CHAPTER XXV.
MR. TOWNSEND'S DOUBLE.
That Thursday was wet. It drizzled all day long. I was not feelingwell. I had had trouble with one of my maids--caught her tampering witha lock, and sent her packing on the spot. Altogether I was feeling rundown.
The best of us women get the blues at times!
Things were worrying me, as things will if one is not feeling quite thething. I was almost disposed to tell myself that I had made a mistakein coming to England. After all, I should have done better by remainingon the other side. Here there were so many things which were againstme--in England there is no mercy for the woman that repenteth. Andgetting myself mixed up in this business was scarcely a promisingbeginning.
The arrival of my friend, the gentleman, acted as a pick-me-up. It dida poor, nerveless creature good to gaze on so vivid a representative ofsunshine and of strength. I was leaning back upon a couch when he camein--somehow his knocking at the door had set all my pulses twittering.It was with an effort I looked up and met his eyes.
He looked so well in evening dress--it was the first time I had seenhim in it. When one has lived for years with savages one notices suchlittle things.
"It is good of you to come to cheer me. I am so much in want of beingcheered."
He laughed, retaining my hand for a minute in his.
"The want is common to us both. I am in want of being cheered as muchas you--we will cheer each other." He sat down on a little easy-chair,which he drew in front of me. "I have only just returned fromDevonshire, which is like coming from the sunshine into the night."
"Have you been there alone?"
"I have been staying with a friend--Sir Haselton Jardine."
Sir Haselton Jardine? Where, quite recently, had I heard that name? Ofcourse! It was the name of the famous counsel. I had seen it stated inthat day's paper that he was to be retained by the Crown to prosecuteTommy.
I wondered if that item of news had come Mr. Townsend's way.
"Sir Haselton Jardine? Is that the lawyer?"
"Yes. I suppose he's the greatest barrister at the Bar just now."
"Didn't I see that he was going to have something to do with thismurder there's all the stir about?"
I had to let it out--I could not help it. So far as any effect whichthe allusion had upon my visitor was concerned I need not have tried.He never turned a hair. I was watching the white hands, which wereresting on his knee. Not a muscle quivered.
He replied to my question without a moment's hesitation, and in hisordinary tone of voice.
"He tells me that he's going to prosecute. He seems rather eager aboutthe business, too. If the chap is guilty I don't fancy Jardine will lethim slip."
I was still for a moment. I looked into my visitor's eyes with wonder,and--I don't mind owning it--with admiration. This was the sort of manit was worth one's while to know--he was a man.
"Don't you think the affair is rather an odd one?"
"Very odd, indeed--and not the least odd part of it is that I know thisfellow Tennant very well."
"No!" I was startled.
"I do. He's a stockbroker. He's done a good deal of business for me.Unless I am mistaken, he is, or was, almost a neighbour of yours."
"I know. He lives five doors down the street. But fancy your knowinghim. It seems so strange."
He made a little movement with his hands.
"In this world it is the strange things which happen."
"That is true."
As I sat there, looking at him, I realised how true it was with avividness of which he probably had no notion. This man was a study forthe gods. His attitude of perfect unconcern was not acting, it wasnature.
I felt that, having gone so far, I must go farther.
"Do you think he's guilty?"
"It seems almost incredible. He always struck me as being one of thepleasantest and most inoffensive little chaps alive."
"Every one seems to think he's guilty."
He smiled.
"Every one's an ass."
"Suppose he were to be found guilty, and was hanged, and all the timehe was innocent; how dreadful it would be."
Another little movement with his hands.
"It's the way of the world. The innocent are always being hung. Halfthe time we guilty ones go free."
This was a man. I went still further.
"Do you know that we met each other, for the first time, on the nightwhich the murder happened?"
"Am I likely to forget it?"
"Thank you. It's very kind of you to say so. But do you know that wemust have met each other quite close to what they call the scene of thetragedy."
"I believe that we were within half a mile of it."
"And it must just have happened."
"Probably within twenty minutes of our meeting. By all of which youwill perceive that our acquaintance in the beginning was cemented withblood."
What did he mean? What kind of creature was he? I really began towonder.
We went in to dinner, for which, by the way, he already had given me anappetite.
I had seen a good deal of men--of all sorts and conditions of men!--butI never saw a man who came within measurable distance of Mr. ReginaldTownsend in the exercise of that very rare, and wholly indescribablegift, the gift of fascination. I should say that he would have been afavourite alike with men and women--I will stake my bottom dollar, aspoor, dear Daniel would have said, that he would have been popular withevery woman. To me the average "fascinating man" is a monstrosity. Heso obviously bears his honours thick upon his brow. He so plainly trieshis hardest to live up to them. There was nothing of that sort aboutMr. Townsend. The charm was in him; it would come out of him whether hewould or he would not. He was not conscious of it. There was no sign ofeffort. There was no effort. He was always natural, always completelyat his ease. He could not help but give you pleasure. You yourself didnot notice the glamour of his manner and his presence till, as it were,it had compassed you about.
Nor were his powers of fascination decreased by the fact that he wasthe best bred, the best dressed, the most graceful, and the handsomestman I ever saw.
This sounds like tall talking. But it is not. I am no tall talkist,especially where men are concerned. It is the simple truth. My friend,the gentleman, was a man in twenty millions; any woman would have beenproud to own him.
I felt this very strongly, with a tendency to personal application,before the dinner was through. His conversation did me good. He talkedas if he had been brought up in the same cradle with all the leadingmembers of the British aristocracy. There was nobody who was anybodywhom he did not seem to know, male and female. To listen to him talkingwas like reading the Almanach de Gotha and the Court Guide bound uptogether. Only it was better, and a deal more satisfying.
He began to speak of a particular friend of his, one Lord ArchibaldBeaupre, in a way which set me all of a tremble.
"I will bring Archie to call on you--if I may."
This Lord Archibald Beaupre was a son of the Duke of Glenlivet, and, sofar as blood went, not very distant from the Throne itself.
"I shall be very glad to see him, or, indeed, any of your friends. Isthis Sir Haselton Jardine, with whom you have been staying, a marriedman?"
"He is a widower."
"Has he any family?"
"He has a daughter."
I don't know what there was in his tone, but there was something whenhe said "He has a daughter" which made it almost seem as if he hadslapped my face. I felt almost as if he had taken my breath away. Ifound myself echoing his words.
"A daughter? I see."
There was silence. Something seemed, all at once, to have taken theheart out of the conversation. It floundered, fell flat; seemed, for atime, to die. I knew very well what that something was just as plainlyas if it had been told to me.
It was that daughter of Sir Haselton Jardine.
It may seem odd. I had never seen the
girl. I had never heard of herbefore. But, all the same, I hated her right then. She spoilt mydinner. That's a fact. And, straight on the spot, she made me stand toarms.
I knew he loved her. And it made me feel--well, I had never thoughtthat a little thing like that could have made me feel so queer.
I had meant to talk to him about my plans for the future. To have askedhis advice upon points on which I wished him to think I needed it. Iwanted to beguile him into showing interest in what I had set my heartupon, until he had drifted, though but a little, into the current of myaffairs. But, somehow, after all, I did not seem to care to try. Atleast, not then. I let him go.
He was very nice. I was conscious that the man was almost like a womanin the quickness of his intuition. That, if it came to shooting Ishould have to move like lightning to get my shot in first. That hewould detect any intended movement towards my gun even before theintention was wholly formed. And instinct told me that he was awarethat I had perceived the intonation with which he had said "He has adaughter," and that it rankled. I do believe that for the first time inmy life I had given myself away. And to a man. But this man could readthe stars. And after dinner, he was particularly nice, because hehappened to have read them.
After he was gone I sat for ever so long in the drawing-room formingplans. The first wild notion had come to me before. I gave it form andfashion then. I, too, would buck the tiger. Why not? Who would havemore cause than I? It is a peculiarity of my constitution that,whatever the game, I always play better when the stakes are high.
I would win my friend, the gentleman. I would go the limit every timeuntil I did.
In winning him I should win all. Everything my soul desired. At asingle coup, the game.
First of all, I should win the man. He was well worth winning--just theman.
Then I should win social recognition. By becoming Mrs. ReginaldTownsend I should be spared years of struggling--struggling, too, whichmight only bring failure at the end. He wanted a clever wife, and heshould have her. He wanted a good wife, and he should have her too. Hewanted a wife who believed in him; he would never meet one who believedin him more than I did. He wanted a wife with money; probably there wasnot in England half a dozen possible women who had as much as I had.Given a wife who had all these things I doubted if there was adrawing-room in which he could not make her welcome--from the Queen'sown drawing-room, downwards or upwards. Practically he could placeSociety--with a big S!--at her feet, to do with as she chose.
To think of it! What a realisation of one's dream. What a short andwhat an easy cut to the Kingdom of the Blest!
Again, in making him the captive of my sword and of my bow, I should begiving one to the daughter of Sir Haselton Jardine. That, also, wouldbe worth the doing. To dislike any one is a mistake. I reminded myselfof that over and over again. But I knew I hated her.
As to whether I should be able to win him--on that point I had noshadow of doubt. It was true that the overtures might have to come fromme, but they should come. And when they came they should come in aguise which he would find resistless.
Or we should see!
I slept very well that night--soothed by my own fancies. I remembervery well that, when I was in my bedroom, just before I got between thesheets, I looked at the hand which he had held in his, and, just wherehis hand pressed it, I kissed it. It was a silly thing to do, but itdid me good.
I wondered if, when he had held her hand in his, she was silly too.But, no doubt, she had freehold rights--or she thought that she hadfreehold rights--to what was much better worth the kissing.
Never mind! But bide a wee!
Days slipped by. At his next examination before the magistrates thingsbegan to look very black indeed against poor Tommy. I suppose thewitnesses supposed they spoke the truth--so far as I could see, therewas no possible cause for their wishing to do otherwise. But how theylied! Unconsciously, we will hope, and in their haste. It was becomingplainer and plainer that unless something, as yet wholly unsuspected,turned up in his favour, Tommy bade fair to hang.
Well, I have seen a man hung on suspicion of stealing a horse, anddirectly he was hung the horse in question has turned up underneath thethief that really stole him. As Mr. Townsend observed, sometimes itseems as if the innocent were born to hang. If everything in life werecertain, where would be the sport, and what would be the use ofbetting?
It is the element of chance that makes the game!
One afternoon something happened which struck me as being distinctlycurious. It was after lunch. I was thinking of taking the air. I hadjust gone into the drawing-room for a moment, when there came aknocking at the door.
"Now, who's that, I wonder?" I stopped the servant on her way to answerthe door. "Eliza, let me know who it is before you say I'm in."
I knew who it was directly she opened the door. It was no good tellinghim that I was not in. He did not even ask. He came himself to see. Itwas old Jack Haines, and with him was a stranger.
It was the stranger who made me open my eyes. I had to stare. For hewas--and yet he wasn't--the living, breathing image of my friend, thegentleman. He was Reginald Townsend, with a difference. And thedifference--which was all the difference--was this: Reginald Townsendwas a gentleman; this man was emphatically quite another kind of thing.
And Jack Haines treated him as if he was quite another kind of thing.He treated him as if he had been nothing but a cur, and the man borehimself as if he was used to being treated like a cur.
Mr. Haines strode into the middle of the room. He pointed to thestranger.
"You see this creature?"
It was an awkward sort of introduction. I scarcely knew what to make ofit. The more I looked at him, the more I wondered who the man could be.
"He's a detective--a private detective. That's what he calls himself.If he is, he's the English kind. When first I landed on this darned oldisland I went to him, like the fool I was, and I said, 'I want to findmy girl.' And he said, 'I'm the man to find her.' And I said, 'Youare?' And he said, 'You bet. It's only a question of money, that's allit is.' And that's all it has been ever since--a question of money.That's the only time he told the truth. If you knew the amount of moneyhe's had out of me you would laugh. He kept thinking that he's found aclue, and wanting twenty pounds to find out if he'd found it, and everytime he got that twenty pounds he found out he hadn't. And now hethinks he's found another clue, and I've brought him along with me inhere to find out what sort of clue he thinks he has found."
The man coughed behind his hand. He puffed out his chest. He drewhimself upright. He tried to think himself a man.
"You are severe, Mr. Haines, uncommonly severe. Even detectives are butfallible. But, on this occasion I do not only think I have a clue, I ampositive--quite positive."
"What's the figure?"
"Figure? Expenses--merely!"
"And what's the clue?"
The man seemed a trifle fidgety.
"I am afraid that I am scarcely in a position at present----"
Mr. Haines cut him uncivilly short.
"Stow that! You don't touch a nickel till you tell me what's the clue."
The man cleared his throat. He looked round and round the room, asthough looking for the clue. Mr. Haines's inquisition seemed more thanhe had bargained for.
"As you are aware, Mr. Haines, I have searched all England for MissLouise O'Donnel."
"Judging from the amount of money you've had I should think you'vesearched all Europe."
Again the stranger cleared his throat, as if he deprecated theallusion.
"You probably have it in your recollection that at one time I believedthat I had traced her to Liverpool. Circumstances have recentlyoccurred which have brought to me the knowledge that in so believing Iwas right. She is in Liverpool."
Mr. Haines began to tremble like a leaf. I saw how easily this man, orany other man, could play upon what seemed to have become thedominating passion of his existence.
"Whereabouts in Liverpool? Tell me tha
t!"
"Unfortunately, at this moment, that is beyond the limit of my power.But this I will undertake to do. If you are disposed to expend afurther sum of fifty pounds I will undertake to place you incommunication with her within, yes, certainly, within fourteen days."
"You swear it?"
The man threw himself into an attitude which he, no doubt, intended tobe sublime. "As one gentleman to another I undertake, sir, to do what Ihave said."
"You shall have your fifty pounds. I will go and get it. Stay here."Mr. Haines turned to me. "Do you mind my leaving him here while I goand cash a cheque? I want to give him the money in your presence, andon conditions which you shall hear."
"I have no objection."
I had not. Indeed, I had been wondering how I might find theopportunity to ask the man a question which should be entirely betweenourselves. Whether he was as willing to be left alone with me as I wasto be left alone with him, is more than I can say. He ought to havebeen. Mr. Haines took me at my word. He stamped through the hall andfrom the house. The stranger and I were _tete-a-tete_.
He did not seem to be exactly at his ease. Mr. Haines had not offeredhim a chair. He seemed to think that he would like one. Indeed, he saidas much.
"With your permission, madam, I will sit down."
"I would rather you did not."
He was about to act on his own suggestion when my words arrested him.He seemed disconcerted, looking at me as if wondering what it was thatI might mean. I went on, "Of course you are lying again?"
The man drew himself up with what he intended to be an air of dignity.
"Lying?--Again?--Madam! May I inquire what you mean?"
"Pray don't put on that sort of air with me. I understand you verywell, my man. You are too common a type not to be understood. Ofcourse, you are lying again and of course I shall tell Mr. Haines sowhen he returns." He looked as if he felt that in exchanging Mr.Haines' society for mine he had made a change for the worse. "Or,rather, I shall tell Mr. Haines unless you give me satisfactory answersto the questions I am about to put to you."
"I assure you, madam, that, as a gentleman----"
"Stop! Confine yourself to answering my questions. On your answers willdepend whether or not I shall keep silence. What is your name?"