CHAPTER I.
ABEL DEATH AT WORK.
At six o'clock in the evening of the first day of March, in the yearof Grace, 1898, Abel Death, a man of middle age, with a faceappropriate to his name--which should never be given to any livinghuman being--was sitting at his desk, employed in the task of writingthe last of a number of letters, in accordance with the instructionsof his employer, Mr. Samuel Boyd, of No. 6, Catchpole Square, in theNorth district of London. The letters all referred to Money: to Moneydue for principal and interest, and to warnings and threats of whatwould be done in case prompt payment was not made at such and such anhour on such and such a day. Uncompromising and relentless to thepoint of cruelty, debtors were told in plain terms that ruin was theirportion if Mr. Boyd's demands were not complied with.
Abel Death appeared to be just the kind of man for the task he wasexecuting, being hollow cheeked and sunken eyed; his hands were longand lean, his movements eager and restless. Clad in shabby and badlyfitting clothes, he did not belie the position he occupied, that of anill paid drudge working long hours for a hard taskmaster.
The room in which he sat, and in which his daily duties wereperformed, could scarcely be called an office. From the number ofsingular articles it contained it might have been a curiosity shop, orthe store-room of a dealer in the miscellaneous goods of the earth towhose net everything that presented itself was more or less marketablefish. Here was a massive safe fast bedded in the wall and securelylocked; here a grand piano, locked; here weapons and armour of allnations, and pictures in which lay dumb stories of fruitless geniusand disappointed ambition; here pieces of valuable china and_bric-A -brac_; here some dozens of wine of a rare vintage; herehangings of old tapestry; here (the oddest feature in theheterogeneous collection) a waxwork figure, holding in itsoutstretched hand a cane stick of the reign of Charles the Second;and, scattered in all directions, but still with some kind of methodin the order of their disposal, a great variety of other oddments: alltaken for debt, and all representing, in different degrees, despairinghopes and reckless extravagance and prodigality which had come to abad end.
The apartment was large and lofty, with panelled walls and doors ofoak. The ceiling was covered with paintings of flying angels, andnymphs, and festive landscape-scenes after the style of Watteau,barely discernible through the accumulated dust of years; the manteland fireplace were richly carved in many a quaint and curious device,the beauty of which was defaced by smoke and ill usage and neglect.The house itself was very old, and these evidences of decay forciblyillustrated how low it had fallen from its once high estate. Forassuredly in years long since passed by it had been inhabited bypersons of wealth and fashion and good taste. Time was, indeed, whenthese walls resounded to gay music and revelry, when satin-slipperedfeet glided over the polished floor, and bright eyes smiled, and boldlips murmured into beauty's ears. Here shone the sunny aspects oflife; here gladness reigned; here all the luxurious ways of fortune'sfavourites were in their outward show at their best and bravest.Nothing of this was apparent now. The men and women who had trod theseflowery paths were dust and ashes, and the dwelling was the abode ofone who held fashion and good taste in contemptuous disregard, andwhose principal aim in life was the driving of hard bargains and themaking of money.
Having finished the last letter Abel Death descended from his stool tostretch and refresh himself. From the pocket of a threadbare coatwhich hung upon a nail he took a paper containing a couple ofsandwiches, and cast a longing look at the bottles of wine, a thirstymovement of his lips betokening the nature of his thoughts. But he didnot venture to lay his hand upon them, knowing full well that strictaccount was kept, and that if he appropriated but a single bottle theoffence would be detected the moment his employer entered; so he tookhis fate in his hands by extracting from his coat a twisted paper oftea and another twisted paper of brown sugar which he emptied into ateapot. A very small fire was burning, and he stood and watched theboiling of a tiny kettle of water. As he poured the water into theteapot he heard a knock at the street door, which he did not take thetrouble to answer.
"A trap," he muttered, pouring the tea into a chipped cup. "No, no,Mr. Boyd. You don't get me to open the door for you."
He suspected a ruse. He had received instructions not to answer aknock, nor to admit any person into the house during Mr. Boyd'sabsence, and the conditions of his engagement were strict and onerous,the most trifling transgression of the rules laid down being visitedwith a fine. When, therefore, the knock was repeated a second time heshook his head with a smile, and proceeded with his scanty meal.
It did not take him long to get to the end of it; and presently, whenhe heard the opening and the shutting of the street door, followed bysteps on the stairs, he mounted to his stool, and bent his head overthe books.
"Is that you, Mr. Death?"
He almost fell off his stool, for it was not the voice he expected tohear.
A young man of gentlemanly appearance confronted him with aningenuous, open countenance; with an honest eye and a graceful manner.In the teeth of these advantages there was an expression of anxiety onhis face which denoted that his errand was one upon which grave issuesdepended.
"You, Mr. Reginald!" exclaimed Abel Death, staring open mouthed at thevisitor.
"As you see, Mr. Death," replied Mr. Reginald. "You are still in theold place."
"Yes, Mr. Reginald, yes, still in the old place."
Mr. Reginald's eyes travelled round the room. "Where's my father?" heasked.
Abel Death answered in Irish fashion.
"How did you get in?"
Mr. Reginald held up a key.
"You don't mean to say----" stammered Abel Death.
"That I stole it?" said Mr. Reginald. "No. It is the old key which Itook away with me when I left this house----"
"For ever," interposed Abel Death.
"Not exactly, or I should not be here now."
"That is what he told me."
"That is what he told _me_."
"His word is law in this house, Mr. Reginald."
"We will not discuss the subject. I ask you again, where is myfather?"
"Out."
"When will he be back?"
"I don't know--I can't tell you. He has his ways. He likes to leavepeople in uncertainty."
"Is he well?"
"Yes, Mr. Reginald. As well as ever. There is no change in him--nochange!" He said this in the tone of a man who would not have grievedat a change for the worse in his employer's health.
Mr. Reginald drew a silver watch from his pocket. "It is six o'clock.My time is my own. I will wait."
"I earnestly beg you not to, Mr. Reginald."
"Why?"
"It would be difficult for me to get another situation."
"I understand. I have no wish to injure you. I will call later."
"I should not advise you. Earnestly, I should not advise you."
"I don't ask your advice. I must see him, I tell you. I intend to seehim."
"Then I give it up. I am sorry you have come down in the world, Mr.Reginald."
The young man looked at the clerk with a curious contraction of hisbrows. "How do you arrive at that conclusion?"
Abel Death tapped his waistcoat pocket. "It used to be a gold one."
"Now I call that clever of you," said Mr. Reginald, half merrily, halflugubriously, "but _your_ lines have not been cast in pleasant places;you should know something of the process."
"I do," said Abel Death, in a dismal tone.
"If the watch I now wear is an indication of my having come down inthe world, why, then, I _have_ had a tumble. Am I interrupting yourwork?"
"I have the books to make up."
"I'll leave you to them. Would it be unfair to ask you to tell myfather that I will call again at ten o'clock? He is sure to bedisengaged at that hour."
"Very unfair, Mr. Reginald. I wouldn't venture to tell him that I'dseen you."
; "In that case I'll not trouble you."
"And if you do call again, Mr. Reginald, I beg you, as a particularfavour, not to mention your present visit."
"You have my promise." He turned to go, but paused to glance at thestrange collection of goods in the room. "My father gets plenty of oddthings about him. I see stories of wreckage in them."
"Not our wreckage, Mr. Reginald."
"No," said Mr. Reginald under his breath as he left the room, "otherpeople's."