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This etext was produced by David Widger


by John Galsworthy

"Life calls the tune, we dance."


INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE [Also posted as Etext #2594]
Indian Summer of a Forsyte
In Chancery

[In this 1919 edition of "Five Tales" the fifth tale was "Indian
Summer of a Forsyte;" in later collections, "Indian Summer..." became
the first section of the second volume of The Forsyte Saga]


"Life calls the tune, we dance."




"So the last shall be first, and the first last."--HOLY WRIT.

It was a dark room at that hour of six in the evening, when just the
single oil reading-lamp under its green shade let fall a dapple of
light over the Turkey carpet; over the covers of books taken out of
the bookshelves, and the open pages of the one selected; over the
deep blue and gold of the coffee service on the little old stool with
its Oriental embroidery. Very dark in the winter, with drawn
curtains, many rows of leather-bound volumes, oak-panelled walls and
ceiling. So large, too, that the lighted spot before the fire where
he sat was just an oasis. But that was what Keith Darrant liked,
after his day's work--the hard early morning study of his "cases,"
the fret and strain of the day in court; it was his rest, these two
hours before dinner, with books, coffee, a pipe, and sometimes a nap.
In red Turkish slippers and his old brown velvet coat, he was well
suited to that framing of glow and darkness. A painter would have
seized avidly on his clear-cut, yellowish face, with its black
eyebrows twisting up over eyes--grey or brown, one could hardly tell,
and its dark grizzling hair still plentiful, in spite of those daily
hours of wig. He seldom thought of his work while he sat there,
throwing off with practised ease the strain of that long attention to
the multiple threads of argument and evidence to be disentangled--
work profoundly interesting, as a rule, to his clear intellect,
trained to almost instinctive rejection of all but the essential, to
selection of what was legally vital out of the mass of confused
tactical and human detail presented to his scrutiny; yet sometimes
tedious and wearing. As for instance to-day, when he had suspected
his client of perjury, and was almost convinced that he must throw up
his brief. He had disliked the weak-looking, white-faced fellow from
the first, and his nervous, shifty answers, his prominent startled
eyes--a type too common in these days of canting tolerations and weak
humanitarianism; no good, no good!

Of the three books he had taken down, a Volume of Voltaire--curious
fascination that Frenchman had, for all his destructive irony!--a
volume of Burton's travels, and Stevenson's "New Arabian Nights," he
had pitched upon the last. He felt, that evening, the want of
something sedative, a desire to rest from thought of any kind. The
court had been crowded, stuffy; the air, as he walked home, soft,
sou'-westerly, charged with coming moisture, no quality of vigour in
it; he felt relaxed, tired, even nervy, and for once the loneliness
of his house seemed strange and comfortless.

Lowering the lamp, he turned his face towards the fire. Perhaps he
would get a sleep before that boring dinner at the Tellasson's. He
wished it were vacation, and Maisie back from school. A widower for
many years, he had lost the habit of a woman about him; yet to-night
he had a positive yearning for the society of his young daughter,
with her quick ways, and bright, dark eyes. Curious what perpetual
need of a woman some men had! His brother Laurence--wasted--all
through women--atrophy of willpower! A man on the edge of things;
living from hand to mouth; his gifts all down at heel! One would
have thought the Scottish strain might have saved him; and yet, when
a Scotsman did begin to go downhill, who could go faster? Curious
that their mother's blood should have worked so differently in her
two sons. He himself had always felt he owed all his success to it.

His thoughts went off at a tangent to a certain issue troubling his
legal conscience. He had not wavered in the usual assumption of
omniscience, but he was by no means sure that he had given right
advice. Well! Without that power to decide and hold to decision in
spite of misgiving, one would never have been fit for one's position
at the Bar, never have been fit for anything. The longer he lived,
the more certain he became of the prime necessity of virile and
decisive action in all the affairs of life. A word and a blow--and
the blow first! Doubts, hesitations, sentiment the muling and puking
of this twilight age--! And there welled up on his handsome face a
smile that was almost devilish--the tricks of firelight are so many!
It faded again in sheer drowsiness; he slept....

He woke with a start, having a feeling of something out beyond the
light, and without turning his head said: "What's that?" There came
a sound as if somebody had caught his breath. He turned up the lamp.

"Who's there?"

A voice over by the door answered:

"Only I--Larry."

Something in the tone, or perhaps just being startled out of sleep
like this, made him shiver. He said:

"I was asleep. Come in!"

It was noticeable that he did not get up, or even turn his head, now
that he knew who it was, but waited, his half-closed eyes fixed on
the fire, for his brother to come forward. A visit from Laurence was
not an unmixed blessing. He could hear him breathing, and became
conscious of a scent of whisky. Why could not the fellow at least
abstain when he was coming here! It was so childish, so lacking in
any sense of proportion or of decency! And he said sharply:

"Well, Larry, what is it?"

It was always something. He often wondered at the strength of that
sense of trusteeship, which kept him still tolerant of the troubles,
amenable to the petitions of this brother of his; or was it just
"blood" feeling, a Highland sense of loyalty to kith and kin; an old-
time quality which judgment and half his instincts told him was
weakness but which, in spite of all, bound him to the distressful
fellow? Was he drunk now, that he kept lurking out there by the
door? And he said less sharply:

"Why don't you come and sit down?"

He was coming now, avoiding the light, skirting along the walls just
beyond the radiance of the lamp, his feet and legs to the waist
brightly lighted, but his face disintegrated in shadow, like the face
of a dark ghost.

"Are you ill, man?"

Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a
hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled
hair. The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:

'He really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he
can't behave--'

The figure against the wall heaved a sigh--so truly from an
overburdened heart that Keith was conscious with a certain dismay of
not having yet fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. He got
up, and, back to the fire, said with a brutality born of nerves
rather than design:

"What is it, man? Have you committed a murder, that you stand there
dumb as a fish?"

For a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the


The sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster
enabled Keith to say vigorously:

"By Jove! You have been drinking!"

But it passed at once into deadly apprehension.

"What do you mean? Come here, where I can see you. What's the
matter with you, Larry?"

With a sudden lurch and dive, his brother left the shelter of the
shadow, and sank into a chair in the circle of light. And another
long, broken sigh escaped him.

"There's nothing the matter with me, Keith! It's true!"

Keith stepped quickly forward, and stared down into his brother's
face; and instantly he saw that it was true. No one could have
simulated the look in those eyes--of horrified wonder, as if they
would never again get on terms with the face to which they belonged.
To see them squeezed the heart-only real misery could look like that.
Then that sudden pity became angry bewilderment.

"What in God's name is this nonsense?"

But it was significant that he lowered his voice; went over to the
door, too, to see if it were shut. Laurence had drawn his chair
forward, huddling over the fire--a thin figure, a worn, high-
cheekboned face with deep-sunk blue eyes, and wavy hair all ruffled,
a face that still had a certain beauty. Putting a hand on that lean
shoulder, Keith said:

"Come, Larry! Pull yourself together, and drop exaggeration."

"It's true; I tell you; I've killed a man."

The noisy violence of that outburst acted like a douche. What was
the fellow about--shouting out such words! But suddenly Laurence
lifted his hands and wrung them. The gesture was so utterly painful
that it drew a quiver from Keith's face.

"Why did you come here," he said, "and tell me this?"

Larry's face was really unearthly sometimes, such strange gleams
passed up on to it!

"Whom else should I tell? I came to know what I'm to do, Keith?
Give myself up, or what?"

At that sudden introduction of the practical Keith felt his heart
twitch. Was it then as real as all that? But he said, very quietly:

"Just tell me--How did it come about, this--affair?"

That question linked the dark, gruesome, fantastic nightmare on to

"When did it happen?"

"Last night."

In Larry's face there was--there had always been--something
childishly truthful. He would never stand a chance in court! And
Keith said:

"How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from the beginning.
Drink this coffee; it'll clear your head."

Laurence took the little blue cup and drained it.

"Yes," he said. "It's like this, Keith. There's a girl I've known
for some months now--"

Women! And Keith said between his teeth: "Well?"

"Her father was a Pole who died over here when she was sixteen, and
left her all alone. A man called Walenn, a mongrel American, living
in the same house, married her, or pretended to--she's very pretty,
Keith--he left her with a baby six months old, and another coming.
That one died, and she did nearly. Then she starved till another
fellow took her on. She lived with him two years; then Walenn turned
up again, and made her go back to him. The brute used to beat her
black and blue, all for nothing. Then he left her again. When I met
her she'd lost her elder child, too, and was taking anybody who came

He suddenly looked up into Keith's face.

"But I've never met a sweeter woman, nor a truer, that I swear.
Woman! She's only twenty now! When I went to her last night, that
brute--that Walenn--had found her out again; and when he came for me,
swaggering and bullying--Look!"--he touched a dark mark on his
forehead--"I took his throat in my hands, and when I let go--"


"Dead. I never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him

Again he made that gesture-wringing his hands.

In a hard voice Keith said:

"What did you do then?"

"We sat by it a long time. Then I carried it on my back down the
street, round a corner to an archway."

"How far?"

"About fifty yards."

"Was anyone--did anyone see?"


"What time?"


"And then?"

"Went back to her."

"Why--in Heaven's name?"

"She was lonely and afraid; so was I, Keith."

"Where is this place?"

"Forty-two, Borrow Street, Soho."

"And the archway?"

"Corner of Glove Lane."

"Good God! Why--I saw it in the paper!"

And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that
paragraph: "The body of a man was found this morning under an archway
in Glove Lane, Soho. From marks about the throat grave suspicions of
foul play are entertained. The body had apparently been robbed, and
nothing was discovered leading to identification."

It was real earnest, then. Murder! His own brother! He faced round
and said:

"You saw this in the paper, and dreamed it. Understand--you dreamed

The wistful answer came:

"If only I had, Keith--if only I had!"

In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.

"Did you take anything from the--body?"

"This dropped while we were struggling.",

It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed:
"Patrick Walenn, Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London." Again with
that twitching in his heart, Keith said:

"Put it in the fire."

Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. By that command--he had--
identified himself with this--this--But he did not pluck it out. It
blackened, writhed, and vanished. And once more he said:

"What in God's name made you come here and tell me?"

"You know about these things. I didn't mean to kill him. I love the
girl. What shall I do, Keith?

"Simple! How simple! To ask what he was to do! It was like Larry!
And he said:

"You were not seen, you think?" "It's a dark street. There was no
one about."

"When did you leave this girl the second time?"

"About seven o'clock."

"Where did you go?"

"To my rooms."

"In Fitzroy Street?"


"Did anyone see you come in?"


"What have you done since?"

"Sat there."

"Not been out?"


"Not seen the girl?"


"You don't know, then, what she's done since?"


"Would she give you away?"


"Would she give herself away--hysteria?"


"Who knows of your relations with her?"

"No one."

"No one?"

"I don't know who should, Keith."

"Did anyone see you going in last night, when you first went to her?"

"No. She lives on the ground floor. I've got keys."

"Give them to me. What else have you that connects you with her?"


"In your rooms?"


"No photographs. No letters?"


"Be careful."


"No one saw you going back to her the second time?"


"No one saw you leave her in the morning?"


"You were fortunate. Sit down again, man. I must think."

Think! Think out this accursed thing--so beyond all thought, and all
belief. But he could not think. Not a coherent thought would come.
And he began again:

"Was it his first reappearance with her?"


"She told you so?"


"How did he find out where she was?"

"I don't know."

"How drunk were you?"

"I was not drunk."

"How much had you drunk?"

"About two bottles of claret--nothing."

"You say you didn't mean to kill him?"

"No-God knows!"

"That's something."

What made you choose the arch?"

"It was the first dark place."

"Did his face look as if he had been strangled?"


"Did it?"


"Very disfigured?"


"Did you look to see if his clothes were marked?"


"Why not?"

"Why not? My God! If you had done it!"

"You say he was disfigured. Would he be recognisable?"

"I don't know."

"When she lived with him last--where was that?"

"I don't know for certain. Pimlico, I think."

"Not Soho?"


"How long has she been at the Soho place?"

"Nearly a year."

"Always the same rooms?"


"Is there anyone living in that house or street who would be likely
to know her as his wife?"

"I don't think so."

"What was he?"

"I should think he was a professional 'bully.'"

"I see. Spending most of his time abroad, then?"


"Do you know if he was known to the police?"

"I haven't heard of it."

"Now, listen, Larry. When you leave here go straight home, and don't
go out till I come to you, to-morrow morning. Promise that!"

"I promise."

"I've got a dinner engagement. I'll think this out. Don't drink.
Don't talk! Pull yourself together."

"Don't keep me longer than you can help, Keith!"

That white face, those eyes, that shaking hand! With a twinge of
pity in the midst of all the turbulence of his revolt, and fear, and
disgust Keith put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and said:


And suddenly he thought: 'My God! Courage! I shall want it all


Laurence Darrant, leaving his brother's house in the Adelphi, walked
northwards, rapidly, slowly, rapidly again. For, if there are men
who by force of will do one thing only at a time, there are men who
from lack of will do now one thing, now another; with equal
intensity. To such natures, to be gripped by the Nemesis which
attends the lack of self-control is no reason for being more self-
controlled. Rather does it foster their pet feeling: "What matter?
To-morrow we die!" The effort of will required to go to Keith had
relieved, exhausted and exasperated him. In accordance with those
three feelings was the progress of his walk. He started from the
door with the fixed resolve to go home and stay there quietly till
Keith came. He was in Keith's hands, Keith would know what was to be
done. But he had not gone three hundred yards before he felt so
utterly weary, body and soul, that if he had but had a pistol in his
pocket he would have shot himself in the street. Not even the
thought of the girl--this young unfortunate with her strange
devotion, who had kept him straight these last five months, who had
roused in him a depth of feeling he had never known before--would
have availed against that sudden black defection. Why go on--a waif
at the mercy of his own nature, a straw blown here and there by every
gust which rose in him? Why not have done with it for ever, and take
it out in sleep?

He was approaching the fatal street, where he and the girl, that
early morning, had spent the hours clutched together, trying in the
refuge of love to forget for a moment their horror and fear. Should
he go in? He had promised Keith not to. Why had he promised? He
caught sight of himself in a chemist's lighted window. Miserable,
shadowy brute! And he remembered suddenly a dog he had picked up
once in the streets of Pera, a black-and-white creature--different
from the other dogs, not one of their breed, a pariah of pariahs, who
had strayed there somehow. He had taken it home to the house where
he was staying, contrary to all custom of the country; had got fond
of it; had shot it himself, sooner than leave it behind again to the
mercies of its own kind in the streets. Twelve years ago! And those
sleevelinks made of little Turkish coins he had brought back for the
girl at the hairdresser's in Chancery Lane where he used to get
shaved--pretty creature, like a wild rose. He had asked of her a
kiss for payment. What queer emotion when she put her face forward
to his lips--a sort of passionate tenderness and shame, at the
softness and warmth of that flushed cheek, at her beauty and trustful
gratitude. She would soon have given herself to him--that one! He
had never gone there again! And to this day he did not know why he
had abstained; to this day he did not know whether he were glad or
sorry not to have plucked that rose. He must surely have been very
different then! Queer business, life--queer, queer business!--to go
through it never knowing what you would do next. Ah! to be like
Keith, steady, buttoned-up in success; a brass pot, a pillar of
society! Once, as a boy, he had been within an ace of killing Keith,
for sneering at him. Once in Southern Italy he had been near killing
a driver who was flogging his horse. And now, that darkfaced,
swinish bully who had ruined the girl he had grown to love--he had
done it! Killed him! Killed a man!

He who did not want to hurt a fly. The chemist's window comforted
him with the sudden thought that he had at home that which made him
safe, in case they should arrest him. He would never again go out
without some of those little white tablets sewn into the lining of
his coat. Restful, even exhilarating thought! They said a man
should not take his own life. Let them taste horror--those glib
citizens! Let them live as that girl had lived, as millions lived
all the world over, under their canting dogmas! A man might rather
even take his life than watch their cursed inhumanities.

He went into the chemist's for a bromide; and, while the man was
mixing it, stood resting one foot like a tired horse. The "life" he
had squeezed out of that fellow! After all, a billion living
creatures gave up life each day, had it squeezed out of them, mostly.
And perhaps not one a day deserved death so much as that loathly
fellow. Life! a breath--aflame! Nothing! Why, then, this icy
clutching at his heart?

The chemist brought the draught.

"Not sleeping, sir?"


The man's eyes seemed to say: 'Yes! Burning the candle at both ends-
I know!' Odd life, a chemist's; pills and powders all day long, to
hold the machinery of men together! Devilish odd trade!

In going out he caught the reflection of his face in a mirror; it
seemed too good altogether for a man who had committed murder. There
was a sort of brightness underneath, an amiability lurking about its
shadows; how--how could it be the face of a man who had done what he
had done? His head felt lighter now, his feet lighter; he walked
rapidly again.

Curious feeling of relief and oppression all at once! Frightful--to
long for company, for talk, for distraction; and--to be afraid of it!
The girl--the girl and Keith were now the only persons who would not
give him that feeling of dread. And, of those two--Keith was not...!
Who could consort with one who was never wrong, a successful,
righteous fellow; a chap built so that he knew nothing about himself,
wanted to know nothing, a chap all solid actions? To be a quicksand
swallowing up one's own resolutions was bad enough! But to be like
Keith--all willpower, marching along, treading down his own feelings
and weaknesses! No! One could not make a comrade of a man like
Keith, even if he were one's brother? The only creature in all the
world was the girl. She alone knew and felt what he was feeling;
would put up with him and love him whatever he did, or was done to
him. He stopped and took shelter in a doorway, to light a cigarette.
He had suddenly a fearful wish to pass the archway where he had
placed the body; a fearful wish that had no sense, no end in view, no
anything; just an insensate craving to see the dark place again. He
crossed Borrow Street to the little lane. There was only one person
visible, a man on the far side with his shoulders hunched against the
wind; a short, dark figure which crossed and came towards him in the
flickering lamplight. What a face! Yellow, ravaged, clothed almost
to the eyes in a stubbly greyish growth of beard, with blackish
teeth, and haunting bloodshot eyes. And what a figure of rags--one
shoulder higher than the other, one leg a little lame, and thin! A
surge of feeling came up in Laurence for this creature, more
unfortunate than himself. There were lower depths than his!

"Well, brother," he said, "you don't look too prosperous!"

The smile which gleamed out on the man's face seemed as unlikely as a
smile on a scarecrow.

"Prosperity doesn't come my way," he said in a rusty voice. "I'm a
failure--always been a failure. And yet you wouldn't think it, would
you?--I was a minister of religion once."

Laurence held out a shilling. But the man shook his head.

"Keep your money," he said. "I've got more than you to-day, I
daresay. But thank you for taking a little interest. That's worth
more than money to a man that's down."

"You're right."

"Yes," the rusty voice went on; "I'd as soon die as go on living as I
do. And now I've lost my self-respect. Often wondered how long a
starving man could go without losing his self-respect. Not so very
long. You take my word for that." And without the slightest change
in the monotony of that creaking voice he added:

"Did you read of the murder? Just here. I've been looking at the

The words: 'So have I!' leaped up to Laurence's lips; he choked them
down with a sort of terror.

"I wish you better luck," he said. "Goodnight!" and hurried away. A
sort of ghastly laughter was forcing its way up in his throat. Was
everyone talking of the murder he had committed? Even the very


There are some natures so constituted that, due to be hung at ten
o'clock, they will play chess at eight. Such men invariably rise.
They make especially good bishops, editors, judges, impresarios,
Prime ministers, money-lenders, and generals; in fact, fill with
exceptional credit any position of power over their fellow-men. They
have spiritual cold storage, in which are preserved their nervous
systems. In such men there is little or none of that fluid sense and
continuity of feeling known under those vague terms, speculation,
poetry, philosophy. Men of facts and of decision switching
imagination on and off at will, subordinating sentiment to reason...
one does not think of them when watching wind ripple over cornfields,
or swallows flying.

Keith Darrant had need for being of that breed during his dinner at
the Tellassons. It was just eleven when he issued from the big house
in Portland Place and refrained from taking a cab. He wanted to walk
that he might better think. What crude and wanton irony there was in
his situation! To have been made father-confessor to a murderer, he-
-well on towards a judgeship! With his contempt for the kind of
weakness which landed men in such abysses, he felt it all so sordid,
so "impossible," that he could hardly bring his mind to bear on it at
all. And yet he must, because of two powerful instincts--self-
preservation and blood-loyalty.

The wind had still the sapping softness of the afternoon, but rain
had held off so far. It was warm, and he unbuttoned his fur
overcoat. The nature of his thoughts deepened the dark austerity of
his face, whose thin, well-cut lips were always pressing together, as
if, by meeting, to dispose of each thought as it came up. He moved
along the crowded pavements glumly. That air of festive conspiracy
which drops with the darkness on to lighted streets, galled him. He
turned off on a darker route.

This ghastly business! Convinced of its reality, he yet could not
see it. The thing existed in his mind, not as a picture, but as a
piece of irrefutable evidence. Larry had not meant to do it, of
course. But it was murder, all the same. Men like Larry--weak,
impulsive, sentimental, introspective creatures--did they ever mean
what they did? This man, this Walenn, was, by all accounts, better
dead than alive; no need to waste a thought on him! But, crime--the
ugliness--Justice unsatisfied! Crime concealed--and his own share in
the concealment! And yet--brother to brother! Surely no one could
demand action from him! It was only a question of what he was going
to advise Larry to do. To keep silent, and disappear? Had that a
chance of success? Perhaps if the answers to his questions had been
correct. But this girl! Suppose the dead man's relationship to her
were ferreted out, could she be relied on not to endanger Larry?
These women were all the same, unstable as water, emotional,
shiftless pests of society. Then, too, a crime untracked, dogging
all his brother's after life; a secret following him wherever he
might vanish to; hanging over him, watching for some drunken moment,
to slip out of his lips. It was bad to think of. A clean breast of
it? But his heart twitched within him. "Brother of Mr. Keith
Darrant, the wellknown King's Counsel"--visiting a woman of the town,
strangling with his bare hands the woman's husband! No intention to
murder, but--a dead man! A dead man carried out of the house, laid
under a dark archway! Provocation! Recommended to mercy--penal
servitude for life! Was that the advice he was going to give Larry
to-morrow morning?

And he had a sudden vision of shaven men with clay-coloured features,
run, as it were, to seed, as he had seen them once in Pentonville,
when he had gone there to visit a prisoner. Larry! Whom, as a baby
creature, he had watched straddling; whom, as a little fellow, he had
fagged; whom he had seen through scrapes at college; to whom he had
lent money time and again, and time and again admonished in his
courses. Larry! Five years younger than himself; and committed to
his charge by their mother when she died. To become for life one of
those men with faces like diseased plants; with no hair but a bushy
stubble; with arrows marked on their yellow clothes! Larry! One of
those men herded like sheep; at the beck and call of common men! A
gentleman, his own brother, to live that slave's life, to be ordered
here and there, year after year, day in, day out. Something snapped
within him. He could not give that advice. Impossible! But if not,
he must make sure of his ground, must verify, must know. This Glove
Lane--this arch way? It would not be far from where he was that very
moment. He looked for someone of whom to make enquiry. A policeman
was standing at the corner, his stolid face illumined by a lamp;
capable and watchful--an excellent officer, no doubt; but, turning
his head away, Keith passed him without a word. Strange to feel that
cold, uneasy feeling in presence of the law! A grim little driving
home of what it all meant! Then, suddenly, he saw that the turning
to his left was Borrow Street itself. He walked up one side, crossed
over, and returned. He passed Number Forty-two, a small house with
business names printed on the lifeless windows of the first and
second floors; with dark curtained windows on the ground floor, or
was there just a slink of light in one corner? Which way had Larry
turned? Which way under that grisly burden? Fifty paces of this
squalid street-narrow, and dark, and empty, thank heaven! Glove
Lane! Here it was! A tiny runlet of a street. And here--! He had
run right on to the arch, a brick bridge connecting two portions of a
warehouse, and dark indeed.

"That's right, gov'nor! That's the place!" He needed all his self-
control to turn leisurely to the speaker. "'Ere's where they found
the body--very spot leanin' up 'ere. They ain't got 'im yet.
Lytest--me lord!"

It was a ragged boy holding out a tattered yellowish journal. His
lynx eyes peered up from under lanky wisps of hair, and his voice had
the proprietary note of one making "a corner" in his news. Keith
took the paper and gave him twopence. He even found a sort of
comfort in the young ghoul's hanging about there; it meant that
others besides himself had come morbidly to look. By the dim
lamplight he read: "Glove Lane garrotting mystery. Nothing has yet
been discovered of the murdered man's identity; from the cut of his
clothes he is supposed to be a foreigner." The boy had vanished, and
Keith saw the figure of a policeman coming slowly down this gutter of
a street. A second's hesitation, and he stood firm. Nothing
obviously could have brought him here save this "mystery," and he
stayed quietly staring at the arch. The policeman moved up abreast.
Keith saw that he was the one whom he had passed just now. He noted
the cold offensive question die out of the man's eyes when they
caught the gleam of white shirt-front under the opened fur collar.
And holding up the paper, he said:

"Is this where the man was found?"

"Yes, sir."

"Still a mystery, I see?"

"Well, we can't always go by the papers. But I don't fancy they do
know much about it, yet."

"Dark spot. Do fellows sleep under here?"

The policeman nodded. "There's not an arch in London where we don't
get 'em sometimes."

"Nothing found on him--I think I read?"

"Not a copper. Pockets inside out. There's some funny characters
about this quarter. Greeks, Hitalians--all sorts."

Queer sensation this, of being glad of a policeman's confidential

"Well, good-night!"

"Good-night, sir. Good-night!"

He looked back from Borrow Street. The policeman was still standing
there holding up his lantern, so that its light fell into the
archway, as if trying to read its secret.

Now that he had seen this dark, deserted spot, the chances seemed to
him much better. "Pockets inside out!" Either Larry had had
presence of mind to do a very clever thing, or someone had been at
the body before the police found it. That was the more likely. A
dead backwater of a place. At three o'clock--loneliest of all hours-
-Larry's five minutes' grim excursion to and fro might well have
passed unseen! Now, it all depended on the girl; on whether Laurence
had been seen coming to her or going away; on whether, if the man's
relationship to her were discovered, she could be relied on to say
nothing. There was not a soul in Borrow Street now; hardly even a
lighted window; and he took one of those rather desperate decisions
only possible to men daily accustomed to the instant taking of
responsibility. He would go to her, and see for himself. He came to
the door of Forty-two, obviously one of those which are only shut at
night, and tried the larger key. It fitted, and he was in a gas-
lighted passage, with an oil-clothed floor, and a single door to his
left. He stood there undecided. She must be made to understand that
he knew everything. She must not be told more than that he was a
friend of Larry's. She must not be frightened, yet must be forced to
give her very soul away. A hostile witness--not to be treated as
hostile--a matter for delicate handling! But his knock was not

Should he give up this nerve-racking, bizarre effort to come at a
basis of judgment; go away, and just tell Laurence that he could not
advise him? And then--what? Something must be done. He knocked
again. Still no answer. And with that impatience of being thwarted,
natural to him, and fostered to the full by the conditions of his
life, he tried the other key. It worked, and he opened the door.
Inside all was dark, but a voice from some way off, with a sort of
breathless relief in its foreign tones, said:

"Oh! then it's you, Larry! Why did you knock? I was so frightened.
Turn up the light, dear. Come in!"

Feeling by the door for a switch in the pitch blackness he was
conscious of arms round his neck, a warm thinly clad body pressed to
his own; then withdrawn as quickly, with a gasp, and the most awful
terror-stricken whisper:

"Oh! Who is it?"

With a glacial shiver down his own spine, Keith answered

"A friend of Laurence. Don't be frightened!"

There was such silence that he could hear a clock ticking, and the
sound of his own hand passing over the surface of the wall, trying to
find the switch. He found it, and in the light which leaped up he
saw, stiffened against a dark curtain evidently screening off a
bedroom, a girl standing, holding a long black coat together at her
throat, so that her face with its pale brown hair, short and square-
cut and curling up underneath, had an uncanny look of being detached
from any body. Her face was so alabaster pale that the staring,
startled eyes, dark blue or brown, and the faint rose of the parted
lips, were like colour stainings on a white mask; and it had a
strange delicacy, truth, and pathos, such as only suffering brings.
Though not susceptible to aesthetic emotion, Keith was curiously
affected. He said gently:

"You needn't be afraid. I haven't come to do you harm--quite the
contrary. May I sit down and talk?" And, holding up the keys, he
added: "Laurence wouldn't have given me these, would he, if he hadn't
trusted me?"

Still she did not move, and he had the impression that he was looking
at a spirit--a spirit startled out of its flesh. Nor at the moment
did it seem in the least strange that he should conceive such an odd
thought. He stared round the room--clean and tawdry, with its
tarnished gilt mirror, marble-topped side-table, and plush-covered
sofa. Twenty years and more since he had been in such a place. And
he said:

"Won't you sit down? I'm sorry to have startled you."

But still she did not move, whispering:

"Who are you, please?"

And, moved suddenly beyond the realm of caution by the terror in that
whisper, he answered:

"Larry's brother."

She uttered a little sigh of relief which went to Keith's heart, and,
still holding the dark coat together at her throat, came forward and
sat down on the sofa. He could see that her feet, thrust into
slippers, were bare; with her short hair, and those candid startled
eyes, she looked like a tall child. He drew up a chair and said:

"You must forgive me coming at such an hour; he's told me, you see."
He expected her to flinch and gasp; but she only clasped her hands
together on her knees, and said:


Then horror and discomfort rose up in him, afresh.

"An awful business!"

Her whisper echoed him:

"Yes, oh! yes! Awful--it is awful!"

And suddenly realising that the man must have fallen dead just where
he was sitting, Keith became stock silent, staring at the floor.

"Yes," she whispered; "Just there. I see him now always falling!"

How she said that! With what a strange gentle despair! In this girl
of evil life, who had brought on them this tragedy, what was it which
moved him to a sort of unwilling compassion?

"You look very young," he said.

"I am twenty."

"And you are fond of--my brother?"

"I would die for him."

Impossible to mistake the tone of her voice, or the look in her eyes,
true deep Slav eyes; dark brown, not blue as he had thought at first.
It was a very pretty face--either her life had not eaten into it yet,
or the suffering of these last hours had purged away those marks; or
perhaps this devotion of hers to Larry. He felt strangely at sea,
sitting there with this child of twenty; he, over forty, a man of the
world, professionally used to every side of human nature. But he
said, stammering a little:

"I--I have come to see how far you can save him. Listen, and just
answer the questions I put to you."

She raised her hands, squeezed them together, and murmured:

"Oh! I will answer anything."

"This man, then--your--your husband--was he a bad man?"

"A dreadful man."

"Before he came here last night, how long since you saw him?"

"Eighteen months."

"Where did you live when you saw him last?"

"In Pimlico."

"Does anybody about here know you as Mrs. Walenn?"

"No. When I came here, after my little girl died, I came to live a
bad life. Nobody knows me at all. I am quite alone."

"If they discover who he was, they will look for his wife?"

"I do not know. He did not let people think I was married to him. I
was very young; he treated many, I think, like me."

"Do you think he was known to the police?"

She shook her head. "He was very clever."

"What is your name now?"

"Wanda Livinska."

"Were you known by that name before you were married?"

"Wanda is my Christian name. Livinska--I just call myself."

"I see; since you came here."


"Did my brother ever see this man before last night?"


"You had told him about his treatment of you?"

"Yes. And that man first went for him."

"I saw the mark. Do you think anyone saw my brother come to you?"

"I do not know. He says not."

"Can you tell if anyone saw him carrying the--the thing away?"

"No one in this street--I was looking."

"Nor coming back?"

"No one."

"Nor going out in the morning?"

"I do not think it."

"Have you a servant?"

"Only a woman who comes at nine in the morning for an hour."

"Does she know Larry?"


"Friends, acquaintances?"

"No; I am very quiet. And since I knew your brother, I see no one.
Nobody comes here but him for a long time now."

"How long?"

"Five months."

"Have you been out to-day?"


"What have you been doing?"


It was said with a certain dreadful simplicity, and pressing her
hands together, she went on:

"He is in danger, because of me. I am so afraid for him."
Holding up his hand to check that emotion, he said:

"Look at me!"

She fixed those dark eyes on him, and in her bare throat, from which
the coat had fallen back, he could see her resolutely swallowing down
her agitation.

"If the worst comes to the worst, and this man is traced to you, can
you trust yourself not to give my brother away?"

Her eyes shone. She got up and went to the fireplace:

"Look! I have burned all the things he has given me--even his
picture. Now I have nothing from him."

Keith, too, got up.

"Good! One more question: Do the police know you, because--because
of your life?"

She shook her head, looking at him intently, with those mournfully
true eyes. And he felt a sort of shame.

"I was obliged to ask. Do you know where he lives?"


"You must not go there. And he must not come to you, here."

Her lips quivered; but she bowed her head. Suddenly he found her
quite close to him, speaking almost in a whisper:

"Please do not take him from me altogether. I will be so careful. I
will not do anything to hurt him; but if I cannot see him sometimes,
I shall die. Please do not take him from me." And catching his hand
between her own, she pressed it desperately. It was several seconds
before Keith said:

"Leave that to me. I will see him. I shall arrange. You must leave
that to me."

"But you will be kind?"

He felt her lips kissing his hand. And the soft moist touch sent a
queer feeling through him, protective, yet just a little brutal,
having in it a shiver of sensuality. He withdrew his hand. And as
if warned that she had been too pressing, she recoiled humbly. But
suddenly she turned, and stood absolutely rigid; then almost
inaudibly whispered: "Listen! Someone out--out there!" And darting
past him she turned out the light.

Almost at once came a knock on the door. He could feel--actually
feel the terror of this girl beside him in the dark. And he, too,
felt terror. Who could it be? No one came but Larry, she had said.
Who else then could it be? Again came the knock, louder! He felt
the breath of her whisper on his cheek: "If it is Larry! I must
open." He shrank back against the wall; heard her open the door and
say faintly: "Yes. Please! Who?"

Light painted a thin moving line on the wall opposite, and a voice
which Keith recognised answered:

"All right, miss. Your outer door's open here. You ought to keep it
shut after dark."

God! That policeman! And it had been his own doing, not shutting
the outer door behind him when he came in. He heard her say timidly
in her foreign voice: "Thank you, sir!" the policeman's retreating
steps, the outer door being shut, and felt her close to him again.
That something in her youth and strange prettiness which had touched
and kept him gentle, no longer blunted the edge of his exasperation,
now that he could not see her. They were all the same, these women;
could not speak the truth! And he said brusquely:

"You told me they didn't know you!"

Her voice answered like a sigh:

"I did not think they did, sir. It is so long I was not out in the
town, not since I had Larry."

The repulsion which all the time seethed deep in Keith welled up at
those words. His brother--son of his mother, a gentleman--the
property of this girl, bound to her, body and soul, by this
unspeakable event! But she had turned up the light. Had she some
intuition that darkness was against her? Yes, she was pretty with
that soft face, colourless save for its lips and dark eyes, with that
face somehow so touchingly, so unaccountably good, and like a

"I am going now," he said. "Remember! He mustn't come here; you
mustn't go to him. I shall see him to-morrow. If you are as fond of
him as you say--take care, take care!"

She sighed out, "Yes! oh, yes!" and Keith went to the door. She was
standing with her back to the wall, and to follow him she only moved
her head--that dove-like face with all its life in eyes which seemed
saying: 'Look into us; nothing we hide; all--all is there!'

And he went out.

In the passage he paused before opening the outer door. He did not
want to meet that policeman again; the fellow's round should have
taken him well out of the street by now, and turning the handle
cautiously, he looked out. No one in sight. He stood a moment,
wondering if he should turn to right or left, then briskly crossed
the street. A voice to his right hand said:

"Good-night, sir."

There in the shadow of a doorway the policeman was standing. The
fellow must have seen him coming out! Utterly unable to restrain a
start, and muttering "Goodnight!" Keith walked on rapidly:

He went full quarter of a mile before he lost that startled and
uneasy feeling in sardonic exasperation that he, Keith Darrant, had
been taken for a frequenter of a lady of the town. The whole thing--
the whole thing!--a vile and disgusting business! His very mind felt
dirty and breathless; his spirit, drawn out of sheath, had slowly to
slide back before he could at all focus and readjust his reasoning
faculty. Certainly, he had got the knowledge he wanted. There was
less danger than he thought. That girl's eyes! No mistaking her
devotion. She would not give Larry away. Yes! Larry must clear
out--South America--the East--it did not matter. But he felt no
relief. The cheap, tawdry room had wrapped itself round his fancy
with its atmosphere of murky love, with the feeling it inspired, of
emotion caged within those yellowish walls and the red stuff of its
furniture. That girl's face! Devotion; truth, too, and beauty, rare
and moving, in its setting of darkness and horror, in that nest of
vice and of disorder!... The dark archway; the street arab, with his
gleeful: "They 'ain't got 'im yet!"; the feel of those bare arms
round his neck; that whisper of horror in the darkness; above all,
again, her child face looking into his, so truthful! And suddenly he
stood quite still in the street. What in God's name was he about?
What grotesque juggling amongst shadows, what strange and ghastly
eccentricity was all this? The forces of order and routine, all the
actualities of his daily life, marched on him at that moment, and
swept everything before them. It was a dream, a nightmare not real!
It was ridiculous! That he--he should thus be bound up with things
so black and bizarre!

He had come by now to the Strand, that street down which every day he
moved to the Law Courts, to his daily work; his work so dignified and
regular, so irreproachable, and solid. No! The thing was all a
monstrous nightmare! It would go, if he fixed his mind on the
familiar objects around, read the names on the shops, looked at the
faces passing. Far down the thoroughfare he caught the outline of
the old church, and beyond, the loom of the Law Courts themselves.
The bell of a fire-engine sounded, and the horses came galloping by,
with the shining metal, rattle of hoofs and hoarse shouting. Here
was a sensation, real and harmless, dignified and customary! A woman
flaunting round the corner looked up at him, and leered out: "Good-
night!" Even that was customary, tolerable. Two policemen passed,
supporting between them a man the worse for liquor, full of fight and
expletives; the sight was soothing, an ordinary thing which brought
passing annoyance, interest, disgust. It had begun to rain; he felt
it on his face with pleasure--an actual thing, not eccentric, a thing
which happened every day!

He began to cross the street. Cabs were going at furious speed now
that the last omnibus had ceased to run; it distracted him to take
this actual, ordinary risk run so often every day. During that
crossing of the Strand, with the rain in his face and the cabs
shooting past, he regained for the first time his assurance, shook
off this unreal sense of being in the grip of something, and walked
resolutely to the corner of his home turning. But passing into that
darker stretch, he again stood still. A policeman had also turned
into that street on the other side. Not--surely not! Absurd! They
were all alike to look at--those fellows! Absurd! He walked on
sharply, and let himself into his house. But on his way upstairs he
could not for the life of him help raising a corner of a curtain and
looking from the staircase window. The policeman was marching
solemnly, about twenty-five yards away, paying apparently no
attention to anything whatever.


Keith woke at five o'clock, his usual hour, without remembrance. But
the grisly shadow started up when he entered his study, where the
lamp burned, and the fire shone, and the coffee was set ready, just
as when yesterday afternoon Larry had stood out there against the
wall. For a moment he fought against realisation; then, drinking off
his coffee, sat down sullenly at the bureau to his customary three
hours' study of the day's cases.

Not one word of his brief could he take in. It was all jumbled with
murky images and apprehensions, and for full half an hour he suffered
mental paralysis. Then the sheer necessity of knowing something of
the case which he had to open at half-past ten that morning forced
him to a concentration which never quite subdued the malaise at the
bottom of his heart. Nevertheless, when he rose at half-past eight
and went into the bathroom, he had earned his grim satisfaction in
this victory of will-power. By half-past nine he must be at Larry's.
A boat left London for the Argentine to-morrow. If Larry was to get
away at once, money must be arranged for. And then at breakfast he
came on this paragraph in the paper:


"Enquiry late last night established the fact that the Police have
discovered the identity of the man found strangled yesterday morning
under an archway in Glove Lane. An arrest has been made."

By good fortune he had finished eating, for the words made him feel
physically sick. At this very minute Larry might be locked up,
waiting to be charged-might even have been arrested before his own
visit to the girl last night. If Larry were arrested, she must be
implicated. What, then, would be his own position? Idiot to go and
look at that archway, to go and see the girl! Had that policeman
really followed him home? Accessory after the fact! Keith Darrant,
King's Counsel, man of mark! He forced himself by an effort, which
had something of the heroic, to drop this panicky feeling. Panic
never did good. He must face it, and see. He refused even to hurry,
calmly collected the papers wanted for the day, and attended to a
letter or two, before he set out in a taxi-cab to Fitzroy Street.

Waiting outside there in the grey morning for his ring to be
answered, he looked the very picture of a man who knew his mind, a
man of resolution. But it needed all his will-power to ask without
tremor: "Mr. Darrant in?" to hear without sign of any kind the
answer: "He's not up yet, sir."

"Never mind; I'll go in and see him. Mr. Keith Darrant."

On his way to Laurence's bedroom, in the midst of utter relief, he
had the self-possession to think: 'This arrest is the best thing that
could have happened. It'll keep their noses on a wrong scent till
Larry's got away. The girl must be sent off too, but not with him.'
Panic had ended in quite hardening his resolution. He entered the
bedroom with a feeling of disgust. The fellow was lying there, his
bare arms crossed behind his tousled head, staring at the ceiling,
and smoking one of many cigarettes whose ends littered a chair beside
him, whose sickly reek tainted the air. That pale face, with its
jutting cheek-bones and chin, its hollow cheeks and blue eyes far
sunk back--what a wreck of goodness!

He looked up at Keith through the haze of smoke and said quietly:
"Well, brother, what's the sentence? 'Transportation for life, and
then to be fined forty pounds?'"

The flippancy revolted Keith. It was Larry all over! Last night
horrified and humble, this morning, "Don't care" and feather-headed.
He said sourly:

"Oh! You can joke about it now?"

Laurence turned his face to the wall.


Fatalism! How detestable were natures like that!

"I've been to see her," he said.


"Last night. She can be trusted."

Laurence laughed.

"That I told you."

"I had to see for myself. You must clear out at once, Larry. She
can come out to you by the next boat; but you can't go together.
Have you any money?"


"I can foot your expenses, and lend you a year's income in advance.
But it must be a clean cut; after you get out there your whereabouts
must only be known to me."

A long sigh answered him.

"You're very good to me, Keith; you've always been very good. I
don't know why."

Keith answered drily

"Nor I. There's a boat to the Argentine tomorrow. You're in luck;
they've made an arrest. It's in the paper."


The cigarette end dropped, the thin pyjama'd figure writhed up and
stood clutching at the bedrail.


The disturbing thought flitted through Keith's brain: 'I was a fool.
He takes it queerly; what now?'

Laurence passed his hand over his forehead, and sat down on the bed.

"I hadn't thought of that," he said; "It does me!"

Keith stared. In his relief that the arrested man was not Laurence,
this had not occurred to him. What folly!

"Why?" he said quickly; "an innocent man's in no danger. They
always get the wrong man first. It's a piece of luck, that's all.
It gives us time."

How often had he not seen that expression on Larry's face, wistful,
questioning, as if trying to see the thing with his--Keith's-eyes,
trying to submit to better judgment? And he said, almost gently

"Now, look here, Larry; this is too serious to trifle with. Don't
worry about that. Leave it to me. Just get ready to be off'. I'll
take your berth and make arrangements. Here's some money for kit. I
can come round between five and six, and let you know. Pull yourself
together, man. As soon as the girl's joined you out there, you'd
better get across to Chile, the further the better. You must simply
lose yourself: I must go now, if I'm to get to the Bank before I go
down to the courts." And looking very steadily at his brother, he

"Come! You've got to think of me in this matter as well as of
yourself. No playing fast and loose with the arrangements.

But still Larry gazed up at him with that wistful questioning, and
not till he had repeated, "Understand?" did he receive "Yes" for

Driving away, he thought: 'Queer fellow! I don't know him, shall
never know him!' and at once began to concentrate on the practical
arrangements. At his bank he drew out L400; but waiting for the
notes to be counted he suffered qualms. A clumsy way of doing
things! If there had been more time! The thought: 'Accessory after
the fact!' now infected everything. Notes were traceable. No other
way of getting him away at once, though. One must take lesser risks
to avoid greater. From the bank he drove to the office of the
steamship line. He had told Larry he would book his passage. But
that would not do! He must only ask anonymously if there were
accommodation. Having discovered that there were vacant berths, he
drove on to the Law Courts. If he could have taken a morning off, he
would have gone down to the police court and seen them charge this
man. But even that was not too safe, with a face so well known as
his. What would come of this arrest? Nothing, surely! The police
always took somebody up, to keep the public quiet. Then, suddenly,
he had again the feeling that it was all a nightmare; Larry had never
done it; the police had got the right man! But instantly the memory
of the girl's awe-stricken face, her figure huddling on the sofa, her
words "I see him always falling!" came back. God! What a business!

He felt he had never been more clear-headed and forcible than that
morning in court. When he came out for lunch he bought the most
sensational of the evening papers. But it was yet too early for
news, and he had to go back into court no whit wiser concerning the
arrest. When at last he threw off wig and gown, and had got through
a conference and other necessary work, he went out to Chancery Lane,
buying a paper on the way. Then he hailed a cab, and drove once more
to Fitzroy Street.


Laurence had remained sitting on his bed for many minutes. An
innocent man in no danger! Keith had said it--the celebrated lawyer!
Could he rely on that? Go out 8,000 miles, he and the girl, and
leave a fellow-creature perhaps in mortal peril for an act committed
by himself?

In the past night he had touched bottom, as he thought: become ready
to face anything. When Keith came in he would without murmur have
accepted the advice: "Give yourself up!" He was prepared to pitch
away the end of his life as he pitched from him the fag-ends of his
cigarettes. And the long sigh he had heaved, hearing of reprieve,
had been only half relief. Then, with incredible swiftness there had
rushed through him a feeling of unutterable joy and hope. Clean
away--into a new country, a new life! The girl and he! Out there he
wouldn't care, would rejoice even to have squashed the life out of
such a noisome beetle of a man. Out there! Under a new sun, where
blood ran quicker than in this foggy land, and people took justice
into their own hands. For it had been justice on that brute even
though he had not meant to kill him. And then to hear of this
arrest! They would be charging the man to-day. He could go and see
the poor creature accused of the murder he himself had committed!
And he laughed. Go and see how likely it was that they might hang a
fellow-man in place of himself? He dressed, but too shaky to shave
himself, went out to a barber's shop. While there he read the news
which Keith had seen. In this paper the name of the arrested man was
given: "John Evan, no address." To be brought up on the charge at
Bow Street. Yes! He must go. Once, twice, three times he walked
past the entrance of the court before at last he entered and screwed
himself away among the tag and bobtail.

The court was crowded; and from the murmurs round he could tell that
it was his particular case which had brought so many there. In a
dazed way he watched charge after charge disposed of with lightning
quickness. But were they never going to reach his business? And
then suddenly he saw the little scarecrow man of last night advancing
to the dock between two policemen, more ragged and miserable than
ever by light of day, like some shaggy, wan, grey animal, surrounded
by sleek hounds.

A sort of satisfied purr was rising all round; and with horror
Laurence perceived that this--this was the man accused of what he
himself had done--this queer, battered unfortunate to whom he had
shown a passing friendliness. Then all feeling merged in the
appalling interest of listening. The evidence was very short.
Testimony of the hotel-keeper where Walenn had been staying, the
identification of his body, and of a snake-shaped ring he had been
wearing at dinner that evening. Testimony of a pawnbroker, that this
same ring was pawned with him the first thing yesterday morning by
the prisoner. Testimony of a policeman that he had noticed the man
Evan several times in Glove Lane, and twice moved him on from
sleeping under that arch. Testimony of another policeman that, when
arrested at midnight, Evan had said: "Yes; I took the ring off his
finger. I found him there dead .... I know I oughtn't to have done
it.... I'm an educated man; it was stupid to pawn the ring. I found
him with his pockets turned inside out."

Fascinating and terrible to sit staring at the man in whose place he
should have been; to wonder when those small bright-grey bloodshot
eyes would spy him out, and how he would meet that glance. Like a
baited raccoon the little man stood, screwed back into a corner,
mournful, cynical, fierce, with his ridged, obtuse yellow face, and
his stubbly grey beard and hair, and his eyes wandering now and again
amongst the crowd. But with all his might Laurence kept his face
unmoved. Then came the word "Remanded"; and, more like a baited
beast than ever, the man was led away.

Laurence sat on, a cold perspiration thick on his forehead. Someone
else, then, had come on the body and turned the pockets inside out
before John Evan took the ring. A man such as Walenn would not be
out at night without money. Besides, if Evan had found money on the
body he would never have run the risk of taking that ring. Yes,
someone else had come on the body first. It was for that one to come
forward, and prove that the ring was still on the dead man's finger
when he left him, and thus clear Evan. He clung to that thought; it
seemed to make him less responsible for the little man's position; to
remove him and his own deed one step further back. If they found the
person who had taken the money, it would prove Evan's innocence. He
came out of the court in a sort of trance. And a craving to get
drunk attacked him. One could not go on like this without the relief
of some oblivion. If he could only get drunk, keep drunk till this
business was decided and he knew whether he must give himself up or
no. He had now no fear at all of people suspecting him; only fear of
himself--fear that he might go and give himself up. Now he could see
the girl; the danger from that was as nothing compared with the
danger from his own conscience. He had promised Keith not to see
her. Keith had been decent and loyal to him--good old Keith! But he
would never understand that this girl was now all he cared about in
life; that he would rather be cut off from life itself than be cut
off from her. Instead of becoming less and less, she was becoming
more and more to him--experience strange and thrilling! Out of deep
misery she had grown happy--through him; out of a sordid, shifting
life recovered coherence and bloom, through devotion to him him, of
all people in the world! It was a miracle. She demanded nothing of
him, adored him, as no other woman ever had--it was this which had
anchored his drifting barque; this--and her truthful mild
intelligence, and that burning warmth of a woman, who, long treated
by men as but a sack of sex, now loves at last.

And suddenly, mastering his craving to get drunk, he made towards
Soho. He had been a fool to give those keys to Keith. She must have
been frightened by his visit; and, perhaps, doubly miserable since,
knowing nothing, imagining everything! Keith was sure to have
terrified her. Poor little thing!

Down the street where he had stolen in the dark with the dead body on
his back, he almost ran for the cover of her house. The door was
opened to him before he knocked, her arms were round his neck, her
lips pressed to his. The fire was out, as if she had been unable to
remember to keep warm. A stool had been drawn to the window, and
there she had evidently been sitting, like a bird in a cage, looking
out into the grey street. Though she had been told that he was not
to come, instinct had kept her there; or the pathetic, aching hope
against hope which lovers never part with.

Now that he was there, her first thoughts were for his comfort. The
fire was lighted. He must eat, drink, smoke. There was never in her
doings any of the "I am doing this for you, but you ought to be doing
that for me" which belongs to so many marriages, and liaisons. She
was like a devoted slave, so in love with the chains that she never
knew she wore them. And to Laurence, who had so little sense of
property, this only served to deepen tenderness, and the hold she had
on him. He had resolved not to tell her of the new danger he ran
from his own conscience. But resolutions with him were but the
opposites of what was sure to come; and at last the words:

"They've arrested someone," escaped him.

>From her face he knew she had grasped the danger at once; had divined
it, perhaps, before he spoke. But she only twined her arms round him
and kissed his lips. And he knew that she was begging him to put his
love for her above his conscience. Who would ever have thought that
he could feel as he did to this girl who had been in the arms of
many! The stained and suffering past of a loved woman awakens in
some men only chivalry; in others, more respectable, it rouses a
tigerish itch, a rancorous jealousy of what in the past was given to
others. Sometimes it will do both. When he had her in his arms he
felt no remorse for killing the coarse, handsome brute who had ruined
her. He savagely rejoiced in it. But when she laid her head in the
hollow of his shoulder, turning to him her white face with the faint
colour-staining on the parted lips, the cheeks, the eyelids; when her
dark, wide-apart, brown eyes gazed up in the happiness of her
abandonment--he felt only tenderness and protection.

He left her at five o'clock, and had not gone two streets' length
before the memory of the little grey vagabond, screwed back in the
far corner of the dock like a baited raccoon, of his dreary, creaking
voice, took possession of him again; and a kind of savagery mounted
in his brain against a world where one could be so tortured without
having meant harm to anyone.

At the door of his lodgings Keith was getting out of a cab. They
went in together, but neither of them sat down; Keith standing with
his back to the carefully shut door, Laurence with his back to the
table, as if they knew there was a tug coming. And Keith said:
"There's room on that boat. Go down and book your berth before they
shut. Here's the money!"

"I'm going to stick it, Keith."

Keith stepped forward, and put a roll of notes on the table.

"Now look here, Larry. I've read the police court proceedings.
There's nothing in that. Out of prison, or in prison for a few
weeks, it's all the same to a night-bird of that sort. Dismiss it
from your mind--there's not nearly enough evidence to convict. This
gives you your chance. Take it like a man, and make a new life for

Laurence smiled; but the smile had a touch of madness and a touch of
malice. He took up the notes.

"Clear out, and save the honour of brother Keith. Put them back in
your pocket, Keith, or I'll put them in the fire. Come, take them!"
And, crossing to the fire, he held them to the bars. "Take them, or
in they go!"

Keith took back the notes.

"I've still got some kind of honour, Keith; if I clear out I shall
have none, not the rag of any, left. It may be worth more to me than
that--I can't tell yet--I can't tell." There was a long silence
before Keith answered. "I tell you you're mistaken; no jury will
convict. If they did, a judge would never hang on it. A ghoul who
can rob a dead body ought to be in prison. What he did is worse than
what you did, if you come to that!" Laurence lifted his face.
"Judge not, brother," he said; "the heart is a dark well." Keith's
yellowish face grew red and swollen, as though he were mastering the
tickle of a bronchial cough. "What are you going to do, then? I
suppose I may ask you not to be entirely oblivious of our name; or is
such a consideration unworthy of your honour?" Laurence bent his
head. The gesture said more clearly than words: 'Don't kick a man
when he's down!'

"I don't know what I'm going to do--nothing at present. I'm awfully
sorry, Keith; awfully sorry."

Keith looked at him, and without another word went out.


To any, save philosophers, reputation may be threatened almost as
much by disgrace to name and family as by the disgrace of self.
Keith's instinct was always to deal actively with danger. But this
blow, whether it fell on him by discovery or by confession, could not
be countered. As blight falls on a rose from who knows where, the
scandalous murk would light on him. No repulse possible! Not even a
wriggling from under! Brother of a murderer hung or sent to penal
servitude! His daughter niece to a murderer! His dead mother-a
murderer's mother! And to wait day after day, week after week, not
knowing whether the blow would fall, was an extraordinarily atrocious
penance, the injustice of which, to a man of rectitude, seemed daily
the more monstrous.

The remand had produced evidence that the murdered man had been
drinking heavily on the night of his death, and further evidence of
the accused's professional vagabondage and destitution; it was shown,
too, that for some time the archway in Glove Lane had been his
favourite night haunt. He had been committed for trial in January.
This time, despite misgivings, Keith had attended the police court.
To his great relief Larry was not there. But the policeman who had
come up while he was looking at the archway, and given him afterwards
that scare in the girl's rooms, was chief witness to the way the
accused man haunted Glove Lane. Though Keith held his silk hat high,
he still had the uncomfortable feeling that the man had recognised

His conscience suffered few, if any, twinges for letting this man
rest under the shadow of the murder. He genuinely believed that
there was not evidence enough to convict; nor was it in him to
appreciate the tortures of a vagabond shut up. The scamp deserved
what he had got, for robbing a dead body; and in any case such a
scarecrow was better off in prison than sleeping out under archways
in December. Sentiment was foreign to Keith's character, and his
justice that of those who subordinate the fates of the weak and
shiftless to the needful paramountcy of the strong and well

His daughter came back from school for the Christmas holidays. It
was hard to look up from her bright eyes and rosy cheeks and see this
shadow hanging above his calm and ordered life, as in a glowing room
one's eye may catch an impending patch of darkness drawn like a
spider's web across a corner of the ceiling.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve they went, by her desire, to a
church in Soho, where the Christmas Oratorio was being given; and
coming away passed, by chance of a wrong turning, down Borrow Street.
Ugh! How that startled moment, when the girl had pressed herself
against him in the dark, and her terror-stricken whisper: "Oh! Who
is it?" leaped out before him! Always that business--that ghastly
business! After the trial he would have another try to get them both
away. And he thrust his arm within his young daughter's, hurrying
her on, out of this street where shadows filled all the winter air.

But that evening when she had gone to bed he felt uncontrollably
restless. He had not seen Larry for weeks. What was he about? What
desperations were hatching in his disorderly brain? Was he very
miserable; had he perhaps sunk into a stupor of debauchery? And the
old feeling of protectiveness rose up in him; a warmth born of long
ago Christmas Eves, when they had stockings hung out in the night
stuffed by a Santa Claus, whose hand never failed to tuck them up,
whose kiss was their nightly waft into sleep.

Stars were sparkling out there over the river; the sky frosty-clear,
and black. Bells had not begun to ring as yet. And obeying an
obscure, deep impulse, Keith wrapped himself once more into his fur
coat, pulled a motoring cap over his eyes, and sallied forth.
In the Strand he took a cab to Fitzroy Street. There was no light in
Larry's windows, and on a card he saw the words "To Let." Gone! Had
he after all cleared out for good? But how-without money? And the
girl? Bells were ringing now in the silent frostiness. Christmas
Eve! And Keith thought: 'If only this wretched business were off my
mind! Monstrous that one should suffer for the faults of others!'
He took a route which led him past Borrow Street. Solitude brooded
there, and he walked resolutely down on the far side, looking hard at
the girl's window. There was a light. The curtains just failed to
meet, so that a thin gleam shone through. He crossed; and after
glancing swiftly up and down, deliberately peered in.

He only stood there perhaps twenty seconds, but visual records
gleaned in a moment sometimes outlast the visions of hours and days.
The electric light was not burning; but, in the centre of the room
the girl was kneeling in her nightgown before a little table on which
were four lighted candles. Her arms were crossed on her breast; the
candle-light shone on her fair cropped hair, on the profile of cheek
and chin, on her bowed white neck. For a moment he thought her
alone; then behind her saw his brother in a sleeping suit, leaning
against the wall, with arms crossed, watching. It was the expression
on his face which burned the whole thing in, so that always
afterwards he was able to see that little scene--such an expression
as could never have been on the face of one even faintly conscious
that he was watched by any living thing on earth. The whole of
Larry's heart and feeling seemed to have come up out of him.
Yearning, mockery, love, despair! The depth of his feeling for this
girl, his stress of mind, fears, hopes; the flotsam good and evil of
his soul, all transfigured there, exposed and unforgettable. The
candle-light shone upward on to his face, twisted by the strangest
smile; his eyes, darker and more wistful than mortal eyes should be,
seemed to beseech and mock the white-clad girl, who, all unconscious,
knelt without movement, like a carved figure of devotion. The words
seemed coming from his lips: "Pray for us! Bravo! Yes! Pray for
us!" And suddenly Keith saw her stretch out her arms, and lift her
face with a look of ecstasy, and Laurence starting forward. What had
she seen beyond the candle flames? It is the unexpected which
invests visions with poignancy. Nothing more strange could Keith
have seen in this nest of the murky and illicit. But in sheer panic
lest he might be caught thus spying he drew back and hurried on.
So Larry was living there with her! When the moment came he could
still find him.

Before going in, he stood full five minutes leaning on the terrace
parapet before his house, gazing at the star-frosted sky, and the
river cut by the trees into black pools, oiled over by gleams from
the Embankment lamps. And, deep down, behind his mere thoughts, he
ached-somehow, somewhere ached. Beyond the cage of all that he saw
and heard and thought, he had perceived something he could not reach.
But the night was cold, the bells silent, for it had struck twelve.
Entering his house, he stole upstairs.


If for Keith those six weeks before the Glove Lane murder trial came
on were fraught with uneasiness and gloom, they were for Laurence
almost the happiest since his youth. From the moment when he left
his rooms and went to the girl's to live, a kind of peace and
exaltation took possession of him. Not by any effort of will did he
throw off the nightmare hanging over him. Nor was he drugged by
love. He was in a sort of spiritual catalepsy. In face of fate too
powerful for his will, his turmoil, anxiety, and even restlessness
had ceased; his life floated in the ether of "what must come, will."
Out of this catalepsy, his spirit sometimes fell headlong into black
waters. In one such whirlpool he was struggling on the night of
Christmas Eve. When the girl rose from her knees he asked her:

"What did you see?"

Pressing close to him, she drew him down on to the floor before the
fire; and they sat, knees drawn up, hands clasped, like two children
trying to see over the edge of the world.

"It was the Virgin I saw. She stood against the wall and smiled. We
shall be happy soon."

"When we die, Wanda," he said, suddenly, "let it be together. We
shall keep each other warm, out there."

Huddling to him she whispered: "Yes, oh, yes! If you die, I could
not go on living."

It was this utter dependence on him, the feeling that he had rescued
something, which gave him sense of anchorage. That, and his buried
life in the retreat of these two rooms. Just for an hour in the
morning, from nine to ten, the charwoman would come, but not another
soul all day. They never went out together. He would stay in bed
late, while Wanda bought what they needed for the day's meals; lying
on his back, hands clasped behind his head, recalling her face, the
movements of her slim, rounded, supple figure, robing itself before
his gaze; feeling again the kiss she had left on his lips, the gleam
of her soft eyes, so strangely dark in so fair a face. In a sort of
trance he would lie till she came back. Then get up to breakfast
about noon off things which she had cooked, drinking coffee. In the
afternoon he would go out alone and walk for hours, any where, so
long as it was East. To the East there was always suffering to be
seen, always that which soothed him with the feeling that he and his
troubles were only a tiny part of trouble; that while so many other
sorrowing and shadowy creatures lived he was not cut off. To go West
was to encourage dejection. In the West all was like Keith,
successful, immaculate, ordered, resolute. He would come back tired
out, and sit watching her cook their little dinner. The evenings
were given up to love. Queer trance of an existence, which both were
afraid to break. No sign from her of wanting those excitements which
girls who have lived her life, even for a few months, are supposed to
need. She never asked him to take her anywhere; never, in word,
deed, look, seemed anything but almost rapturously content. And yet
he knew, and she knew, that they were only waiting to see whether
Fate would turn her thumb down on them. In these days he did not
drink. Out of his quarter's money, when it came in, he had paid his
debts--their expenses were very small. He never went to see Keith,
never wrote to him, hardly thought of him. And from those dread
apparitions--Walenn lying with the breath choked out of him, and the
little grey, driven animal in the dock--he hid, as only a man can who
must hide or be destroyed. But daily he bought a newspaper, and
feverishly, furtively scanned its columns.


Coming out of the Law Courts on the afternoon of January 28th, at the
triumphant end of a desperately fought will case, Keith saw on a
poster the words: "Glove Lane Murder: Trial and Verdict"; and with a
rush of dismay he thought: 'Good God! I never looked at the paper
this morning!' The elation which had filled him a second before, the
absorption he had felt for two days now in the case so hardly won,
seemed suddenly quite sickeningly trivial. What on earth had he been
doing to forget that horrible business even for an instant? He stood
quite still on the crowded pavement, unable, really unable, to buy a
paper. But his face was like a piece of iron when he did step
forward and hold his penny out. There it was in the Stop Press!
"Glove Lane Murder. The jury returned a verdict of Guilty. Sentence
of death was passed."

His first sensation was simple irritation. How had they come to
commit such an imbecility? Monstrous! The evidence--! Then the
futility of even reading the report, of even considering how they had
come to record such a verdict struck him with savage suddenness.
There it was, and nothing he could do or say would alter it; no
condemnation of this idiotic verdict would help reverse it. The
situation was desperate, indeed! That five minutes' walk from the
Law Courts to his chambers was the longest he had ever taken.

Men of decided character little know beforehand what they will do in
certain contingencies. For the imaginations of decided people do not
endow mere contingencies with sufficient actuality. Keith had never
really settled what he was going to do if this man were condemned.
Often in those past weeks he had said to himself: "Of course, if they
bring him in guilty, that's another thing!" But, now that they had,
he was beset by exactly the same old arguments and feelings, the same
instincts of loyalty and protection towards Laurence and himself,
intensified by the fearful imminence of the danger. And yet, here
was this man about to be hung for a thing he had not done! Nothing
could get over that! But then he was such a worthless vagabond, a
ghoul who had robbed a dead body. If Larry were condemned in his
stead, would there be any less miscarriage of justice? To strangle a
brute who had struck you, by the accident of keeping your hands on
his throat a few seconds too long, was there any more guilt in that--
was there even as much, as in deliberate theft from a dead man?
Reverence for order, for justice, and established fact, will, often
march shoulder to shoulder with Jesuitry in natures to whom success
is vital.

In the narrow stone passage leading to his staircase, a friend had
called out: "Bravo, Darrant! That was a squeak! Congratulations!"
And with a bitter little smile Keith thought: 'Congratulations! I!'

At the first possible moment the hurried back to the Strand, and
hailing a cab, he told the man to put him down at a turning near to
Borrow Street.

It was the girl who opened to his knock. Startled, clasping her
hands, she looked strange to Keith in her black skirt and blouse of
some soft velvety stuff the colour of faded roses. Her round, rather
long throat was bare; and Keith noticed fretfully that she wore gold
earrings. Her eyes, so pitch dark against her white face, and the
short fair hair, which curled into her neck, seemed both to search
and to plead.

"My brother?"

"He is not in, sir, yet."

"Do you know where he is?"


"He is living with you here now?"


"Are you still as fond of him as ever, then?"

With a movement, as though she despaired of words, she clasped her
hands over her heart. And he said:

"I see."

He had the same strange feeling as on his first visit to her, and
when through the chink in the curtains he had watched her kneeling--
of pity mingled with some faint sexual emotion. And crossing to the
fire he asked:

"May I wait for him?"

"Oh! Please! Will you sit down?"

But Keith shook his head. And with a catch in her breath, she said:

"You will not take him from me. I should die."

He turned round on her sharply.

"I don't want him taken from you. I want to help you keep him. Are
you ready to go away, at any time?"

"Yes. Oh, yes!"

"And he?"

She answered almost in a whisper:

"Yes; but there is that poor man."

"That poor man is a graveyard thief; a hyena; a ghoul--not worth
consideration." And the rasp in his own voice surprised him.

"Ah!" she sighed. "But I am sorry for him. Perhaps he was hungry.
I have been hungry--you do things then that you would not. And
perhaps he has no one to love; if you have no one to love you can be
very bad. I think of him often--in prison."

Between his teeth Keith muttered: "And Laurence?"

"We do never speak of it, we are afraid."

"He's not told you, then, about the trial?"

Her eyes dilated.

"The trial! Oh! He was strange last night. This morning, too, he
got up early. Is it-is it over?"


"What has come?"


For a moment Keith thought she was going to faint. She had closed
her eyes, and swayed so that he took a step, and put his hands on her

"Listen!" he said. "Help me; don't let Laurence out of your sight.
We must have time. I must see what they intend to do. They can't be
going to hang this man. I must have time, I tell you. You must
prevent his giving himself up."

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