Chapter IX: Uncle Jack

Why are some men so silly--so many men--nearly all of them? I was once almost prevented from doing a man a very signal service by the very singular delusion he was under that I was in love with him. I was staying at the Cliftonville Hotel at Margate with a Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, and their daughter Netta, who was a pupil of mine. Netta, although deaf and dumb, was an extremely intelligent young lady of about eighteen, and by no means ill-looking. She and I were having tea one afternoon in the gardens on the cliff. She could speak quite well when she chose--although she had never heard a sound in her life, but there were occasions on which, if only for convenience’ sake, she used the sign language. She used it then. She said to me:

“Watch those two women who are having tea at the table under the tent.”

I had noticed the pair. They were under the shade of a big umbrella which rose from the centre of the table at which they were sitting, and the top of which could be adjusted at any angle. As I glanced round, induced to do so by Netta’s words, I saw one say to the other:

“What about John Finlayson?”

The other was smoking a cigarette as she stirred her tea. She withdrew the cigarette, expelled the smoke, and I saw her say:

“I don’t know whether or not to marry him.”

“My dear,” rejoined the first speaker, “if you are ever likely to get a chance of marrying him, take my advice and do.”

The smoker considered; then she smiled--rather as if she sneered.

“I’m not so sure. You can pay too dear even for a husband with money; Finlayson would bore me stiff inside a week. What I want is ready cash--you could do with a little.”

“You bet.” The reply was to the point, if not elegant. Then the speaker added: “I could do with more than a little, I could do with a lot--I fancy you could too.”

The smoker indulged in a whiff; she sipped her tea; then she asked, as if she were putting a very serious question:

“Meg, what do you say to a thousand golden sovereigns--could you do with them?” The other glanced sharply at the speaker--I never saw a woman whose eyes were more flagrantly made up in the broad daylight. She was made up altogether, but her eyes were the worst. I thought they were dreadful. She answered, echoing the other’s words.

“Could I do with a thousand golden sovereigns?--Just couldn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t stick at a trifle to get them?”

“My love, I’d stick at nothing--I’d rob a bank.”

“I wouldn’t for anything suggest your doing that; besides, I think we could get them easier out of Finlayson than out of a bank.” Then she added something which rather startled me. “See how those two creatures at the next table are watching us; they can’t possibly hear what we are saying, but suppose we talk of something else.”

I dare say we had been rather more attentive to them than was good manners--that chance shot of hers went home. Netta laughed outright--she can read lips almost as well as I can; I taught her how to do it--I could have shaken her. To be accused of eavesdropping was not nice; especially as, although the speakers might not know it, we had been caught in the very act. I did not look again in their direction. A few minutes after I got up with Netta and walked away.

“Did you see what they were saying?” she asked me as we went. Of course I had seen; I had an uncomfortable feeling that they knew that I had seen. No consideration of the kind seemed to trouble Netta. She continued: “It was of Uncle Jack that they were talking.”

That was precisely the point--it was because of that that I had watched. Mr. John Finlayson was Mrs. Hastings’ brother--Netta’s uncle; a bachelor of about forty years’ standing, with a good opinion both of himself and of his money. There was a great deal of the latter; but so far as I was able to judge, there was nothing of the former worth considering. All the same, I did not like to feel that he was being talked about in that fashion by those two striking-looking women who were the talk of the place, and that in Margate is saying something.

Some persons--probably most of them of the masculine sex--might think that the one who had been smoking was beautiful; and she certainly was what I believe is called “a very fine young woman.” She was probably nearly six feet high; she held herself very straight; her figure was perfect; her features were regular; her hair wonderful; her clothes expensive. How much she owed to nature and how much to art was a problem I should not have cared to determine. What any decent man can see in a person of that kind I suppose we women never will understand; I had reason to suspect that Mr. Finlayson saw a good deal. He had taken her and her companion out with him in his motor-car; he had dined at their table; and, very much to his sister’s disgust, had associated himself with them in more ways than one. All the same, I had been startled to see the young woman hint that if she chose she could marry him; I had no idea that matters had gone so far as that; what his sister would say if she knew I really almost trembled to think. Keen-witted Netta seemed to read my thoughts.

“Shall I tell mamma,” she asked, “what I saw them say?”

I hesitated--it was not an easy question to answer; then I said:

“I don’t think, if I were you, I should--it would only upset her; and probably they were only talking nonsense.”

Netta was silent till we had quitted the garden; then as we were crossing the road to the hotel she said, still speaking in the sign language:

“I shouldn’t wonder if Uncle Jack did marry Miss Parsons--I believe I nearly caught him kissing her last night on the veranda.”

She spoke with a little malicious smile; I was aware that she had not too high an opinion of her relative, but her words took me aback. Before I could reply, her mother came towards us down the steps, with Mr. Finlayson himself at her heels.

Mrs. Hastings bore Netta off into the town; Mr. Finlayson returned to the balcony of the hotel, and I went with him. He was a scanty-haired little man, inclined to stoutness. A monocle was rarely absent from his right eye, and he wore two tiny tufts of hair upon his upper lip, which he had once confided to me he thought made him look French, and which I thought made him look ridiculous. He had inherited a large fortune from a relative, had never done anything useful--so far as I could see, his chief occupation was changing his clothes. I do not know how many suits he had, but I do not think it is any exaggeration to say that he changed from head to foot half a dozen times a day. My belief is that the majority of men are conceited--in that respect he was far ahead of his fellows. Yet, since his sister and her husband had shown themselves very good, and thoughtful, and generous to me, and I owed them many kindnesses, I felt that I could not allow his simplicity to make him the victim of that intriguing young woman, who called herself Parsons, without at least attempting to put him on his guard.

The veranda of the Cliftonville Hotel runs along the road, being raised a few feet above the pavement. As I stood there with him, Miss Parsons and her friend, coming out of the garden across the way, passed close by us. Mr. Finlayson acknowledged their presence with a sweeping bow, and Miss Parsons smiled--a smile which evidently pleased him.

“Most attractive young lady that--don’t you think so?” He was the sort of person who always spoke of a woman as a lady. “Very odd how strange some ladies are. My sister, now, has taken up a most extraordinary position as regards Miss Parsons--she simply doesn’t like her.”

“I fancy Mrs. Hastings’ instinct in such matters is generally to be relied on. Of course, Mr. Finlayson, you are much older than I am, and should know more of the world----” He cut me short.

“I don’t know about being much older, Miss Lee; but there’s no doubt that I do know more of the world. A man in my position would.”

He spoke with a smirk which I thought comical.

“In spite of your wider knowledge of the world, Mr. Finlayson, I hope you won’t mind my suggesting that it might be the part of wisdom to be on your guard against Miss Parsons.”

“My dear Miss Lee, I’m always on my guard against all ladies--I know them. I always say to myself when I meet a fresh one: Now what designs has she on me? In such matters I’m the soul of caution.”

The man was perfectly absurd; what he meant by his last words I could not guess. If I had not felt that the danger was a very real one, and was thinking more of Mr. and Mrs. Hastings than of him, I would have left him alone in his conceit.

“Is it not possible that you imagine yourself to be better acquainted with the sex of which I am a member than you really are? Isn’t it conceivable that Miss Parsons, for instance, may understand you better than you do her?”

His rejoinder was so preposterous that I could have shaken him.

“What I said to my sister I say to you--jealousy in a lady’s breast takes many forms; Eleanor is jealous of Miss Parsons, and so are you. You will excuse me saying so, won’t you?--but facts are facts.”

“Facts are facts!” Despite his impertinence I was disposed to laugh at him. “On what conceivable grounds do you say that I am jealous of--that woman?” He gave a sort of little hop.

“There you are--‘that woman’--the very phrase betrays you. Now, Miss Lee, permit me for one moment. I do not say that jealousy in your case is unbecoming--quite the contrary. I’ve had--shall we say an idea?--for some time past that your feelings towards me were--of the most flattering kind. I have known you, off and on, at frequently recurring intervals, for about three years. During that time I have observed you with, I may say, growing interest. The result has been that I have come to the conclusion that you are in all respects an estimable young lady--yes, Miss Lee, I really mean it. I discussed you with my sister----”

“You discussed me with your sister!”

“Yes, and with her husband; and they both agree that, since the period has arrived at which it is desirable that I should have an establishment of my own, although the difference in our fortunes is immense, you are a young lady eminently fitted to become the head of it. Therefore your jealousy of the fascinating Miss Parsons is excusable, but, I assure you, baseless; one does not marry such persons; no, no, do not suppose it for one moment. My choice, Miss Lee, is fixed on you--there is no reason why I should not take advantage of this opportunity to tell you so; it may relieve your mind. I have cause to know that the announcement of our engagement will relieve my sister’s mind. Therefore, with your permission, I will make that announcement this--no, not this evening at dinner, I happen to have an engagement this evening”--he wore a slight air of confusion--“but--on the first occasion which offers.”

When he stopped, which he did just as I was wondering when he was going to, I could only gasp. A foolish person I had always supposed him to be, but such folly eclipsed my conception of him altogether. What he expected me to say I do not know; he beamed at me with a most fatuous air; but when he permitted himself to put out his hand and touch my glove, I rapidly withdrew. He affected to be amused.

“My dear Miss Lee--what harm is there, even in such a public place as this?--especially as our relations to each other will soon be public property.”

I saw that it was necessary to make myself quite plain to this little man.

“Mr. Finlayson, I won’t pretend that I don’t understand what you have been talking about, though anything funnier I never heard.”

“Funny?--My dear young lady!--Nothing was further from my intention than to be funny.”

“That’s the funniest part of it--that anyone could be so unintentionally funny. I don’t know if I may take it that you have just been offering me your hand in marriage?”

He nodded his head like some brightly hued and foolish bird.

“Exactly, precisely--you have it--there is that way of putting it.”

“As you observe, there is that way of putting it--though I notice that is not the way you put it; you seem to be under the impression that you have only to throw your glove at my feet and I will pick it up and be grateful. I don’t know what gave you that impression; you are quite mistaken if you suppose that I ever meant to. You certainly have amused me, Mr. Finlayson; I always have felt that you were a funny little man; but as for anything else--I, at an early age, made up my mind to live and die an old maid, and if anything could strengthen my resolution, it is the fact that there are in the world such funny little men as you, and that some women, poor souls! have to have them as husbands.”

I just walked off the balcony and left him there. It so chanced that as I entered the hotel Miss Parsons came into the hall. Not a little to my surprise--it was an afternoon of surprises--she addressed me.

“I should like to say two or three words to you, Miss--I believe it--is Lee. May I ask why, since you are quite a stranger to me, you take such an interest in my movements?”

It was no use my telling her that I did not know what she meant, because I did. Her assault, coming so quickly after my surprising interview with Mr. Finlayson, took me aback. I had no answer ready. She went on:

“This afternoon, to give an example of the sort of thing I mean, you and that deaf and dumb young woman, whose governess I believe you are, watched my friend and myself while we were having tea, as if you were doing your very best to overhear every word we said. I don’t like that sort of thing; don’t let it happen again, or I may show my dislike in a way you won’t like.”

She walked off, with her nose in the air, very much as I had just walked off from Mr. Finlayson. Had I been the dirt beneath her feet she could not have treated me with more contempt--and in that public place!

I could hardly have said, when I reached my bedroom, with whom I felt maddest--with her, Mr. Finlayson, Netta, or myself; Netta, for calling my attention to them first of all; Mr. Finlayson, for his astonishing stupidity; Miss Parsons, for her studied insolence; myself, for ever having had anything to do with any of the three. But the crowning blow was to come. I was stamping up and down, feeling that I must do something to some one, when Netta came into the room; without an instant’s warning she burst out with:

“Well, why wouldn’t you marry him?” I stared, wondering if I could have understood her; she repeated the question with a clearness which put the matter beyond all doubt. “Why wouldn’t you marry Uncle Jack when he asked you?”

“Netta!--What are you talking about?--What do you mean?”

She explained, with a horrible lucidity.

“I was on the cliff on the other side of the garden. I looked over the hedge, and there were you with Uncle Jack on the balcony--and I saw a good deal of what you were saying.” She was, as I have already said, quite an adept at lip-reading, especially in the case of persons she knew well. “I didn’t see all he said, but I did see that he was what he meant to be proposing; then you strutted off as if you were twenty feet high--which is a trick you have--and left poor Uncle Jack despairing. Why on earth wouldn’t you marry him?”

I could not tell her--plainly the absurdity of the affair did not appeal to her so clearly as it did to me. I could not even try to explain--I do not often lose my temper with my pupils, but I nearly lost it with Netta then. Her persistence nearly drove me mad. When she had gone, on one point, it seemed to me, there were no two opinions--Cliftonville was no longer the place for me. I would not stop and confront the insolent Miss Parsons, with whom I wished to have no sort of traffic; still less would I give the keen-eyed Netta a chance of enjoying herself at my expense, in observing my efforts to avoid her singular relation. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings were leaving in two or three days in any case. I had had a letter that morning from an aunt who was passing through London, and who wanted me, if I was in town, to meet her. I resolved that I would be in town that night. I packed my trunk; scribbled a note to Mrs. Hastings; and departed for the station--without anyone of the least consequence, so far as I knew, becoming conscious of my departure. I congratulated myself on the manner in which, avoiding explanations, I had contrived to slip away. But I got no farther than the station; in spite of the fashion in which I had congratulated myself, I did not go to town that night.

I reached the station several minutes before my train was due to start. The arrival platform was crowded with passengers; a train had just come in from London. As I went towards the bookstall to buy some papers I passed two men whose appearance had a curious effect upon me; I was conscious of what I call one of those premonitory little shivers which I say are sent to me as warnings--it may be a mere superstition, but it is one which I hold strongly, that certain evil things emanate, in a sense which is perhaps my own, an atmosphere to whose presence I am acutely sensitive; it gives me what I call a premonitory shiver. That shiver went all over me as I passed those two men, and it startled me. Close behind them were two other men. I saw one of them say to the other:

“See those two? The one on the right is Chicago Charlie. It isn’t often he’s walking about; if he’d had his rights he’d have been strung up long ago. I shouldn’t like to be within reach of him if I’d anything on me worth having; he’s more like a wild beast than a man. I wonder what his game is down here--some one’s in for trouble. I could tell you some tales of him.”

I should have liked him to tell me some of those tales--I could not have said why, but I should. He was a hard, weather-beaten individual, who looked as if he might have had some queer experiences of his own. At the bookstall I turned and looked after the two men who had passed me. A woman was coming down the platform to meet them; it was the woman who had been having tea with Miss Parsons at the next table to ours. Her presence there gave me shock number two. She greeted the pair with an air of a familiar acquaintance; was “Chicago Charlie” Miss Parsons’ friend as well as her own?

They were going out of the gate at the end of the platform; I went to a door on the left, and, hurrying, got there first. Under cover of the paper I had bought I watched them coming; the woman was too engaged in talking to her companions to notice that a female was holding her newspaper up in front of her face. I saw Chicago Charlie ask:

“What’s the fellow’s name?”

“John Finlayson--he’s soft as butter--one of nature’s own mugs. She says he’s good for fifty thousand pounds--if properly handled.”

“Soft as butter, is he? And he’ll be handled by a master. If there’s anything left when I’m through with him he can keep it.”

She looked at him sharply. I should very much like to have known what her answer was, but I could not see from the back of her--they were past before she spoke again. Apparently, since they paid no heed to the cabman who hailed them, they were going to walk to where they were going. What was I to do? I had my ticket, my luggage was labelled, my train was due; I had advised Mrs. Hastings of my departure, I had washed my hands of Mr. Finlayson for ever and a day, what might happen to him was no concern of mine; the obvious course was for me to carry out my intentions and go to town. And yet---- That was it--and yet!

It is contrary to every instinct in my being to stand by and see anyone, even the meanest of God’s creatures, in danger without offering help--such help as I can offer; or even helping without offering, if it comes to that. It was certainly impossible for me to offer to help Uncle Jack. He had misunderstood me once; he should have no chance of misunderstanding me a second time.

There was the sound of a whistle; a train was steaming into the station--my train. I should have to hurry if I meant to catch it--they would send my luggage by it, since it was labelled, if I went or not. That consideration did start me moving. I rushed over to the departure platform; caught a porter--my porter--in the act of putting my luggage into the van; stopped him, explaining that I had changed my mind and did not propose to travel by that train; induced him to take my luggage back and put it on to a cab--and then looked to see if the three persons on whom my interest was centred were still anywhere in sight. They were; they were at a distance of perhaps two hundred yards, and were moving at a leisurely pace towards the town. I said to the cabman:

“I suppose your horse can go slowly?”

The cabman grinned; he thought I was joking.

“It isn’t his fault if he ever does anything else--about two miles an hour is what he likes--either that or standing still.”

“I don’t want him to stand still, but two miles an hour will about suit me; I want to read my paper and enjoy this beautiful evening. You go straight along at not more than three miles an hour--until I give you further directions.”

That cabman carried out my instructions to the letter; we certainly did not exceed the limit I had imposed, and I pretended to read my paper. The trio in front were going about as fast as we were--straight on, with us still about two hundred yards behind. Presently I saw them turn into an hotel overlooking the sea. When we reached it I stopped the driver.

“Pull up, please. I want to see if they can let me have a room here.”

They could, rather a pleasant one, looking towards Cliftonville. Then it struck me that it was about time to consider. I was quite aware that I had done an eminently foolish thing. I had given way to my irresistible inclination to meddle in other people’s affairs without having the faintest notion what sort of meddling it was going to be. What kind of mental standard Miss Parsons’ friend might have I did not know; unless she was extremely unobservant, she had taken sufficient stock of me that afternoon to know me again. Even if she had not noticed me before, I had noticed her several times, and had an idea that she was supposed to be a Mrs. Hammond. Miss Parsons had a room at the Cliftonville--where Mrs. Hammond was staying I did not know; she might not be residing at the hotel in which I had taken a room, but might merely have entered, with the two men, for the purpose of refreshment. I had to risk that--I have taken a good many risks of that sort in the course of my adventures; what I did not want to risk was the chance of being recognized.

Reluctantly--I do not like to do it, though there are occasions when I have to--I say, reluctantly I took out of a case which was in my trunk an article which is known as a “transformation.” It is simply amazing what an alteration is produced in a woman’s appearance by a change of hair--if the change is well done. My hair is very dark brown; it has been called black, but I doubt if there is any really black hair in the world. When I am crowned with scarlet, a casual acquaintance would have to stare and stare, and yet be in doubt. “Transformation” is a polite synonym for a wig; the one I donned that night was scarlet. I touched my countenance here and there--I did not want the contrast between my complexion and my hair to be too striking; attired myself in my most gorgeous robe--I had a notion that a red-haired, unattached young woman, in an hotel at Margate, ought to be gorgeous; and I went down to dinner. The first thing I saw when I entered the dining-room was a table at which were seated Mrs. Hammond and her two male acquaintances.

As I entered Mrs. Hammond bestowed on me the glance which, under such circumstances, every woman does bestow on every other woman. But for that I was prepared; I was pretty nearly certain that she did not recognize me as a person whom she had ever seen before. There was a difficulty about my table. All the small tables were occupied. The waiter offered me the choice of sharing a very small table with a pimply-faced old gentleman, who looked as if he might be a publican, or of a seat at the large table which occupied the centre of the room. I accepted the latter; although I did not tell that waiter so, nothing could have suited me better. There were seats at the table for I suppose a dozen people; I was quite content, at least on that occasion, to be one of a crowd, especially as it was decorated with old-fashioned ornaments in the shape of epergnes and tall vases full of flowers, and my chair was directly in front of a structure, half metal, half glass, than which nothing could have served me better as a screen. The table with which I was concerned was directly in my line of vision; I had only to lift my eyes from my plate to see the three persons who were at it perfectly, while I was behind a quantity of flowers and foliage which made it impossible for them to see me at all without a special effort. One trial I foresaw I should have to face--on one side of me was a middle-aged man, on the other was a mere boy. I thought it not improbable that before very long they would both of them be trying to talk to me. That I did not mind; my attention does not wander because I have to listen to inane remarks; my eyes serve me quite as well when I am talking.

Mrs. Hammond had on a not unbecoming dress of violet silk; her hair was fair--I fancy it was as much hers as my scarlet crown was mine. Chicago Charlie had what seemed to be rather a nice diamond in the middle of his shirt front. His companion was a big, bullet-headed man, who looked as if he were something in the prize-fighting line. “Charlie” was a lean, hatchet-faced man, with an over large nose, too wide a mouth, a protruding chin. He had small blue eyes, which had the fixed, stony stare of the glass beads which you see in the head of a doll. Had he only known it, his mouth was his most unfortunate feature; every word he uttered was so distinctly shaped on his long, thin lips, that, from my point of view, he might as well have shouted. I have no doubt that they spoke in the most decorous, subdued tones--they had need to do so, for they said some very curious things--but that made no difference to me; that man’s mouth was like a magnifying glass, giving almost uncanny prominence to every syllable he uttered. The first words of his I saw were sufficiently startling.

“What did I do to him? I killed him, that’s what I did to him. They think nothing of that sort of thing out there; it’s a man’s business to see--that he isn’t killed.”

He raised his glass of champagne and emptied it. Mrs. Hammond and the other man exchanged glances; I fancied they were asking each other if the speaker was to be taken seriously. For my part, I set him down as that homicidal type of criminal who holds human life of no account at all; who, indeed, in the gratification of his own lusts, holds nothing of any account. Mrs. Hammond remarked, as she carefully removed the head and tail from a smelt on her plate:

“You know, Charlie, there mustn’t be any killing here. As some French gentleman said--I believe it was a Frenchman--in England that’s not a crime, it’s a blunder; no man’s life is worth to you so much as your own.”

Charlie’s reply was characteristic.

“I’m not so sure of that; I have met men--and women--for whom I’d be glad to swing.--How long has Finlayson been here?”

“Baby says that he came down last week, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that he did. She’s a curiosity, Baby is. She’s been down here about a month; I’ve been here nearly three weeks. It seems that she began planning this almost directly after she came, but she never so much as breathed a word about it to me till this afternoon; for keeping a thing dark I never saw her equal.”

“Baby Parsons can hold her tongue better than any woman I ever met.” This was the bullet-headed man. “I’ve been in more than one little game with her, when silence was everything, so I know.”

“There are times when a dumb woman is more precious than rubies.”

As he delivered himself of this profound sentiment, Charlie smiled. Mrs. Hammond retorted--and I smiled as I saw what she said:

“Then in that case there’s a girl stopping up at the Cliftonville who ought to suit you--she’s deaf and dumb. She’s in charge of some governess kind of creature whose neck I’d like to wring.”

It was at those latter words I smiled. I wondered if her desire would have been intensified if she had suspected the identity of the scarlet-headed creature at the centre table. It was towards the end of the meal that the trio began to touch upon the topic which interested me most; I feared that they might never touch on it at all, preferring to leave so delicate a theme for private discussion. Probably what they ate and drank loosened their tongues; or they might have been excused for taking it for granted that speaking together in lowered tones, at their own particular table, they were as private as need be. They probably were not aware that there was in the world such an ability for taking notes as was possessed by the creature with the scarlet head. The table had been cleared for dessert, when, without any preamble, Chicago Charlie plunged into the very middle of things.

“So Mr. Griffiths, or Miss Parsons, or both of them together, have taken a house in a retired neighbourhood, at a convenient distance from this town, in a position in which uninvited interruptions need not be feared; and to this house the excellent Mr. Finlayson has been invited for a little evening party.”

“Prefaced by a little dinner for three, like ours--Bob Griffiths, Baby, and Uncle Jack.” So Mrs. Hammond--for she was the speaker--had picked up the Hastings’ trick of speaking of him as “Uncle Jack.” “There was some idea of having the Kitten in for dinner, and so making the party square, but it was felt that even Uncle Jack might find her a little hard to swallow. The Kitten will eat with her knife, and is never quite sure whether to use her fork or her fingers.”

“The Kitten,” observed the bullet-headed man, who seemed to answer to a variety of names--I had seen them address him as “Lobster,” “Arthur,” and “Puncher”--“is a child of nature. If it weren’t that she will get outside the contents of a bottle, I know few women I’d sooner have beside me in a row.”

“I presume,” continued Charlie, “that the programme is that Mr. Finlayson is to be well done at dinner, so that he can be done better afterwards, when we come in to complete the party.”

Mrs. Hammond explained, leaning over the table with a cigarette between her lips:

“Baby has found out all about him; he is so fond of braying that any woman can do that who likes--I don’t know any girl who’s better at that sort of thing than Baby is. It seems that he has been telling her all about himself--the silly ass! A mortgage of over fifty thousand pounds has just been paid up; the money is lying at his banker’s. He’s going to buy something with it when he’s made up his mind what--stock, I mean; in the meanwhile, as Baby says, there’s a chance for some one.”

“That certainly is so; when we have got the confiding Mr. Finlayson to ourselves, there ought to be a chance for all of us. I’m not greedy; so long as I get my bellyful that’s all I want.” Charlie took his cigar from between his lips and examined it. “The smokes in this hotel do not seem to be so good as they might be, if this one I’ve got is a fair sample.”

The bullet-headed man looked at his watch.

“Isn’t it about time we start? What time are we supposed to get there?”

“No particular time, Baby said--somewhere about ten. They dine at eight; Uncle Jack is very fond of his food, and of his wine; to do him really well, as Charlie put it, takes time. The idea is to get him just drunk enough to make him think that he is still sober.”

“It’s past half-past nine. How are we to get there?”

“Taxi-cab; Baby’s got a friend who drives one. He’s going to call for us.”

“Hanged if Baby doesn’t seem to have friends everywhere. At what time is this particular friend of hers to call? Perhaps he’s come.--Waiter, see if there’s a taxi-cab outside.”

The waiter presently returned with his report: “There is a taxi-cab outside, sir.”

“Good; we’ll be with him in a minute.”

This was the bullet-headed man. Charlie struck in:

“I don’t promise that I’ll be with him in a minute. When I’ve had a decent dinner I hurry over my coffee for no man; as for gulping my liqueur, you may as well throw it down the sink.” Then he asked a question which solved for me what I had been fearing might become a problem. “By the way, where is this house at which the party is to be held? Even when I’m in a strange country I like to know as nearly as may be where I am--I may have to find my way back on my lonesome.”

Mrs. Hammond gave him the information he wanted, and at the same time she gave it me; if she had only known that I needed it so much more than he did!

“The house is called ‘The Wilderness’; it is off the Broadstairs Road, lies back perhaps two hundred yards, is approached by an avenue of trees. Everybody about here knows ‘The Wilderness’; it’s a house which has had a history.”

“To which another page is to be added to-night.” If Charlie had only known how true that was, his smile might have been less suggestive of amusement. “If our dear Mr. Finlayson only knew what pleasures are in store for him!”--and if only the speaker had known!

I left the trio at table; Mrs. Hammond and the bullet-headed man wanted to go, but Charlie declined. It seemed that, to him, coffee was a sacred rite, to say nothing of the liqueur which was to follow--I fancy that after a good dinner he was not a very persuadable person. The three pairs of eyes were fixed on me as I went out; I saw Charlie say:

“That’s rather a fine girl; bit of a stepper.”

Mrs. Hammond said: “I can’t think where I’ve seen some one like her before.”

If only she had cultivated the faculty of observation! Her puzzlement tickled me. I was in the highest spirits, foreseeing that, quite possibly, I was in for the sort of adventure that I loved. I slipped on a long, black coat, with a hood attached, which I drew over my head, and I took a taxi-cab--preferring to take mine off the rank. I did not wish to light, if I could help it, on another of Baby’s many friends. There was a taxi-cab waiting at the door of the hotel; I eyed the driver--wishing to take particular note of him for future reference. I even noted the number of his vehicle.

There were plenty of taxis on the rank. I did not hail the first, but walked past them all, until I saw a lonely taxi in the distance, moving slowly, with its flag up. I advanced towards it.

“Do you know a house called ‘The Wilderness’?”

“On the Broadstairs Road?--Mr. Macfarlane’s?”

“Mr. Macfarlane is not there now, is he?”

“I couldn’t say; I fancy he’s about the town, I saw him only the other day; he’s a gentleman what’s very well known, Mr. Macfarlane is. I know the house you mean. I don’t know that I care to go there at this time of night--there’s my fare back. It’s a lonely place, his house is. There won’t be a soul about. I shall have to come back empty.”

“Don’t you worry about that; I’m going to keep you; I’ll see that you have a fare back. Are there more roads to the house than one?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, there is, but one of them isn’t a very good one; it gets to the back of the house, the servants’ entrance.”

“You take me by that road--and move. I suppose you can move?”

He grinned--as the cabman had done at the station. “She can do about forty--a bit more, if she’s pressed.”

“Then--I think you might press her. By the way, is there a lodge at the back entrance?”

He shook his head. “No lodge anywhere that I know of.”

“How far is the back entrance, to which that other road takes you, from the house itself?”

“Oh--may be----” He pushed his cap back. “I couldn’t rightly say, it’s a good distance; the grounds are large, and the house stands in the middle.”

“In the house would they hear a taxi-cab approaching along that road?”

“It depends; you see, it’s lonely out there, and in the country, at night, sound travels; there’s no reason why they should know it was me coming along.”

That was sound reasoning, in its way. I got in the cab; we started. I do not know at what pace we travelled, but we did move pretty fast. I know that the vehicle stopped before I expected. The driver came to the door. “Here’s the house, miss, and this is the back entrance--through the gate. Do you want me to drive you in?”

I alighted. There was no moon, but it was a starlight night, and I could see the gate quite plainly.

“Thank you--I want you to wait here till I come back. I suppose if I go through the gate and follow the path I shall have no difficulty in finding the house?”

“Not a bit, miss--you’ve only got to go straight on; there’s a broad drive; as it gets near the house there’s a turning on the left which goes round to the front; but, if you want the servants’ entrance, you don’t turn--you go straight forward.”

“I may be some time, perhaps an hour; but if I’m more than an hour, you had better come up to the house and knock until some one answers--I may require assistance.”

He stared at me as if he did not understand my words--and was not sure that he liked them if he did understand. I quite expected him to ask me for a deposit which would at least guarantee his fare, because for all he knew I might never be coming back at all; in which case, after waiting an hour, he would look awkward. But I imagine that he was of a trusting disposition, or that I inspired confidence; he let me go without a hint of the kind, just touching his cap as I walked off.

It was darkish along that avenue; when--as in places they did--the trees met overhead, I had simply to grope my way. The house came rather with the force of a surprise; there were no lights at the windows--I was on it before I knew that it was there, pulling up only just in time to save myself from blundering into a door.

I waited and listened. There seemed to be no sound on the other side. I tried the handle; the door yielded at once--I slipped through it without a moment’s hesitation. I seemed to be in a sort of entry--there was a light in what was probably a passage round the corner. I explored--there was a passage, and there was a light, a flaring jet of gas; but still not a sound nor a creature in sight. Nothing venture, nothing win, was ever a motto of mine; I sped along that passage, reached a flight of steps, ascended them. There was a glass panelled door at the top, on the left a sort of recess into which it opened; as I reached it I heard steps approaching; I drew back into the recess. Two women appeared; they pushed back the door wholly unconscious of me.

“I thought I heard some one come up the stairs,” said one to the other; “didn’t you?--just as we were coming along?”

“It was your fancy,” replied the other. “There’s no one down there to come upstairs.”

They descended; I waited some moments, then slipped through the door. I was in quite a decent sized hall, lighted by incandescent gas; I could hear voices, but could see no one. Advancing, I came upon rather a good staircase, with lights above. Up I went. The door of a room stood wide open, the brilliant lights came from within. On the left was another door, closed. I chanced it and went through. Where I was I had no idea--all was dark. I had a small electric torch in my pocket, and I switched it on. Apparently I was in a sort of sitting-room; there were double doors on the other side. I went to them, switching off my torch. All at once I heard voices--and a laugh. I had had my doubts about the voices, I had none about the laugh. Anyone who had heard Uncle Jack’s queer little cackling laugh could scarcely fail to recognize it when heard again. Mr. Finlayson was entering the adjoining room with, at least, one companion. I could only catch one other voice besides his, a woman’s--it was Miss Parsons. Were they two alone? I listened, but could not make sure; I should have liked to try the handle of that door and peep. Just as I had almost decided that I might venture, there was the sound of other voices--at least three or four. Then a man said, in what I should have called rather boisterous tones--every word he said was audible to me:

“These people have found their way here at last--I believe, Mr. Finlayson, you know Mrs. Hammond.”

Uncle Jack’s rather ringing voice replied, with another cackle of laughter:

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. I know Mrs. Hammond--of course I know Mrs. Hammond, very well indeed--don’t I, Mrs. Hammond?--Pleased to see you.”

“Not so pleased to see me as I am to see you, Mr. Finlayson; I pay you no compliment in saying that.”

“It’s very good of you to say so; I always like people to be glad to see me--especially if it’s a lady.”

The boisterous voice was heard again.

“Mr. Finlayson, allow me to introduce you to my two friends--Colonel Stewart, of the United States army, a distinguished officer whose name is no doubt well known to you; Mr. Arthur Poyntz, a first-rate sportsman, like yourself.”

I took it that Colonel Stewart was “Chicago Charlie,” and that Mr. Arthur Poyntz was the gentleman with the bullet head. There was a good deal of loud talking, all joining in paying the most egregious compliments to Mr. Finlayson, he swallowing them all with continual little cackles of laughter; I felt sure that he must have been very well done at dinner. Then in a little lull in the conversation, I heard Miss Parsons ask:

“What are you gentlemen going to play?--I believe poker is your game, Mr. Finlayson.”

Uncle Jack laughed--I doubt if he would have been able to explain why; and, as if it were a signal, the others broke into a simultaneous roar of laughter--I have no doubt that they would have been able to explain what caused that mirth. They saw the joke better than he did. The boisterous voice exclaimed:

“Mr. Finlayson, you’re bad to beat--I’ve no doubt all games are the same to you. I shouldn’t wonder if you learnt poker on your mother’s knee.”

“No, no, no. I assure you I did nothing of the kind. I have played the game, oh yes--as you say. I’ve played a good many games, and I don’t say I mightn’t be able to hold my own.”

The boisterous voice spoke again. “Hold your own! I don’t pretend to be a poker player, Mr. Finlayson, in the presence of a man like you I’m timid; I expect we all are.”

“There’s no reason why you should be--not the slightest--you will find me merciful--not a bit alarming.”

“I’ve got some poker chips somewhere. Ah, here they are. Now, boys, to business--I tell you quite frankly, Mr. Finlayson, I’m frightened of you. Miss Parsons, may I ask you to see that we have something to drink? Mrs. Hammond looks as if she were thirsty; Mr. Finlayson looks as if he would like something to drink. You’ve got all the chips you want, gentlemen? Good! Who deals?”

For several minutes the voices were subdued; there were occasional bursts of Uncle Jack’s cackling laughter.

“You’re clearing us all out, Mr. Finlayson. I told you how it would be--I shall have to have more chips. How goes it, Colonel?”

“More chips for me. Mr. Finlayson plays the game as I never saw it played before, and I thought I had seen it played most ways. Mr. Finlayson, you’re a remarkable player.”

Uncle Jack cackled and said:

“I do seem to have got the best of it--I told you I’d played the game before--seem to have most of the chips, haven’t I?--I don’t know how much these chips are worth?”

The boisterous voice rejoined: “You’ve got nearly ten thousand pounds’ worth of chips in front of you, Mr. Finlayson, and here am I buying two thousand five hundred more. We’ll be ruined if this goes on.”

“What!” There was a vibrant note in Uncle Jack’s voice which suggested that the speaker’s words had got through the vinous mists which fogged his brain. “Ten thousand pounds’ worth of chips! You don’t mean to say---- What is the value of each chip?”

“The white are ten pounds, the blue are fifty, the red are a hundred, the green are five hundred. We started with two thousand five hundred pounds’ worth of chips each, and you’ve got them nearly all.”

“But I--I had no idea.” In Uncle Jack’s tremulous tones there was no hint of an inclination to cackle. “Really, you know, this kind of thing is quite out of my line--altogether out of my line. I--I never gambled in my life--I’m not a gambler.”

“I don’t know about being a gambler, Mr. Finlayson. You’ve won ten thousand pounds of our money.”

“But I--I had no notion we were playing for such stakes. What am I to do with these--these chips? We’ve none of us paid for them.”

“I’ll pay for mine right now, sir, if you don’t mind. It’s the general custom for gentlemen in the circles in which I move to pay for their chips at the end of the game. But since you put it that way, I’ll put my money up.” This was unmistakably Chicago Charlie. I wondered how much money he really had--that was money. “Here, Mr. Griffiths, is two thousand five hundred pounds in Bank of England notes.” Although I could not see them, I doubted. “You’re banker; perhaps you’ll just go through them, and at the end of the game pay this gentleman with that money for any of my chips he may have won; and while I’m at it, I’ll have two thousand five hundred pounds’ worth more. And here are the notes, sir.”

The tone of Uncle Jack’s voice when he spoke again gave me some notion of the expression which was on his countenance as he beheld Chicago Charlie’s off-handed manner of dealing with such enormous sums.

“But, my dear sir, I repeat that I never dreamed of playing for such stakes.”

“If the stakes are not large enough for you, Mr. Finlayson, the value of the chips can be raised. We are not children, sir. It may be but a trifle that you’ve won, but, as my friend Griffiths remarked, you have won our money, so what’s the use of talking?--Arthur, it’s you to deal. Mr. Finlayson, your very good health; I like a good game once in a while; I’ve brought a little money with me here to-night, and may you win it all--you’ll find me all smiles if you do. Won’t you drink to me, sir?”

I fancy Uncle Jack did drink to him--in imagination I could see how he did it; his state of fluster; his tremulous hands, causing him to take a bigger drink than he had meant to--and he was in a state in which every thimbleful counted. I supposed the cards were dealt. Several hands were played--I should like to have seen how Mr. Finlayson played them. I could not make out who won; comparative silence reigned--they spoke in lowered voices; only a word or two got through to me. My fingers itched to turn the handle of that door. Then, after an interval of several minutes, during which only murmurs came to me now and then, the boisterous voice was raised.

“I say, you know, I don’t mind a rousing good game, but isn’t this getting rather serious? I don’t know, Mr. Finlayson, if you’re keeping count of the losses--Miss Parsons keeps ladling out the chips--and now you’re cleaned out again. How much has Mr. Finlayson had?”

“I’ve got it all down on this piece of paper.” It was Miss Parsons who replied. “That last lot makes twenty eight thousand six hundred and fifty pounds.”

“What!” This was a sort of shriek from Mr. Finlayson.

“Sure you’re right?” This was the man with the boisterous voice.

“I don’t pretend to be very good at addition--I put down the figures as I give him each lot of chips; you’d better add it up yourself.”

I took it that a paper was handed to Mr. Griffiths, who cast up the various amounts which were on it.

“That’s all right--twenty-eight thousand six hundred and fifty, didn’t you say? There were ten thousand which he had from me. I don’t know how far you’re prepared to go, Mr. Finlayson, but that makes nearly forty thousand.”

“I’m good to go on all night. I’m spoiling for a rousing gamble; what’s forty thousand pounds!” This was Chicago Charlie; I wondered if he had as many farthings of his own in the world.

There was another silence; then Mr. Finlayson began to speak in weak, quavering accents, which made it impossible for his words to reach me. The crisis was approaching--I had to hear what he said; I resolved to risk opening the door; I calculated that they would be so absorbed in listening to and watching him that a slight movement of the door would go unheeded. I had better fortune than I had hoped. I turned the handle, noiselessly--to find that it opened inwards, and that it was screened on the other side by curtains, so that what I had done was entirely unnoticed. I was even able, without being perceived, to glance between the curtains and observe what was happening in the room beyond.

It was a large room, well lit by several inverted incandescent gas-burners. There was a card-table in the centre, at which four men were seated--Chicago Charlie, on his left Mr. Poyntz, opposite Mr. Finlayson, on his right a bullocky sort of man, whom I took to be Mr. Griffiths. There was a little table between each two men, on which were glasses; evidently Mr. Finlayson, for one, had been drinking much more than he should have done, possibly assisted by Mrs. Hammond, who sat on his left to see that his glass was kept filled, and possibly, also, to inform the others what sort of cards he had. On his right was Miss Parsons, with a box divided into partitions, in which were ivory counters of different colours, which are used for the game of poker, and are known as “chips.” Chicago Charlie was leaning back, a big cigar in his mouth, on his face an insolent grin. Poyntz was eyeing Mr. Finlayson as a dog might a rat on which he proposes presently to spring. Griffiths was apparently cast for the part of the genial host, who desires above all else to avoid unpleasantness. The only unhappy looking person present was Uncle Jack. He was sober enough to know that he had made a consummate ass of himself, but too drunk to understand clearly how he had managed to do it, and, still less, how he was to avoid paying the penalty of his folly. The others eyed him with amusement as he did his best to make his position plain.

“You must understand, gentlemen, that I am no gambler--never was. It’s against my principles. My idea was a little friendly game--I had no intention to play for high stakes--so let’s hope there’s no harm done.”

“Certainly there’s no harm done. What’s forty thousand pounds to a man like you?” This was Charlie--the insolence of his grin grew more pronounced; I wondered how often he had played the same sort of part in similar scenes. Uncle Jack tried to wag his finger at him.

“Excuse me, sir--I beg your pardon, Colonel; I forgot for the moment that you were a military gentleman--I say, excuse me, but forty thousand pounds is more money than I ever had in my life.”

Charlie took his cigar from between his lips and carefully knocked off the ash. “And will you excuse me, Mr. Finlayson, if I say you are a liar?”

“Sir! What--what language do you use!”

Griffiths interposed. “Come, Colonel, isn’t that sort of thing a little irregular? We’re all friends here; Mr. Finlayson is both a gentleman and my particular friend.”

“Mr. Griffiths, I’m a man of peace, as you’re aware, so I merely make this remark--Mr. Finlayson has lost to me twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds; if Mr. Finlayson will hand me his cheque for that amount I will consider the matter closed.”

“Very handsomely said, Colonel, very handsomely indeed. How do you stand with Mr. Finlayson, Poyntz?”

“Mr. Finlayson has lost a few hundred to me, but as he seems to be a bit on the wrong side, they can stand over.”

“I say the same, Mr. Finlayson. You’re just on sixteen thousand down to me, but I’ll wait.”

“I won’t wait; it has always been my rule to play for cash, as all my friends are aware.”

“It’s quite right, Colonel, and a very good rule too. So all you need do, Mr. Finlayson, is to give Colonel Stewart a cheque for the twenty-three thousand odd you are down to him, and we’ll leave the other little matters for friendly discussion later on. You have your cheque-book on you, Mr. Finlayson?”

“No, sir, I have not, sir. And if I had it would make no difference. I--I--I give you my word--I’m not a fool.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” The Colonel rose in sudden wrath.

“Now, Colonel--gently.” This was Griffiths, the peacemaker.

“Are you prepared to pay me, sir, the twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds you owe me in cash?”

Drink seemed to be having the effect of making Uncle Jack sleepy; he looked up at the irate Charlie with heavy eyes.

“I am not, sir--I am not prepared--to pay it--at all.”

“This is too much--you dirty little hound!”

Charlie, leaning over the table, lifted Uncle Jack off his chair and bore him across the green cloth as if he were but the small quadruped he called him. The action suggested that Charlie was strong. Then, laying him flat across the board, he ran his fingers through his victim’s pockets with a swiftness and dexterity which hinted at much practice. He held up a pocket-book.

“We’ll see what you have in this, sir.” He proceeded to do so. “You may not have a cheque-book on you, sir, but you do appear to have a cheque.” He unfolded one which he had taken from the pocket-book. “Now, sir, pen and ink will be given you, and you will fill up that cheque in my favour for twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds--at once, without any further nonsense.” He picked him off the table, sat him on a chair. “Griffiths, where’s a pen and ink?” Those requisites were produced by Miss Parsons. “Here, sir, are pens for you to choose from; find one which suits your hand and fill up this cheque. Try this one, sir--if you don’t take hold of it----”

It was not necessary for Charlie to finish his sentence, because Uncle Jack did take hold. A woeful spectacle he presented, after the ignominious manner in which he had been handled--a fuddled, muddled, frightened little man, with those three great men, and two big women, looking down at him. Charlie continued to play the part to which he was accustomed.

“Now, sir, have you got well hold of that pen? Draw that cheque in favour of Colonel Frederick Stewart for twenty-three thousand one hundred and fifty pounds, put your usual signature at the bottom and leave it open. Why aren’t you doing as I tell you, sir?”

“I--I’d rather not,” stammered Uncle Jack.

“Then you’re a thief, sir. As it is the custom in the part of the world in which I was raised for a gentleman to shoot a thief at sight, if you don’t get a move on you and fill up that cheque, I’ll put the contents of this gun inside you.”

Charlie, producing a revolver from some part of his person, pointed it at Uncle Jack, whose terror was so great as to be almost ludicrous.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he wailed. “I’ll draw the cheque.”

He made haste to do as he was bid. Charlie checked his enthusiasm.

“Steady, sir, steady, or your handwriting will be all shaky, and you’ll spoil the cheque. Just you fill up this cheque, without a shiver or a shake, in your usual handwriting--and you’ll make a friend of me for life.”

Whether the prospect held out to him by the other’s words charmed Uncle Jack I cannot certainly say; he filled up the cheque with what appeared to be a surprisingly steady hand. The others watched him. Charlie picked up the cheque when he had finished. He handed it to Griffiths.

“Seems all right.”

The two women and Poyntz came and looked at it over his shoulders as he held it between his fingers.

“It does seem all right,” he admitted, “as far as seeming goes.”

“I’ll see that it is all right. You keep him here a night. I’ll go up by the first train. If they make any fuss at the bank, I’ll put them on to the telephone. You see that he tells them to cash it--they probably know his voice. Only don’t you let him play the fool by seeming to hesitate.”

“I’ll make it my business to see to that.” This was Poyntz, who smiled as he spoke. “Trust me. Hadn’t you better put him to bed straight off, perhaps with something which will help him sleep?”

“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t--we’ve done with him.” Griffiths turned to Miss Parsons. “You can manage a little something, can’t you?”

Drawing a tiny bottle from her corsage, Miss Parsons took from it what seemed to be a minute globule, which she dropped into a glass, drowned in whisky to which she added soda and held to Uncle Jack.

“Drink that up, old man,” she told him. “It’s a night cap.”

It seemed to me that the time had come for me to interfere. For a minute or so I had been conscious of certain sounds without the house for which I had been waiting. While the dashing lady was endeavouring to induce her poor little dupe to take the tumbler, with its drugged contents, between his tremulous fingers, drawing the curtains asunder, I stepped into the room. Mine was quite an effective entry--they stared at me as if I were some strange object dropped from the skies. Before either of them had a chance of speaking or of moving, I whistled. I am rather a good hand at whistling. My whistle rang through the house. Before it died away, or they had an opportunity to recover from their amazement, half a dozen men came streaming through the door--uniformed policemen, with an inspector at their head. Him I addressed.

“That man, Inspector, with the revolver in his hand, is Chicago Charlie, a well-known American crook, for whom, I have no doubt, the police have had inquiries.”

Charlie’s stupefied astonishment was almost funny. For once in his life he had been caught napping. He stared at the inspector, then his glance came back to me--which was where he made a mistake; for while he glared in my direction two policemen stole on him from behind, one gripped the wrist which held the revolver and snatched it from him, while round the other wrist his colleague snapped a handcuff. His surprise was complete; he did not even attempt to struggle. He merely thundered, ornamenting his words with adjectives which I am unable to reproduce:

“Who in the name of all that’s wonderful are you?”

“I’m a person,” I informed him, “who takes a great interest in characters like you, and your friends. I am already well known to Mr. Finlayson; not so well to Miss Parsons; and only slightly to Mrs. Hammond. Allow me to recall myself to their recollections--I am Judith Lee.”

As I spoke I removed the scarlet transformation--and how they stared! It is surprising what a difference a little thing like that does make, under certain circumstances, to unobservant eyes. While seated at dinner, watching what that trio was saying, I had been scribbling a note on the back of a menu card, which I slipped into an envelope brought me by the waiter. When I left the dining-room I gave instructions that it was to be taken at once to the police station. In that note I had made it clear what I expected in that remote house, rightly named “The Wilderness,” and requested that adequate assistance might be sent; a certain signal was to advise me of the arrival of that assistance; my whistle was to serve as a signal for the police to enter. Everything worked as smoothly as could have been desired; that little party had quite a different ending from what had been intended. Uncle Jack was taken back to the hotel; his cheque was retrieved; the two ladies and three gentlemen who had proposed to share the proceeds of that cheque between them spent the night as His Majesty’s guests.

The unfortunate part of the business was that later the ridiculous little man expressed himself, to me as well as to others, as absolutely convinced that my action in the matter was inspired by the affection I felt for him. I have reason to doubt if even the plainest possible language from me sufficed to drive the preposterous notion wholly from his head. As I asked at the beginning--why are some men so silly?