite in good taste, when a sudden lurch of the steamer sent him against her on the upper deck; despite his apologies, there was about the incident a suggestion of Holloway Road on Sunday evenings. M.R. told her married sister that she considered him a bounder; the married sister replied that this description could be applied to men in general, with one single exception.

“Be very careful, Margaret,” she added, “how you make acquaintances. We shall run up against all sorts.”

“All sorts,” complained the girl, “seem to be running up against me.”

At the Paris Station of the Lyons railway, L.O.M. appeared in a more favourable light, rescuing the married sister’s coat which had been taken from a peg in the buffet by a Frenchwoman who was either short-sighted or deficient in honesty. At Vallorbes, it was he who came to the window of their compartment—the hour being five a.m., and snow on the ground—and gave the welcome news that their registered luggage was not amongst the packages selected for examination at the Swiss frontier.

“Do you think I might get you some coffee?” he asked.

“Certainly not!” answered the married sister promptly.

The incident constituted a subject for discussion, the younger girl contending that the obliging male should never be curtly repulsed; the other arguing that a difficulty would have been found in persuading the youth to accept cash for refreshments supplied, and, consequent on this, the trouble in preventing him from becoming intrusive could scarcely be measured. At Lausanne, where passengers took breakfast, he very properly kept his distance. At Bex, in the tram-cars, which were to make the climb with the aid of motive power at the back, he gave up his place to the elder of the two and sat side by side with the girl in the crowded luggage van.

“Yes,” she replied, “I skate, and I should like to learn to ski. Do you?”

“Moderately good at it,” replied L.O.M. “Did some in Norway.”

“Then, perhaps—”

“You will find an instructor up there,” he said.

She turned away huffily.

It was not, however, easy to avoid joining in the general conversation. Everybody had projects for the filling up of the winter holiday; the conductor, as the car went slowly up the hill, was appealed to for information concerning weather, and being a man of cheerful temperament, gave exactly the particulars that were hoped and desired, without allowing truth to mar the effect. Thus an atmosphere of hopefulness pervaded the luggage van, and even retiring military men perched upon trunks became vivacious, talking of desperate deeds already accomplished in other places on toboggans, and speaking with relish of the appetite that came after these exercises. The two were soon again in conversation, and the girl mentioned that her sister’s maiden name was Rodgers, a fact which enabled him to perceive acutely that this must be also the girl’s name. Turning the label on his valise, he introduced himself.

“Masterson,” he said.

“I like names of three syllables,” she remarked.

The hour and a half occupied by the journey was lessened by all this, and by the increasingly snowy aspect of the mountains on either side of the track; the conductor derided this as trifling, and endeavoured to give some idea of the downfall that had taken place up near the summit. At Gryon the steep part finished, and the cars went on with the assistance of overhead wires.

“You play and sing, I suppose?”

“I perform no parlour tricks of any description,” said Miss Rodgers definitely. “I leave these accomplishments to others.”

“Really?” Rather taken back, and the movement of his forehead slightly lifting his cap. “I had an idea—I’d got the notion that every girl did. My sisters—”

“I am the exception,” with pride. “Outdoor sports constitute my strong point. I could live for ever in the open air.”

“What about the bad weather?” inquired Masterson.

“How can you talk of bad weather at a time like this? Look back and see that dear, white, delightful little village. Tell me, do you think there will be a carnival on the ice rink? I’ve brought the sweetest fancy dress you ever saw. You won’t find me staying indoors, excepting for meals.”

When the cars reached the destination, the two alone out of the whole party exhibited scarcely any signs of the twenty-five hours’ journey from Charing Cross and London; the married sister compensated by showing every symptom of collapse, and he very courteously assisted her up the wooden steps and over the bridge to the hotel. There the flurried manager checked names as they entered; assigned the double room on the first floor to Mr. Masterson, and the single room on the third floor to Miss Rodgers and her exhausted sister; they united forces in protesting against this, and became more friendly in the presence of a common grievance. Despite the warmth of arguments used by visitors, the thermometer near the pile of brushes and toboggans registered four degrees of frost.

Lunch was served at once, and immediately after the meal the married sister, discovering that she had eaten veal under the impression it was mutton, announced her intention of resting indoors during the afternoon. The other two came down in jerseys and white caps, and the married sister gave Masterson gracious permission to escort Miss Rodgers to the rink.

“Mind you bring her back safely,” she commanded.

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

“Quite capable of taking care of myself,” remarked the girl. “Just lace up my boots for me, please.” They left the lady in the vestibule perusing a Cardiff journal bearing date of a Tuesday in the previous month.

One could see on their return that the afternoon on the rink had reached highest expectations; their animation caused some compression of the eyebrows on the part of sedater folk taking tea. Everything had happened as the flushed, excited girl wanted it to happen. Her ability had excited favourable comment from other skaters; one of the professionals gave a compliment; the band played delightfully, and she—not caring for indoor dancing—completely and thoroughly enjoyed a waltz. Sun shining all the time.

“After tea,” she explained, “we are going out to do some ski-ing.”

“Who is meant, pray,” asked her sister carefully, “by the word ‘we’?”

“Mr. Masterson and myself, of course!”

“Oh!” commented her sister, giving an inflection which the printed word cannot convey.

“What’s your objection, Ellen?”

“It would be useless for me to offer any. I shall stay in and write. Does he know that you neither play nor sing?”

“I’ve told him,” snapped the girl.

Folk at the hotel attended meals with regularity, but their impatience towards the finish was something not easily concealed. A tall woman seated opposite at dinner, and possessing a complexion which looked almost natural, hinted that she was arranging some amateur theatricals, and Mr. Masterson gave to the announcement an interest which Miss Rodgers considered so excessive that she turned from him and listened with attention intended to be equally extravagant to her sister’s talk concerning Henry. The lady with the complexion had been searching the hotels for some one who could sing and act; up to the present, she had found three able to sing, but not greatly desirous of doing so; they were more definite in their replies to her invitation in regard to acting. Also, she required some one who could play the pianoforte readily.

“Please help me if you can,” she begged, passing the French mustard across to Mr. Masterson, and assuming an ingratiating smile. “I shall be so grateful.”

“There’s a good deal to do out-of-doors,” he mentioned.

“Then,” said the lady, with resolution, “I must pray for mild weather!”

The concierge announced in the vestibule, as folk returned who had been out for moonlight tobogganing after dinner, that the frost was hard, the thermometer promising well; bridge players ordered him to close the doors, and keep them closed, but Masterson and Miss Rodgers coming in, flushed with exercise on the snow run, congratulated each other on the good news, and in the corridor, before saying good-night, made full and complete plans for the following day.

Masterson slept the sleep of a well-tired man until six o’clock, when the bell rang to arouse servants. He heard a drip, drip, drip from the roofs, and turning over dreamt of an amazing leap on skis from the top of Mont Blanc to the Dent du Midi, an exploit that created in his mind, not surprise, but genuine satisfaction. When he awoke again, it was to find the hour late, and in dressing hastily, to avoid the fifty centimes fine inflicted on those who took breakfast after ten, he shared the blame between himself and the heating apparatus which kept the room at a too comfortable temperature.

“Really very sorry,” he cried, entering the dining-room. Severe faces looked up from the tables; young Miss Rodgers helped her sister to honey and sighed. “You can’t think how full of regret I am.”

“It is a pity,” she said.

“I was awake early, mind you,” he went on eagerly. “Wide awake as I am now. And then I dozed off, and when I—”

The waiting maid brought his coffee and he poured it into the cup with the air of a man not deserving refreshment.

“You have been out alone, I suppose?” he remarked.

“Apparently,” interposed the married sister, “you are not aware that there has been a most wonderful thaw during the night, and that there is now a thick mist.”

The weather was not the only thing affected by the change. After breakfast, folk stood about in the corridor examining the notices there with a doleful expression. “Rink Closed” stood out in definite capital letters, and eyes turned from the stern announcement to gain some comfort from the slips which recorded loss of decorative articles. A few proclaimed intention of devoting the morning to sending postcards, and to the clearing off of arrears in correspondence, and stalked resolutely up to the drawing-room; others went to see if they could induce the concierge to make a cheerful prophecy concerning the weather, returning with the news that the official, discouraged by failure, refused to hold out anything that looked like hope. One or two inspected time tables and talked of going back to Lausanne.

“Why don’t you suggest something, Mr. Masterson?”

“Wish I had the necessary intelligence, Miss Rodgers. Is there anything we can arrange indoors, I wonder, to make the time go quickly whilst the weather is sorting itself? Think of something that you’re good at!”

“If you possessed a memory,” retorted the girl warmly, “you would recollect that I distinctly told you—”

The lady with the very fresh complexion interposed, with an apology. Would Mr. Masterson give her three minutes of his time in a corner of the vestibule? Masterson looked at the girl for directions, but she turned away, and he followed the other obediently.

Great mystery surrounded the ball-room, and especially the stage of the ball-room, that day, with janitors at doors, asking those who arrived: “Excuse me, but are you taking part?” and when a negative answer was given, adding: “Then will you kindly stay outside, please?” The pianoforte could be heard being played with the soft pedal down, and a sound came of choruses; occasionally, the voice of the made-up lady crying: “Oh, that’s not a bit like it!” and “We must try the first act all over again!” and “Do take up your cues smartly, please!”

At lunch she escorted Masterson into the dining-room, conveying him past the chairs occupied by Miss Rodgers and the married sister, and induced him to sit beside her during the meal. The doyen of the guests rapped three times on the table between the veal and the chicken course, and made an announcement. Volunteers were required to sing in the church choir. A bracelet had been found on the billiard table. To-morrow evening there would be a theatrical entertainment in the ball-room under the joint superintendence of Miss Ellicott and Mr. Masterson. Ladies willing to sing in the chorus were requested to communicate immediately with Mr. Masterson. The doyen sat down; the buzz of conversation recommenced.

Masterson, note-book in hand, stood at the doorway when the meal was over, taking names. As Miss Rodgers and her sister came near, he looked up inquiringly, but the girl stared at him in a distant manner, and went past, ignoring the half-completed question which he put to her; Masterson gazed after them with the abashed look of one who has discovered that he does not fully understand women, and to the next offer replied, rather brusquely, that the list was now complete. He proceeded to the ball-room and gave up the afternoon to rehearsal, interspersed with gusty arguments with the leading lady. Outside, the rain came down in a quiet, orderly manner, as though it were doing exactly what was required, and the concierge went about assuring visitors that the fault was not his.

Young Miss Rodgers, wearing defiance as a cloak to nervousness, knocked at the door of the ball-room and asked to see Mr. Masterson. The amateur door-keeper replied that the gentleman was busy. Miss Rodgers, with a smile that would have persuaded even a professional, induced the door-keeper to go and make further inquiries, and immediately that he had started on this errand, not only slipped inside the room, but at once slipped up on the polished floor. Now, she was a sure-footed girl, not accustomed to tumble, and it was fortunate, in view of her record, that no one happened to witness the incident. She had resumed an upright position when the doorkeeper returned.

“You go across to the drawing-room,” he whispered importantly, “and in about ten minutes he’ll see you! Quarter of an hour at the outside.”

The entire strength of the company was on the stage, and as she walked up and down the carpeted room, snatches of the dialogue came to her ears. The leading lady, and Masterson were about to go through once again the scene which had startled the girl on entering the ball-room; the lady suggested improvements. “When I rush into your arms,” she said, “how would it be for you to catch me like this—” here evidently followed an illustration—“and I’ll lean my hand on your shoulder like this”—another illustration—“and then we can start the duet.” Masterman’s voice said he was ready to try this plan. “That’s better,” remarked the lady presently, “but I think we may as well do it again. Give me the word, somebody.”

The girl peered through the cracks of the set scenery on the stage, and, her hand at her throat, watched and listened.

“That’s about right. Now for the duet. Play the symphony, please, Miss Jenner.” After this, “Thank you. Just once more.”

Masterson’s voice, a strong baritone, started:

“As I look into eyes that gaze up into mine,
I know that your dear heart is beating for me.
I know you’re as true as the stars that do shine,
As the sun and the moon and the earth and the sea.
Yet I ask for one word—”

Miss Rodgers, fearful of being discovered and unable to endure contemplation of the scene any longer, crept away to the other end of the drawing-room, where, regarding herself in the mirror, she found an extremely cross-looking face with a line or two on the forehead. As the lady’s reply rang out, the girl took up an illustrated journal from the table and endeavoured to divert her thoughts by concentrating on fashion, only to find that she could not be quite sure whether she was inspecting a page of drawings or a page of letterpress.

“For I love thee, I love thee, ’tis all I can say.”

The chorus, standing around with a strange want of delicacy during this affectionate argument, now threw off all restraint, and acknowledged the interest they had taken in the proceedings by singing confidentially to each other:

“She loves him, she loves him, ’tis all he can say,
He loves her, he loves for a year and a day.
Pray see how affection has come their direction,
Oh, thrice happy twain to be wedded in May.”

“Hullo!” cried Masterson, astonished, coming off, “you here?”

The question seemed to be one of those not requiring a reply, and Miss Rodgers ignored it.

“I wanted to know whether there was a chance of being able to help,” she said.

“Rather!” he declared readily. “We’ll soon see about that. I’ll go and arrange.”

He went at a good rate; returned with leaden footsteps.

“I’m sorry!” she said, receiving his message.

“If you had only offered earlier,” he remarked apologetically. “You see, I’m not in charge of the affair, or else I’d manage it like a shot. And I thought you said—”

“It occurred to me,” explained Miss Rodgers, her voice faltering slightly, “that I’d like to try. But it doesn’t really matter in the least.”

* * * * *