FullReads

“I paid the agent. I knew nothing of you until Herbert announced that he’d made your acquaintance–“

“Pray go on,” said I, watching her troubled eyes. “It would be interesting to hear how he described me.”

“He used a very funny word. He said you were the rummiest thing in platers he’d struck for a long while. But, of course, he was talking of the other man.”

“Of course,” said I gravely: whereupon our eyes met, and we both laughed.

“Ah, but you are kind!” she cried. “And when I think how we have treated you–if only I could think–” Her hand went up again to her forehead.

“It will need some reparation,” said I. “But we’ll discuss that when I come back.”

“Was–was Herbert very bad?” She attempted to laugh, but tears suddenly brimmed her eyes.

“I scarcely noticed,” said I; and, picking up my hat, went out hurriedly.

V.

Trewlove in his Marlborough Street cell was a disgusting object– offensive to the eye and to one’s sense of the dignity of man. At sight of me he sprawled, and when the shock of it was over he continued to grovel until the sight bred a shame in me for being the cause of it. What made it ten times worse was his curious insensibility–even while he grovelled–to the moral aspect of his behaviour.

“You will lie here,” said I, “until to-morrow morning, when you will probably be fined fifty shillings and costs, plus the cost of the broken glass at Toscano’s. I take it for granted that the money will be paid?”

“I will send, sir, to my lodgings for my cheque-book.”

“It’s a trifling matter, no doubt, but since you will be charged under the name of William John Trewlove, it will be a mistake to put ‘G. A. Richardson’ on the cheque.”

“It was an error of judgment, sir, my giving your name here.”

“It was a worse one,” I assured him, “to append it to the receipt for Miss Jarmayne’s rent.”

“You don’t intend to prosecute, Mr. George?”

“Why not?”

“But you don’t, sir; something tells me that you don’t.”

Well, in fact (as you may have guessed), I did not. I had no desire to drag Miss Jarmayne into further trouble; but I resented that the dog should so count on my clemency without knowing the reason of it.

“In justice to myself, sir, I ‘ave to tell you that I shouldn’t ‘ave let the ‘ouse to hany-body. It was only that, she being connected with the stage, I saw a hopening. Mr. ‘Erbert was, as you might say, a hafterthought: which, finding him so affable, I thought I might go one better. He cost me a pretty penny first and last. But when he offered to introjuice me–and me, at his invite, going back to be put up at No. 402 like any other gentleman–why, ‘ow could I resist it?”

“If I forbear to have you arrested, Trewlove, it will be on condition that you efface yourself. May I suggest some foreign country, where, in a colony of the Peculiar People–unacquainted with your past–“

“I’m tired of them, sir. Your style of life don’t suit me–I’ve tried it, as you see, and I give it up–I’m too late to learn; but I’ll say this for it, it cures you of wantin’ to go back and be a Peculiar. Now, if you’ve no objection, sir, I thought of takin’ a little public down Putney way.”

“You mean it?” asked Clara, a couple of hours later.

“I mean it,” said I.

“And I am to live on here alone as your tenant?”

“As my tenant, and so long as it pleases you.” I struck a match to light her bedroom candle, and with that we both laughed, for the June dawn was pouring down on us through the stairway skylight.

“Shall I see you to-morrow, to say good-bye?”

“I expect not. We shall catch the first boat.”

“The question is, will you get Herbert awake in time to explain matters?”

“I’ll undertake that. Horrex has already packed for him. Oh, you needn’t fear: he’ll be right enough at Ambleteuse, under my eye.”

“It’s good of you,” she said slowly; “but why are you doing it?”

“Can’t say,” I answered lightly.

“Well, good-bye, and God bless you!” She put out her hand. “There’s nothing I can say or do to–“

“Oh, yes, by the way, there is,” I interrupted, tugging a key off my chain. “You see this? It unlocks the drawers of a writing-table in your room. In the top left-hand drawer you will find a bundle of papers.”

She passed up the stair before me and into the room. “Is this what you want?” she asked, reappearing after a minute with my manuscript in her hand. “What is it? A new comedy?”

“The makings of one,” said I. “It was to fetch it that I came across from Ambleteuse.”

“And dropped into another.”

“Upon my word,” said I, “you are right, and to-night’s is a better one–up to a point.”

“What are you going to call it?”

“My Tenant.”

For a moment she seemed to be puzzled. “But I mean the other,” said she, nodding towards the manuscript in my hand.

“Indeed, that is its name,” said I, and showed her the title on the first page. “And I’ve a really splendid idea for the third act,” I added, as we shook hands.

I mounted the stairs to my room, tossed the manuscript into a chair, and began to wind up my watch.

“But this other wants a third act too!” I told myself suddenly.

You will observe that once or twice in the course of this narrative my pen has slipped and inadvertently called Miss Jarmayne “Clara.”