Читать книгу The Scarlet Woman - Joseph Hocking - Страница 8

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Lancaster waited a few minutes longer in the saloon, but his companion did not return; he then went on deck, hoping to see him there. The boat was now out in the open sea, and was tossing like a cork upon the waves. The young man had a difficulty in standing. The day was not yet quite gone, but the dark clouds which hung in the sky increased the gloom of the evening. Presently he saw a sailor.

“You’d better go under, sir,” was his advice.

“Why?”

“It’s a dirty sea, and you might get drenched any minute.”

And as if in fulfilment of his words a huge wave swept over a part of the boat, and a heavy shower of spray fell upon the young man.

“Is no one on deck?” he asked.

“None of the passengers, sir. There was a couple of young chaps who said they was afraid to go below, ’cos it made ’em so ill; but I ’ad to make ’em go, ’cos very likely they’d ’a’ got washed overboard.”

“I’ll just take one turn around,” said Lancaster, “and then I’ll go down again.”

He promenaded the saloon passengers’ end of the boat, but not a soul was to be seen. Indeed, it was not the kind of weather to make people venture on deck. They were sailing in the teeth of the wind, which blew icily cold, and the waves constantly swept over parts of the boat.

“Evidently they are not up here, this father and son,” thought Lancaster; “neither are they in the saloon. I expect they have a private cabin. Well, I’ll go and lie down, and make myself comfortable.”

It was late at night when they reached North Wall, and just as the boat was slowing up to the landing-stage the stranger appeared in the saloon alone.

“My son was not very well,” he said to Lancaster, “so I stayed with him. To what hotel do you go?”

“I really don’t know. Are you acquainted with Dublin?”

“I know nearly every town of importance on the globe,” was the reply. “The most comfortable hotel in Dublin is the Cosmopolitan.”

“Then I’ll go there,” said Norman. “Thank you for mentioning it. Are you staying there?”

“No; my son and I go among friends. I am glad to have met you. Perhaps we may see each other again some time—the world is small.”

“I should be delighted,” replied Lancaster, and he busied himself with his luggage.

Norman Lancaster might fairly be called clever. Not a great man by any means. No pessimist ever is, ever can be. He possessed the possibilities even of greatness, but before those possibilities could ever be realised it was necessary that he should be awakened out of sleep. There is more embryo greatness in the world than we think. The good God has given far more to us than we dream of; but many men do not give Him a chance to work His will. Norman Lancaster was capable of intense feeling, passion; he possessed a nature which, had it been fully aroused a few years before, might have made him a power in the life of England. He might have been an orator, statesman, journalist—almost anything; but for years he had been a cut between an incarnate yawn and a cynic. Had he been aroused to love, to hate, to sympathise; had he possessed faith—faith in the possibilities of mankind, of Providence—he would have thought great thoughts, spoken daring words, done noble deeds. But a part of his nature had been asleep, with the result that he had remained simply a clever man.

Still, he was clever, and, in spite of his seeming indifference, he went around the world with his eyes open. As he drove to his hotel he made several shrewd guesses concerning his travelling companion. In spite of himself, he had been impressed by this large-limbed, strong man. He had a feeling, too, that he should meet him again; but this was only an impression, and impressions did not count for much with him.

As he sat down to a light supper before going into the smoke-room, a man came into the coffee-room and gave an order to a waiter.

“I have just come from Limerick,” he said, in tones loud enough for Lancaster to hear. “I am as cold as a starling and as hungry as a hunter. A good hot meal, if you please.”

The polite waiter helped him as he took off a heavy grey ulster, and took it to a stand outside the door. The stranger took his seat opposite to Lancaster, and then looked carelessly around the room. He was clothed in a tweed suit, of the same colour and material as his ulster, and might have been the son of a well-to-do yeoman, or even a member of the landed gentry of the country.

As Lancaster looked into his face he felt his heart beat faster than was its wont, but he made no motion of any sort.

“Cold for March.”

“Very,” replied Lancaster.

“The snow’s a foot deep down Limerick way. I was fool enough to come on by a slow train, too. I have just arrived from there.”

They remained together for a few minutes, the stranger chatting pleasantly, Norman listening quietly and taking mental notes concerning his companion. He was a good-natured looking fellow, light-haired, and somewhat freckled. He wore a fairly thick moustache, but otherwise was cleanly shaven. He appeared perfectly frank, and spoke with all the characteristic fervour of an Irishman; but he puzzled Lancaster greatly.

“You are going to the smoke-room?” he said, as Norman rose to his feet.

“It is rather late,” was the reply; “but I’ll have a whiff before I go to bed. Good-night.”

“Oh, I’ll see you there in ten minutes,” said the young man, and he attacked the leg of a chicken with much energy.

Lancaster went straight to the smoke-room, and without waiting a second began studying a time-table. Five minutes later he sat back in his chair with a curious smile upon his face. There was no train from Limerick corresponding with the one by which the stranger said he had come. “Why did the fellow tell me that lie?” he thought, as he lit a cigar.

A second later he left the room, and went to the hall door. It was snowing heavily. “A wintry night for March,” he said to the porter.

“Very, sir.”

“I expect I’m your latest visitor to-night?”

“No, sir. A gentleman came a few minutes after you in a cab. He came from Holy Cross way.”

“Oh, I think I saw him. He wore a grey ulster.”

“Yes, sir, the same.”

“Well, I think I’ll go to bed. By the way, I shall possibly go Limerick way to-morrow. In which direction does the station lie?”

“You go over the bridge, sir, in the direction of Trinity College, then——”

“Oh, never mind to-night,” said Lancaster sleepily; “I can find out to-morrow.”

He went back to the club-room again, and began studying a map of Dublin. Holy Cross lay in the opposite direction from Trinity College.

Norman Lancaster smoked quietly for some time, looking steadily into the fire all the while.

“I had my suspicions from the first,” he said presently.

In spite of the lateness of the hour there were several people in the smoke-room. Most of them were talking eagerly. Presently two burly Irishmen came to the fireplace by which Lancaster was sitting, and drew chairs close to the grate.

“It’s jolly cold,” one said, turning to Lancaster.

“Very.”

“I feel like having something hot to drink. Hot punch, a strong whisky cocktail or something, and a quiet game of solo whist.”

The man who spoke looked at Lancaster, but the young man made no response. At that moment his coffee-room acquaintance came up to him. He immediately made room for him beside the fire.

“I hope you feel warmer,” said Lancaster.

“Yes, a bit, but the night grows colder. Won’t you join me in something to drink?”

“I don’t mind,” said the young man; nevertheless, he made up his mind to take nothing.

“Join with us,” said the burly Irishmen. The young fellow looked at Lancaster, who nodded assent.

For a few minutes they talked on various questions, Lancaster joining but seldom. The waiter soon appeared with spirits and other condiments necessary to make the especial drink ordered. Norman noticed that the young fellow looked around rather anxiously, but made no demur when a large quantity of drink was poured out for him.

“You are a stranger to Ireland, I expect?” he said.

“Why?”

“English people seldom come to Ireland,” was the reply. “The general impression is that we are a nation of cut-throats, whereas we are quite the reverse. Personally I like English people.”

“This is very clumsy,” thought Lancaster, “but what next?”

“Does Ireland feel strange to you?”

“It does somewhat.”

“I was never out of Ireland,” said the other, “but I know my country well. If I can be of any service to you while you are here I shall be very glad.”

“That is very kind of you. I shall be glad to take advantage of your offer. I wish to visit several parts of the country. I also wish to get an entrée into some institutions; perhaps you can help me.”

“Easily, easily. Where would you like to go?”

“I’ve got the names in my notebook,” replied Lancaster aloud. To himself he said, “The fellow’s a fool.”

Half an hour later the smoke-room was empty save for the four men by the fire. Lancaster had not tasted the punch in his glass; the young man claiming to come from Limerick, however, had allowed his to be refilled more than once. The drink, moreover, was getting into his head.

The waiter stood by yawning, and occasionally looking at the clock.

“Is everybody gone to bed except ourselves, waiter?” said one of the Irishmen.

“Yes, sir,” replied the fellow eagerly. Evidently he longed for sleep.

“And nobody else will come here to-night?”

“No, sir.”

“What do you say to a game of cards, gentlemen?” he said, looking towards Lancaster; “we are four of us. We shall make a nice little party, and I don’t feel a bit sleepy.”

Lancaster nodded his head carelessly, and turned towards the man from Limerick.

“What do you say?” he asked of him.

“Oh, certainly—if you do,” replied the young man, smoothing his moustache.

“If that moustache is not false, put me down for an ass,” thought Lancaster. “The fellow has drunk more than is good for him, too. Well, I fancy I shall know a thing or two before the night is over.”

They commenced playing. Lancaster was no gambler, but he had a purpose to serve, therefore he made no objection when the Irishmen suggested that the counters should represent a certain amount of money. The man from Limerick looked frightened, but made no objection.

An hour later Lancaster rose with a yawn.

“I’ve lost enough,” he said.

“But not so much as I,” giggled the young man from Limerick. “I—I am stone broke, but who cares? who cares? There’ll be a jolly row, but who cares? Not I! not I! Let old Ritzoom say what he pleases. What do I care? Hip, hip hoor——” His voice died away in a drunken hiccup.

“But you had better pay up what you owe?” suggested one of the men who had seemed so eager to play.

“Certainly,” said the other; “that’s the proper thing to do.”

“All right, certainly,” he giggled; “but I—I don’t possess so much—I—I——” and he sat down like one in a stupor.

The burly Irishmen began to bluster, whereupon the young fellow muttered incoherently.

“He scarcely understands now how matters stand,” said Lancaster. “I suggest that he gives you an I.O.U. for the amount to-night, and to-morrow morning you can discuss the matter.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the other with evident relief. “I’ll give you I.O.U.—promising to pay you to-morrow. Old Ritzoom will make it right—that’s it, that’s it.”

Evidently he was trying to understand his position. He read the I.O.U. with great solemnity, and declared that one of the words was not spelt correctly. Presently he seized a pen and signed his name, “Father Relly.”

“Father Relly,” cried the man in whose name the I.O.U. had been made—“is that your name?”

“No, no, I’m drunk, that’s what I am. It’s James Relly. Make out another, and I’ll sign it—prop’ly.” This he said like one afraid.

When the affair was arranged, however, he sank back in the chair and seemed unable to move.

“By gosh, who is he?” asked one of the Irishmen.

“Dunno,” replied the other with a laugh; “but I think we’ll get our money.”

“Anyhow, he must be got to bed,” said Lancaster.

“Yes, but I’ll take jolly good care he does not get away in the morning until I’ve had this out with him,” replied the man, patting the piece of paper which the young fellow had signed.

When Lancaster got to bed he called to mind all that had happened through the day. He remembered many of the words which the young fellow, claiming to come from Limerick, had spoken.

“I think it’s pretty plain,” thought the young man. “If ever luck played into a fellow’s hands it has played into mine; but I haven’t quite cleared the ground yet. I have an idea that, to-morrow, matters will develop somewhat. The thing that puzzles me is that Father Ritzoom should have trusted that young chap to play the spy. He’s not at all fitted for the job. But to-morrow will tell.”

Next morning he was awakened by some one knocking at his door, and he heard the angry voices of men in the corridor outside.