Dead Men Tell No Tales

  The night after I consulted the specialist I was quite determined tosleep. I had laid in a bundle of the daily papers. No country cottagewas advertised to let but I knew of it by evening, and about all thelikely ones I had already written. The scheme occupied my thoughts.Trout-fishing was a desideratum. I would take my rod and plenty ofbooks, would live simply and frugally, and it should make a new man ofme by Christmas. It was now October. I went to sleep thinking of autumntints against an autumn sunset. It must have been very early, certainlynot later than ten o'clock; the previous night I had not slept at all.

  Now, this private hotel of mine was a very old fashioned house, dark anddingy all day long, with heavy old chandeliers and black old oak, anddead flowers in broken flower-pots surrounding a grimy grass-plot in therear. On this latter my bedroom window looked; and never am I likely toforget the vile music of the cats throughout my first long wakeful nightthere. The second night they actually woke me; doubtless they had beenbusy long enough, but it was all of a sudden that I heard them, and laylistening for more, wide awake in an instant. My window had been verysoftly opened, and the draught fanned my forehead as I held my breath.

  A faint light glimmered through a ground-glass pane over the door; andwas dimly reflected by the toilet mirror, in its usual place against thewindow. This mirror I saw moved, and next moment I had bounded from bed.

  The mirror fell with a horrid clatter: the toilet-table followed it witha worse: the thief had gone as he had come ere my toes halted achingamid the debris.

  A useless little balcony--stone slab and iron railing--jutted out frommy window. I thought I saw a hand on the railing, another on the slab,then both together on the lower level for one instant before theydisappeared. There was a dull yet springy thud on the grass below. Thenno more noise but the distant thunder of the traffic, and the one thatwoke me, until the window next mine was thrown up.

  "What the devil's up?"

  The voice was rich, cheery, light-hearted, agreeable; all that my ownwas not as I answered "Nothing!" for this was not the first time mynext-door neighbor had tried to scrape acquaintance with me.

  "But surely, sir, I heard the very dickens of a row?"

  "You may have done."

  "I was afraid some one had broken into your room!"

  "As a matter of fact," said I, put to shame by the undiminishedgood-humor of my neighbor, "some one did; but he's gone now, so let himbe."

  "Gone? Not he! He's getting over that wall. After him--after him!" Andthe head disappeared from the window next mine.

  I rushed into the corridor, and was just in time to intercept asingularly handsome young fellow, at whom I had hardly taken the troubleto look until now. He was in full evening dress, and his face wasradiant with the spirit of mischief and adventure.

  "For God's sake, sir," I whispered, "let this matter rest. I shall haveto come forward if you persist, and Heaven knows I have been before thepublic quite enough!"

  His dark eyes questioned me an instant, then fell as though he would notdisguise that he recollected and understood. I liked him for his goodtaste. I liked him for his tacit sympathy, and better still for theamusing disappointment in his gallant, young face.

  "I am sorry to have robbed you of a pleasant chase," said I. "At onetime I should have been the first to join you. But, to tell you thetruth, I've had enough excitement lately to last me for my life."

  "I can believe that," he answered, with his fine eyes full upon me.How strangely I had misjudged him! I saw no vulgar curiosity in hisflattering gaze, but rather that very sympathy of which I stood in need.I offered him my hand.

  "It is very good of you to give in," I said. "No one else has heard athing, you see. I shall look for another opportunity of thanking youto-morrow."

  "No, no!" cried he, "thanks be hanged, but--but, I say, if I promiseyou not to bore you about things--won't you drink a glass ofbrandy-and-water in my room before you turn in again?"

  Brandy-and-water being the very thing I needed, and this young manpleasing me more and more, I said that I would join him with all myheart, and returned to my room for my dressing-gown and slippers. Tofind them, however, I had to light my candles, when the first thingI saw was the havoc my marauder had left behind him. The mirror wascracked across; the dressing-table had lost a leg; and both lay flat,with my brushes and shaving-table, and the foolish toilet crockery whichno one uses (but I should have to replace) strewn upon the carpet. Butone thing I found that had not been there before: under the window laya formidable sheath-knife without its sheath. I picked it up withsomething of a thrill, which did not lessen when I felt its edge. Thething was diabolically sharp. I took it with me to show my neighbor,whom I found giving his order to the boots; it seemed that it was barelymidnight, and that he had only just come in when the clatter took placein my room.

  "Hillo!" he cried, when the man was gone, and I produced my trophy."Why, what the mischief have you got there?"

  "My caller's card," said I. "He left it behind him. Feel the edge."

  I have seldom seen a more indignant face than the one which my newacquaintance bent over the weapon, as he held it to the light, and ranhis finger along the blade. He could have not frowned more heavily if hehad recognized the knife.

  "The villains!" he muttered. "The damned villains!"

  "Villains?" I queried. "Did you see more than one of them, then?"

  "Didn't you?" he asked quickly. "Yes, yes, to be sure! There was atleast one other beggar skulking down below." He stood looking at me, theknife in his hand, though mine was held out for it. "Don't you think,Mr. Cole, that it's our duty to hand this over to the police? I--I'veheard of other cases about these Inns of Court. There's evidently a gangof them, and this knife might convict the lot; there's no saying; anywayI think the police should have it. If you like I'll take it to ScotlandYard myself, and hand it over without mentioning your name."

  "Oh, if you keep my name out of it," said I, "and say nothing aboutit here in the hotel, you may do what you like, and welcome! It's theproper course, no doubt; only I've had publicity enough, and wouldsooner have felt that blade in my body than set my name going again inthe newspapers."

  "I understand," he said, with his well-bred sympathy, which never wenta shade too far; and he dropped the weapon into a drawer, as the bootsentered with the tray. In a minute he had brewed two steaming jorums ofspirits-and-water; as he handed me one, I feared he was going to drinkmy health, or toast my luck; but no, he was the one man I had met whoseemed, as he said, to "understand." Nevertheless, he had his toast.

  "Here's confusion to the criminal classes in general," he cried; "butdeath and damnation to the owners of that knife!"

  And we clinked tumblers across the little oval table in the middle ofthe room. It was more of a sitting-room than mine; a bright fire wasburning in the grate, and my companion insisted on my sitting over itin the arm-chair, while for himself he fetched the one from his bedside,and drew up the table so that our glasses should be handy. He thenproduced a handsome cigar-case admirably stocked, and we smoked andsipped in the cosiest fashion, though without exchanging many words.

  You may imagine my pleasure in the society of a youth, equally charmingin looks, manners and address, who had not one word to say to me aboutthe Lady Jermyn or my hen-coop. It was unique. Yet such, I suppose,was my native contrariety, that I felt I could have spoken of thecatastrophe to this very boy with less reluctance than to any othercreature whom I had encountered since my deliverance. He seemed so fullof silent sympathy: his consideration for my feelings was so marked andyet so unobtrusive. I have called him a boy. I am apt to write as theold man I have grown, though I do believe I felt older then than now.In any case my young friend was some years my junior. I afterwards foundout that he was six-and-twenty.

  I have also called him handsome. He was the handsomest man that I haveever met, had the frankest face, the finest eyes, the brightest smile.Yet his bronzed forehead was low, and his mouth rather impudent and boldthan truly strong. And t
here was a touch of foppery about him, in theenormous white tie and the much-cherished whiskers of the fifties, whichwas only redeemed by that other touch of devilry that he had shown mein the corridor. By the rich brown of his complexion, as well as by acertain sort of swagger in his walk, I should have said that he was anaval officer ashore, had he not told me who he was of his own accord.

  "By the way," he said, "I ought to give you my name. It's Rattray,of one of the many Kirby Halls in this country. My one's down inLancashire."

  "I suppose there's no need to tell my name?" said I, less sadly, Idaresay, than I had ever yet alluded to the tragedy which I alonesurvived. It was an unnecessary allusion, too, as a reference to theforegoing conversation will show.

  "Well, no!" said he, in his frank fashion; "I can't honestly say thereis."

  We took a few puffs, he watching the fire, and I his firelit face.

  "It must seem strange to you to be sitting with the only man who livedto tell the tale!"

  The egotism of this speech was not wholly gratuitous. I thought it didseem strange to him: that a needless constraint was put upon him byexcessive consideration for my feelings. I desired to set him at hisease as he had set me at mine. On the contrary, he seemed quite startledby my remark.

  "It is strange," he said, with a shudder, followed by the biggest sipof brandy-and-water he had taken yet. "It must have beenhorrible--horrible!" he added to himself, his dark eyes staring into thefire.

  "Ah!" said I, "it was even more horrible than you suppose or can everimagine."

  I was not thinking of myself, nor of my love, nor of any particularincident of the fire that still went on burning in my brain. My tone wasdoubtless confidential, but I was meditating no special confidence whenmy companion drew one with his next words. These, however, came after apause, in which my eyes had fallen from his face, but in which I heardhim emptying his glass.

  "What do you mean?" he whispered. "That there were othercircumstances--things which haven't got into the papers?"

  "God knows there were," I answered, my face in my hands; and, mygrief brought home to me, there I sat with it in the presence of thatstranger, without compunction and without shame.

  He sprang up and paced the room. His tact made me realize my weakness,and I was struggling to overcome it when he surprised me by suddenlystopping and laying a rather tremulous hand upon my shoulder.

  "You--It wouldn't do you any good to speak of those circumstances, Isuppose?" he faltered.

  "No: not now: no good at all."

  "Forgive me," he said, resuming his walk. "I had no business--I felt sosorry--I cannot tell you how I sympathize! And yet--I wonder if you willalways feel so?"

  "No saying how I shall feel when I am a man again," said I. "You seewhat I am at present." And, pulling myself together, I rose to find mynew friend quite agitated in his turn.

  "I wish we had some more brandy," he sighed. "I'm afraid it's too lateto get any now."

  "And I'm glad of it," said I. "A man in my state ought not to look atspirits, or he may never look past them again. Thank goodness, there areother medicines. Only this morning I consulted the best man on nerves inLondon. I wish I'd gone to him long ago."

  "Harley Street, was it?"

  "Yes."

  "Saw you on his doorstep, by Jove!" cried Rattray at once. "I wasdriving over to Hampstead, and I thought it was you. Well, what's theprescription?"

  In my satisfaction at finding that he had not been dogging meintentionally (though I had forgotten the incident till he reminded meof it), I answered his question with unusual fulness.

  "I should go abroad," said Rattray. "But then, I always am abroad; it'sonly the other day I got back from South America, and I shall up anchoragain before this filthy English winter sets in."

  Was he a sailor after all, or only a well-to-do wanderer on the face ofthe earth? He now mentioned that he was only in England for a few weeks,to have a look at his estate, and so forth; after which he plunged intomore or less enthusiastic advocacy of this or that foreign resort, asopposed to the English cottage upon which I told him I had set my heart.

  He was now, however, less spontaneous, I thought, than earlier in thenight. His voice had lost its hearty ring, and he seemed preoccupied, asif talking of one matter while he thought upon another. Yet he wouldnot let me go; and presently he confirmed my suspicion, no less than myfirst impression of his delightful frankness and cordiality, by candidlytelling me what was on his mind.

  "If you really want a cottage in the country," said he, "and the mostabsolute peace and quiet to be got in this world, I know of the verything on my land in Lancashire. It would drive me mad in a week; but ifyou really care for that sort of thing--"

  "An occupied cottage?" I interrupted.

  "Yes; a couple rent it from me, very decent people of the name ofBraithwaite. The man is out all day, and won't bother you when he's in;he's not like other people, poor chap. But the woman 's all there, andwould do her best for you in a humble, simple, wholesome sort of way."

  "You think they would take me in?"

  "They have taken other men--artists as a rule."

  "Then it's a picturesque country?"

  "Oh, it's that if it's nothing else; but not a town for miles, mind you,and hardly a village worthy the name."

  "Any fishing?"

  "Yes--trout--small but plenty of 'em--in a beck running close behind thecottage."

  "Come," cried I, "this sounds delightful! Shall you be up there?"

  "Only for a day or two," was the reply. "I shan't trouble you, Mr.Cole."

  "My dear sir, that wasn't my meaning at all. I'm only sorry I shall notsee something of you on your own heath. I can't thank you enough foryour kind suggestion. When do you suppose the Braithwaites could do withme?"

  His charming smile rebuked my impatience.

  "We must first see whether they can do with you at all," said he. "Isincerely hope they can; but this is their time of year for tourists,though perhaps a little late. I'll tell you what I'll do. As a matterof fact, I'm going down there to-morrow, and I've got to telegraph to myplace in any case to tell them when to meet me. I'll send the telegramfirst thing, and I'll make them send one back to say whether there'sroom in the cottage or not."

  I thanked him warmly, but asked if the cottage was close to Kirby Hall,and whether this would not be giving a deal of trouble at the other end;whereupon he mischievously misunderstood me a second time, saying thecottage and the hall were not even in sight of each other, and I reallyhad no intrusion to fear, as he was a lonely bachelor like myself,and would only be up there four or five days at the most. So I made myappreciation of his society plainer than ever to him; for indeed Ihad found a more refreshing pleasure in it already than I had hoped toderive from mortal man again; and we parted, at three o'clock in themorning, like old fast friends.

  "Only don't expect too much, my dear Mr. Cole," were his last words tome. "My own place is as ancient and as tumble-down as most ruins thatyou pay to see over. And I'm never there myself because--I tell youfrankly--I hate it like poison!"