THE PEER AND THE WOMAN.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIX, Issue 141, 13 June 1908, Page 13

THE PEER AND THE WOMAN.

BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

CHAPTER XII. AX EAST-Er>D FCXEBAL. Two men, both young, Dut very dissimilar in appearance, were making their way through the purlieus of one of London's worst slums. It was a fine, bright morning, and away westwards towards Piccadilliy and in Hyde Park the cheerful influence of the warm, glowing sunlight was very apparent in the smiling faces and light dresses of the gay throngs who passed up and down the broad streets. But here things were very different; here the dancing sunlight could do little towards chasing away the gioom and squalor of the narrow streets and filthy courts. Xav. into some of them it could scarcely penetrate at all, and where it did it shone with a ghastly light on things that were better left in darkness—on the vice-stained, brutal faces of degraded, lounging men; on women from whose hard, brazen faces all the grace and charm of womanhood were stamped out: on children with the pinched, withered countenances of old men. Yet something of its influence had penetrated even here. The men dragged themselves to the doors of their miserable houses, and smoked their pipes in stolid silence on the threshold; the children strayed from the fetid courts into the open streets to play, and the toilers in the attics opened wide their windows, and looking up to the blue sky forgot for a moment their weary struggle for existence, and dreamed of otiier days.

To one of the young men his surroundings were strange: to the other they were very familiar. The one, therefore, walked steadily on with a shocked expression in his handsome face and with th evident air of trying not to look about him. The other, on the contrary, appeared perfectly at his ease, and looked about him. frequently throwing keen, observant glances out of his bright eves into the faces of the little knots of men who lounged outside the public-houses and at the street corners. The former. Lord Aleeston, in deep mourning, a noticeable figure anywhere, looked as completely out of his element, and as incongruous with his surroundings, as a man well could: the latter. Stephen Thornton, journalist. Bohemian, and as he was fond of styling himself adventurer, might have passed from one end of Whitechapel to the other without attracting a single glance. "Is the place we are going to in a part as bad as this?"' Lord Aleeston asked, with s. shudder.

'"Xo. I don't think it is," his companion answered. "Brown Street is quite on the outskirts of this region. l>ut there are parts of London worse than this, you know—niueh worse."

"I riiouldn't have believed it po=Eib!-." Thornton smiled bitterly. "No. I dare say not," he answered. '•"You are born and bred in selfishness, you aristocrats. You never take the trouble to look outside the world in yhich you live. Why should you? Jove! if there's a hell, how it will be peopled with those of your class!"'

• Lord Alceston shrugged his shoulders. -He had known Thornton for many years, and was used to such talk from him.

"Radical as ever, Sieve/ he remarked. Aγ, my lord, as Radical as ever. Radical, Communist, Socialist, Xihilist ■what you will."

"Xot so bad as that, Steve, I think," Lord Alceston answered, letting his arm re t for a moment on the other's shoulder. "You -would make yourself out an ogre, whereas 1 know yoii to bs one of the tenderest-hearted men alive."

"Xot so bad! Alceston, I tell you this," Thornton answered almost roughly. '-I'd rather, a thousand times rather, be known and branded as the very worst of these than be what you are."

"'We'll change the" subject," Alceston EUg^e-sted. "Agreed. You think this bad, do you?" Thornton continued, glancing around. "I don't know what you would say if you came here at night, then. The* place is asleep now. Towards midnight it will wake up, and then, if you like, it's a sight to maKe a man feel sick. But. I forgot. What do you care about such things?— and here we are in Brown Street. The Rising Sun is about a couple of hundred yards up on the other side of the road."

They paused at the -corner, and Lord Alceston looked around Mm. The street into which they had turned was much ■wider and the houses were less squalid than in the neighbourhood which they had just quitted. But it was still a miserable locality. The long rows of Email, -semi-detached houses were smokebegrhned and blackened •with dirt, and their dreary aspect was heightened by the wretchedly bare handful of earth or gravel in front of each —courtesy could not -call it a garden—and the broken railings. The street itself was strewn with the refuse from the green-grocers' shops, -which seemed, to be at every corner jiot occupied by a. public-house. There was a dreary, poverty-stricken appearance about the whole place—the very quintessence of suburban nastiness. To Lord lAlceston, who was no dweller in cities, and who had spent most of his time either in the country or in the most picturesque of Continental towns, its ugliness was a painful revelation. He always looked back upon that walk with feelings of disgust. A little way down the street, as though to put the finishing touch to the dreariness of the scene, "a humble funeral cortege stood waiting. Thornton saw it, and stopped suddenly. "We're too late," he said quietly, knitting his brows. "That is the Rising Sun ■where that hearse is standing. Evidently •they are burying her to-day." Lord Alceston" looked across the road ynth a frown. He was young and unused to failure, and he had made up his ; miiid that he would look into that dead woman's face. nis companion, whose private opinion vv-as that they were on a Tvild-iroo-se chase, shrugged his shoulders. ■ i'We must bear it philosophically," He said. "By the by. how comes it, I wonder, that the parish is not burying her? She left neither friends nor money, it was sa id, ret some one has undertaken the funeral."

"Suppose we inquire?" Lord Alceston suggested, moving /oriv.ird.

Thornton laid his hand on his arm and checked him.

"Kb, stay here a minute. They must paw this way, and wo can see who is inside. We "can make inquiries alter•wards."

They stood on the eckte oi the pavement for nearly fivp minute?. Then the cofiin vvns carried out. and the modest eavak-aUc started.

Author of "A Monk of Cruta," etc.

"Go down the street a little way," Thornton said quickly. ''You mustn't be seen here at all. It doesn't matter about nic, and I shall be able to see who's inside."

Lord Aleeston, too, was curious, and he hesitated. But, after all, doubtless it was sound advice. He had better go. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards down the by-street into which he had turned when he heard the procession passing along the top. He had not meant to turn round—in fact, he had made up his mind that he would not —it was a case of impulse triumphing over reason. He turned suddenly back and looked.

He had chosen exactly the right moment. Thornton was standing a little way in the road, as though he had been in the act of crossing and was waiting for the carriages to go by. But it was not on him that Lord Alceston's eyes rested. Something else there was that had changed his half-curious, half-careless pla-nce into a rapt, breathless gaze, and had set his heart beating and his pulse throbbing. From where he stood he could just distinguish the faces of the two people seated side by side in the solitary mourning coach. One—the one nearest to him—was the dark, handsome face of the girl whom he had found in the room after his swoon: the other was her father, the man with whom he had travelled up from Dover ou the same day.

CHAPTER XIII. HER LAST VISITOR. For several moments after the carriage had passed out of sight Lord Aleeston stood still on the pavement lost in astonishment. Then he slowly retraced his steps nnd met Thornton coming towards him.

"There's something I don't quite understand about this." said the latter, musingly. "The woman is unidentified, friendless, penniless, and without relations. Yet she's being buried at some one's expense, and some one who has a bit of money,, too, for although there was only one mourning carriage everything was turned out in uncommonly nice style—not at all like an East-End funeral —and that some one, with a very well-dressed young lady, goes to the funeral too. That seems strange."

'■"We had better go to the place where they brought her from—the publie-hou-.se —and make inqx'iries," Lord Aleeston suggested. He had recovered from his surprise by this time, and not yet made up his mind whether he should tell Thornton that he had recognised the occupants of the mourning coach.

'"That's exactly what I propose to do," Thornton remarked. "But you mustn't think of coming," he added, as Lord A- ,- ceston turned round as though to ac-compun-v him. "And* why not?" "Why not, indeed! Can't you sec? Supposing you were recognised, which is not at all unlikely, what would people think about the Earl of Aleeston being down in these parts making left-handed inquiries' about this unknown murdered woman? And, besides, you are not fit for this sort of work, Aleeston, if you will excuse, my saying so. I should never get any information out of any one with you at my side listening."'

Lord Alceston was a young man who was fond of action, and he by no means liked abandoning the enterprise in this way.

•'l'd rather much go with you, Thornton," he protested. "I don't see that I should make much difference."

"I do, and I know more about such matters than you. Iff I'm to do any good in this matter, Alceston, I must have my own way in this. The best thing you can do is to go home, and I'll come round and see you to-night, and tell you all about it —if there's anything to tell."

Lord Alceston shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well; I suppose I must give in," he said. "It's ridiculous to suppose that any one down here would know mc: but—"

"Oil, no, it isn't anything of the sort," Thornton interrupted. "You forget that Scotland Yard has some interest in this affair. I'm not much of a sporting man, but I wouldn't mind betting you long odds that there will be at least one detective hanging round the Rising Sun. Any one who goes there making even the most casual inquiries about the murdered woman will be a marked man at once. That doesn't matter as far as I'm concerned; because I happen to be a reporter; but if you were there " ','AII right, Thornton. I'm afraid you're right, I'll go. But don't forget to look mc up to-night!"

Thornton nodded, and watched him until he was out of sight; then he crossed the road and entered the Rising Sun. As he had expected, it was nearly full of curious gossipers standing around the bare counter and seated on the benches which lined the walls. It was a motley scene, and difficult for an outsider to look upon without a shudder. But Thornton, though his quiet glance round had taken in the whole, character of the place, sat slowly sipping his brandy-and-water with all the careless stolidness of a habitue. No one would have guessed that that quiet, insignifi-cant-looking man who sat there with half-closed eyes was listening with sharpened senses and never-ceasing vigilance to every question and answer, to every chance remark and opinion which was bandied about. He had not asked a single question or betrayed in any war the least curiosity about the subject which was being so freely discussed. He had come to the conclusion that he would in all probability learn more by sitting still and listening than by asking questions. And he was right. What he heard soon stimulated an interest which had not hitherto been very keen. He had read of this murder, and had dismissed it from his mind as one of a certain type with no special features about it. Probably he would have forgotten all about it had it not been for Lord Alceston, an old schoolfellow and fellow-member of a certain Bohemian club, one of whose unwritten rules it was that among the members there should be a mutual aid society, a rrjve-and-take of such services as one had it in his power to render the other in emergency. Stephen Thornton had some notoriety as a powerful writer of extreme" Radical views, and as a man who was very much in earnest about his politics. But apart from this, he was noted as a lover oi strange adventures of the genuine Bohemian type and as a. wonderful amateur detective. So after much trouble, thought, and deliberation, Lord Alceston remembering certain services which he had once been

able to render this man, went to him at his rooms late on the day of his father's funeral and asked for his aid.

This was the case, he said, briefly put. On. the same night, and -within a few hours of the time of his father's murder, a nameless woman had been murdered in an obscure part of London. Something there was—he could not say what —which seemed faintly to suggest the notion of some <ranneetion between the two murders. He could not take hia information to Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard would want to know more than he was willing to tell. This circumstance, slight though it was, was one which he would not on any account risk letting tire newspapers get hold of. He would not tell it to Scotland Yard; he ; would not even tell it to the man whose aid he was asking. That was the case. Would Thornton help him? All he wanted was if possible to see the face of the murdered woman and learn something of her antecedents. Alone he knew not howbest to set about doing this. Would Thornton help him, by his advice or in any other way?

Thornton had promised to help readily enough. In his own mind he had at once set the idea down as preposterous. But he had asked no questions, and he had given no opinion. Simply, on starting out he had described their errand as a wildgoose- chase, and had felt no interest in it beyond the desire to render a service to. his friend.

As he sat in the sanded bar of the Rising Sun, however, his ideas began to change. He began to get interested. This affair had features in it of which be bad been ignorant. Most of his conclusions were erroneous. He cleared his mind of them an;l began to consider the matter from a different point of view.

In the first place the woman, notwithstanding her surroundings and poverty, had in one particular always maintained her self-respect. ISo one had ever seen her speak to a man, no one had ever heard her speak of them, save with contempt. Yet on the night of her tragical death three men had visited her one after another—the first time that such a thing had ever happened; and one of these must have been her murderer. Of no one of them had any accurate description been given. All three were strangers to the neighbourhood, and at least two ■were, at any rate from the landlady's point of view, gentlemen.

The conversation veered round to her appearance and probable antecedents. Concerning the former there -were different opinion."-, the men mostly taking one side and the women the other. But apart from the actual question of good looks, all wore agreed upon one point—she was not of their class. Her hands and feet, the poise of her head, and her manner of talk, were all commented upon. Her speech was almost foreign to them, but they knew the ring of it. She had been a lady, and while she had lived they had hated her for it. Even now some of the women epoke of it. She had been no better than she should have been, or how had she drifted among them? Curse her and the likes of her. '

There were endless repetitions, maunderings, and quarrels. Xow and then there was a blow struck, and the combatants, screaming and pursing with horrible oaths, were ejected to "have it out" outside. The main subject was sometimes quitted for the retailing"of a filthy yarn, greeted with shrieks of hideous laughter from the women, but in the end some new arrival always brought it back again into the old channel. And Stephen Thornton sat there still, slowly sipping brandy-and-water, with half-closed eyes

and hands stuck deep in his pockets, affecting the maudlin state of a halfdrunken man.

A new-comer started on a point whieb Thornton had already labelled in his mind as important. Who was the man who had had her buried? Why hadn't the parish buried her? She had died -without money. Who had found the "brass" for the funeral?

There were plenty ready to answer. It was a man who had come to .try to identify her. and had recognised her face as that of a lady whom he had once seen abroad. He did not even know her name. He knew nothing about her, in fact. He iiad been struck witli her appearance, and had offered to have her buried decently. That was all.

Thornton weighed it over in his mind. Had it been a> man of whom he had known nothing he might after inquiry have believed it. But it so happened that although he had not mentioned the fact to Lord Alecston, .the man in the mourning coach was no stranger to him. He thousht it over deliberately, -and he

came to this conclusion —that Monsieur de Feurget knew more, much more, about this woman than he chose to tell the world. Perhaps he was one of those. three visitors; perhaps even he himself was concerned in the murder. At any rate he was a person to be watched, to be suspected,-through whom a clue might eventually be obtained. The conversation surged on, and every now and then Thornton heard things which interested him. There was not one there who could say that she or he had ever even exchanged any but the most casual remark with the murdered woman; but there was some one, it seemed, who had been almost friendly with her, who, more than one hinted, knew something of her past and of her real position. At last the name was mentioned—Sail Greenwood — and Thornton betrayed the fact of his being a listener by a slight start, which, fortunately, no one noticed. Sail Greenwood and Monsieur de Feurget! Here was something to work upon. Thornton's interest was growing. Then the man with the yellow beard and long coat was brought up and eagerly discussed. Every one had something to say about him, but there was only one . woman who could declare definitely that she had seen him. She had been in the Crown and Thistle when he had entered, arid she had seen him talking to Betsy Oriiii, a.nd she had seen him, she declared with a whole string of vehement oaths designed to crusli incredulity, about twenty minutes before his arrival at the Crown and Thistle, coming out of a ready-made clothes shop, at the corner of the street. Her description of him was very much the same as Betsy Orrin's. He was short, roughly dressed, with a light, flowing beard, and most of his face smothered up with a blue handkerchief. He had spoken and walked like a gentleman, and had seemed free with his money. Presently a woman, seeing that Thornton's eyes were wide open, came and seated herself beside him. With an effort he overcame his instinctive repulsion, and did not discourage her presence. There was something which he wished to find out, and she might be useful. He even answered her coarse greeting in kind, and made room for her on the bencl , ..

"Any objections --to a drink vri' yer, guvnor?" she inquired engagingly.

"Xo, Y\\ stand you one," lie answered roughly. "I'll have another myself, too. It's dry work listening to all this gabble."

The drinks were ordered and brought. While his companion sipped hers ap-

provingly, Thornton looked her over. She was only an ordinary woman of her class, with a stupid, sensual face, without a single gleam of intelligence. There was no risk'in questioning her, he decided.

"Did you know this woman they're making such a fuss about?" he began. "No, nor didn't want to. A stuckup wench she was." "Seems a rum 'un that she shouldn't have had a single pal," he remarked. "She 'ad. She used' to go and see ■•Sail Greenwood. I've seen 'em .together/ "Who's she? Is she here?" "Here! not she! She's too fine to come to such like place. She's a little French tailoress, that's what she is, in Crane's Court."

He had got what he wanted now, and his only anxiety was to get rid of the woman beside him. He feigned to return again to his semi-somnolent state, and half closed his eyes. But she did not go. Presently he*felt her hot, foul breath close upon his cheek, and immediately afterwards a tug at his pockethandkerchief. He let it go, hoping to get rid of her, but he was disappointed. Instead she began softly feeling for his watch. He shook her off and sat up.

The dull red angry colour flushed into her cheeks. She had had too much drink, and was inclined to be quarrelsome.

"It's my belief as you was only ashamming!" she cried angrily. "You ain't been to sleep at all. You're a spy, that's what you are. I've been awatching o' yer. I say, you chaps," she called out at the top of her voice, '"here's a nobbier 'ere. Look at 'im. He's been a-shamming sleep, that's what lie's been a-doing. He's a bloomin' spy, a darn'd nobbier."

There was a low howl of drunken rage from a dozen throats, and shrill shrieks from the woman. They made at him like wild beasts. The tables were overthrown, the woman who had pointed him out missed her footing and was trampled under foot. But when they looked for Stephen Thornton ho had vanished.

(To be Continued next Saturday.)