LITMIR.BIZ

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Denzil.

      “Yes, but the world turns on trifles,” said the wise Wimp.

      “The world is itself a trifle,” said the pensive poet. “The Beautiful alone is deserving of our regard.”

      “And when the Beautiful was not gossiping with her landlady, did she gossip with you as you passed the door?”

      “Alas, no! She sat in her room reading, and cast a shadow—”

      “On your life?”

      “No; on the blind.”

      “Always one shadow?”

      “No, sir. Once or twice, two.”

      “Ah, you had been drinking.”

      “On my life, not. I have sworn off the treacherous wine-cup.”

      “That’s right. Beer is bad for poets. It makes their feet shaky. Whose was the second shadow?”

      “A man’s.”

      “Naturally. Mortlake’s, perhaps?”

      “Impossible. He was still striking eight hours.”

      “You found out whose? You didn’t leave it a shadow of doubt?”

      “No; I waited till the substance came out.”

      “It was Arthur Constant.”

      “You are a magician! You—you terrify me. Yes, it was he.”

      “Only once or twice, you say?”

      “I didn’t keep watch over them.”

      “No, no, of course not. You only passed casually. I understand you thoroughly.”

      Denzil did not feel comfortable at the assertion.

      “What did he go there for?” Wimp went on.

      “I don’t know. I’d stake my soul on Jessie’s honor.”

      “You might double your stake without risk.”

      “Yes, I might! I would! You see her with my eyes.”

      “For the moment they are the only ones available. When was the last time you saw the two together?”

      “About the middle of November.”

      “Mortlake knew nothing of their meetings?”

      “I don’t know. Perhaps he did. Mr. Constant had probably enlisted her in his social mission work. I knew she was one of the attendants at the big children’s tea in the Great Assembly Hall early in November. He treated her quite like a lady. She was the only attendant who worked with her hands.”

      “The others carried the cups on their feet, I suppose?”

      “No; how could that be? My meaning is that all the other attendants were real ladies, and Jessie was only an amateur, so to speak. There was no novelty for her in handing kids cups of tea. I daresay she had helped her landlady often enough at that—there’s quite a bushel of brats below stairs. It’s almost as bad as at friend Crowl’s. Jessie was a real brick. But perhaps Tom didn’t know her value. Perhaps he didn’t like Constant to call on her, and it led to a quarrel. Anyhow, she’s disappeared, like the snowfall on the river. There’s not a trace. The landlady, who was such a friend of hers that Jessie used to make up her stuff into dresses for nothing, tells me that she’s dreadfully annoyed at not having been left the slightest clue to her late tenant’s whereabouts.”

      “You have been making inquiries on your own account apparently.”

      “Only of the landlady. Jessie never even gave her the week’s notice, but paid her in lieu of it, and left immediately. The landlady told me I could have knocked her down with a feather. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there to do it, for I should certainly have knocked her down for not keeping her eyes open better. She says if she had only had the least suspicion beforehand that the minx (she dared to call Jessie a minx) was going, she’d have known where, or her name would have been somebody else’s. And yet she admits that Jessie was looking ill and worried. Stupid old hag!”

      “A woman of character,” murmured the detective.

      “Didn’t I tell you so?” cried Denzil eagerly. “Another girl would have let out that she was going. But, no! not a word. She plumped down the money and walked out. The landlady ran upstairs. None of Jessie’s things were there. She must have quietly sold them off, or transferred them to the new place. I never in my life met a girl who so thoroughly knew her own mind or had a mind so worth knowing. She always reminded me of the Maid of Saragossa.”

      “Indeed! And when did she leave?”

      “On the 19th of November.”

      “Mortlake of course knows where she is?”

      “I can’t say. Last time I was at the house to inquire—it was at the end of November—he hadn’t been seen there for six weeks. He wrote to her, of course, sometimes—the landlady knew his writing.”

      Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, “You mean, of course, to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?”

      “N-n-no, not at all,” stammered Denzil, “only you know what Mr. Grodman wrote to the ‘Pell Mell.’ The more we know about Mr. Constant’s life the more we shall know about the manner of his death. I thought my information would be valuable to you, and I brought it.”

      “And why didn’t you take it to Mr. Grodman?”

      “Because I thought it wouldn’t be valuable to me.”

      “You wrote Criminals I Have Caught.”

      “How—how do you know that?” Wimp was startling him today with a vengeance.

      “Your style, my dear Mr. Cantercot. The unique noble style.”

      “Yes, I was afraid it would betray me,” said Denzil. “And since you know, I may tell you that Grodman’s a mean curmudgeon. What does he want with all that money and those houses—a man with no sense of the Beautiful? He’d have taken my information, and given me more kicks than ha’pence for it, so to speak.”

      “Yes, he is a shrewd man after all. I don’t see anything valuable in your evidence against Mortlake.”

      “No!” said Denzil in a disappointed tone, and fearing he was going to be robbed. “Not when Mortlake was already jealous of Mr. Constant, who was a sort of rival organizer, unpaid! A kind of blackleg doing the work cheaper—nay, for nothing.”

      “Did Mortlake tell you he was jealous?” said Wimp, a shade of sarcastic contempt piercing through his tones.

      “Oh, yes! He said to me, ‘That man will work mischief. I don’t like your kid-glove philanthropists meddling in matters they don’t understand.’”

      “Those were his very words?”

      “His ipsissima verba.”

      “Very well. I have your address in my files. Here is a sovereign for you.”

      “Only one sovereign! It’s not the least use to me.”

      “Very well. It’s of great use to me. I have a wife to keep.”

      “I haven’t,” said Denzil with a sickly smile, “so perhaps I can manage on it after all.” He took his hat and the sovereign.

      Outside the door he met a rather pretty servant just bringing in some tea to her master. He nearly upset her tray at sight of her. She seemed more amused at the rencontre than he.

      “Good afternoon, dear,” she said coquettishly. “You might let me have that sovereign. I do so want a new Sunday bonnet.”

      Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the hall door viciously when he got to the bottom of the stairs. He seemed to be walking arm-in-arm

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