CHAPTER II.
THE MAN WITH THE SILK HANDKERCHIEF.
Now that I had reached Victoria I did not know what to do. I continuedto sit in a sort of bewilderment, wondering. Should I speak to theguard, or should I not? Should I walk out of the station as if nothinghad happened? I was, or it seemed to me that I was, between the deviland the deep sea. Whichever path I took was the path, not of safety butof danger.
While I sat hesitating and apparently incapable of anything buthesitation, the carriage door was opened. I supposed that, seeing me, aporter had opened it for me to alight. But it was not a porter whostood there looking in--looking in, as it struck me, with eagercuriosity. It was an individual in a top hat and an overcoat ornamentedwith fur cuffs and collar. Even in my state of confusion, and in thatimperfect light, I was at once struck by the fact that both hat andovercoat were the worse for wear. The face under the hat was also theworse for wear. The cheeks were ruddy, with a ruddiness which suggestedalcohol. The moustache and whiskers were too black for nature. Theeyes, which were at once both impudent and shifty, in colour almostmatched the whiskers. There was something about the man which remindedme of some one I had seen before. Who it was, at the moment, I couldnot think.
He addressed me with what he probably intended for an ingratiatingsmile, "This is Victoria." I told him I was aware of it. "All get outhere." I added that I was also aware of that.
His eyes, which had been travelling round and round the carriage in aneager, searching fashion, which, for some reason, made me curiouslyuneasy, finally rested on my face. He at once noticed the blood-stainedhandkerchief which I still was holding to my cheek.
"Nose bleeding?"
"No; I've cut my cheek."
I don't know why I sat there speaking to the man as I did.
"Permit me to offer you my handkerchief; yours seems soaked withblood."
Taking out a red silk handkerchief, the corner of which had beenprotruding from the outside pocket of his overcoat, he held it out tome. I was reluctant to take it. One is reluctant to accept the loan ofa silk handkerchief from a perfect stranger, more especially, perhaps,from the sort of stranger he appeared to be. But what was I to do? Iwas in want of a handkerchief. My own was worse than useless. It wasreeking wet. Great gouts of blood were commencing to drop from it. Mycheek was bleeding as profusely as ever. I was beginning to wonder if ablood-vessel had been severed. One cannot buy handkerchiefs on a Sundaynight. I should have to borrow from some one. So I borrowed from him.Unwillingly enough, I admit. As I applied his handkerchief to my cheek,turning, I threw my own through the open window at my side.
He rushed forward, as if to stay my arm. He was too late. Thehandkerchief had gone. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "what have you done?"
He seemed unnecessarily excited, considering that, in any case, thehandkerchief was mine.
"I've thrown it away. You don't suppose that, in that condition, Icould carry it home." He looked at me with his eager eyes.
"Was your name upon it?"
"I believe so; why?"
Leaning over, he laid his hand upon my shoulder. He spoke in a tone ofvoice which, in spite of myself, sent a thrill all over me.
"Man, supposing they find it? It may be a question of life or death.Let's get out of this--come!"
It was time that we left the carriage. I had noticed a porter staringin, as if wondering why we remained its occupants. But that was noreason why the stranger, thrusting his arm through mine, should havealmost dragged me out on to the platform. As he continued to cling tome when we were on the platform, I remonstrated--"Be so good as torelease my arm."
Paying no attention to my request, he made as if to hurry me on.
"Come to a little place I know near here. I am a bit of a doctor. I'llsoon make that cut of yours all right."
I did not budge. I repeated my request--
"Be so good as to release my arm. I am obliged to you for yoursuggestion. I, however, prefer to go straight home."
"Quite right; there is no place like home. Let's go and find a cab."
Not at all nonplussed, he again made as if to hasten on. I stilldeclined to budge.
"Thank you. I can perform that office for myself. If you will give meyour address, I will forward you your handkerchief. Or, if you preferit, I will deposit with you its value."
"Sir, I am a gentleman." He drew himself up with an assumption ofdignity which was so overdone as to be ludicrous. The two last words herepeated--"A gentleman!"
"I do not doubt it. It is I who may not be a gentleman."
"I, sir, can tell a gentleman when I see one." He laid a stress uponthe personal pronoun, as if he wished me to infer that such clearnessof vision might be a personal peculiarity. "I will give you my addressin the cab."
Willing to humour him, I suffered him to stroll up the platform at myside. I held out my hand to him when we reached a hansom.
"Your address?"
"I said I would give you my address in the cab." Leaning towards me, hespoke in that curious tone which had impressed me so unpleasantly inthe railway carriage. "Get into the cab, man; I travelled from Brightonin the next compartment to yours."
I was foolish. I ought, even at the eleventh hour, to have addressedmyself to an official, to have made a clean breast of it, to have toldhim of the accident, the unavoidable accident, which had happened onthe line. I know that now too well. I knew it, dimly, then. But, at themoment, I was weak. The fellow's manner increased my state of mentalconfusion. In a sense, his words overwhelmed me. I yielded to him. Igot into the cab. He placed himself at my side.
"Where shall I tell the man to drive?" he asked.
"Anywhere."
"Piccadilly Circus!" he shouted. The cab was off.
We sat in silence, I in a state of mind which I should find somedifficulty in making plain. I will not attempt it. I will only say thatI should have dearly liked to have taken my friend, the stranger, bythe scuff of his neck and to have thrown him out into the street. I didnot dare.
When we were clear of the traffic I asked him, in a voice which Iscarcely knew to be my own, it was so husky and dry--
"What did you mean by saying that you travelled from Brighton in thenext compartment to mine?"
"Mean? My dear sir, I meant what I said. It was a coincidence--nothingmore." He spoke lightly; impudently even. I felt incapable of pressinghim for a more precise explanation. He added, as a sort ofafterthought, "I'm a detective."
I turned to him with a start. "A detective?"
He pretended to be surprised by my surprise.
"What's the matter, my dear sir?" He paused. Then, with a sneer, "I'mnot that sort. I'm the respectable sort. I'm a private detective, sir.I make delicate inquiries for persons of position and of means." Heemphasised "means." "Have you a cigar?"
"I gave him one; he proceeded to light it. I was conscious that, sinceI had admitted him to a share of the cab, a change had taken place inhis bearing. It was not only familiar, it was positively brutal. Yet,strange though it may appear--and I would point out that nothing is socommon as that sort of wisdom which enables us to point out the follyof each other's behaviour--I found myself unable to resent it.
"I've been down to Brighton on business; to make inquiries about awoman."
"A woman?"
"A woman who is missing--women are missing now and then--LouiseO'Donnel. I suppose you never happen to have heard the name?"
"Louise O'Donnel?" I wondered what he meant; there was meaning in histone. Indeed, every word he uttered, every gesture he made, seemedpregnant with meaning. The more I saw of him, the more uncomfortable Ibecame. "I do not remember to have heard the name Louise O'Donnel."
"Yes, Louise O'Donnel. You're quite sure you never heard it?"
"So far as I remember, never."
"Perhaps your memory is at fault; one never knows." He puffed at hiscigar--or, rather, he puffed at my cigar. "I don't think I'll give youmy address. I'll call for the
handkerchief at yours. What is youraddress?"
I hesitated. I was quite aware that to give him my address would be tocommit a further act of folly. But, at the same time, I did not see howI could avoid giving it him without a row or worse.
"My office is in Austin Friars?"
"Austin Friars? You don't happen to have a card about you?"
I did happen to have one of my business cards in my letter-case. Takingit out, I gave it to him. He looked at it askance, reading the name onit out loud.
"Thomas Tennant. Rather an alliterative kind of name. Almost like apseudonym." I sat in silence. "However, there may be some one aboutwith such a name." He slipped the card into his waistcoat pocket. "Ishall have pleasure, Mr. Tennant, in calling on you, for my silkhandkerchief, in Austin Friars; possibly to-morrow, possibly next week,or the week after--but that I shall call for it, sooner or later, youmay rest assured." He looked at me with a grin. "Now that we havetransacted that little piece of business, I don't think there is anynecessity for me to inflict my company upon you any longer. I may aswell get out."
I was thankful for the prospect of a prompt deliverance. But I was notto be rid of him so easily, as his next words showed. He was drummingwith his finger-tips on the front of the cab.
"By the way, you were good enough to mention something about a depositfor my handkerchief. I think that, after all, I will trouble you forone."
I advanced my hand towards my pocket.
"With pleasure. If you have no objection, I will buy the handkerchiefright out at a liberal price?"
His reply was a sneer.
"Thank you; I am obliged; the handkerchief is not for sale. I prize ittoo greatly--as a present from my late lamented greatgrandmother. Butsomething on deposit I don't mind."
"How much shall we say?"
"Say--we'll say ten pounds."
"Ten pounds!" I stared at him. The fellow's impudence was increasing."You are jesting."
He turned on me quite savagely--his black eyes glared.
"Jesting? What do you mean by saying I am jesting?"
"I shall certainly deposit with you no sum approaching ten pounds."
He continued to regard me as if he were taking my measure. I met hisglance unflinchingly. I wished him to understand that I was not quitethe simpleton he seemed to take me for. I think he grasped something ofmy meaning. His tone became sullen.
"Make it five pounds, then."
"I am more likely to make it five shillings. However, under thepeculiar circumstances, as I don't know what I should have done withoutyour handkerchief, I don't mind going as far as half a sovereign, whichis about four times its value."
His reply, though scarcely a direct answer to my words, still wassufficiently plain.
"You and I, Mr. Tennant, will spend the night together."
"Again, I ask you, what do you mean by that?"
The fellow smoothed his clean-shaven chin and grinned.
"I mean, Mr. Tennant, that I am beginning to suspect that it may be mypainful duty to thrust myself on your society until I have ascertainedwhat became of the woman who got into your compartment at Brighton, butwho was not in it when we reached Victoria."
A creepy, crawly feeling went all over me. This came of not having toldthe truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, directly theaccident had happened. Already I was suspected of the worst. And bysuch a fellow! Already, to a certain extent, I was in his power.
I did not give him the five pounds he asked. I did not make quite suchan idiot of myself as that. But I gave him much more than his ancientrag was worth. He rattled the coins, gold coins, together in the palmsof his hands; he chuckled at the sound of them; he called out to thecabman, "Stop!" Standing on the pavement, he took off his hat to mewith a sweeping flourish, saying, with a laugh--
"The handkerchief itself--that priceless relic of my late lamentedgreatgrandmother!--I will call for at your office in Austin Friars."