LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

made up my mind the very first time I see’d her, Mr. Bunting.”

      “No! Did you really?” said Bunting. “Well, come to think of it, I did so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too. But I hope you’ll never want no second, Chandler.”

      “God forbid!” said the young man under his breath. And then he asked, rather longingly, “D’you think they’ll be out long now, Mr. Bunting?”

      And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. “Sit down, sit down; do!” he said hastily. “I don’t believe they’ll be very long. They’ve only got a little bit of shopping to do.”

      And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, “And how about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you’re all just waiting for the next time?”

      “Aye—that’s about the figure of it.” Chandler’s voice had also changed; it was now sombre, menacing. “We’re fair tired of it— beginning to wonder when it’ll end, that we are!”

      “Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master’s like?” asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that.

      “Yes,” said Joe slowly. “I’ve a sort of notion—a savage, fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It’s that description that was circulated put us wrong. I don’t believe it was the man that knocked up against that woman in the fog—no, not one bit I don’t. But I wavers, I can’t quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it’s a sailor—the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight or nine days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then, again, I says to myself that it’s a butcher, a man from the Central Market. Whoever it is, it’s someone used to killing, that’s flat.”

      “Then it don’t seem to you possible—?” (Bunting got up and walked over to the window.) “You don’t take any stock, I suppose, in that idea some of the papers put out, that the man is”—then he hesitated and brought out, with a gasp—“a gentleman?”

      Chandler looked at him, surprised. “No,” he said deliberately. “I’ve made up my mind that’s quite a wrong tack, though I knows that some of our fellows—big pots, too—are quite sure that the fellow what gave the girl the sovereign is the man we’re looking for. You see, Mr. Bunting, if that’s the fact—well, it stands to reason the fellow’s an escaped lunatic; and if he’s an escaped lunatic he’s got a keeper, and they’d be raising a hue and cry after him; now, wouldn’t they?”

      “You don’t think,” went on Bunting, lowering his voice, “that he could be just staying somewhere, lodging like?”

      “D’you mean that The Avenger may be a toff, staying in some West-end hotel, Mr. Bunting? Well, things almost as funny as that ‘ud be have come to pass.” He smiled as if the notion was a funny one.

      “Yes, something o’ that sort,” muttered Bunting.

      “Well, if your idea’s correct, Mr. Bunting—”

      “I never said ’twas my idea,” said Bunting, all in a hurry.

      “Well, if that idea’s correct then, ’twill make our task more difficult than ever. Why, ’twould be looking for a needle in a field of hay, Mr. Bunting! But there! I don’t think it’s anything quite so unlikely as that—not myself I don’t.” He hesitated. “There’s some of us”—he lowered his voice—“that hopes he’ll betake himself off—The Avenger, I mean—to another big city, to Manchester or to Edinburgh. There’d be plenty of work for him to do there,” and Chandler chuckled at his own grim joke.

      And then, to both men’s secret relief, for Bunting was now mortally afraid of this discussion concerning The Avenger and his doings, they heard Mrs. Bunting’s key in the lock.

      Daisy blushed rosy-red with pleasure when she saw that young Chandler was still there. She had feared that when they got home he would be gone, the more so that Ellen, just as if she was doing it on purpose, had lingered aggravatingly long over each small purchase.

      “Here’s Joe come to ask if he can take Daisy out for a walk,” blurted out Bunting.

      “My mother says as how she’d like you to come to tea, over at Richmond,” said Chandler awkwardly, “I just come in to see whether we could fix it up, Miss Daisy.” And Daisy looked imploringly at her stepmother.

      “D’you mean now—this minute?” asked Mrs. Bunting tartly.

      “No, o’ course not”—Bunting broke in hastily. “How you do go on, Ellen!”

      “What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?” asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically.

      Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day —in fact, his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to see Daisy at all. But he had talked her round.

      “How about Saturday?” suggested Bunting. “That’s Daisy’s birthday. ’Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to Richmond, and she’s going back to Old Aunt on Monday.”

      “I can’t go Saturday,” said Chandler disconsolately. “I’m on duty Saturday.”

      “Well, then, let it be Sunday,” said Bunting firmly. And his wife looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her presence.

      “What do you say, Miss Daisy?” said Chandler.

      “Sunday would be very nice,” said Daisy demurely. And then, as the young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy ventured to go out into the hall with him for a minute.

      Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing of Mrs. Bunting’s whispered remark: “When I was a young woman folk didn’t gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to go to church together, decent-like—”

      Chapter 25

       Table of Contents

      Daisy’s eighteenth birthday dawned uneventfully. Her father gave her what he had always promised she should have on her eighteenth birthday—a watch. It was a pretty little silver watch, which Bunting had bought secondhand on the last day he had been happy— it seemed a long, long time ago now.

      Mrs. Bunting thought a silver watch a very extravagant present but she was far too wretched, far too absorbed in her own thoughts, to trouble much about it. Besides, in such matters she had generally had the good sense not to interfere between her husband and his child.

      In the middle of the birthday morning Bunting went out to buy himself some more tobacco. He had never smoked so much as in the last four days, excepting, perhaps, the week that had followed on his leaving service. Smoking a pipe had then held all the exquisite pleasure which we are told attaches itself to the eating of forbidden fruit.

      His tobacco had now become his only relaxation; it acted on his nerves as an opiate, soothing his fears and helping him to think. But he had been overdoing it, and it was that which now made him feel so “jumpy,” so he assured himself, when he found himself starting at any casual sound outside, or even when his wife spoke to him suddenly.

      Just now Ellen and Daisy were down in the kitchen, and Bunting didn’t quite like the sensation of knowing that there was only one pair of stairs between Mr. Sleuth and himself. So he quietly slipped out of the house without telling Ellen that he was going out.

      In the last four days Bunting had avoided his usual haunts; above all, he had avoided even passing the time of day to his acquaintances and neighbours. He feared, with a great fear, that they would talk to him of a subject which, because it filled his mind to the exclusion of all else, might make him betray the knowledge—no, not knowledge, rather the—the suspicion—that dwelt within him.

      But today the unfortunate man had a curious, instinctive

Скачать книгу