Complete Story.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVIII, Issue XXI, 24 May 1902, Page 1000

Complete Story.

CHAPTER IA REMARKABLE PORTRAIT. “Thank you,” said the pavement artist. He did not lift his head nor his voice. It was a queer voice, the voice of a man who had possibilities and knew it, but lacked self-respect. That seems a good deal of meaning to convey in a “Thank you,” but the pavement artist contrived it. To tell the truth, I was feeling a good deal less interested in the chalk draughtsman than in the recipient of his ‘ Thank you.” She was a girl oi twenty-one or two, of middle height, perfectly proportioned, and with a face as la-autiful as ever brightened a London street. Had she been dressed in the garments of a Canning Town slattern one could not have mistaken her for anything but a gentlewoman, and she had one of those big souls that live at the back of the eyes and look out from them like a saint behind a stained glass window. She had dropped a coin into the shabby cap that lay inside upwards on the pavement and passed on. It is not a habit of mine to follow a lady who is a perfect stranger, and 1 did not mean any impertinence. But 1 could not help it. 1 had to get one more glimpse of such a perfect face as that, and I hung on about fifty yards behind till she stopped at the window of a picture shop, as if to look nt its wares. I stopped too and looked into the window. The girl, not noticing me, pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it quickly to her eyes for a moment. She was crying, (in seeing this 1 felt such a cad for having made myself a. witness of it that I slipped away with a. sort of feeling that I would have given all I had on earth—a smallish income as a junior barrister with expensive tastes - to do something to help. Having nothing particular to do, and giving a good deal of thought to the matter, I walked back to the pavement artist's corner and glanced at his drawings. They were worth stopping to look at. Some of them —landscapes in particular —were so fearfully bad that they caught the eye and held it in amazement; and yet when you looked at them closely you found the technique excellent, and here and there a touch so good that you felt the artist was caricaturing his own powers by the false colour and bad lines that made up the rest. And, on the other hand, some of the drawings were excellent all through, with a' clever grip of subject. 1 looked at the draughtsman in wonder. He sat, or rather reclined, in a lazy, abandoned attitude, his eyes sleepily fixed on the ground before him. He had good features and perfectly shafted hands, and. strangest of all, he was clean, though shabby. His age was about thirty-five, and his face so marked with various lines, some vicious, some almost pleasing, that one could not read it accurately. I dropped sixpence in the cap, and the cultured, indolent "Thank you” followed again. But he did not look at me. I went home. I didn't do any work. The memory of the girl's face, with its wet eyelashes, blotted out the impression of the pavement artist’s features. But when an acquaintance of mine, Harvey Reid, looked in, I opened the topic of the chalk draughtsman and his queer works. “Just by St. Martin’s Church, isn't be?” said Reid. “I know. Rather a clever fellow all sorts of queer stories about him. We'll stroll past him to-morrow and have a good look.” We did. We found the man in the accustomed place, and his drawings, most of them, were rather worse than usual. He was unusually restless, and his expression was less placid and more vicious than the day before. And again, though the landscapes were atrocious, lie was putting the finishing touches to a head and shoul-

ders, evidently a portrait, that as a drawing was simply perfect. It represented a good-looking but rather hard-faced man of about fifty, and its peculiarity was that it was drawn entirely in deep scarlet chalk. I knew the face.

“Clayton,” whispered Reid to me, “do you see who it is—the portrait ? Hardy, of the Admiralty Courts, by Jove!”

And so it was —a perfect likeness of that eminent barrister. He used to pass that way every morning from his rooms in St. James’ street, as I knew. The artist was wholly absorbed in his task, putting in the last strokes with a bold, decisive touch, and with a sort of greedy eagerness like a hungry man attacking a meal. There was something repulsive about the spectacle, I know not what, and we moved on, forgetting to contribute to the open cap on the pavement. The dusk was falling, three hours later, when 1 again passed that way—alone. There, apparently talking earnestly 7 to the artist, was my divinity of the day before—the girl with the splendid eyes. Her face was pale as white paper.

The man seemed to pay no sort of attention. I passed within a few feet of them, and distinctly, with a great wonder, I heard the girl call the man “Jock.” What she said I could not catch, but, having a moment before stopped to cast another glance over the red portrait of Hardy on the pavement, I looked round, to see the man walking rapidly away with his belongings under his arm. The girl made as if to follow him, then checked herself, and her eyes met mine. The look of pain and despair in her face was terrible to see. and her lips moved as though she would ask some favour of me. Then she turned abruptly and vanished in the same direction as the man. CHAPTER 11. THE EVIL EYE. I went home through the windy dark to my chambers. In the afternoon of the next day I walked down to Gray’s Inn. and on the way the flaring headline of an evening poster caught my eye. I bought a paper, and read the following by the light of a street lamp, wondering and rather startled: “MURDER OF AN EMINENT BARRISTER.” “Early this morning the body of a well-dressed man was found under one of the benches on the Victoria Embankment. Death had been caused by a knife wound in the back, between the shoulder blades. The victim is said to have been identified as Mr. Bourne Hardy. K.C. No motive can yet be assigned for the crime, as the victim’s watch and money were untouched.” The uncanny 7 coincidence between this and the portrait I had seen the pavement artist draw the day before struck me forcibly. Bate in the evening, when I was back in my rooms, Reid came in, and was as much struck by the occurrence as I was. Next morning the pavement artist was in his place again, indolent and unobservant as ever. His works contained no portraits. And then, as I glanced over them, the girl in the brown dress passed by like a ghost, half-pausing by the artist, but moving on at once without contributing as before. As she passed she dropped a glove, without noticing it, and I picked it up. overtook her, and gave it her. She looked me in the eyes for a moment as she thanked me, and I passed on, raising my hat, and wishing I had kept the glove. For that exquisite face had haunted me since I first saw it, and I longed to possess something belonging to its owner. About a fortnight after the glove

incident Reid and I were pausing for our usual glanee over the chalk pictures when the perpetrator of them looked up at Reid and kept his eyes fixed on him for some ten seconds. There was something about that look that sent a little chill down my spine, so evil and cunning and altogether bestial was it. Reid, who had been looking at one of the landscape atrocities, caught the man’s eye, and gave a slight start. Then he touched my arm, and we walked on in silence. Reid set his lips tightly and gave his shoulders a shake. “ What a vile eye that man has! ” he said. “ Did you see the way he looked at me? It reminded me of a snake —made me feel quite cold down the back. I always thought it an indolent eye before.”

“So did I,” I said; “he’s an uncanny creature.”

We were bound to the Wallace collection to decide a dispute between us concerning the date of a picture —Reid is by way of fancying himself a connoisseur—and were there some time. When we passed through the square the light was failing, but the pavement artist, on his knee>s, his fingers working deftly, was finishing a drawing. It was a life-sized head, and shoulders, splendidly executed, of Reid- And it was in red chalk.

“ That’s a queer performance, isn’t it, Clayton?” said Reid to me as he pas'sed on, after a long and silent stare at the portrait. “So it wasn’t the evil eye he cast on me—he simply had a fit of Art, and was seized with a longing to draw me. That fiendish look was merely concentration, eh? He got every line of me in that one look, and then did the portrait from memory.”

Reid was in good spirits and inclined to be flippant. But there was something so uncanny about the occurrence that I felt a sort of reasonless uneasiness, and said nothing. We parted, and I went to my rooms. After dinner Reid dropped in, looking serious and worried. He dropped into a chair and said nothing for some time.

“ Anything wrong, old man? ” I raid, after smoking a pipe out. “ No—yes—l don’t know,” said Reid. “ Look here, Clayton, you’ll laugh at me. but I’ve had a queer experience. I wa's on the way here after dinner when a tall girl with a thick veil who passed me handed me a pink envelope in a furtive sort of v.ay, and said, ‘Please read that, and act upon it, for your own sake! ’ Then she slipped away. I supposed she was some tract-distributor crank, and was going to flip the thing away, but I opened it instead. Look! ” He handed me a sheet of plain note paper, of good quality, and on it, written in a cultured feminine hand, was the following: — “ If you value your life, or have any one dear to you, leave London within an hour. Travel all night if possible. You are in great danger, and if you pass through the streets tonight you are a dead man. For pity’s sake do not neglect this warning: if you save yourself this night von have nothing more to fear. Go, and at once.” There was no signature. “Of eourse, it’s all bosh,” said Reid, who was recovering his spirits; “ queer idea, of a joke' some people have.”

“No doubt it is,” said I; but I felt a strange anxiety that T could not repres“ But look here, old man. let me put you up for the night.

There’s the spare bedroom, and it n ill save you the journey home.” “Oh, nonsense,” said Reid; “ many thanks, all the same. You don’t suppose I’m scared by such rot ns that, do you? I’ll walk all the way home, for the fun of the thing—and I must go now, old chap, it’*s past eleven.”

“ Well, I’ll see you home,” I said rising.

“ Won’t hear of it,” said Reid, cheerily; but I made up my mind 1 would go with him, for all that- And yet, when I had got my coat on and found my pet ash plant, the crackbrained felßw had stolen a maren on me and si.pped away. And seeing a hansom disappearing in the distance. 1 concluded it was his and went upstairs again, muttering upon his pigheadedness.

I dreamed evil dreams that night, and in the morning the first thing that woke me was a quiet-looking man in tweeds, admitted by the housekeeper.

“ Beg pardon, sir,” he said; “ from Scotland Yard. Gentleman found stabbed on the Embankment—taken to Westminster Hospital. Got a letter from you on him, without the envelope. Will you please co-ne round al onee to identify?”

With a sinking at my heart, and bitter self-reproaches for having let Reid go alone, I went. I found him unconscious. He had been found on the Embankment, a knife-wound between the shoulders, and the doctor held out little hopes of his living. Sick at heart, I sent for his people, and gave all the information I could about the anonymous letter which was found on him. It seemed to me the pavement artist, with his red chalk, must be a prophet of evil. I mentioned the coincidence, but no importance seemed to be attached to it by the authorities. The murderer, whoever he was, had missed his mark by the barest margin, and Reid gradually recovered. He knew nothing of the occurrence except that he had felt a sudden blow in the back, and the police were still at a loss. 1 visited Reid every day, and every day, too. I passed the prophetic pavement artist. The portrait was gone, but the man was languid and careless as ever. I had dismissed the connection from my mind as too absurd to be considered, but the main thing that drew me there was the presence, at certain times, of the girl, who seemed interested in the artist. CHAPTER 111. A TIMELY WARNING. It seems ridiculous to talk of love born of the sight of a face in the street, but it was so. That face was never out of my thoughts, and I was sullen and heartsick at the little likelihood of my ever knowing its owner. And I would fancy, too, at times, that the strange girl liked me well, so far as she had seen me. I would think I read it in her eyes when they happened to meet mine—as over the glove.

Day by day I passed the artist’s stand, alone, for Reid was still convalescent. And once, as I was looking at the scrawls, I glanced up uneasily, with a feeling as though some one were creeping behind me. My eyes met those of the pavement artist, sitting beside his pictures, and my heart sank within me. The steely, evil look he bent on me, intense and piercing as a falcon’s, seemed to bite into my brain. I turned on my heel shortly and walked away. I had business to do, but I did not do it. I walked and walked in the cold streets; a dread of unknown peril walked with me, and I came round in a circle to the draughtsman’s stand again. I knew what I should see as plainly as though it were before me. And when I arrived, there it was —my portrait, faithful to the life, in vermilion chalk on the grey flags. A cold wrath welled up in me as the whole uncanny history fell upon me again. I felt an impulse to grip the evil-looking scrawler with the chalk and twist his neck; but the impulse was followed by a loathing so great that I would rather have touched a rattlesnake. I turned and went to the Thames-side bv Somerset House—l always turn to running water when in trouble—and leaned over the Embankment wall and

thought, staring at the swift tide. The dunk settled down upon the river. I heard a step close behind me, and turned sharply. There, pale but shapely, and glorious as to the eyes, stood my divinity of the pavement artist’s stand. I lifted my hat.

“You don’t know me,” she said, speaking rapidly and in a strained undertone, “but I have come to warn you. You are in terrible danger, and you must leave London within an hour or you will lose your life, bo not question me, but for Heaven’s sake go!" There was a pause. I thought twice, and spoke.

“You warned a friend of mine a fortnight ago,” I said. “I did,”.she said sadly; “he took no notice, but you will not escape by an accident, as he did.”

In spite of the horror of the thing I could find nothing but pity for the overwrought girl, and my heart yearned to her. I took a step forward.

“I am in danger,” I said, “I know it. 'And you know some miscreant who intends —Heaven knows why—to take my life. Who is it, and who are you? Are you afraid to tell me? Then I will tell you what I believe—it is the pavement artist of Trafalgar-square.” The girl reeled slightly, but recovered herself. She hid her face, but said nothing. “Tell me the truth,” I said gently; “one life has been lost and another endangered. What is this mystery?" The girl uncovered her face and looked straight at me, her features set, her cheeks cold and white as marble.

“I will tell you!” she said. “I have seen you Before, and you have honest eyes, at least. Heaven knows there is no one I dare speak to, but you fchall help me. I am the pavement artist’s sister!

“He is all that remains of a genius -—a genius that woke London to a new world of art ten years ago. He had known nothing but luxury from his cradle, but he has sunk to the gutter—and he is a homicidal maniac!

I know every working of his mind. It is the mind of a clever fiend that awakes from its lethargy sometimes, and looks for a victim. Then he draws the face of that victim on the pavement that he has sunk to—and then he kills him. “You will say that I should have had him incarcerated where he could do no harm. I have tried, but his cunning is infinite. No one alive has the proof of his misdeeds, not even I. Not the first expert in England can prove him mad—none even suspect it, and I was blamed for harbouring a fallacy. I have tried to follow him and save him from himself, but he escapes me with the cunning of an animal. He is thought harmless, and he will kill you to-night so surely as the moon rises if you stay!” She stopped, and I watched her, a great wonder at my heart. “Thank you,” I said, as gently as I could. “You have done me a great honour in the telling, and I will help you. Never mind why. Your brother shall be in good hands to-night if it is the proof that is lacking.” “I do not know what you can do,” she said sadly. “I would give my soul to know that he was in safe keeping and could not stain his hands witfi blood. Yet even that would be horrible. It would be better for us both were he dead. I say it, though I love him still—my brother!”

“Tell me where I can find you or communicate with you,” I said, “and leave me to do the best I can.” She handed me a card, after a second’s hesitation, and slipped away into the~darkness before I could speak again.

CHAPTER IV.

MERCIFUL DEATH

I hailed a cab and drove rapidly to the house of a doctor friend of mine named Ransome, and after conferring with me for an hour he left me and went to Scotland Yard, where he enlisted the services of an inspec-

tor with whom I had had many dealings and four plain-clothes men. - I went on my own way, keeping to the crowded streets, a whistle handy in my breast pocket, and at the time appointed with Ransome I turned down to the nearly-deserted Embankment by Arundel-street. A shadow flitted ahead of me, aud another passed from behind, and I walked down by the river wall quietly as I could, but with my senses strained and every nerve on the alert. Twice I passed from end to end of the Embankment. Surely my enemy would find me out, here or in the streets. And as I passed a niche in the wall for the third time a noiseless shadow stepped out behind me. I wheeled quickly. The shadow sprang at me, and I had barely time to catch its right wrist as the flash of a knife glinted above me. The whistle shrilled loudly, and my assailant, with a grunt of fury, picked me up as though I had been a child— I stand six feet two—and dashed me down with stunning force. The knife flashed again, but my five helpers were upon my enemy. There was a short struggle, and a pair of handcuffs snapped crisply. Then the captive, with a furious effort, wrenched himself clear, and the pale moonlight fell on the leaden face of the pavement artist. He raised his manacled hands as though to dash Ransome to the earth, when they dropped suddenly. A crimson flash swept across his face, he staggered, and fell. Ransome attended to him swiftly, gave a restorative, and undid the man’s collar. He stooped and placed his ear to the captive’s chest. Then he rose soberly.

“He suffered from an aortal aneurism,” said Ransome in a low voice. “It has burst under the excitement, as it was bound to do, and he is dead. Poor beggar!”

We stood for a moment in silence. Then an ambulance was sent for, and the procession filed slowly westwards. When the formalities were over I hailed a cab and drove as fast as the

horse could take me to the address upon my card. A silver-haired housekeeper opened the door, and I was shown into a small drawing-room, where, with a little gasp, my angel of the timely warning rose to meet me. “He is dead," 1 said quietly, aud I put the happenings of the past hour in as few words as jiossible. Then 1 withdrew and left her to her sorrow.

“But you will come again?" she said as I went. It was a command.

And I did. But though all the happiness the world holds is mine at last, 1 never pass with my wife by the Thames-side after dark, where the black river cuts its way through the London night. (The End.)