Читать книгу Passers-By - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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In what corner of that squalid lodging-house Ambrose Drake slept no one save he and Chicot knew. At seven o'clock the next morning he appeared from somewhere underground, and with a little package under his arm turned breakfastless into the street. Half an hour later he was selling matches under one of the arches of London Bridge. For some time the stream of people was constant, and the pennies he received were fairly frequent. When the passers-by began to thin he left his place, and crossing the street, bought a cup of coffee and a roll at the stall upon which his hungry eyes had been fixed for some time. Afterward he walked back to the lodging-house, and turned into the little sitting-room where he and his companion had sat the night before. With the air of one used to such duties, he lighted the stove, made coffee in a scrupulously clean pot, and arranged it, with the rolls and butter which he had bought on his homeward way, on a tray. Then he went to the door and called out, and presently a small child, ill-dressed and ragged, came into the room. He pointed to the tray.

"Take it up carefully," he said. "See that you do not spill the coffee. Tell the young lady that it is wet, and that she had better rest. Say that I am gone out for an hour—perhaps longer."

The child took up the tray and carried it up the bare stairs. Once more Drake left the house. This time he turned northward, crossed the bridge, made an inquiry of a policeman whom he approached with some hesitation, and followed the directions given. In a few minutes he found himself inside a large public library. The assistant behind the desk handed him the book he asked for with a smile. He took it to a table in the reference-room, and began his search. In less than five minutes he had found what he wanted. He drew a little breath between his teeth. There it was, easy to read, easy to understand—"Francis William George Cuthbertson Ellingham, Sixth Marquis." He passed rapidly over the titles and honors set forth in nearly half a page of black type. He took no interest in the country-seats or pursuits of the man whose pedigree was here blazoned out. The town address, 11 Cavendish Square—that was what he wanted.

He closed the book, returned it over the desk to the young man, who looked at him once more with a faintly curious smile, and walked out into the street. Presently he found himself standing upon the doorstep of an imposing mansion, and enduring the surprised stare of a very dignified person in plain black clothes.

"His lordship is at home," the man admitted, "but he is not up. In any case, he sees no one without an appointment."

The man would have closed the door, but Drake's foot was in the way. "His lordship will see me," he said. "Let me speak to his secretary, or some one by whom I can send a message."

A young man, smooth shaven, well dressed, came strolling down the hall, evidently on his way into the street. He looked with surprise at the queer little object who was standing just inside the door.

"Who is this, Graves?" he asked.

"A person inquiring for his lordship, sir," the servant answered. "I was just closing the door."

"You had better tell me what you want," said the young man, addressing Drake. "I am the Marquis of Ellingham's secretary."

"My business is with the marquis himself," Drake answered, with something in his tone which was almost a snarl. "Look at me. Look at me well. Now go and tell your master that the person whom you can describe is here to see him. Don't flatter me. Tell him what I am like."

The young man was on the point of making a curt reply. Suddenly he paused. He remembered how, the night before, he had seen the telephone slip from the nerveless fingers of the marquis, and his face suddenly grow white as though with fear. He wondered for a moment if the coming of this strange individual had anything to do with that mysterious message. He turned on his heel.

"Keep this person here for a few minutes, Graves," he said. "I will go up and see his lordship."

The marquis, who by reason of a long residence abroad had acquired Continental habits, was sitting half dressed in a sitting-room leading out from his sleeping apartments. On the round table by his side was a light but daintily arranged breakfast tray, a bowl of flowers, and a pile of letters. He looked up as the young man entered.

"Not gone yet, then, Penton?" he asked.

"I am just leaving, sir," the young man answered. "There is a very strange person down in the hall, who insists upon seeing you. He would not give a name, and he wished me to describe him to you. I am afraid I ought not to have troubled you, but he is such a queer little object, and he seemed so much in earnest."

The marquis sat quite still in his chair, and his eyes remained fixed on the young man, who stood, hat in hand, upon the threshold. His face seemed suddenly to have become almost rigid, expressionless, and yet there was something in the set, helpless gaze which spoke of fear. The young man noticed that the long white fingers which held the newspaper were shaking. He came a step farther into the room and closed the door.

"Shall I see this person for you, sir?" he asked slowly. "He is not exactly a pleasant-looking individual."

The marquis found his voice, and with it regained some of his self-possession. "So I should imagine," he said, "from your description. I think I know what he wants. I will see him myself. You can bring him up here, and then go on to the city."

The young man withdrew. As he descended the stairs a frown darkened his good-humored features. He was fond of the man whom he had served for the last three years, and he recognized surely enough the coming of tragedy in those pale, somewhat worn features. What it meant he could not tell. He had no clue whatsoever, yet he did his errand with marked unwillingness.

"The marquis will see you," he said to Drake. "You can follow me upstairs to his room."

Drake showed no sign of exultation. Never once did he look around him, although his surroundings must have seemed in strange contrast to the wretched little lodging-house from which he had come. He was heedless of the rich carpet pressed by his muddy, gaping boots. He passed without a glance the famous pictures which hung upon the walls, the many evidences of wealth and luxury by which he was surrounded.

They reached the door of the marquis's room. His guide opened it and ushered him in.

The visitor came, unbidden, a little farther into the room.

"This is the person who wished to see you, sir," he said.

The marquis folded up his newspaper and nodded. "You can go, Penton," he said. "Remember that I expect you back before eleven."

The door closed behind the young man. The visitor came, unbidden, a little farther into the room. As though his eyesight were at fault, he shaded his eyes for a moment with his hand, and looked fixedly at the man whom he had come to see. The marquis pointed to a chair. "Sit down, if you like," he said.

"I prefer to stand," Drake answered.

"As you will," was the quiet reply. "Tell me, in as few words as you can, exactly what you want of me."