The Drinkwater Romance

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 19, 12 May 1909, Page 42

The Drinkwater Romance

By Arthur Morrison. Illustrated by

R. G. Vosburgh

ZTA R. Reginald Dr ink water bad ill rooms in the Temple. That .A I J was all of importance that J could be said about Mr Regi-

nald Drinkwater, whose life had been wholly uneventful for the twenty-four years of it that had passed before he encountered this, his first adventure of a romantic complexion.

Mr. Drinkwater had not been called to the bar he had not even begun to read with that purpose: but he was here lit the Temple, quite convenient, if ever he should definitely decide to take that step. In fact, he had literary yearnings. and had long reasoned with himself that if he should actually embrace tin* profession of letters, any time spent in preparing for the bar would be wasted. a.id waste of time was a vice against which a literary man should guard himself with especial care. He had not actually produced any literary work, for that, as everybody knows, is not to be rushed at. Rut he had taken the chambers, once occupied by a novelist of great reputation, and had laid in a large stock of manuscript paper of the sort said to be used by Mr. Thomas Hardy. a and a fountain pen having a testimonial from Mr Hall Caine; so that there remained no obstacle to success in case his final decision should eet in the direction 'of his inclination. Meanwhile he received from his mother in Bedfordshire, a regular allowance, which was quite suflicient for his modest requirements, and he wisely reflected that go. long as one refrained from committintr oneself irrevocably to one or other profession, one avoided the possibility of an error which might cause serious regret throughout the rest of one's ca-

Mr. Drink water’s rooms had the advantage of a situation from which one looked into the windows, a few yards away, of the chambers of the great Buss, K.C. The two sets of rooms, in fact, adjoined at the kick of next-door houses Bet at an angle, so that Reginald Drinkwater. were it not for the general decorum of his behaviour, and Ids particular reverence for his distinguished neighbour. might have pea-shot Buss. K.C., at short range, when the windows were a little open. Also, if Buss.' K.C.. had not been a very fat. stumpy little man with very short arms, and if he and Reginald Drink water had been acquainted, they might have shaken hands across the sills of the two windows closest to the angle over the little yard below. This, indeed, was a neighbourly courtesy of which Reginald had dreamed as a possibility in his future times of eminence. Meanwhile, what with the proximity of Buss. K.C.. ami the literary associations of his own rooms, he already felt himself rather eminent than otherwise. “ Ah. yes.** he would say on the infrequent occasion of a friend’s visit, “they are old Buss’ rooms. The fine collection of old silver he’s got there, too.’’ Which looked almost as though Reginald were a familiar visitor of Buss. K.C., though. In fact, he only knew of the tine old silver, as others did. by report and from newspaper accounts of auction sales at which the great Buss was a buyer. When Mr. Reginald Drink water’s inactivity had so endured for a good while, he conceived a grievance against his very comfortable circumstances in that his life had been wholly empty of adventure. This, he told himself, was the reason that he had not as yet launched on a brilliant literary career, for he had hoar on light authority that one rould only write in the light of one’s own actual experience. So he took to peeking adventure in the streets of London. where, he believed, from the teaching of many magazine stories, it was very readily encountered. But his luck

it. for, after many attempt*, he was rewarded with nothing better than the purchase of a dummy pawn ticket from a plausible young man in Fetter Lane. It is possible that a naturally retiring disposition hindered Reginald’s ambitions for, after all. London is a •trange and adventurous place enough,

as he was at length convinced. For, indeed, has romance came at last. He had left his rooms one February afternoon with the simple design of buying tobacco at a shop in Fleet street; and since it was to be so short an expedition he had merely locked his inner door and had left his “ oak ” swung open. The “ oak ” and the inner door, it may be explained parenthetically, stood, as is usual, scarcely two feet apart, and the former, a ponderous ironstrapped fabric, was only locked when the inmate was away from home, or, being in, desired no visitors. Reginald Drinkwater bought the tobacco he required, and strolled easily back up Fleet street with his purchase in his pocket and his ignoble condition in his mind. Here he walked, in the midst of six million romances—for he had read, and therefore believed, that every life held its own—and not only had he found no romance himself, but he could guess at none of those about him. So Reginald walked, puzzled and ill-content, unaware that his romance waited for him a hundred strides awav, and was nearer with every step. He turned in at the Temple gate, and twisted left and right through the pas-

sages leading to his quarters, musing gloomily; and so he ascended the stairs, and reached his landing to perceive that his “ oak ” was standing much closer than he had left it. He swung it baek, and stood amazed. For here was his romance.

Crouching between the “oak” and the inner door, shrinking into the angle farthest from him, her lips parted and her eyes fidl of fear, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen or ever wished to see.

Her heavy veil was swung baek from her now pale face, her eyes were black and large, ami appealing, and her skin, brilliantly clear, had the tone of ivory.

" You will not hurt me ? ” she pleaded. “ You are not my enemy ? ” Reginald, confounded by the vision before him, and too anxious to remove such an impression to be wholly coherent, stammered fervent denials. Except for the lady’s own obvious terror he would have been a little frightened himself, for he was young and susceptible,

and prone to nervousness in female society, “I am much afraid,” she said; “I am pursued. You are, not angry that I should hide in your doorway ? ” He protested, still with some confusion, that nothing was so far from his thoughts; and was adding that, on the contrary, he was ready and anxious to do anything on earth to save her, when she checked him with a raised forefinger and a head turned to listen. “ Was that not a step ? ” she said. “ Is there nobody else on the stairs?” They listened together, but there was no sound. “ They are waiting, then.” she said, “ and watching for me —watching for me at the outside. Can I not go by another door ? ” There was no other door, he explained, and, indeed, there was no need for such an exit. If she would place herself under bis protection he would be happy to see her safely ” “No ! No ! ” she interrupted ; “ you do not understand how bad it is. I should be followed—they would kill me somewhere else—and my brother, my dear brother ! I must wait a little while. I think they do not know it is in-this house I have come. You will be kind, sir, will you not ? I have not one friend; and if you will let me stay in your room a little ■while, till it comes dark, I can escape, I think. You are very kind —■ —Will you let me stay a little while ? ” It might seem an odd request In ordinary, but the circumstances werq far from ordinary now. To Reginald, who had met his adventure at last, they’ were stunning, bewildering. Could he possibly drive away a friendless girl—and such a girl—to meet, the strange perils she feared alone ? Was he not rather conscious of a secret joy that the danger,

whatever it was, had driven her to his protecting arm ? He turned the key in the inner door, and thrust it open. ” Oh, you are very kind, sir—so very kind,” the stranger repeated, as she entered: and it was only now that Reginald noticed that she said “ vhery,” and that her whole accent and manner were a little foreign. “ You have saved me,” she continued, still much agitated: “and my brother—especially you have saved my dear brother 1 ”

“Your brother?” repeated Reginald, with a doubtful look about the staircase as he closed the door. “ Your brother ? ”

“ Yes—my dear brother. He is not here—he is hiding. That is why I am so afraid to be followed, for then they will find him. Oh, the wicked men ! They are so very cruel 1 ”

The beautiful girl sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. Reginald, his whole soul filled with indignation that the world could hold creature* sa base a* to put her to such

distress, was tortured with helplessness If only he could do something —if only; the unknown enemy stood tangibly before him!

Presently she looked up and spoko again. “Pardon me,” she said, “I am very weak, when I should be very strong! You are a kind friend, but I should not) trouble you with these things. Perhaps I can go away. Can they see these windows from the street?”

Reginald hastened to reassure her. Th* window’s overlooked nothing but a private ya rd, to which there was no access from any- public place. “You are really quite safe,” he protested. “And if there is anything I can- da -—anything in the world—if I am not intruding on private affairs, and yod will tell me—- —■” But her attention was fixed on the windows.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I could go that, way, if the other houses have doors; in other streets. There is no other door here, you say, but the windows would not be so difficult—to go out by that house.”

She nodded toward Mr. Buss’s rooms. But, as Reginald explained, Mr. Buss was away, taking a fortnight on the Riviera, and the doors of his chambers would be locked. At the same time, it gave him a further sense of the desperate situation of this delicate girl, that she should for a moment contemplate an escape by the expedient of scrambling from one window to another across an angle of wall thirty feet above the yard. He strove again to reassure her. “That way is not possible.” he said; “but you are really safe. Perhaps you have come from a country where the police are not ” She looked up quickly.

“From another country?” she said. “You know’ lam not English? And they, say my English is so good! How quick and clever you are!”

Never had flattery sounded sb sweet in Reginald’s ears. Indeed, flattery was a thing to them singularly unfamiliar, so small was his acquaintance with the! world.

“Your English,” he replied, “is splendid —beautiful! But I thought—l supposed —something suggested that yon were a foreigner, and I wished to tell 'you that our London police ” “Yes, I know —they are excellent,” she interrupted. “Better, I hope, at least, than those of my poor country, w’here they have allowed a terrible crime ■—a horrible crime—that has made the whole world shudder!”

Reginald thought instantly of Portugal, and the murder of the king and his son; for the newspapers had been clamorous with the crime for a w’eek past.

“Do you speak of Portugal?” he asked tentatively’. “Ah. indeed,” she replied with a melancholy smile. “My poor country 1 It is wonderful that you should judge so well. It is good for me that you are my friend and not my enemy! Do you guess also what is my trouble? Shall I tel! you?”

There was nothing in the world that could interest Reginald Drinkwater half so much, and he said so, in something very near these terms. “Unless,” he said, “you would rather —rather not) tell me.”

“If it does not trouble you—'bore’ you. is it not? —I would much like to tell you,” she said. "It is so good to trust to a good friend, and when you have been so kind as to shelter me from mv enemies it is only right that I should tell you why I have asked your help. There has been great trouble m my country, and my dear brother Luiz and I have escaped to England. You have heard of the trouble?”

“Oh, yes; of course. The late dictator also has left Portugal, I believe. You are not related to him?” "To him? To the oppressor? To the man who caused everything? Never! —that is not one of our misfortunes', I thank Heaven. My dear brother was of the opposite party—the republicans.” “I see; and was implicated, I suppose, in the—the ” “Do you mean in the horrible crime—• the assassination of the poor King and the prince? Ah, never! You could never suppose it if you knew’ my dear, brother Luiz —never! We are of good family, and my brother could have n<J part in such doings. That is why WO are here, and in such trouble. Ther* were bad men in the republican party) ae well as good; indeed', the bad meil gained a great ascendency, and it is byj them that the King was My brother opposed them in the partW| and they became his enemies. Becau<

•f that they nominated him to join with the others in the crime; he was to prove his constancy, they said. But instead, he gave a warning, so that the assassins were obliged to change their plans. Have you read of it in the journals? You will see that they killed the poor King and the prince, in the street, near the public otiices. At first it was to be on the quay, when they landed'; but of Jhat my brother gave -secret warning, and on the quay they were very carefully guarded. Why did they not guard them as carefully for the rest of the journey? 1 cannot say; but the thing happened, as now you know, and my brother and I lied to England to, escape the vengeance of the republican committee, who knew of the warning he had sent, and who were angry that the Queen and the other prince had not been killed, too. You may read the journals, but you do not know what terrible things are going on in Lisbon, even now." “But surely you are safe here!” “On the contrary, our enemies followed us by a ship that left, the day after our awn. We have changed our lodgings twice; but to-day I have been followed by two men—-men that 1 have seen in Lisbon. I was terrified, and could not guess what to do. I came into the gardens here from the street, and walked about in the narrow courtyards, but they still followed. 1 think 1 must have escaped them for a moment when I turned into this court; but I found that there was no way out, so I ran up these stairs; and when I heard you coming up, I feared they must have seen me enter, and were still pursuing me. I did not suppose it to be a friend —such a kind friend. If you will not be angry that I call you my friend?” “To this, Reginald Drinkwater, flushing with delight and stammering with.confusion, made a wild and random answer. “It is delightful to hear you say it," he said, continuing, “and I wish I could do more — much more — anything —■ Ito make you say it again. Surely I can help you in some other way —some more important way?” SShe smiled sadly and shook her head. “That is very noble of you,” she said; “but I think there is nothing—nothing at least that might not be dangerous, which I should have no right to ask of you.” - — “But tell me what it is," protested Reginald Vehemently, ‘'anil J will do it. Surely my knowledge of this country may be of use to strangers like you and yeur brother?”, ■ . “I have been in England before," she said, “though, of course, you must understand your own country better than 1. And perhaps—when I have told my brother of your kindness—perhaps be may know of some way in which you might help us if you will let me remind you of your offer.” , “If you will only promise that, whatever it is you will ask me, you will make me happy,” declaimed Reginald, with enthusiasm. “Will you promise it?” “Senor,” she began, looking up at his faceI—“but 1 —“but you have not' told me your name.” Reginald repeated it, with an odd feeling that it had become a duller and less imposing name since he had last seen it, ■painted on his ,“oak,” that very afternoon. ■ “Mr. Reginald Drink water,” she said—and at once the name .became beautiful on her lips—“l- will promise.” She extended her hand. , “I am Lucia do Silva.”- ... . The light in the court yard was. grown dull and dusk in. the-short February afternoon. ••>...• .“Perhaps .it will tie safe to go now,” ' she said, rising. and. bending,,to peer .oqce more from the,.window, -/flf—” she add cd, “if you will do one little thing foi yVill you go first and see if they arc, watching.., .There ; are two men, one rather tall, though not very, and dm short; both dark men; they must not see. me gql”, Reginald repeated that lie was ready to do anything, but suggested, in the meantime, tea from his gas-stove. His visitor, however, begged with a very pretty anxiety to be excused. She must lose no more time, she. said, for al ready her brother would be alarmed nt her long absence. And so Reginald left her and descended the staircase tc scout from the front door. As he went he was aware of someont hurrying down before him on the lowei flights; and when he emerged from th< door he say a man walking sharply neai the corner of the court. The man was alone, however, and though certainly no! abort, nor small, but stoutly- built, was scarcely of a stature that anyone would

call tall, but of about middle height. Reginald followed to the corner, and there watched while the stranger disappeared round the next, and his footsteps died away toward Middle Temple Lune. This would seem to have been merely a visitor leaving some of the lower rooms, and whatever he was, he was gone; so Reginald returned, looking out sharply as he went. Nowhere wa» there a pair of lurking men—nowhere, indeed, a pair of men at all. A clerk or twe hurrying home early, a tradesman’s boy with a basket and a tuneless whistle, an old messenger with his badge, and nobody else; nobody biding in doorways, nobody lounging. Clearly the chase inu-t have been abandoned. Sb he returned with his report, and found the beautiful fugitive awaiting him in the doorway. Could she go? Was the way quite clear? lovnald Drinkwater took coat, gloves, and stick, and the two went out together. From her description it seemed clear that she had entered t'z temple by the Middle Temple Lane gate; so now Reginald made it a point of strategy to h/ve by way of Whitefriars, where he Vnew a cab could bo found in a quiet street. The cab was found, and then Reginald met a. certain disappointment. For Lucia would not even permit him to accompany her for even part of the way.

“You are most kind, but it is; better — ’much better—that I go alone,” was all she would say; but there was that- in her manner which made it final. Reginald accepted hi.s : defeat. ; : ' “Where, tsha 11 1 tell the man to drive?” he asked. For a moment she hesitated, with an odd look of doubt, which Reginald found himself resenting. Then she said: “Perhaps I shall not drive all the way; it may be better not. Tell him to go first up Farrington-road.” ‘•'And you will not forget your promise?” ‘ “To ask you for. help? No—T shall not forget it. Perhaps I «hall come quite soon—when I have talked with my brother.” With that the cab was gone, and Raginald Drinkwater tried hard to realise as he went home across King’s ’Bench Walk in the dark the visible fact that here, indeed, jvas romance and adventure, after all, in workaday London, and himself in the midst of it. On the next morning after the visit of the wonderful Portuguese, Reginald, his ‘breakfast finished, took his daily morning stroll in Fleet-street. He did this partly out of respect for Fleet-street, r.nd a feeling that he was in some vague way growing literary in its precincts, but chiefly because for an hour after breakfast Mrs. Churcher, the laundress, nwde his rooms unendurable with pails

and brooms and a constant perambulation of her unclean self, which was in theory presumed to result in an accession of cleanliness to the premises. He returned perhaps a trifle later than usual, but found Mrs. Churcher still in possessionwaiting, in fact, for him st the door. “There’s bin a young lady ’ere to see yer, sir,” she announced in that- voice of greasy huskiness by which the Temple laundress is distinguished from the rest ci* her sex. “A foring young lady, as give the name of Silver or de Silver. She wouldn’t wait, but she said p’r’aps slic’d call ag’in, sir.” •‘Did she say anything else?” “No, sir; she didn’t leave no other Reginald was angry with himself for bis delay in Fleet-street and questioned further. The young lady had been gone, now, some twenty minutes or half an hour. No, she hadn’t said anything in particular, beyond asking for him. and bringing in with her Mrs. Churcher’s bunch of keys, which she had supposed to be Mr. Drink water’s, left in the outer door by accident. •Reginald had his lunch sent in, and kept within doors for the rest of the day; but he saw nothing of Lucia da Silva. After breakfast next morning he perceived with uncommon serenity that the weather was damp and foggy, and afforded some sort of excuse for hanging about in his rooms, or at farthest on

the stairs and lobby, while Mrs. Ch’ircher performed her daily rites. But he waited and . watched in vain till Mrs. Churcher had been gone an hour, and. more. •* Then at last there was a timid tap at his door, which he opened instantly, to see Lucia before him. “I have come,” she said, “only because I have made you a promise. Do you remember the promise?” “Indeed, I do—that you would tell me if 1 could be in any way of service to yon and your brother. Tell me now, what 1 can do.” “I think, perhaps, you might not like it.” “If it will serve you —and your brother —I shall delight in it. I will do anything. What is it?” “They have discovered our lodgings—the men.” “The men who were, watching you?” “Yes. How, 1 do not know. Perhaps they followed the cab—perhaps some other way; who can tell? They have found us out again, and we must go; but they a.re watching us, and it is difficult.” “Where will you go?” “That is for my brother to settle; but I think he has plans if—if we have a friend—a devoted, noble friend who will help us. (Will, you be the noble friend?” z

"Of course —1 have £*romised. I wit do anything. What is the plan?” I “I will say what my brother thinks. We have*been going out, my brother and 1, every evening, in a cab, to dinner afe a restaurant. Will you come with me to-night, instead of my brother?” Could there be a pleasanter deed ot heroism? Reginald heard the proposal with perhaps as much relief aa surprise, for this was an act of devotion that ho was quite ready to perform every day of his life. “It will give me the greatest pleasure,” he said. “Where shall 1 com* .'or you?” “This is where we are staying,” she replied, and banded him a card. It was that of a house —obviously a boarding house- in a quiet square near Ihe New River Head; a place that Reginald re membered to have seen in his wanderings in London, and to have noticed because of its contrast of character with the neighbouring streets. “You must not come to the front door,” she resumed, ‘‘as you will understand when 1 explain. There is a footpath behind the houses, with stables. Fach house has a door in the garden wall, and you must come to the fourth, where 1 shall be waiting before six o’clock; let- us say half-past live.” “That will be early for dinner, won’t it?” “Oh, we need not go to dinner at once. Often my brother and I go out early. The house is on the. 'north side of the square, remember. Will you come? I must not wait here—my brother is expecting me. You will come?” Nothing should stop him. Reginald resolved, that, left him with legs to stand on, and he said so, in more elegant terms. And even as be was gathering his wits to frame certain inquiries that should not seem to pry, she was gone, with a press of the hand and a glance from her black eyes that kept him vastly elated for ten minutes; at the end of which period it dawned on him, as it might have done before, that it must be intended that he should assume the character of Lucia’s brother for the evening, together with the liabilities of that relationship, including any odd bul let that his enemies might consider a suitable token of their sentiments. With that his elation sensibly diminish ed, and it occurred to him that it was (much pleasanter to listen to Lucia's praises of his magnanimity than to do anything to deserve them. Still, it wa.s an adventure, and ho was in for it beyond withdrawal; moreover, the danger somewhat did affect him as very immediate. 'The design appeared fairly clear, lie was t< enter the house from the back unobserved, and to leave it from the front, so as to draw off the attention of the watchers. Then, while the house was free' from their observation, Luiz da Silva would make his escape ami find some other retreat. “You must no? <omc to the front door,” Lucia ha 1 .rai l -“as you will understand when 1 explain.” But she had explained •nothing as yet and no doubt meant to reserve explanations till his arrival; though the plan seemed clear enough. • On the whole. he decided that he must dress for dinner. He could not tell whether or no Luiz da {Silva had brought a dress suit with him, that being, one of the things lie had meant to a>k; but it could make lit th* difference, eit her way. So dress he did. Tin* fog thickened during the day. and it was dark some time before tin* hour fixed. Reginald left his cab a street or two away, and walked the remaining distance. The square was not diilieiilt t<v find, nor tin* footway behind the gardeti wall; and .as he reached the . fourth <>f •the. doors, it opened while his hand was raised to tap, and he could see Lucia’s dim figure within. “Hush!” she said. “Do Ji,ot speak now. It is most noble of you.” • She took his arm, led him in. and quietly futdened the door. The garden was a small .enough space, but they traversed it slowly ami noiselessly; and Reginald began to feel that this, wa> Komelhing more like an advent ma* than any previous experience of his life. They <diinlK*d a ohort Hight of stone steps, mid entered the house by a door which stood ajar; and then she spoke again. “There is a cab waiting,” she . said. ‘‘Will you turn up your coat collar? If you will do that, and pull your hat a little forward, you will look much like my brother.” He did as he was bid, and they emerged into the hall, light ml by a dim gws« jet. He now could see that Lucia wa< already prepared wit.h hat and cloak* She opened the front door.

“1 think they are at the corner of the ■qnare, to the left,” she whispered. “Do not look in that direction, but coma straight into the cab. We go to the Cafe Koval.”

The door turned softly behind them, anil Reginald, his eyes fixed rigidly on the cab, valiantly resisting a desperate impulse to plunge into it headlong, descended the steps with nervous deliberation. Truly this was an adventure at last.

He experienced a feeling of much relief when they were safely seated in the cab and bowling along the streets toward Bloomsbury; but he got little conversation from his companion, who seemed nervous and thoughtful. He ventured a doubt as to their being followed, but she assured him that her brother had been followed on such an occasion the previous evening, a little later, and surmised that the enemy must keep a cab within call. And to the suggestion that an arrival at the Cafe Royal at G o’clock would be a little awkward, she replied that there was a very particular reason for it, which her brother would explain in detail when he had the happiness of personally meeting Mr Drinkwater, to whom ha would be eternally grateful. Through Hart-street they turned into New Oxford-street, and so down Shaftes-bury-avenue. As they neared Piccadilly Circus, she spoke again. “If you will pay the man through the roof-door,” she said. •• we will not have to stand long at the door.”

Reginald admired the mental alertness that could suggest this expedient to a foreigner in London, and complied with the suggestion; so that when the cab pulled up before the Cafe Royal they lost no time in reaching the swing doors. Reginald saw with some apprehension that another cab stopped a little way behind them; though, after all, with so many other cabs about it might not be worth considering. The doors swung behind them, and Reginald felt a further accession of confidence. What an adventure!

But here he encountered surprise and disappointment. For Lucia turned to hiin and said hurriedly: “Oh, Mr Drinkwater, I can never repay you! How brave you are! I have been in terrible fear for you all the way. Perhaps I ought not to have brought you, but there was no other friend for mv dear brother—

the brother I love so well! Will you promise to stay here, and not show yourself till after dinner? Till 9 o'clock?” “Certainly—we must wait before dinner—we —we- ”

“Thank you. oh, thank you!” she interrupted seizing his hand. “I must leave you now—l must go at once to my brothei-. There is a side-door here, I know, into a little dark street; I shall not be seen. I will see you, or write to you very soon. Good-bye, my noble friend.”

And with that she was gone, leaving Reginald dumb and blinking. So he stood till it occurred that he was attracting attention, which indeed lie was. Whereupon he stalked gloomily cross the room and flung himself into a seat; and being impelled to do something desperate, he ordered absinthe, which he did not like, but which was the most desperate form of refreshment he could think of.

Ile sat alone and glowered and smoked cigarettes for an hour and a-half: a period of tune which sufficed to relieve his disappointment and arouse his interest in the very excellent dinner, which was to follow. And the excellent dinner reconciled him to his circumstances so far that he began to congratulate himself on having very clever!v foiled a very desperate gang of conspirators. He fell to wondering when and how he should next hear of Lucia da Silva; and so, at at a little past 9 o’clock he made his way home on foot, rather better satisfied with himself, on the whole, than he had felt after any other dinner lie could remember. For he had an idea that he had aeon fled himself very well; and inde. ' it was a jewel of an adventure! more next morning he endured the —• > ioty of Mrs Churcher after breakfast— the fog was even heavier to-day—-but there was no caller. None, indeed, till the afternoon, and then it was a messenger boy, with a letter—a letter written on scented paper in violet ink, but scribbled so hurriedly that it was often difficult to separate words and sentences. This done, it read thus: — My Dear Friend, — My brother and T ennnot thank yon enough for your generous kindness last night, which, alas! did not avail so effectually as we had hoped. The watching enemy were, as yon know, two; and

it would seem that only one followed us, leaving the other, the small short man, to watch and confront my brother. This led to something which has altered our plans, and makes us ask you for one favour more. Will you do it? Do not refuse after sueh kindness as you have shown. Mill you go with a eab this evening at about 6 to the house we have left and bring away a large box? Enclosed is a note for the landlady, who will give you the box and will hand you a hasty note of instructions I have left. Do not read that note until you are in the eab and safely away with the box, and do not let the eab stand at the house longer than you can help. Also do not mention our real name to the landlady—you will understand that we have been obliged to conceal it. This time you will go to the front door, of course. Send me a note by this messenger saying that yon will do this without fail. Ever yours gratefully- and hopefully, LUCIA. Here was more food for Reginald’s romantic appetite, which was by no means sated yet, but rather sharpened by experience. He longed to learn what had happened as the result of the encounter of Luiz and his enemy, and how- the plot stood now. So he sent by the messenger a hurried note that he would certainly- and gladly do all that was asked of him, and addressed himself to preparations. Such an adventure! It was within a very few minutes of 6 that Reginald's cab —this time a fourwheeler, because the box might be large -—brought him once more to the house in Bentonville. There was some little difficulty in finding it for the fog had been thickening all day-. This he judged an advantage as regarded the removal of the box—a thing, n» doubt, that would be better done unobserved.

His knock brought to the door a very commonplace servant, who- took the note and presently- returned with another, addressed in Lucia’s handwriting to himself. Then she led him into a side room and shortly indicated the box by a jerk of the hand and a suggestion that he would find it “pretty heavy.” It was a larger box than he had expected. long and unwieldy, and more than he could carry by himself. So he called the cabman, and they found it no very easy

carrying together—the cabman, indeed, growling furiously. The box safely mounted on the roof, Reginald lost no time in entering the cab, giving the cabman the first direction for Farringdonroad, that being the nearest main road he eould think of at the moment. After an excruciating delay—the cabman was exasperatingly deliberate with his rug—they moved off, and Reginald pulled out his note of instructions. It was even more hurriedly scribbled, he noticed, than the letter he had received by the messcijger-boy a few hours before, the words runing on with scarcely a lift of the pen, and no punctuation at all. The streets were dark as well as foggy-, and he eould only eateh a g’impse on tlie paper now and again as they passed a shop or an uncommonly bright street lamp, and one or two of tire more legible words started out and vanished again. “Waterloo station” was clear, near the bottom and higher up "trouble,” “difficulty,” and “remains.” At this last word Reginald sat up with an awful shock. Remains? What was in that heavy- box on the roof? At this moment the eab emerged into a street so full of lighted shops that the whole note became plain; separating words and sentences with some difficulty, this is what he read: — “Sorry- to trouble, but difficulty with small man caused. Troublesome thing. We must remove remains in box. Trust you implicitly. Bring to York Gate of Waterloo station 6.30.” What words ean paint the consternation of Reginald Drinkwater as he read this note? “We must remove remains In box!” This, then, was the event that had altered their plans and caused them “to ask one favour more.” The encounter in the fog between Luiz da Silva and his enemy- had ended in the death of the small man. and here was he, Reginald Drinkwater, carrying the corpse across London in a cab! The callousness of the note, too! The “difficulty” with the small man had caused the trouble, and it—or he—was merely a “troublesome thing!” A truly southern contempt of human life! As he sat-, amazed and confounded,, the eab pulled up in Farringdqn-road. and the driver, with growls from the box, invited further instructions.

The interruption recalled Reginald to

action. “The York Gate of Waterloo station,” he said, “as quick as you can get there!” For indeed this was all he eould do. They trusted him, he had accepted the trust and had given his word, though lie had never guessed what it involved. And, after all, he reflected, this was a different thing, far from murder; nothing but simple self-defence. Though that consideration, somehow, made very little difference to the horror of the long box on the roof and what it held. The cab crawled and thumped and clattered through the fog, and Reginald prayed for the fog to thicken and so hide the ghastly box from human sight. And thicken it did, so that after a martyrdom of stopping and starting and crawling through Farringdonroad, the vehicle emerged from Ludgate Circus tn encounter an increasing blackness in New Bridge-street. On it crept close by the curb, and presently- was lost in an immensity of mist, wherein nothing could be seen but nebulous lights in distant random spots. They- were making across the end of Queen Victoria-street for Blaekt’riars Bridge. The voyage across this smoky ocean seemed to be the longest stretch of the interminable journey. Once or twice the lights of some other vehicle neared and faded again, and shouts came front invisible depths; but the traffic hereabout was sparse just now. Reginald had begun to consider the possibility that the eab was making circles among the multitudinous crossings of these regions, when suddenly- the horse stumbled and fell in a heap. The cabman made one roll of it out of his rug and off the box, and was dimly visible hauling at his horse’s head and clearly audible cursing its entire body. The horse, for its own part, seemed disposed to approve of the situation, and willing to accept the opportunity for a prolonged rest. Blows and shouts, it would seem to reflect, were much the same, lying or standing, and lying was the easier position. Reginald’s terrors increased tenfold; there would be a crowd and a policeman, and the long box would be hauled down under general observation; and in his disordered memory the thing seemed now to have looked so like a stumpy coffin that he wondered he had not suspected it at

•nee. He must, at any rate, keep it from the eye of a policeman.

He scrambled out, and addressed the eabiuan. “If your horse is long getting up,” he said, "I’ll have another cab. Pm in a hurry,” “All right,’ replied the cabman, extending his palm, “I've ’ad enough of it if you ’ave. ’E ain’t a easy one to get up, once ’e’s down, an' I b’lieve ’is knees is cut. Gimme my fare.” ■Reginald hastily produced half a crows and stood firmly as he could while the inan shoved the horrible box into his arms, and then slung his end on the neighbouring curb. Having done which the cabman turned his attention once more to his horse, leaving his late fare to wrestle his luggage across the pavement, for Reginald’s immediate purpose was to elude the eye of the policeman who must inevitably arrive to inspect the recumbent horse. Plainly the cab had strayed into the .Wide space between Blackfriars Bridge and wandered diagonally across the ap broach; for now Reginald perceived that he had landed on the footpath of the Victorian Embankment. He pushed the box, end over end, into the darkest available spot under the parapet, and peered out into the choking fog in search of another cab. But very soon he began to understand that he was attempting something near an impossibility. A passing light in the wide, dark road was the -most that could be seen of any cab. and each dash from the curb which he made only revealed that the cab was engaged. He began to grow seriously alarmed. He could not carry the thing—indeed, he began to experience a growing repugnance to touch it or go near it—and there seemed to be positively no means of getting it to Waterloo. Moreover, the time appointed was already long overpast. and it was near seven. As he stood so distractedly staring at the lights in the fog, a slow footstep approached, and a tall policeman came Buddenly upon him out of the gloom, looking into his face as ho passed—looking, as it seemed to Reginald’s uneasy perceptions, with an eye of inquiry and deep suspicion. Fortunately, the man Isaw nothing of the box lying close under the parapet, and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving Reginald in an agony of fear. What if the •policeman had seen the box. and had asked questions? How account for his possession of the corpse of an unknown foreigner? Plainly something must be done, and at once. His first impulse as soon as the policeman was gone was simply to take to his heels. But then he remembered the river, so close at hand. The plain object of Lucia and her brother must be to dispose of the body somehow; and possibly by this time they had fled, alarmed at his non-arrival. In any case, there was no visible means of bringing them the box, and he must act on his own account before that policeman returned lon his beat. He took one stealthy glance about him. raised an end of the box against the parapet, and with a great effort lifted the other end and

pushed the thing forward till it balanced on the' coping. Then, with a final desperate shove, he sent it tumbling into the black abyss before him, and ran his hardest. He soon found it necessary to eheck his pace, however, and narrowly averted -a. collision with a tree, as it was. He found that he had taken the direction along the embankment away from Blackfriars. That being so, he must go over Waterloo Bridge to inform Lucia of the fate of the box, if she were still there. As he went he grew calmer, and presently saw. by aid of a lamp, that it was five minutes past seven. He crossed the road warily at the best lighted place he could find, and made his best pace to keep his appointment. That dreary tramp seemed a week of groping hours, and he found himself doubting his watch when it indicated, in the light of the publie-house at the corner of York-road, that he was little more than an hour late. He hastened on, and was barely emerging from the blackness beneath the railway bridge when his arm was seized above the elbow, and Lucia stood before him. “Where is it? The box?” she demanded. “It’s all right—l’ve—l’ve got rid of it; I ” “Got rid of it? What d’you mean?” Surprise, alarm, and sharp suspicion were harsh in her voice. “Pitched it into the river. That was all I could do, you see, with——-” “Pitched it into the river?” Her voice rose to a hushed sort of scream. “Yes. The cab broke down, and I had to get rid of the corpse somehow, and so—and so- ” “Corpse! What corpse?” “In the box—the short man—the remains. You must have got rid ” She snatched at his arm again and shook it. “Do you mean to tell me,” she hissed in his face, “that you’ve thrown that box into the river?” “Yes, certainly.” What followed Reginald will always find it difficult to describe, even if he should ever wish to remember it, which is doubtful. He was aware of a sudden torrent of language which he was sure ■was not Portuguese, since he had heard it frequently at the Islington Cattle Market. Then something hard of Lucia’s —he could scarcely believe it was her fist —struck him suddenly on the left ear, and the lady herself, her skirts snatched up in her hands, vanished into the fog at a bolt, leaving him dumb and gasping, as well as a little deaf in the left ear. That evening, amazed and bewildered in his rooms, Reginald Drinkwater pulled once again from his pocket the note of instructions he had received at Bentonville. The thing was most hastily scribbled, as though it were all one sentence, most of the words ran on without a break till they reached the end of a line, and yet the meaning seemed quite clear. The punctuation he had supplied himself, and now he could see no better arrangement. “We must remove remains in box.” That was plain enough; certainly plain enough. And

then, suddenly, as by a flash of inspiration, he Saw the thing in quite a different reading. The word “caused" ended the first line, and “troublesome thing” began the second. But here about the words were all joined, and if only the “some” were tacked on to “thing” instead of "trouble”—and there was no reason why it should not be—the whole meaning--was ehanged. “Difficulty with small man saused trouble.” it would read; and then “something we must remove remains in the box.” Something we must remove remains in the box! Mouth and eyes and fingers all opened together, and the paper fell between his knees as this amazing explanation presented itself. Then there was no bodyf No one was killed! He had only l>een sent to Bentonville because “something we must remove remains in box!” Great heavens! What had he flung into the river! He picked the paper up and read it once more, and the new meaning stared at him plainer than ever. What had he done? He could understand now, dimly, that Lucia probably had reasons for her amazement and anger. But then that language—worse, that punch! What did it all mean? He gasped and wondered for two days, and then Buss, K.C., returned from his little holiday. Reginald’s attention was attracted to his neighbour by a sudden howl and a series of appalling bellows, accompanied by frantic rushings to and fro, bangings of doors and shoutings on stairs. Then, after an interval, Reginald, still curious, perceived the head of an inspector of police at the nearest open window of Buss, K.C And after another interval that same inspector presented himself at the rooms of Mr Reginald Drinkwater. Mr Buss’s rooms had been entered and robbed during his absence from town, and the entry had been effected, in the judgment of the police, through the window in the corner, by some person crossing from Mr. Drinkwater’s window. Of course the inspector didn’t wish to say or do anything unpleasant, and no doubt investigations would put things in a different light, but for the present And so it came about that the Drinkwater romance was first poured into the unenthusiastiu ears of the police; and that some of the most valuable of the Buss silver was dragged and dived for in the Thames, near Blackfriars, under the joint direction of the police and Mr. Drinkwater himself. “ Yes,” observed the inspector, some days after his first visit, when Mr. Drink waiter’s bona tides had been quite established. “Yes, sir; it's just their sort o’ job. Lucia da Silva she called herself this time, did she? It’s a very pretty one. Well, she’s had a lot o’ names at one time or another, but I never heard that before. She’s been Spanish, an’ she’s been Italian, an’ she’s been Greek; this Portuguese doge is new; nothing like being up-to-date I suppose. Bit of a shceney, really. I believe. It's she’s the smart one; he’s got ideas, but he funks the work. You see she did it all in this job. Came to try and fit keys to your

door when you ueie out—that was whej you surprised her. Her fright was real enough, you sec, when you turned up, but she was smart enough to turn it to her own account. You see, Mr. Buss's doors would be a harder job than yours —he had patent locks put on ’em, inside and out, an’ no doubt they knew it. “ Wonderful quick, she was with her yarn, wasn’t she? She’s a topper. Knew how to adapt it, too, you see. It was when she got you safe off to the Cafe Royal they did it. Did it together with they keys they’d made from the waxes she got from your laundress’s bunch when she camo the day before. These women shouldn’t leave kevs about like that, though they always do. Yes, she did it smart all through, and not JeAst smart was getting you to bring the stuff along after they’d left their lodgings. I think I know why that was. It was him funking it again—he’s always a funlt, fortunately, in these jobs. Thought we’d got an eye on the house, which we hadn’t, because it’s quite a respectable place, and we'd lost sight of him lately. But seo the neatness of it, getting you to carry the stuff! If we had been watching the house, or if you’d been stopped on ths way you’d have been in the soup, not them. Found with the goods on you, you see, sir; and the burglary done from your rooms! Eh? Oh, very neat. But there — what fetches me is that not that queered the game. That is rich, ‘ Remains,’ eh? ‘ Remains in box’! We must explain that to her, when we get hold of her! ‘Remains,’ eh? Ha! ha!”