at the very moment in the afternoon when millie was hiding herself from a horrible world in a taxi henry and lady bell-hall were entering the hill street house.
the house was still and unresponsive; even lady bell-hall, who was not sensitive to atmosphere, gave a little shiver and hurried upstairs. henry hung up his coat and hat in the little room to the right of the hall and went to the library.
herbert spencer was there, seated at sir charles' table surrounded with little packets of letters all tied neatly with bright new red tape. he was making entries in a large book.
"ah, trenchard," he said, and went on with his entries.
henry felt depressed. although the day was sunny and warm the library was cold. spencer seemed most damnably in possession, his thin nose and long thin fingers pervading everything. henry went to his own table, took his notes out of his despatch-box and sat down. he had a sudden desire to have a violent argument with spencer—about anything.
"i say, spencer—you might at least ask how sir charles is."
spencer carefully finished the note that he was making.
"how is he?" he asked.
henry jumped up and walked over to the other table.
"you're a cold-blooded fish!" he broke out indignantly. "yes you are! you've no feelings at all. if he dies the only sensation you'll have i suppose is whether you'll still keep this job or no."
spencer said nothing but continued to write.
"thank heaven i am inaccurate," henry went on. "it's awful being as accurate as you are. it dries up all your natural feelings. there never was a warm-blooded man yet who was really accurate. and it's the same with languages. any one who's a really good linguist is inhuman."
[pg 282]
"indeed!" said spencer, sniffing.
"yes. indeed. . . ." retorted henry indignantly. "i think it's disgusting. here's duncombe, one of the finest men who's ever lived. . . ."
"i can't help feeling," said spencer slowly, "that one is best serving sir charles duncombe's interests by carrying out the work that he has left in our charge. i may be wrong, of course."
he then performed one of his most regular and most irritating habits—namely, he wiped a drop of moisture from his nose with the back of his hand.
"if you've made those notes on cadell and constable, trenchard," he added, "during these last days in the country, i shall be very glad to have them."
"well, i haven't," said henry. "so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. i haven't been able to concentrate on anything during the last two days, and i shan't be able to either until the operation's over."
spencer said nothing. he continued to work, then, as though suddenly remembering something, he opened a drawer and produced from it two sheets of foolscap paper thickly covered with writing.
"i believe this is your handwriting, trenchard," he said gravely. "i found them in the waste-paper basket, where they had doubtless gone by mistake."
trenchard took them and then blushed violently. the top of the first page was headed:
"chapter xv. the mystery of the blue closet."
"thanks," he said shortly, and took them to his own table.
there was a silence for a long time while henry, lost in a miserable vague dream, gazed with unperceptive eyes at the portrait of the stout, handsome archibald constable. then came the luncheon-bell, and after that quite a horrible meal alone with lady bell-hall, who only said two things from first to last. one: "the operation's to be on tuesday morning, i understand." the other: "i see coal's gone up again."
after luncheon he felt that he could endure the terrible house no longer. he must get out into the air. he must try and see christina.
spencer returned from his luncheon just as harry was leaving.
[pg 283]
"are you going?" he asked.
"yes, i am," said henry. "i can't stand this house to-day."
"what about cadell and constable?" asked spencer, sniffing.
"damn cadell and constable," said henry, rushing out.
in the street he thought suddenly of millie. he stopped in berkeley square thinking of her. why? he had the strangest impulse to go off to cromwell road and see her. but christina drew him.
nevertheless millie . . . but he shook his head and hurried off towards peter street.
i have called this a romantic story because it is so largely henry's story and henry was a romantic young man. he felt that it was his solemn duty to be modern, cynical and realistic, but his romantic spirit was so strong, so courageous, so scornful of the cynical parts of him that it has dominated and directed him to this very day, and will so continue to dominate, i suppose, until the hour of his death.
to many a modern young man mrs. tenssen would have been merely a nasty, dangerous, black-mailing woman, and christina her pretty but possibly not-so-innocent-as-she-appears daughter. but there the young modern would have missed all the heart of the situation and henry, guided by his romantic spirit, went directly to it. he still believed in the evil, spell-brewing, hag-like witch, the dusky wood, the beautiful imprisoned princess—nothing in the world seemed to him more natural—and for once, just for once, he was exactly right!
the witch on this present occasion was, even thus early in the afternoon, taking a cup of tea with her friend, mrs. armstrong. when henry came in they were sitting close together, and their heads were turned towards the door as though they had suddenly been discovered in some kind of conspiracy. mrs. tenssen tightened her thin lips when she recognized her visitor, and henry realized that a new crisis had arrived in his adventure and that he must be prepared for a dramatic interview.
nevertheless, from the moment of his entry into that room his depression dropped from him like the pack off christian's back. nothing was ever lost by politeness.
"good afternoon, mrs. tenssen. is christina in?"
he stood in the doorway smiling at the two women.
[pg 284]
mrs. tenssen finished her cup of tea before replying.
"no, she is not," she at length answered. "nor is she likely to be. neither now nor later—not to-day and not to-morrow."
"what's he asking?" inquired mrs. armstrong in her deep bass voice.
"whether christina's in."
both the women laughed. it seemed to them an excellent joke.
"perhaps you will be kind enough to give her a message from me," henry said, suddenly involved in the strange miasma of horrid smell and hateful sound that seemed to be forever floating in that room.
"perhaps i will not," said mrs. tenssen, suddenly getting up from her chair and facing him. "now you've been hanging around here just about enough, and it will please you to take yourself off once and for all or i'll see that somebody makes you." she turned round to mrs. armstrong. "it's perfectly disgusting what i've had to put up with from him. you'll recollect that first day he broke in here through the window just like any common thief. it's my belief it was thieving he was after then and it's been thieving he's been after ever since. damned little squab.
"always sniffing round christina and christina fairly loathes the sight of him. why, it was only yesterday she said to me: 'well, thank god, mother, it's some weeks since we saw that young fool, bothering the life out of me,' she said. why, it isn't decent."
"it is not," said mrs. armstrong, blowing on her tea. "i should have the police in if he's any more of a nuisance."
"that's a lie," said henry, his cheeks flaming. stepping forward, "and you know it is. where is christina? what have you done with her? i'll have the police here if you don't tell me."
mrs. tenssen thrust her head forward, producing an extraordinary evil expression with her white powdered face, her heavy black costume and her hanging podgy fingers. "call me a liar, do you? that's a nice, pretty thing to call a lady, but i suppose it's about as much manners as you have got. he's always talking about the police, my dear," turning round to mrs. arm[pg 285]strong. "it's a mania he's got. although what good they're going to do him i'm sure i don't know. and a pretty thing for christina to be dragged into the courts. he's mad, my dear. that's all there is about it."
"i'm not mad," said henry, "as you'll find out one day. you're trying to do something horrible to christina, but i'll prevent it if it kills me."
"and let me tell you," said mrs. tenssen, standing now, her arms akimbo, "that if you set your foot inside that door again or bring your ugly, dirty face inside this room i'll whip you out of it. i will indeed, and you can have as many of your bloody police in as you like to help you. all the police force if you care to. but i'll tell you straight," here her voice rose suddenly into a violent scream, "that i will bloody well scratch the skin off your face if you poke it in here again . . . and now get out or i'll make you."
here i regret to say henry's temper, never as tightly in control as it should be, forsook him.
"and i tell you," he shouted back, "that if you hurt a hair of christina's head i'll have you imprisoned for life and tortured too if i can. and i'll come here just as often as i like until i'm sure of her safety. you be careful what you do. . . . you'd better look out."
he banged the door behind him and was stumbling down the dark stairs.
