This Was Ivor Trent

I

“Hullo, Rendell, you here! Damn it, you don’t mean to say you’re still in the Club?”

“Obviously. You’d better have a drink, Jordan. What’s it to be?”

“Pink gin. But, look here, you told me——”

“Wait till we get the drinks. What’s happened to everybody? This bar’s usually crammed at six o’clock.”

“Just a fluke. Damn it, I can do with a drink. Ah, here we are! But I say—seriously—you’re not going to stay here much longer, are you?”

“I can’t. I’ve got to go to-night. You know the rule here? I’ve had my room for the maximum period. My suitcases are with the hall-porter and he’s waiting for me to tell him to get me a taxi.”

“Where are you going?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Perfectly.”

Jordan gave a boisterous laugh. It was well known in the club and it rasped the nerves of the more sensitive members. He was an overblown florid man, who assumed that he was immensely popular and invariably acted on the assumption. Owing to his initiative, certain rather suggestive paintings hung on the walls of the bar. He now surveyed these with heavy satisfaction for some moments, then said jocularly:

“Well, you’re a damn fine feller, Rendell! Been a member here for years, never put a foot inside it, and yet for the last few months you’ve haunted the damn place. And now you’ve got to leave—and you can’t think of anywhere to go.”

Jordan paused, then added, indicating Rendell’s glass:

“Better have the other half of that.”

“Right, but it’s my last.”

Jordan gave an order, then turned to Rendell.

“What the hell did you do yesterday? Sundays in London are the devil if you’re on your own.”

“I dined with a man I hadn’t seen for years—a man I don’t like.”

Again Jordan’s laugh jarred the room. As he spent the whole of his leisure with his mistress, the devices of others to cheat loneliness always amused him.

“Dined with a man you don’t like!” he echoed. “Who the hell was that?”

“A fellow called Marsden.”

“Never heard of him. What did you dine with him for if you don’t like him?”

“You often talk to a man you don’t like if you’re lonely, Jordan.”

After a perceptible pause, Rendell went on:

“Also, I wanted to discuss a man he knows—who happens to interest me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ivor Trent.”

“Never heard of him either. Well, damn it, I’ll have to go. Dining at home to-night—worse luck! Still, I’ve cut it down to twice a week. You know the old saying about wives: get ’em young, tell ’em nothing, and treat ’em rough. Don’t like leaving you on your own, though. Here! I’ll tell you what! I’ll give you my paper. Save you sending for one. Here you are! Two more winners for Gordon Richards. Well, so long.”

Rendell took the paper mechanically, then watched Jordan’s exit, noting his attempt to hide unsteadiness under a swaggering gait.

When he had disappeared, Rendell muttered to himself:

“Jordan! God! Am I down to that?”

He turned over the paper, scarcely glancing at it. Suddenly a name at the top of a short paragraph made him start. He flattened the paper on the bar and read:

Rendell read the paragraph again.

Last night! . . . taken ill suddenly! . . . So, while he was talking to Marsden about Trent——Where did it say he was?

He glanced again at the paper.

77, Potiphar Street, Chelsea—in a delirious condition.

It was the oddest coincidence, why——

Suddenly an idea came to him.

He hesitated. Doubts, objections, advantages surged like an unruly crowd across his mind. A bit absurd, perhaps. And yet, why not? He’d got to do something. It might be interesting. Anyhow it would be a minor adventure. Yes, why not?

He strode out of the bar, ran down the stairs, got his overcoat, then said to the hall-porter:

“Get my things, Johnson, will you? And I want a taxi.”

“Yes, Mr. Rendell.” He struck a bell. . . . “Page! Get Mr. Rendell’s things—and look sharp about it. Then get a taxi.”

Two minutes later the boy returned.

“Taxi’s waiting, sir.”

“Right! Thanks. I’ll have to change a cheque. Tell the driver to go first to 77, Potiphar Street, Chelsea. Then I’ll want him to take me on somewhere afterwards. I’ll let him know where later.”

II

It was a blustering night. Winter raged on the heels of autumn. News-posters fluttered; shop signs swung violently to and fro; pavements were thronged with people hurrying to escape from a wind bristling with the menace of icy rain. The lights of Piccadilly shone hard and clear with a steely fixity.

Rendell put his feet up on the little seat opposite, then lit a cigarette. He was acting instinctively, and surrendered himself to the luxury of this knowledge. In all the major crises of his life—and he had encountered several—instinct, not reason, had prompted his actions. Then, as now, he had had no programme. An inner impulse was in command and he obeyed its orders.

Regarded rationally, his decision to go to 77, Potiphar Street was ridiculous. It would lead nowhere—and would solve nothing. He would ask some servant how Trent was, and then he would have to decide where to go and what to do. It was a trick to evade a problem which had long baffled him. To inquire about a man he did not know and had never seen! Nothing could emerge from such a futile expedition.

But although Rendell allowed these strictures to drift through his mind, he did not react to them. Three facts of deeper significance were operative in him. A book of Trent’s had impressed him more than any he had read for years. Last night he had dined with Marsden only to learn something about its author. And, now, he had discovered that, while they had been discussing him, Trent had been taken seriously ill. And he—Rendell—had happened to see a paragraph in the paper which gave not only the fact of Trent’s illness, but also his address.

Somehow, though illogically enough, this sequence seemed an indication to Rendell that Trent was destined to enter his life.

As the taxi spun along Sloane Street, Rendell remembered that he had been to Chelsea only twice previously—and that ten years separated him from his last visit. He had no memories of the place, consequently, when the taxi turned into the King’s Road, he looked out of the window with some curiosity.

Before they had proceeded many yards, however, the driver slowed up, pushed back the glass trap, and inquired:

“You said Potiphar Street, didn’t you?”

“Yes—77.”

“Don’t happen to know which side it is, I suppose?”

“Haven’t an earthly.”

“Ah well, never mind, well find it,” the man replied, with that large tolerance concerning time and space which characterises taxi-drivers, but which is seldom possessed by their fares.

At the Town Hall the taxi stopped and the driver indulged in a series of speculations and questions with a youth whose face resembled a map of vacancy. After which, he cross-examined a street vendor, who gave a lengthy list of the streets with which he was familiar, ending with the announcement that, if there were a Potiphar Street in Chelsea, he would very much like to know where it was. Finally, at Rendell’s command, the driver—most reluctantly—asked a policeman, who supplied the information instantly.

“I knew it was somewhere down there,” he said contemptuously to Rendell, with an attempt to recover professional prestige. A minute or two later they turned down a street, along which trams were crashing, then to the left down the Embankment. Rendell caught a glimpse of an old church, but almost immediately another turn to the left brought them into Potiphar Street.

It was a narrow street and his glimpse of the houses was not invigorating. They belonged to the later Victorian age, and seemed mutely to protest against their survival. At the end of the street, and facing it, stood a tall house with a flight of steep steps leading to the front door.

The taxi drew up with a jerk of finality.

“Here you are!” the driver exclaimed, as if he had materialised the house to gratify an eccentric whim of Rendell’s. “Here you are. Number 77.”

“Good!”

Rendell got out, then said:

“Wait, will you? I don’t suppose I’ll be long.”

The driver fumbled for his pipe.

“Right you are, sir.”

Rendell ran up the steps, then gave three resonant blows with the knocker.

III

A minute passed, during which he regretted having knocked so vigorously. He had forgotten that the house held a man who was seriously ill. But when another minute had passed, the necessity for knocking again presented itself. Rendell raised the knocker and gave three timorous taps which evoked no response. After a suitable interval, he knocked again, then—later—again. Nothing! Finally he became exasperated. “After all, I might be the doctor for all they know,” he muttered to himself, then seizing the knocker he gave a series of resounding blows.

A minute later the door was opened by a man, but as the hall was dimly lit, Rendell could not see him distinctly. He was about to inquire concerning Trent, when the man said irritably:

“My wife’s out. I know nothing about the rooms. That’s her business, not mine—thank God! Now you’ve arrived with your luggage, and she’s not here. Well, I can’t help it. It’s nothing to do with me.”

“When will your wife return?”

“Oh, don’t ask me! Always dragging me into her wretched affairs! This letting rooms is a ridiculous hobby of hers. I’m far too busy with important affairs to give it a thought. Far too busy, I assure you. And she won’t be letting rooms much longer. Fine activity for Captain Frazer’s wife!”

He became very erect as he uttered the last sentence in a tone of hysterical intensity.

Rendell said nothing. Curiosity and astonishment contended within him for supremacy. But Captain Frazer went on almost immediately:

“Well, you’d better come in, I take it!” he exclaimed with remarkable irritation. “I suppose you know which your room is, don’t you? It can only be this one here. All the others are let, she tells me. Not that I want to know.”

“Very well, I’ll come in.”

“You’ll want your luggage, I take it?”

Frazer’s tone would have been insolent if a quaver of weakness had not deprived it of every positive quality.

“I’ll tell the driver to bring it in.”

Rendell turned and walked to the taxi. He was about to enter the house under false pretences—and was duly elated by that knowledge. The possibility of adventure stirred him. He’d take a room in the house in which Ivor Trent was ill—and see what happened.

Two minutes later his luggage had been deposited in the first room on the right. Rendell paid the driver, and then found himself alone with Captain Frazer.

The latter’s appearance interested him. He was tall, thin almost to emaciation, with a narrow worn-out face and scanty mouse-coloured hair. Dark eyes looked spitefully at the world from the cavernous depths in which they were buried. His suit was old and shiny, but evidently it was tended with sedulous care. Prominent creases of Euclidean exactitude triumphed down the trousers. His bearing was immensely military in moments of dignity, but during relapses he made a number of staccato gestures which served to emphasise his irritability.

Also, Rendell soon discovered that on occasions Frazer developed a nervous facial contraction. When especially agitated, his right eye produced a series of very rapid and highly disconcerting winks.

“Well, I can discuss arrangements with your wife later,” Rendell said at last. “In the meantime, I want to know how Mr. Trent is.”

“How did you know he was here?”

Frazer shot the question at him.

“It’s in the paper.”

“Have you got one? Where? Let’s have a look.”

He seized the paper and scanned the brief paragraph eagerly.

“Ah, that’s all right,” he muttered to himself. “That’s all right. Trent!” he exclaimed, drawing himself to his full height and regarding Rendell with motionless dignity. “He’s just the same.”

“You mean, he is still delirious?”

“Raving. He’s worse to-night.”

Rendell was about to ask another question, when a gramophone of peculiar virulence was put on in a room above. Simultaneously someone in the upper regions began shouting instructions to a man who was noisily descending the stairs.

“Swine!” exclaimed Frazer, banging the door violently. “I tell you it’s impossible for me to go on living in this house—impossible!”

“Are these noises normal then?” Rendell inquired, feeling that he might as well know.

“Oh, there’s always a hell of a row. Damn the place! Damn it!”

“But don’t these people know that Trent’s ill?”

“Trent? Oh, he’s at the top of the house. He’s all right. He’s got his own rooms up there—had ’em for years.”

“For years!” Rendell echoed.

“Yes, why not?”

“There’s no reason, of course.”

Silence ensued. Rendell said nothing, as he was thinking intently. He wanted to learn all that Frazer knew about Trent and was considering the most efficient technique for eliciting it. Frazer remained silent, as he was scrutinising Rendell with great curiosity.

Now, in appearance, Rendell was everything that Frazer would like to have been. He was tall, powerful, with bronzed features and fearless eyes. His clothes were of excellent quality. Independence and a general atmosphere of purpose and assurance invested him.

The form that Frazer’s admiration assumed was a desire to impress Rendell with his own importance. He decided that to reveal his knowledge of a distinguished man like Trent was the quickest shortcut to this end.

“Trent’s had rooms here for years. In fact, he’s written all his books in them.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Certain? Of course I’m certain! You don’t doubt my word, I take it.”

“I asked the question,” Rendell said slowly, “because I dined with a man last night who has known Trent for a very long time, and he told me that Trent had written every one of his books abroad.”

“It’s a lie! Absolute lie! I tell you that on the honour of an officer.” An impressive pause. “Trent’s had those rooms at the top of the house for ten years at least. He comes here to write. He lives alone up there for a year or more, turns night into day, writes his book—and clears off. Then, about two years later, he comes back to write another.”

“That’s extremely interesting. You see——”

“Oh I know a lot of interesting people—a lot, I can assure you! Don’t bring ’em here though. Not to this hole. I used to mix with writers and artists—till my wife suddenly took it into her head to turn the place into a common lodging-house. Yes! A common lodging-house!” He shouted the words. “That’s what she’s brought me to. Till then, I mixed only with distinguished people. This house was full of them.”

Then, after a very brief pause, he added in a confidential whisper:

“Excuse me. I must go and telephone a man. It’s most important. I—I shan’t be very long. You don’t mind, I take it.”

“No, that’s all right. See you later, perhaps.”

“Certainly—certainly. Matter of only a few minutes, you understand. But important—important!”

He disappeared with remarkable celerity.

Rendell welcomed privacy. The events of the last five minutes had been so unexpected, so intriguing, that he felt he was in some strange region where the improbable was the usual. But, discovering that so many mysteries clamoured for attention simultaneously, he decided to dismiss all of them in the hope that, eventually, they would range themselves in order of significance.

He took off his overcoat, then looked round the room.

It was large, high-pitched, and had a bay window. Most of the furniture was ancient, battered, but solid. It had evidently encountered a number of second-hand dealers, and seemed depressed by the premonition that—at the next visit—its value would be assessed, not as furniture, but as wood.

There were exceptions, however. The carpet, though faded, had clearly been bought by someone who demanded a correspondence between their aspirations and their surroundings. The same quality distinguished a little red chair whose jauntiness time had failed wholly to obliterate. Also, by the wall farthest from the window stood a divan. The majority of the furniture seemed to demand a brass bedstead, in order to rivet the apartment to the category of a bed-sitting-room in a lodging-house, but the presence of the divan triumphantly asserted individuality. Altogether, the room represented a compromise between dead orthodoxy and the spirit of revolt.

Rend ell assessed it pretty accurately. He had lived in all sorts of surroundings in all parts of the world and so was an expert in his degree.

“Not too bad—for a week or so,” he said to himself. “Draughts—certain. Mice—probable. Anyway, it will do. That is, if it’s vacant. Have to see what Mrs. Frazer says.”

He struck a match and turned on the gas fire. No hiss of escaping gas greeted his listening ear. He blew out the match, then sought—and found—a meter. He produced a shilling and inserted it.

“The last tenant was clearly no altruist,” he muttered, then sat in an arm-chair and reviewed his situation. His summary dealt only with facts.

Here he was in a room on the ground floor of 77, Potiphar Street, Chelsea. Ivor Trent was seriously ill in a room at the top of the house. He, Rendell, had impulsively decided to take the room he was in—if it were free. Also, and above all, he had learned certain facts from Captain Frazer relating to Trent which were in direct opposition to those given him last night by Marsden. And Frazer, like Marsden, had known Trent for years!

Here was mystery—definite mystery—but he had no time to explore it now. For the moment, he accepted Marsden’s account as the true one. Frazer was clearly eccentric. Possibly Mrs. Frazer’s arrival would provide additional data. In the meantime——

But at this point Captain Frazer returned.

“I talked to my man. Satisfactory, quite satisfactory! I have a business deal with him—just a little idea of mine, but it came off, it came off. I’d have been back before, but I ran into the doctor——”

“Trent’s doctor?” Rendell interrupted.

“Yes, yes. He’s just gone. Trent’s still delirious, but has lucid moments. That was the doctor’s phrase—lucid moments. Trent refuses to be moved from here. That’s very good—excellent in fact. They wanted to take him to a nursing home. Damned nonsense!”

“Does the doctor think he’s dangerously ill?”

“Didn’t say—doesn’t know. Says Trent keeps raving about some man he’s seen. Nerves, that’s all, just nerves.”

Frazer paused, then added explosively:

“Why, I myself—do you know—sometimes suffer from nerves. Not often, but sometimes.”

He looked down at Rendell, his features tense and his right eye winking with remarkable rapidity.

“Well, I suppose we all do at times,” Rendell said calmly, imagining he would pacify him.

“No—we—do—not!” Frazer exclaimed. “But, if one is humiliated, day in, day out, then one does suffer from nerves. You understand, I take it. Why, I——”

He broke off, made a movement enjoining silence, then went swiftly to the door, opened it a few inches, and listened.

“Ah, here she is! Always punctual! Always to the minute! She isn’t a woman—she’s an alarm clock. I’ll clear out. Say you don’t know where I am.”

He slipped out of the room and almost immediately the front door banged.

Two minutes later Mrs. Frazer came into the room.

IV

Rendell rose and they surveyed one another for some moments in silence.

Mrs. Frazer was a total contrast to her husband. She was sturdily built, still handsome—although her features were coarsened by overwork and worry—but resolution and capability surrounded her like an aura.

Her scrutiny of Rendell evidently culminated in a favourable impression, for her first remark did not relate to his presence.

“Was that my husband went out just now?”

“Yes. You must wonder who I am and what I’m doing here. It’s like this. I came to inquire about Mr. Trent and——”

“How did you know he was here?” she interrupted.

“It’s in to-night’s paper.”

He picked it up and showed her the paragraph.

“I see,” she said at last. “That’s my husband’s doing.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Rendell replied, greatly mystified.

“He’s friendly with an out-of-work journalist. He must have told him about Mr. Trent. And now he’ll share with him whatever the paper paid for the paragraph. Did you tell him it was in to-night’s paper?”

“Yes, I told him.”

“I see.” There was immense resignation in her tone. After a pause, she added: “And did he go and ring someone up soon after you had told him?”

“He did,” Rendell replied.

“That was the journalist. And now he’s gone to meet him—to drink the money. Well, if there’s trouble, it’s not my doing.”

“I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Frazer. My name is Rendell. I’m a mining engineer and am at a loose end at the moment. I came here to-night to inquire about Mr. Trent. Your husband imagined I had booked a room and had come to claim it. I had done nothing of the kind, of course. But, finding this room vacant, it would—as it happens—suit my plans to take it. That is, if it’s available, of course—and if you are agreeable.”

She looked at him narrowly for some moments before she asked:

“Are you a friend of Mr. Trent’s?”

“No. I’ve never even seen him. I’m interested in him, that’s all.”

“Well, the room’s free, and you may as well have it as anyone else.”

They discussed terms and arrangements. Finally Rendell said:

“That’s settled then. I don’t know how long I shall be here. And now, if you’re not busy for a minute, I’d like to ask you one or two questions about Mr. Trent.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Were you expecting him last night?”

“Yes. He was coming here for several months to work.”

“Does he always come here to work?”

“Yes, always,” Mrs. Frazer replied. “He’s had the rooms at the top of the house for years and years. He’s written all his books up there. Why do you want to know?”

“For two reasons. I’m interested in his books—and I was told that he always wrote them abroad. What—exactly—happened last night?”

Mrs. Frazer looked over her shoulder towards the door, then took a step nearer Rendell.

“I never had such a shock in my life—never! It must have been about nine o’clock—somewhere about. I happened to be in the hall—luckily. Suddenly, I heard someone beating on the front door, beating desperately with clenched fists. I was fright-ended, and I’m not easily frightened.”

She broke off, but almost immediately she went on breathlessly:

“I opened the door. He looked like a ghost with great staring eyes—I said something—I don’t know what—and he fell to the ground, senseless. I thought he had dropped dead.”

“Well—and then?” Rendell asked, after a long pause.

“Two of the men in the house carried him up to his room and put him on the bed. He began to rave. I couldn’t make out what he said. Something about a man he had seen—some man who had appeared out of the fog on the Embankment. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to leave him. He was terribly excited. Kept wanting to go to the window and look out. He leapt about till I thought he’d have a fit. So I stayed with him—and got someone to telephone the doctor. It was terrible.”

“You’d better sit down, don’t you think?”

She sank mechanically into the chair Rendell placed by her side.

“All to-day it’s been the same,” she went on. “I had to go out a quarter of an hour ago—but it was the first time to-day. The doctor wanted him to go to a nursing home, but the mere idea made him terribly angry. So the doctor has sent in a nurse. She’s with him now.”

“Has he ever been ill here before?”

“Never! I can’t believe it! I never thought to see him like this.”

“I can understand you’re upset,” Rendell said slowly. “After all, you’ve known him a long time.”

“He’s been a friend to me. More than once I should have been sold up if it hadn’t been for him. My husband invested all the money he had in this house and filled it with a lot of crazy people—artists, and I don’t know what not. A year later, we were nearly ruined. Mr. Trent stayed on, and helped us out, else we shouldn’t be here now.”

Then, with a swift return to her normal methodical manner, she rose, looked keenly round the room, then said:

“Now, are you sure you’ve everything you want? If not, just tell me. And I’d better explain that several of the lodgers here are not my choice. But nowadays, you take what you can get—or what you have to. All of them are in arrears with their rent—and some of them haven’t paid a farthing for weeks. And what can I do? Throw them out—and get others like them?”

She paused, then added:

“If my husband asks you to pay him the rent—or to lend him money—please don’t do either. Can I rely on you for that?”

“You can count on me.”

She walked towards the door, then paused and turned to him.

“You can’t blame him, really. It was that war that did for him. Only his body survived it, if you know what I mean. There’s plenty like him—more or less.”

The door closed behind her.

Rendell began to pace up and down the room. Finally, he decided to go and dine at a local restaurant and think things over.

V

Before Rendell had been at 77, Potiphar Street, for twenty hours, he found it difficult to believe that any doctor could allow a man who was seriously ill to stay there—however determined his patient might be to remain.

A number of incidents, none conducive to Rendell’s personal comfort, created this opinion. Most of the lodgers were noisy, some presumably never went to bed, and two returned home in the small hours, having either forgotten their latch-keys or being in no condition to manipulate them. It seemed to Rendell that hardly had peace descended when it was rudely banished by certain early risers who clattered about their rooms, then rushed down the stairs, and finally banged the front door behind them as if to indicate that they had left the house for ever in a furious passion.

Half an hour after the last of these Lear-like departures, a maid was heard continually ascending the stairs bearing breakfast-trays. More than once she paused to shout details of certain forgotten articles towards the abyss of the basement. Rendell soon learned that her name was Mary, for a gentleman in the upper regions shouted it twice, then inquired in no half-hearted manner as to the likely time at which he might expect his shaving water.

At nine o’clock a gramophone in the room above emitted a colourful lament in a tone of impressive richness, power, and volume.

From ten o’clock onwards, various persons delivered a series of blows with the front-door knocker. These summonses were ignored, usually, by the inmates of No. 77—a fact which inspired the person on the doorstep to a more variegated and a more strenuous performance.

As the window of Rendell’s room afforded an intimate view of the steep steps leading to the front door, he was able to study the appearance of the person demanding attention, while, simultaneously, he was deafened by the anvil-like blows of the knocker. On several occasions, in desperation, he went to the door himself, imagining that by dismissing the disturber of his peace it might return to him.

He found, however, that it was only necessary to open the front door of No. 77 in order to find himself confronted by victims of the economic earthquake. One ex-Service man wanted to sell him a writing-block. Another produced an album containing specimens of Christmas-cards which—Rendell was assured—were bankrupt stock, and so were going considerably under cost. Finally, an ex-officer appeared who was hawking ladies’ underwear. The man was about Rendell’s age, belonged to the same class, and was obviously entirely genuine. He explained briefly that he was doing this as it was literally and absolutely the only activity he had been able to find.

Rendell gave him a ten-shilling note—and let the next comer knock, till the man’s arm refused to perform that function any longer.

But at twelve o’clock, when Rendell happened to be standing at the window—watching three little girls dancing with perfect enjoyment to the strains of a barrel-organ—a large car drew up. Instantly a man leapt out of it, ran up the narrow stone path leading to the house, sprang up the steps, and gave three brisk authoritative raps with the knocker.

Rendell felt instinctively that this visitor must not be kept waiting. He went to the door.

“I answered your knock,” he explained, “as they’re not too good here at attending to visitors.”

The man glanced down the narrow hall, then at Rendell, in considerable perplexity.

“Care to come into my room for a minute?” Rendell suggested, feeling it incumbent on him to make an effort to placate this visitor, who was clearly an important one.

“Yes. Thanks! Shan’t stay long—too much to do. Ah, your room’s just here, is it? Good! Most kind of you. Thanks!”

Rendell glanced at his companion, while waiting for him to state his business.

He was above middle height and had scanty carrot-coloured hair and grey luminous eyes. A great domed forehead bulked impressively above a lined mobile face. He was not still for a moment, but Rendell felt that this man possessed real and remarkable ability of some kind.

“Now, I’ve not long,” he began. “What’s all this about Trent? But, first of all, you must know that I’m Bickenshaw, head of Polsons.” A pause. “You know, the publishers—the publishers!” he added, swiftly and irritably, as the light of comprehension and admiration had not dawned in Rendell’s eyes.

“Oh yes, of course,” the latter said quickly. “You publish Trent’s books, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes! Well now, look here—what’s happened? Is he better, or is he still delirious?”

“I believe he’s still delirious.”

“Must have collapsed in the street,” Bickenshaw said briskly, “and so they brought him in to this hole. Why, God bless my soul, he was lunching with me a week ago and never looked better. Told me he was just going to start his new book. I thought he’d have left England before this. Well, anyway! Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t, but——”

“Never mind! Directly he’s better, you go and see him. Tell him I called. Say I came in person. Don’t forget. And mind you tell him this from me. What’s wrong with him is blood-pressure. Everyone has it—I’ve got it myself. And it plays queer tricks at times. But you tell him—from me—not to worry. Just say that I said it’s only blood-pressure.”

He turned swiftly to Rendell and demanded:

“Have you got it?”

“No, I——”

“You’ve probably got it—and don’t know it. Heaps of people are like that. It’s my belief that everybody has got it. Now, I must get on.”

He turned, walked swiftly out of the room, followed by Rendell. At the top of the steps, however, he paused.

“You live here, I suppose? Right! Then tell him—from me—to get out of this hole. I know a first-rate nursing-home. Tell him that, will you? Thanks very much. He must get out of this hole just as soon as he can. That’s essential. Tell him I said so.”

Bickenshaw sprang down the steps, ran to his car, leapt into it, and flashed away.

Rendell returned to his room and began to pace slowly up and down. It seemed to him that his primary need, at the moment, was to obtain some degree of mental perspective. Ever since his arrival at No. 77 last evening, impressions, discoveries, mysteries, and distractions of all kinds had so enveloped him that he was wholly unable to separate the significant from the trivial. His mind was chaotic and, in the hope of introducing some principle of order, he kept repeating to himself that it was less than forty-eight hours since he had dined with Marsden and cross-examined him concerning Ivor Trent.

But the iteration of this fact only increased his perplexity, for it seemed to him that he had been at No. 77 for at least a week, and that the week had contained an extraordinary number of remarkable incidents. One thing was definite, however—his curiosity concerning Ivor Trent deepened hourly.

At this point someone began to knock on the front door, but Rendell decided that he had had enough adventures in that region. So he continued to pace the room, speculating on the possibility that—if he stayed long enough—he might become so accustomed to the knocking that he would not hear it. He encouraged himself in this hope by recalling that once, in Sydney, he had become so inured to cats wailing all night and every night in the yard outside his room that, when a new-comer complained, he was amazed to discover that these nocturnal activities remained a fact.

He was interrupted in these memories, however, by a sharp rap on the window. This was a new form of technique, and a challenging one. Rendell decided that its originator was a person of resource and so worth his attention.

He went to the front door, opened it, and announced briskly—indicating the window of his room:

“That is not the servants’ room. It happens to be mine.”

“I’m most awfully sorry, but I’ve been here so long, and I really am in a hurry. Still, I do apologise.”

The man’s voice was attractive. Rendell capitulated.

“That’s all right,” he said, then, glancing at the visitor, he added: “Have you come to inquire about Trent?”

“I have. How did you guess?”

“Well, I’ve been in all the morning and I suppose a dozen people have battered on that door. I can now spot those who have come to sell things—and those who want to learn about Trent. Come in to my room for a minute.”

“That’s most kind of you.”

“As you see, it’s near the front door. Now, what can I——”

“My name’s Voyce. I’m Trent’s literary agent. I was terribly upset to see the news in the paper. I live in the country, and only saw that paragraph in the train going home, or I should have come last night. How is he?”

“Much the same, I’m afraid. The doctor has sent a nurse in.”

“But what’s wrong with him? That’s what I want to know. I saw him a few days ago and he seemed perfectly well. And what on earth is he doing here?”

“It’s the first time you’ve been here then?” Rendell inquired.

“Yes, of course. And it’s the first time he’s been here. Don’t want to be rude, but, frankly, this is not exactly Ivor Trent’s setting. He’s got a perfectly good flat of his own near Cork Street.”

“Oh, he’s a flat off Cork Street, has he?”

“Yes, had it for years. He must have been taken ill in the street. Incidentally, have you been here long?”

“No, I only came last night.”

“Only last night?” Voyce hesitated. “Don’t think me inquisitive, but do you intend to stay some time?”

“Well, I think I can say definitely,” Rendell replied, with some emphasis, “that I shall stay here as long as Trent does.”

“Then do me a favour, would you? Give him this letter, when he’s better, and ask him to write me his opinion. I’ve got to go away, but his letter would be forwarded.”

“Very well. He shall have the letter directly he’s better.”

“It’s really good of you. I’m damnably upset about this collapse of his. I can’t understand it.”

They walked together to the front door.

Just as Voyce was about to leave, Rendell said:

“By the way, Bickenshaw called about half an hour ago.”

“Did he? But of course he would! What’s he think is wrong with Trent?”

“He thinks it’s blood-pressure.”

“Oh, Bickenshaw’s got blood-pressure on the brain! Good-bye, and many thanks.”

Rendell returned to his room. The information that Trent had a flat near Cork Street, had had it for years, and, nevertheless, had written all his books at 77, Potiphar Street, so bewildered Rendell that sanity seemed to depend on ceasing to speculate any further on the mystery of Trent.

Consequently he deliberately began to analyse Voyce’s last remark—that Bickenshaw had blood-pressure on the brain—trying to determine whether authoritative medical opinion would accept the statement as a scientific one.

Arriving at no conclusion, he decided it was time for luncheon. He glanced out of the window. A sunny autumn day—he would not need an overcoat.

He took his hat and stick, went to the front door and opened it.

He was confronted by a telegraph-boy, whose hand was raised in a frustrated attempt to seize the knocker.

“Trent?”

“Oh, go to the devil!” Rendell shouted, then brushed past the astonished youth, nearly falling down the steps in his eagerness to escape—if only for an hour—from the mystery of Trent.

VI

Rendell had no definite ideas as to where to lunch, but, finding himself on the Embankment, and discovering a restaurant with three or four tables gaily displayed on the broad pavement in front of it, he decided that luncheon in the open air was desirable, the day being mild.

Consequently he joined the half-dozen rather self-conscious persons already seated, and instantly acquired the slightly defiant air which characterised them, and which seemed to assert “one does this in Paris, so why not in London?”

Traffic shot and crashed down the Embankment, trams trailed monotonously over Battersea Bridge: tugs fussed up and down the sparkling river, wailing mysterious intentions to the initiate. An impish breeze frisked about, fluttering the table-cloths and whisking odd scraps of paper to dizzy altitudes, then incontinently abandoning them.

Two young men, at the table next to Rendell’s, were engaged in an endless and highly technical conversation, largely monopolised by the lankier of the two. On the rare occasions when he was forced to pause, the less lanky seized the opportunity to demand: “What about Flaubert?” And, as the more lanky consistently ignored this question, it was repeated perhaps a dozen times by the less.

Rendell, eventually finding this somewhat monotonous—and not wishing to revert to private speculation—transferred his attention to another table in his immediate vicinity.

Two young women were seated at it. The more talkative had a countenance vaguely suggesting a snapshot of winter, but this was compensated for to some extent by the kindred virtue of a polar clarity in her speech. She was explaining, in the briefest and clearest of terms, such mysteries as commodity prices, inflation, deflation, the gold dollar, and certain economic theories held by the U.S.S.R. Each sentence was delivered with revolver-shot precision. Her companion—a rosy-cheeked, athletic girl of about twenty—kept interpolating enthusiastically: “Oh, is that what it means? I’ve often wondered.”

Soon, Rendell bought a newspaper from a passing youth, but as the lunch edition had not yet reached Chelsea, it contained only racing information—in which he was not remotely interested.

So, his coffee being cold, owing to exposure, he rose, having decided to have a stroll round Chelsea before returning to No. 77.

He wandered about, indifferent as to direction, interested or fascinated by a number of things. He encountered Chelsea Pensioners who, swiftly glimpsed, resembled moving pillar-boxes: little old-world shops nodding drowsily in the sunshine: a wooded public garden with Carlyle’s statue in the middle of it—leaves drifting idly down past the unseeing eyes of the sage. Then he lost himself in a labyrinth of little streets, now catching a glimpse of a porch of breath-taking beauty; or a charming interior with decorative people, remote and removed from the rigours of the age; or a dreaming house with an overhanging tree, surrounded by green lawns and a grey wall, serene and mature in the mellow October sunlight.

Later he found himself confronted by a tiny edifice of remarkable individuality. He paused to study it. Observing his interest, an old gentleman with silver hair and dark benevolent eyes, who wore a black velvet smoking-jacket, informed him that it was reputed to have been Henry VIII’s shooting-box, and that many earnest people hoped it was haunted.

On leaving this urbane and cultured individual, Rendell wandered on till, turning a corner, he found himself threatened by the maelstrom of the King’s Road.

He glanced at his watch. A quarter to three. He would return to No. 77 and, if possible, have an hour’s sleep—to compensate in part for a very disturbed night.

VII

The house was quiet on his return. He lit a cigarette, then, gradually, became aware of something oppressive in the atmosphere. Dismissing this sensation, by attributing it to the unwonted silence, he stood by the window, vaguely deliberating whether a view of the river was obtainable from Trent’s rooms at the top of the house.

Several minutes passed, then, being mentally idle and therefore interested in details, he noticed a taxi approaching down a deserted Potiphar Street.

He watched it aimlessly till his interest was quickened by the fact that it drew up outside the house. But although it became stationary, no one alighted. Nearly a minute passed. He saw the driver turn his head to address an invisible fare. Then the man pushed his arm back, turned the handle, and flung the door open.

A woman got out slowly. Hardly was she upright on the pavement when she glanced up at the house, then to the right, then to the left—hesitated—and finally made a movement which suggested that she was about to re-enter the taxi and drive away.

The driver, however, shut the door, and jerked twice with his left forefinger in the direction of the house.

Slowly, unwillingly, the woman approached it, pausing half-way to look again in each direction, then with sudden determination she almost ran to the top of the steps.

Rendell heard a single timid knock. If a mouse had been in the hall, it would have ignored it.

“This has got my number on it,” Rendell muttered to himself, and went into the hall.

He opened the door. Instantly an exclamation broke from him.

A beautiful but terrified face with great hunted eyes confronted him. For an endless second they stared at each other, then she began to tremble so violently that Rendell thought she was going to collapse.

Instinctively he caught her by the arm.

“Steady! It’s all right. Take your time. You’ll feel better in a minute.”

She made a lightning movement with her hand, indicating that she wanted the door closed. Rendell shut it with alacrity, then, still holding her arm, guided her to his room.

“You’d better sit down, don’t you——”

“Trent—Trent! I must see him. Now—immediately!—do you understand?”

The intensity of her tone, no less than her convulsive movements, so astonished Rendell that he stood hypnotised, staring at her.

She came nearer to him, moving her arms up and down, her fingers writhing in a frenzy of impatience.

“He’s here—he’s still here—isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s still here, but——”

“Then go! Now!”

“But I tell you no one is allowed to see him. The doctor has sent in a nurse and——”

“He’s not still delirious?”

“Yes, he is——”

Rendell broke off. She had sunk into a chair and now began to rock to and fro, her face buried in her hands.

“Delirious . . . delirious . . .”

She repeated the word as if it held her death-sentence.

By now Rendell was seriously alarmed and, which was worse, felt totally inadequate to the situation. Simultaneously, in the hinterland of his consciousness, he was dimly aware of a very disturbing quality in this woman’s beauty.

“Look here,” he broke out at last, “you can’t let yourself go like this. I tell you what you’d better do,” he went on, having no idea as to how he would end the sentence, “you’d better—well—you’d better have a drink, or something.”

A pause.

Then a laugh rang through the room. It was so unexpected, so musical, that Rendell started as if it had been an explosion.

When he recovered, he found that she was on her feet—her eyes scrutinising his features with embarrassing intensity.

“You must be a nice person. Only a nice person could have said something so stupid. Listen, listen! I’ve got to trust you. There’s something you must do for me. But promise—promise—you’ll never tell anyone.”

“I do promise.”

“Get me a piece of paper—and a pencil. Quick!”

She scribbled a word and some numbers—then tore the paper to shreds.

“No! Tell him—directly you can—that he must ring up Rosalie Vivian. Directly! Tell him it’s terribly urgent—terribly!”

Again she sank into the chair and buried her face in her hands.

“Oh no, no, no!” she moaned, “that’s no good. He’s delirious—delirious! My God, I can’t stand this—I can’t stand it another second—I——”

“For God’s sake——”

But she was on her feet again, quivering from head to foot.

“They don’t take any notice, do they—doctors, nurses!—of what a man says in delirium. They don’t, do they? They know it’s all nonsense—lies—don’t they? Do answer!”

“Yes, of course they do.”

She seized his arm and gripped it with a sudden nervous strength that amazed him.

“You—they—you haven’t heard—they’ve not told you anything he’s said——”

“No, no, of course not! You need not fear that. Doctors and nurses are used to all that. It doesn’t interest them.”

“You’re certain?”

“Certain!”

A long silence, which reminded Rendell of a respite during a thunderstorm. He stood, braced and taut, believing himself to be prepared for anything.

“What’s your name?”

The tone was nearly a normal conversational one. Rendell reeled. He had not been prepared for this.

“Rendell—Arthur Rendell. I only came to this house last night. I don’t know Trent. But do believe that you can trust me. I’d—I’d help you in any way I could. Please believe that.”

“I do believe it.”

There was a deep resonant note in her voice. The words might have been spoken by a serious child—giving the whole of her confidence to someone who had earned it.

A long silence followed.

She had sat down again and was leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin resting in her hands.

Possibly she was thirty—dark, lithe, and deceptively frail-looking. Her hands and feet were perfect. She had large very blue eyes, which, in moments of tranquillity, looked at the world with an expression of frightened wonder. But, as Rendell had seen, they could flash with extraordinary power when she was emotionally moved. She had the rare quality of creating—by her mere presence—a sudden tension in the atmosphere surrounding her. Rendell was aware of it now, as he stood looking down at her.

She seemed to have forgotten time, place, and circumstances as she sat, leaning forward, staring into vacancy with bewildered eyes. This swift alternation from hysteria to inertia was so mysterious to Rendell that it reduced him to impotence. He stood like a slave awaiting the next demand of a capricious master. He had not to wait long.

The sound of footsteps descending the stairs stabbed broad awake in her that spirit of passionate hysteria which had so suddenly become quiescent.

In a second she was on her feet.

“Who’s that?”

“Only one of the lodgers.”

“Lodgers!”

“Yes, didn’t you know that this was a lodging-house?”

She stared at him incredulously.

“Then why is Ivor here? I saw him on Saturday,” she raced on, “only Saturday! He was well. He was going abroad the next day to work. I must see him! I must, I tell you! I’m in terrible trouble. And he’s here—delirious! You don’t know what that means to me.”

A pause, then on again, the words rushing from her in a torrent:

“I did not sleep for one second last night. I read that paragraph in the paper again and again. I couldn’t believe it. I daren’t believe it. And then, to-day, I couldn’t get away to come here. I had to come, although I was terrified of coming. And yet I ought not to be here. Anything might happen. And I’m telling you all this—you, a stranger! I shall go mad to-night when I think of it. But I can’t stay—not another minute! And God alone knows when I shall be able to come again.”

Tears blinded her eyes and she was trembling violently.

“Look here, you really can’t go on like this,” Rendell announced firmly. “You’ll make yourself ill.”

“Ill!”

“Yes—ill! And that won’t help. I promise you that, directly I can, I will ask him to telephone you. I’ll do anything else I can.”

“Wait, wait! I must think. Suppose someone saw me come in here? You’d say that I was a friend of yours. You’d do that? You remember my name? Rosalie Vivian. A friend of yours. You understand? And you’d tell them that I did not know Ivor was here. That’s what you’d say, isn’t it—isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ll say that. How can I convince you that I only want to help you?”

“I believe it—now I’m here with you. But, when I’ve gone—to-night?—alone? Wait, wait!”

She went to the mirror, dabbed her eyes with a diminutive handkerchief, then studied her reflection critically.

“Yesterday seemed like a month. To-day has been a year. I shall soon be old.”

“Things will come out all right and——”

She turned and looked at him—and his platitudinous phrase died in middle age.

“How nice you are,” she said slowly. “Now please get me a taxi.”

Rendell stared at her.

“Well,” she went on, “is that such a very extraordinary request?”

“But—but——” he blurted out, “the one you came in is still waiting.”

“Oh, is it? That’s all right then. Please see me into it. And, remember, I came to see you.”

“Shall I see you again?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know anything.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll be in at three o’clock every day for the next week.”

With a swift movement she took his hand, pressed it, then turned, and he followed her out of the room.

They walked in silence to the taxi. Rendell watched it till it disappeared, then returned to his room, haunted by the image of a lovely face with frightened eyes.

VIII

Out of the maze of conflicting thoughts and emotions created by Rosalie Vivian’s visit, one fact eventually emerged—Rendell had become involved. Till his meeting with her, he had been a spectator—one whose curiosity had deepened hourly—but no more. At any moment he could have given up his room, returned to the normal, and regarded his adventures at No. 77 as amusing or intriguing incidents in a comedy which he had abandoned before its end.

This was so no longer. A tragic shadow had fallen across the comedy—and he had ceased to be a spectator. Even in terms of time, he was committed. He had promised to be in his room every day at three o’clock during the next week, but—apart from that—he was involved emotionally. He was convinced that her need was desperate, and that she had no one in whom to confide. Also, and more strangely, he was certain she was married, though, as she had not removed her gloves during her visit, this certainty was wholly intuitive.

Gradually other—and more obvious—certainties presented themselves. She was Trent’s mistress. Why, otherwise, had the knowledge that he was delirious made her hysterical with fear? As Rendell saw it, the governing facts were clear enough: she was married; she was Trent’s mistress; Trent was delirious; and therefore she was terrified.

But what was far more important, to Rendell, was the personal fact that she was unique in his experience. Till his marriage, women had been only a physical necessity, but, on that level, he had had many adventures. He was still deeply sensitive to a woman’s physical being, and yet, although Rosalie Vivian was beautiful, he could evoke no image of her figure from his memory. Her attraction was psychic, not physical. Nevertheless, Rendell made an essentially male mental note that—should he see her again—he would study her figure in detail. At present, he could remember only face, feet, and hands—and her amazingly blue, frightened eyes.

He had reached this point in his deliberations when he stumbled across a fact, hitherto overlooked, which instantly attained primary importance.

It was just understandable that Trent had lied to Marsden, to his publisher, and to his agent when telling them that he always went abroad to work. But it was far less understandable that he had told Rosalie Vivian—who was almost certainly his mistress—only last Saturday that he was leaving England the next day. She, then, like the others, was ignorant of the fact that Trent had had rooms at 77, Potiphar Street for years and had written all his books there.

“One thing’s definite,” Rendell said to himself, “if I ever see her again, the first thing I shall find out is—how long has she known Trent? The answer will tell me whether he’s an occasional liar or an habitual one. And a thing like that is always worth knowing.”

But at this point he was interrupted by a light knock on his door.

“Come in.”

A nurse appeared and said apologetically:

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but do you happen to know where Mrs. Frazer is?”

“No, I don’t, I’m afraid, but I’ll find her for you. But, tell me, how is your patient? I’ve several excellent reasons for wanting to know.”

“He’s still very excited.”

“Not delirious?”

“Very excited, I should say.”

“Well, it’s like this. His publisher and agent were talking to me this morning. Is it possible to give Mr. Trent a letter—and a message?”

“Oh no, quite impossible, I’m afraid. The doctor forbids him to see anyone or to have any letters. He was very definite about that.”

“Very well. I’ve done all I can. Would you let me know directly there’s a change in the doctor’s orders?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Thanks very much. It’s awkward for me, having letters and so on. Wait a minute!” Rendell exclaimed. “I think that’s Mrs. Frazer in the hall.”

The nurse went out, and a lengthy half-whispered conversation ensued between the two women. Eventually Rendell, hearing the nurse ascending the stairs, called to Mrs. Frazer:

“Give me a minute, will you?”

She came into the room, looking tired and worried.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he began, “but, frankly, don’t you think this house is a bit noisy for an invalid?”

“I hope you haven’t been disturbed——”

“Oh, never mind about me! I’m all right—more or less. But what about Trent?”

“He has double doors and windows in his rooms,” she replied. “The top floor is really a self-contained flat, so he’s cut off from the rest of the house.”

“I see. Well—as you asked if I’d been disturbed—I would like to know one thing. Does anyone ever answer the front door when people hammer on it?”

Mrs. Frazer made a despairing gesture.

“That front door will bring me to my grave! When I’m out—and I have to go out a lot—no one answers it. It’s a mercy I happened to be in the hall the night poor Mr. Trent arrived. The girl says she’s deaf and can’t hear the knocking—and my husband won’t open it. He’s in nearly all day, but he just won’t go to it. He’s too proud. It’s a wonder he let you in last night.”

“That’s how it is, is it? Well, it doesn’t bother me much. I’ll soon be used to it, and to the lodgers, too, I daresay—in time, of course.”

Mrs. Frazer regarded him mournfully. Then, having turned to make certain that the door was shut, she said emphatically:

“Don’t imagine that I’m satisfied with the lodgers, because I’m not. And that’s a fact. You wouldn’t believe it if you knew what I have to put up with. But what can I do? You’ve got to be thankful to get anyone nowadays. You know what things are like. They say they are better. Well, they may be—but not in Potiphar Street. And my husband, for all his fine airs and graces, is thick as thieves with the worst of them. I’m afraid you were very disturbed last night.”

“Now don’t you bother about me, Mrs. Frazer. I find it all very interesting. There’s a little noise, of course, and a few visitors, but—I’m all right. In fact, I think I shall be here some time.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. Anything you want, you let me know. And now I must go to Mr. Trent. I was a nurse myself once—though I’ve almost forgotten it—and I suppose I was the biggest fool ever born not to remain one.”

Having made this oblique reference to her marriage, Mrs. Frazer paused, then—evidently prompted by her sense of justice—added impartially:

“Still, I will say this for him: he’s made himself useful attending to people who’ve called to inquire about Mr. Trent.”

As Rendell believed that this duty had devolved wholly on himself, her statement puzzled him, but he gave no indication of this fact when he said:

“Really! And when was that?”

“The last hour or so—when you were out. Several people called.” She produced a number of visiting-cards from the pocket of her overall and handed them to Rendell for inspection. “And what with one or two of the newspapers ringing up, and I don’t know what, he’s been quite busy—for him.”

Rendell said nothing. He was turning over the cards, as if mechanically, but actually with considerable interest. He detected several well-known names in the literary and social worlds, then, finally, one appeared bearing a name which startled him.

“Marsden!” he exclaimed.

“Oh yes, the crippled gentleman! My husband told me about him because he had such a job getting up the steps. And what’s more, he was so certain that Mr. Trent would have asked to see him that he wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer.”

Marsden! Rendell totted up probabilities, while contracting and expanding the card between his right thumb and forefinger. Then he remembered that Marsden had told him—before they dined together on the Sunday—that he was staying in London for some weeks. Inevitably, therefore, he would call to ask about Trent. It was rather surprising he had not been earlier.

“Didn’t say when he was coming again, I suppose?” Rendell asked at last.

“Well, now you mention it, as a matter of fact, he did. Told my husband he might come at six o’clock. And he said it in a tone which was as much as to say: ‘And mind you don’t keep me waiting!’ My husband wasn’t best pleased, I can tell you. That’s why he mentioned it to me.”

After a pause, she added:

“Well, I must be getting upstairs. You’ll let me know if you want anything?”

“I certainly will—and many thanks.”

She disappeared, and Rendell stretched himself on a sofa—whose appearance and personality seemed to defy anyone to subject its age to any such indignity—in the hope that he might sleep for a couple of hours.

Destiny granted half his desire, then, at about five o’clock, a single but resonant knock on the front door roused him to consciousness.

He rose, stretched and yawned simultaneously, then felt his way through the twilight of the hall.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but is Mr. Trent better?”

The voice was richly modulated. She stood looking up at him, and in the half-light he dimly discerned a broad powerfully-moulded face with dark eyes under black brows.

“A bit better, I think,” he replied. “Doctor won’t let him see anyone, so the nurse tells me, but I fancy he’s not as bad as he was yesterday. Will you leave your name? Then, later, I’ll see that he’s told that you called.”

She laughed pleasantly.

“Oh no, thanks all the same. I’m no one. I just wanted to know how he was. That’s all.”

But this self-effacement was too attractive for Rendell to let it go at that.

“What do you mean—you’re no one?” he demanded.

“I work in a bar in the West End. Mr. Trent used to come in sometimes. Not regularly, I don’t mean, far from it. But just now and then, every few months, when he was in London. And——”

“And?” Rendell echoed, as she hesitated.

“Oh well, I don’t know—he was always very nice to me. That’s all. Always had a bit of a talk before he went. Sometimes told me a book to read—once or twice gave me seats at a theatre for my night off. That’s all—but it helped. Gets a bit monotonous at times, serving in a bar.”

“I’ll bet my life it does!”

“You feel sometimes you’ll have to hide under the counter to get away from all the faces opposite. Then you get all right again, and go on. But I mustn’t take up your time like this.”

“That’s all right. What’s your name?”

“They always call me Rummy.”

“Why?”

“Oh, an old major who comes in a lot said some time ago he was going to call me Rummy because I was a rum ’un—and the name stuck.”

“Which bar do you work in?”

“The long bar at the Cosmopolitan.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll look you up there one day soon and tell you how Trent is.”

“Would you? I’d be grateful if you would. I must go now or I’ll be late. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Rendell shut the door, and immediately remembered that he had not asked Rummy whether she knew Trent was at No. 77 or whether she, like all the others, had come there as that address had been given in the newspaper. Then, having decided that he would ask her when he went to the Cosmopolitan, he dismissed the subject, and began to pace up and down the room—trying to determine whether or not he should see Marsden if the latter turned up at six o’clock.

A volley of blows on the front door interrupted his attempt to reach a decision.

“That probably is Marsden—but, if so, he’s a bit early. Anyhow, I’m not letting him in.”

A one-minute silence, then another series of determined knocks.

“By God, I won’t go!” Rendell exclaimed. “I’m damned if I do.”

A few moments later he heard steps in the hall. Evidently someone had heard the summons and was responding to it. Almost immediately Captain Frazer entered the room, without the formality of a knock on the door.

“Sorry and all that,” he began, in a tone that was an even blend of insolence and servility, “but there’s someone else come about Trent. My wife tells me you’ve been good enough to——”

“Yes, I have,” Rendell cut in, “but I can’t keep on interviewing Trent’s friends for ever. May go on for days.”

“Quite—quite! Never mind. Don’t you worry. I’ll send my wife down. I’ve got to go out for five minutes. Important, you understand. But I’ll send her down. Don’t you bother.”

“She’s probably enough to do,” Rendell replied bluntly. “As you put that paragraph in the paper, it seems to me that it’s up to you to deal with its consequences.”

Captain Frazer stiffened till he became completely rigid, his right eye winking convulsively. Then, still erect as a sentinel, he turned and marched out of the room.

A moment later the front door banged.

“God! he’s gone! Hope the visitor’s gone with him.”

But Rendell soon discovered that the reverse was the fact. Frazer had evidently considered that the effect of his military exit would have been marred had he paused to close the door. It remained three-quarters open, and Rendell, who had begun to pace the room again, was not a little astonished suddenly to find that a woman stood in the doorway, regarding him with somewhat grim attention.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you,” she began in a collected manner, which, nevertheless, suggested one or two rehearsals, “to give me some information.”

“Well, why not? I’m getting pretty used to it. In an honorary capacity, you understand.”

“Is Ivor Trent still here?” she asked, with measured deliberation.

“He is.”

“He’s not still—delirious?” The last word was jerked out, despite a great, and obvious, effort at control.

“Very excited, is the phrase the nurse used—when I asked her this afternoon.”

A long pause.

Rendell made no attempt to mask his scrutiny of her, as he considered that her method of entry, and her general manner, did not necessitate elaborate courtesy.

She was about twenty-four. Her broad face, with its strong regular features, would have been commonplace had it not been for the deep-set dark eyes. The eyes might have belonged to a fanatic. Unlike Rosalie Vivian, there was nothing elusive about her figure. It was sturdy, somewhat over-developed, and seemed to rebel against the restriction of clothes.

“Yes, that’s what the nurse said some hours ago,” Rendell went on, “‘very excited,’ were her exact words.” He paused, then added: “Of course, he may be delirious again now.”

A sudden determination to humble her made him add the last sentence. Her assurance was assumed—her manner was a pose. She had consciously adopted a method to create a definite impression. Rendell was certain of it, and so he had made that reference to the possibility of Trent being again delirious—in much the same spirit as he would have shown a whip to a dog that was putting on airs.

His success was dramatic, for she blushed a deep crimson. Her embarrassment was so extreme that he shared it.

She sat down limply and half closed her eyes.

“But in all probability,” Rendell said quickly, “he’s over the delirium for good.”

“Why is he here?”

She asked the question lifelessly, with no trace of her former manner.

“Well,” Rendell began, then hesitated. After all, why should he reveal Trent’s secret? “I will only tell you that his publisher and agent were here this morning and they assume he collapsed in the street and was brought in here. Have you seen him lately?”

“No—not for months. I don’t want to see him—ever! I only came because the paper said he was——”

She broke off and again there was silence.

“I’m afraid I’m not much help,” Rendell said slowly. Then an idea occurred to him, and he added: “Do you know any of his friends?”

“I met one some time ago. A man called Denis Wrayburn.” She moved uneasily as if her memories of him were not pleasant. Then she went on: “And I met another. His name was Peter Marsden.”

“Marsden! That’s odd, because he’ll probably turn up any minute. Perhaps you’d like to see him.”

“Why?”

“Well, he was here earlier and had a talk with Captain Frazer—that’s the man who owns this house—so perhaps Marsden could tell you more definitely than I can how Trent is.”

“I’m completely indifferent as to how he is,” she replied. “Have I asked you once how he was?”

“Well, no, you haven’t.”

“If you had told me that he was dead, I shouldn’t have cared in the least. I’d have been glad. I hate him as I’ve never hated anyone—and I’m not a bad hater. All I’m afraid of is that if he’s—delirious—he might babble some infamous lies about—well—me, if you want to know.”

“I didn’t want to know particularly, or I should have asked. You volunteered the information.”

She turned to him, and their eyes met for the first time. The dark intensity glowing in hers almost startled him.

“You are a friend of his?” she asked more humbly.

“I’ve never seen him.”

“Read his books, perhaps?”

“One of them.”

“I wish to God I’d never read a line he’s written. Anyway, his books are all lies.”

As Rendell said nothing, she went on:

“You don’t agree, of course!”

“I don’t know what you mean by all lies. I’ve read only one of his books, but I read it three times. To me, it was a revelation. But I’m not a critic, like Marsden.”

She was about to speak, but Rendell silenced her with a gesture. He was standing by the window, listening intently to a minor commotion on the steps.

“That sounds like Marsden. I’ll ask him in. That is, if you have no objection.”

“Just as you like, I’m completely indifferent.”

Rendell opened the door, but, finding that the maid who happened to be in the hall was about to respond to a knock, he said to her:

“If that’s Mr. Marsden, show him in here, will you?”

A moment afterwards Marsden appeared. He stood in the doorway, supported by crutches, gazing from one to the other in considerable perplexity.

“You’re Vera Thornton,” he said at last. “I can understand your being here. But what on earth are you doing, Rendell—and whose room is this?”

“Mine,” Rendell replied. “Let’s take those things, then you can sit down and have a cigarette.”

Marsden allowed himself to be relieved of his crutches, then sank into a chair and accepted the cigarette Rendell offered him. But during these operations his sharp little eyes did not cease to regard Rendell with a hint of disapproval.

“Your room!” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing in this hole? Why, good God! they can’t even answer the door.”

Rendell explained briefly the impulse which had prompted him to come to No. 77 the night before; the manner of his reception, and his sudden decision to take the room. In extenuation of his eccentricity in so doing, he pointed out to Marsden that his action was really no more than a sequel to their conversation during dinner on the previous Sunday.

He ended by saying:

“The fact that I dragged you out in the fog to dine and talk about a man I don’t know was a pretty good indication that I was mentally and emotionally unemployed. Well, I still am. I had to clear out of the club: I came to inquire about Trent: I found this room vacant and I took it. It’s not really as odd as it sounds.”

Marsden immediately asked a number of questions—the answers to which only necessitated restatements of the explanation already given. Rendell made them mechanically, while secretly trying to determine whether or not to reveal to Marsden any of the strange information he had amassed during his brief residence at No. 77.

He had longer to ponder this problem than he could have anticipated, as Marsden suddenly transferred his attention to Vera Thornton. Rendell, therefore, continued his private deliberations, but even so, he did not fail to notice that Marsden possessed one manner for men and another for women. Vera Thornton’s presence transformed him. He spoke in a higher key, with great animation, referred frequently to his literary activities, and generally represented his life as a brilliant and dashing affair—which brought him into intimate contact with everyone and everything worth while.

Rendell was amused, but grateful. He had time to reach a decision—subject to the answers to certain questions, which he now proceeded to ask.

“Your plans haven’t changed, Marsden, I suppose? You’re going to be in town for some weeks?”

“Yes, why?”

“I only wondered. So you’ll be coming here to inquire about Trent pretty often, naturally.”

“I shall be coming to see him. I’ve no doubt whatever that he’s already asked for me, but they’re in such a muddle in this house that I’ve not been told.”

Rendell hesitated. Marsden would be visiting the house frequently. He’d learn Trent’s secret from Captain Frazer or his wife. Well, then, he might as well tell him.

“Yes, they’re very casual here,” he said lightly. “But I expect you’ve known the house and its ways for a long time.”

“Do you mind telling me—exactly—what you’re talking about?”

There was lofty patronage in Marsden’s tone. Although he addressed Rendell, he looked at Vera Thornton.

“I said that I expect you’ve known the house, and its ways, for a long time,” Rendell repeated. “Not a very surprising statement—as Trent has had rooms at the top of this house for the last ten years.”

“Why, you must be——”

But Vera Thornton had risen and was staring at Rendell.

“For the last ten years!” she exclaimed.

“Yes—he’s written all his books here.”

Marsden could restrain himself no longer.

“My dear Rendell, I don’t want to be offensive, but you really are talking the most fantastic nonsense. Ivor Trent is an old friend of mine, a very old friend—as you know perfectly well—and I do really rather think I know something about his movements.”

“Yes, I know you think you do,” Rendell replied curtly, “but the point is—you don’t.”

“But, my good man——”

“I’m not arguing, Marsden. Ask Captain Frazer, or his wife, if you don’t choose to believe me. You’ll find one or other of them downstairs.”

“But he told me himself, only last week——”

“That he was going abroad on Sunday to write his new book,” Rendell cut in. “I’m quite sure he did. He told his publisher and his agent just what he told you. Well, it was a lie.”

“Look here!” Marsden shouted, “Trent’s a friend of mine and——”

“It was a lie,” Rendell interrupted. “He was coming here. Every two or three years he comes here, and stays here for months—writing. They expected him to arrive about nine o’clock on Sunday night. He’d sent his luggage by taxi in advance. Well, he did arrive at about nine o’clock—and collapsed directly the front door was opened. Now, those are facts—which you can confirm. And you can make what you can of them.”

They stared at him in silence. Fully a minute passed, then Rendell went on:

“I suggest you see Mrs. Frazer and cross-examine her yourself. You can see her here, if you like. I’m going for a walk and then I shall dine—and come back early. You’ll excuse my leaving you, but I’ve had enough of Ivor Trent for one day.”

He nodded to Marsden, bowed to Vera Thornton, then left them together.

IX

A surging wind which rose occasionally to a squall, hurtling drops of stinging rain, buffeted Rendell directly he left the house. He turned up the collar of his overcoat, then swung along, surrendering to the exaltation of physical exertion. Soon the rapid movement, the resistance of the wind—which attained almost gale intensity when he reached the Embankment—deprived him of all sense of identity. He ceased to be Rendell: he was a man fighting with the wind.

The Embankment was deserted. A low-lying moon—now hidden, now revealed by routed battalions of flying clouds—intermittently illuminated the scene. Whirlwind confusion claimed everything. Leaves leapt fantastically upward; lights quivered; houses cowered back in the shadows. The pulse of the sea raged in the turbulent river.

Rendell battled on through the derisive fury of the wind for half an hour, then, encountering a sudden onslaught of icy hail, he turned and was blown back to Chelsea in ten minutes.

He hurried into the first restaurant he found, which stood in a narrow street, a public garden being between it and the Embankment. He closed the door with difficulty, then looked round blinking—the sound of the wind in his ears, and the darkness of the night in his eyes.

Gradually the room ceased to be a blur. Objects began to emerge. First, several black tables lit by candles in silver sticks, then a warm-coloured floor, and finally white walls on which hung various brass articles reflecting the candle-light.

All the tables were occupied, but having caught a glimpse through a narrow archway at the back of the shadowy forms of other diners, he walked through the room—only to discover that the two or three tables at the rear were also occupied. Noticing, however, a corkscrew stairway leading to mysterious regions above, he mounted it—passing several candles, set in various nooks and crannies, each of which flickered wastefully in the draught.

A smaller room containing little black tables awaited him. Bare boards emphasised the sound of every movement. The lower half of the walls was covered with dark woodwork, the upper half being whitewashed, A waiter in a white coat—of the type sometimes worn by dentists—was standing in a corner surveying the diners with an air of benevolent detachment. His head was tilted back, and his tongue was making certain involved and highly technical explorations in the left region of his upper jaw.

Rendell, having observed these details, and having detected a small table near the window, crossed to it, sat down, and picked up the menu.

After an interval, the waiter strolled across, leaned lightly on the corner of the table, and studied the menu over Rendell’s head in a manner which suggested that he had never seen it before, would never see it again, and was anxious to memorise its details.

“What’s the steak and kidney pie like?” Rendell asked.

“I’d have it, if I were you. Tasty! Boiled and cabbage?”

“All right—boiled and cabbage.”

The waiter turned, gazed at the stormy scene from the window for some moments, then crossed the room, picked up a newspaper, glanced at it impassively, and finally disappeared, rattling a pencil between his teeth.

Rendell surveyed the room and its occupants. The latter consisted of couples, or studious-looking solitary young men with books propped up against the heavy candlesticks. A cultured calm lingered over everything. Rendell decided that he liked the place. If the food were as good as the atmosphere was unique, he had made a useful discovery.

The food proved to be excellent, although the waiter placed it in front of him with an expression which implied that its appearance was a lucky fluke, and was by no means to be regarded as a precedent.

It is probable that if an incident had not occurred at this particular moment, Rendell would have engaged the waiter in conversation. His bony physiognomy, his rapt abstracted gaze, his attractive nonchalance which seemed to imply that his present activity, though temporary, was interesting—and that he derived deep inner satisfaction from witnessing its performance—all prompted Rendell to talk with him. But an incident prevented this.

A remarkable-looking individual appeared at the top of the stairs, then stood motionless and subjected each table to a searching scrutiny. He wore a light, and very wet, fawn overcoat and held a drenched soft hat in his left hand. A strand of black straight hair had fallen across a high, narrow forehead. A small moustache, and a dank little beard, contrasted oddly with the frail feminine features. The bony shoulders, too, seemed disproportionately heavy for the slender body. Grey eyes looked penetratingly out of the hatchet-shaped face.

His survey of the table continued with great deliberation. Rendell’s was the last to be reviewed. Consequently Rendell discovered that his features and general appearance were the subject of profound consideration by an odd-looking individual who stood motionless the other side of the room. One glance at this person created a sensation of intense aversion in Rendell, and an angry hope that he would not occupy the empty chair at his table.

The latter was destined to perish, for the unknown crossed the room with swift, long strides, halted opposite Rendell, and announced:

“Your name is Rendell.”

Accepting the latter’s look of astonishment as assent, the new-comer removed his overcoat and handed it, with his hat, to the waiter, and then proceeded to give him the most minute instructions as to the manner in which they were to be dried. Having specified the precise distance from the fire which they were to occupy, and the exact duration of their tenancy, he picked up the menu, tossed back his strand of errant hair, and studied the bill of fare with an absolute concentration.

When a minute had passed, the waiter made a suggestion.

The menu was immediately put down, the waiter regarded with passionless animosity, then this brief announcement was made:

“I will choose.”

Rendell was surprised to discover that there was nothing in the least amusing about all this. It was hard and repellent. The atmosphere of cold isolation which enveloped this man was definitely the reverse of amusing. Rendell began to study his appearance in greater detail.

Everything about his clothes was incredibly neat. The fawn suit, the long-pointed soft collar, the dark tie, links—everything—suggested a deliberate choice—calculated to create a certain general effect. He looked like a fastidious student. He was probably about thirty.

Rendell’s aversion increased. The narrow face with its dark pointed beard; the mauve vein clearly discernible on each temple; the slender hands with their tapering fingers, and, chiefly, the glacial aura which invested him, all contributed to foster Rendell’s dislike. Also he objected to a mole on his right eyebrow—which he had just detected.

At last an order was given to the waiter. It consisted of eggs. Minute directions as to their preparation followed, and the waiter was not permitted to withdraw until his repetition of his instructions was correct to the last detail.

“My name is Denis Wrayburn.”

The very articulate pedantic tone increased Rendell’s irritability.

“I don’t know that I’m particularly interested,” he began, then broke off in obedience to a quick gesture from Wrayburn.

“Would you mind having this chair? It’s in a draught.” A pause. Then Wrayburn added, stabbing his right forefinger towards Rendell: “Say if you do mind, of course.”

To Rendell’s great astonishment, he rose, pushed his plate, etc., across the table, then seated himself in the draught Wrayburn had vacated.

“I have just come from 77, Potiphar Street,” he announced, pausing between each word as if to suggest that every action of his had a special significance.

“From Potiphar Street!”

“To look for you. No—please!” A restraining hand was raised. “Let me explain. It will be quicker. I found there two extremely stupid persons: Peter Marsden and Vera Thornton. Both excited, both incoherent. By cross-examination I elicited that they were in your room, and that their information concerning Trent had come from you. They said you were dining out and returning early. I knew, therefore, that you would dine locally. I made them describe you, and then I came here.”

“And why did you imagine I should be here?”

“They said you were going for a walk. In Chelsea, that usually means the Embankment. Anyway, does it matter? You are Rendell, and I have found you.”

The coolness with which it was assumed that Rendell would not resent this intrusion lacked insolence, for it was absolute. Rendell was annoyed at not being irritated.

“I have not come to chatter,” Wrayburn went on. “I’m not in the least interested in the fact that Trent’s had rooms in that house for years without telling his friends. I leave that to Peter and Vera to discuss.” He used their Christian names with withering emphasis. “I’ve come here to see just what sort of a person you are.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful. I’m——”

But as Wrayburn actually writhed at such a commonplace attempt at satire, Rendell broke off, feeling a trifle stupid—greatly to his secret irritation.

Nevertheless, he looked sharply at Wrayburn, seeking legitimate fuel for his anger—and finding it. Wrayburn’s attitude was offensive. He sat very upright, and, although his glance met Rendell’s, his head was slightly averted. The effect was inquisitorial and Rendell resented it.

“If you would rather be alone,” Wrayburn said slowly, emphasising each word, “say so now. Personally, I doubt it. You think you’re a lonely person.”

Rendell did not reply immediately. Wrayburn’s remark showed clearly that he was determined to define their relations from the outset. He would sever them—or dominate them. It was for Rendell to choose, once and finally. And the latter was too interested in this odd individual to dismiss him.

“You said I was a lonely person, I suppose, because Marsden told you so.”

“He did not tell me so. He told me that you had taken a room at No. 77 on impulse—although you do not know Trent. Well, that is the sort of thing a person does who thinks he is lonely. That is, of course, if he can afford it—which you can.”

“I see. You’re an expert in loneliness. Is that it?”

A flush passed over Wrayburn’s features. It came—and went—instantly. His voice was even more controlled and even more pedantic when he replied:

“I am an expert in detecting people who think they are lonely. One moment! Here are my eggs.”

A scrutiny of them, and a cross-examination of the waiter, followed. Then Wrayburn began to eat—in the manner of one performing an occult rite. Several minutes passed in silence. Eventually Rendell realised that Wrayburn had not the slightest intention of resuming conversation till he had finished.

He glanced at him again, though inwardly ashamed of the interest this odd person had created in him. Rendell had been to a lot of places and met numbers of people, but nowhere had he encountered anyone in the least like Wrayburn. Of that he was certain. Appearance, speech, personality—all were unique. Nevertheless, he disliked him, and felt uneasy in his presence.

To divert his thoughts, he looked out of the window. Through the rocking boughs of half-naked trees he caught a glimpse of the turbulent river. The moon was obscured, so all was darkness, except for a few street lights—and a lurid glow on the water which was the reflection of an advertisement in letters of crimson fire that adorned a building on the south side of the river. The wind still raged and—with increasing frequency—great rain-drops lashed the window-pane.

“I have finished eating.”

The statement made Rendell start like a guilty schoolboy. He endeavoured to retrieve his dignity by offering Wrayburn a cigarette.

It was refused with a lightning flick of the hand.

Rendell lit his cigarette then decided to assert himself. It was absurd to surrender to this stick of a man whom he could kill with one hand.

“How long have you known Trent?” he demanded.

“I have known him five years. Why?”

“Because I wanted to know,” Rendell replied brusquely. “Do you know any of his friends?”

“I have told you that I know Peter and Vera,” Wrayburn pointed out coldly. “I know others, of course. Why?”

“Well, damn it,” Rendell exploded, “you came here to talk about Trent, didn’t you?”

Wrayburn leaned forward, then, placing his elbow on the table and stabbing his left forefinger at Rendell, demanded:

“Do you really consider such questions and answers as talking about a man? Do you really? That’s interesting, extremely interesting.”

He regarded Rendell with genuine curiosity as if he were a species of half-wit hitherto unencountered.

“Do you mind,” he went on, “if I prove that such questions are meaningless? Do say, if you do mind. I shall not be offended.”

“Well, go on,” said Rendell gruffly.

“You asked how long I had known Trent.” Again the emphasis with withering. “And I replied: five years. If you’d asked Marsden the same question, and he had told you that he had known Trent for twenty years, would you have assumed that he knew him four times as well as I do? If not, I do not see the significance of the question.”

Rendell felt there was an answer, but, as he couldn’t discover it, he felt a trifle stupid.

“Do you think,” Wrayburn went on—stroking his little beard as if to convince himself of its existence—“as a favour to me, you could avoid cliché remarks? Do you think you could?” he repeated, in the tone of an icy governess trying to coax a dull child into intelligence.

Rendell blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke.

“Perhaps it would be safer if I listened to you,” he announced grimly. “That would settle it.”

“That’s an intelligent suggestion. But—just one minute!”

He extended his arm and, without turning his head, began to snap his fingers to attract the waiter’s attention. As the snaps sounded like revolver-shots, he was soon successful.

Wrayburn held out a neat wrist-watch for the waiter’s inspection, then tapped it with a finger-nail.

“It’s time for my coat and hat to be removed further from the fire. Not nearer to it—further from it. You understand that? And in five minutes—five minutes—I want some weak China tea.”

The waiter vanished.

“I want to know one thing,” Rendell demanded, with a rising note in his voice, “do you invariably address people as if they were idiots?”

“Habitually—until they’ve submitted definite evidence to the contrary.”

“I see. I only wanted to know.”

Wrayburn ignored this comment so completely that Rendell felt he had not made it.

But it was evident that Wrayburn was pondering a problem. His glance was fixed on Rendell, his thin lips were pursed, and he drummed lightly on the table with his fingers.

“Yes, I think so,” he said slowly. “I think this will convince you how stupid it is to ask a person how long he has known someone. Now, I have only just met you. An hour ago I did not know that you existed. Do you accept those statements as facts?”

“Certainly,” Rendell replied, “I’ve every reason to believe they are facts.”

“Excellent. I now propose to tell you what I make of you—having just met you. Then you can compare it with the knowledge of someone who has known you for years.”

Rendell put his cigarette out and lit another. He did not anticipate Wrayburn’s psychological diagnosis with equanimity.

“To begin with,” Wrayburn said quickly, as if to have done with a platitude, “you are a natural man who has reached a state of considerable muddle and——”

“But, look here——”

“One moment!” Wrayburn’s hand shot up in protest. “Do you propose to interrupt? Just say, if so—then I can adapt myself.”

“I confess I rather wanted your definition of a natural man.”

Wrayburn regarded him in a manner which soon convinced Rendell that he had sunk to the status of a quarter-wit, in his companion’s estimation.

“I see how it is,” the latter said to himself meditatively. “Only facts, I think—just simple obvious facts.” Then, abandoning soliloquy, he turned to Rendell and said clearly and rapidly:

“You are about forty. You know your world well. You always knew what you wanted, and had the requisite ability to get it. You’ve travelled a lot—obviously. You’ve been in difficult situations, have had to handle men—and you have been successful because your instinct is more developed than your intelligence. You might belong to one of several activities. You might be, for example, the South American manager of a big exporting firm. You might be a mining engineer. Or, just conceivably, an explorer.”

Wrayburn broke off. Again he extended his arm, and began to snap his fingers to summon the waiter.

“My weak China tea,” he demanded, when that individual appeared, without glancing at him.

“Things went on pretty well with you till a few years ago, I imagine,” Wrayburn continued in the maimer of a lecturer. “Then you probably fell in love and it wasn’t wholly successful.”

“I married three years ago and—two years later—my wife died,” Rendell said simply.

“I felt it wasn’t wholly successful. Just one minute!”

The tea had arrived. It was inspected minutely—and eventually accepted.

“Since then,” Wrayburn continued, as if no interruption had occurred, “you’ve found yourself in a world of which you know nothing—the interior world. You were only familiar with the external one.” A pause, then he added: “Mr. Peter Marsden told me that a book of Trent’s had interested you. That fact, and your going to Number 77, and your appearance makes what I’ve told you very obvious.”

Rendell put his cigarette in the ash-tray, then stared uneasily at his companion. Wrayburn’s analysis compelled respect.

“Look here,” he said at last, “I may as well admit——”

But Wrayburn waved him into silence.

“Confirmation is of no interest. It’s all very obvious—and rather tedious. I merely wanted to demonstrate that how long one person has known another is not remotely to do with anything. That had to be established before we could discuss Trent productively.”

Rendell realised that he must surrender all hope of gaining the initiative in this conversation unless he could produce an analysis of Wrayburn as penetrating as the one just delivered by that psychologist. Recognising his inability, he said slowly:

“Couldn’t say much about you, I’m afraid. Nothing positive, anyway. I could only say what you’re not.”

“That’s intelligent—quite intelligent,” Wrayburn replied, a sudden flush invading his countenance and vanishing instantly. “Just one minute! This tea is not right.”

“Have some black coffee?”

“If I had one cup of black coffee, my good man, I should suffer certain peculiar physical disabilities for a fairly extensive period.”

He had the tea removed, then, having asked Rendell, who was about to light another cigarette, whether this was an essential proceeding on his part and, if not, whether he would refrain—he proceeded to give a brief account of himself, which was a miracle of lucidity and detachment.

Wrayburn did not remember his parents, did not admit the existence of relatives, had no money, but had, nevertheless, acquired an extensive education by means of scholarships, and a clairvoyant faculty for detecting anything that was going for nothing. On coming down from Cambridge, this faculty—and a gift for organisation—had enabled him to make what he referred to as a “tight-rope” living in a series of miscellaneous activities. He had served as a courier to a rich American family. He had been a lecturer, an interpreter, a translator, and a reviewer. He had travelled as a tutor with several distinguished families. He had catalogued private libraries, organised a medical conference, and generally held a bewildering number of appointments—all of a transitory nature.

Rendell watched him as he listened, amazed at the will of this fragile-looking man who narrated his experiences with the detachment of an onlooker. There was heroism and pathos in this creature pitting himself against the world and wresting from it a precarious and solitary existence. For Rendell was convinced that Wrayburn was solitary, although it transpired that he had numerous acquaintances. Also, it was very obvious that, physically, Wrayburn lived on the frontier of life. His references to his health, and to the many and involved precautions necessary “to enable him to function,” were too numerous and detailed to leave a remnant of doubt. Finally, Rendell decided that only his eyes were alive, but in them shone the light of a cold implacable will. He had no illusions about himself, and none concerning the world outside him.

“I am a completely negative and wholly conscious person,” he announced in conclusion, his right hand coaxing his beard to its maximum dimension. “I am outside life as it is lived. I know it. I accept it. People like me have to come to terms with actuality, once and finally. I have looked at life through the dirty windows of innumerable bed-sitting-rooms in many cities. My destiny is to observe. That’s why your appearance told me a good deal.”

“Told you a damned lot, in my opinion,” Rendell admitted grudgingly.

Wrayburn regarded him intently.

“And—be frank, you understand—do you mean that my appearance doesn’t tell you a good deal?”

“No, not particularly. Of course——”

But Wrayburn leaned towards him, then asked quickly, indicating his clothes with a swift gesture:

“This suit—for instance—tie, shirt, and so on. Wouldn’t you guess, from their general neatness and all that—that this rig-out is the only one I possess? Wouldn’t you—wouldn’t you?” he asked, with lightning rapidity, the sudden flush invading his features and vanishing instantly. “You wouldn’t! Really! If you happened to notice me in the street, you’d think—would you?—that I was more or less a normal person? Would you? Say if you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, of course,” Rendell lied. “Why not?”

“That’s all right, then. I only wanted to know. So, if you saw me in the street, you’d think—there’s a student, rather a neat student. You would? That’s all right then.”

Rendell moved uneasily. Wrayburn was regarding him intently, although his right hand continued to supplicate his beard to greater endeavours. As Rendell saw it, this desire to be regarded as normal was significant. And it was pathetic.

Wrayburn made a swift motion of his hand, which was his method of indicating that another phase of their conversation had come to an end. Then he glanced at his watch.

“It’s still early, but, nevertheless, I propose to go now. I am not very well. It’s nothing. I know exactly how to deal with it. But, still, I think I shall go. I will meet you to discuss Trent shortly. Just one minute! I must think which day will suit me.”

He withdrew into himself and remained motionless for some moments with closed eyes.

“Next Sunday. No! next Monday. After dinner. It will probably be wet, so you had better come to my room. I am at 4, Waldegrave Road, Fulham—for the minute. No, don’t remember it—write it down. Here’s a pencil and a piece of paper.”

Rendell wrote it down.

Again Wrayburn’s fingers snapped like revolver-shots—till the waiter brought his coat and hat. He made entirely certain that they were dry, then put on his overcoat, refusing the waiter’s proffered assistance.

“Now, sir!” the latter exclaimed genially, turning to Rendell, who was waiting for his bill. “What shall we say? Three bob?”

“Very well,” Rendell replied. “Three bob.”

He gave the man three shillings and sixpence.

“I thank you. And now, you, sir——” the waiter went on. “Your bill is——”

“One and ninepence,” Wrayburn interrupted in a tone of finality. “I did not have that extra pat of butter.”

He gave the man one and elevenpence. Directly the waiter had retired, he turned to Rendell and said.

“Your bill was three shillings. Did you give the waiter sixpence?”

“I did. Why?”

“Fourpence would have been rather more than ten per cent. It’s people like you who spoil waiters for people like me.”

Rendell pondered this statement as he followed Wrayburn down the corkscrew stairway.

When they reached the pavement they discovered that it was raining heavily.

By a miracle, there was a taxi on the rank opposite. Rendell hailed it, then said to Wrayburn: “Could I take you as far as——”

“Jump in, jump in!” the latter exclaimed. “I’m getting wet.”

Rendell got in, then heard Wrayburn say to the driver in a tone of icy exactitude:

“Go, first, to 4, Waldegrave Road, Fulham. Then take this gentleman on to 77, Potiphar Street.”

X

During the next few days Rendell made the commonplace discovery that until events cease to present themselves in a never-ending sequence, leisure is lacking for an analysis of the more important of them. Thus, although he made several appointments with himself—at which he proposed to review his conversations with Rosalie Vivian, Vera Thornton, and Denis Wrayburn—he kept none of them owing to new and unanticipated demands on his time and curiosity.

The first of these was the discovery of the extraordinary relations existing between Captain Frazer and his wife. Soon after his arrival, Rendell had realised that these were far from normal, but their actual complexity was not revealed till the morning following his conversation with Wrayburn.

The manner of their revelation was somewhat dramatic, for Captain Frazer—having had a bitter dispute with his wife during breakfast—burst into Rendell’s room at an early hour and straightway proceeded to narrate the long history of his wrongs with hysterical vehemence.

When Rendell could obtain a hearing, he attempted to suggest that possibly Mrs. Frazer would object to the discussion of these intimate details with a stranger. But he got no further, as Frazer exclaimed:

“Never mind about her. She’s all right. She’s gone to the shops. Yes, Captain Frazer’s wife has gone to the shops—to haggle with tradespeople, or to cajole them to wait a little longer for their damned money! She’s not got the pride of a rat! You’re not married, I take it? Well, don’t you marry out of your class. I did, and it’s dragged me down to this—to this!”

Quivering with indignation, he took a cigarette from Rendell’s case, which was open on the table.

“But I’ll tell you something,” he raced on, coming nearer to Rendell and speaking in a significant whisper, “this show of hers will go bust soon—and a blasted good job too! The sooner the better!”

Rendell said nothing. Frazer’s exaltation at the imminence of an event which would involve his own destitution could only be witnessed in silent astonishment.

“She lies—do you know that? Take the lodgers here—will she admit the facts about them? Not she!” He laughed unpleasantly. “What about the woman in the room upstairs? Says she’s a palmist and a clairvoyante. I ask you! Four or five men come very regularly to have their fortunes told. They must know them by heart. But she believes the woman’s a palmist. Shall I tell you why?”

Rendell remained silent, so Frazer went on:

“Because she’s about the only one who pays her rent regularly. That’s why. There’s sickening stinking humbug for you!”

But Rendell had had enough.

“Look here, Frazer,” he said curtly, “I’m not too keen on discussing people in their absence——”

“I bet she discussed me in my absence! I bet she asked you not to pay your rent to me, or to lend me money. Yes or no?”

“Yes. And I said I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want any money out of this hole—and she knows it. I left here once—and I’ll go again before long. I’ve some irons in the fire that would surprise Mrs. Basement.”

Frazer paused, in order to allow Rendell time to appreciate that Mrs. Basement was a synonym for Mrs. Frazer, then he went on:

“I’ve friends—business deals—she knows nothing about. She thinks I’m a fixture here. I’ll show her how much of a fixture I am before she’s very much older.”

“You left here once?” Rendell asked, curiosity overmastering him.

Frazer gave a shrill laugh.

“Yes I did! Well, when I say I left, it was more amusing than that. Here!” he exclaimed, seizing Rendell’s arm. “Come downstairs. I’ll show you something. You’ve time, I take it?”

Rendell allowed himself to be piloted down the basement stairs. Eventually he was ushered into a small square room which looked out on to a neglected backyard.

“My study,” Frazer announced.

Rendell looked round with some curiosity.

In a prominent position over the mantelpiece hung Frazer’s commission in a narrow black frame. Suspended above it was a sword. A case containing three medals stood in the centre of a small table near the window. The walls were almost hidden by huge photographs of regimental groups—and nearly a dozen others, depicting a uniformed Frazer in a series of martial attitudes, his hand on his sword. Festooned round several of the frames were the dust-laden scarlet poppies of many Armistice Days.

The solitary chair the room contained was in the corner furthest from the fire, but at an angle from which a comprehensive view of these trophies was obtainable.

Frazer stood like a sentinel while Rendell examined these witnesses to his former glory.

“This is what I was. And you can see what I am—thanks to Mrs. Basement.”

Rendell began to ponder the precise extent to which Mrs. Frazer could be regarded as responsible for the world war, when his speculations were interrupted by Frazer announcing:

“Well go back to your room now. No objection, I take it. She may come back any minute. Not that she ever comes in here. I won’t allow that.”

When they had returned to his room, Rendell reminded the Captain that he had not revealed the circumstances in which he had left No. 77.

“I didn’t leave—actually,” Frazer cut in. “It was a trifle more subtle than that. I was left a little money a year or so ago. Not much, you understand. Well, I took a room here—and paid for it. And I insisted on being properly looked after. There was no doubt about that. They knew they had an ex-officer for a lodger, I can tell you.”

Rendell stared so long at the gaunt emaciated figure that Frazer’s right eye suddenly began to produce a series of winks with bewildering rapidity.

“But next time,” he shouted, “next time I’m clearing out—and for good. Stay here with these nobodies for the rest of my life! Never—never! And I’ll tell you something else. She won’t, but I will. What about the great Mr. Trent, eh? What about him?”

“I don’t follow you,” Rendell replied truthfully.

“Don’t you?” He came nearer Rendell, his face distorted by a leer. “Comes here to write his books—that’s what you’re told, aren’t you?”

“That’s what you told me.”

“Bah!—only quoting her. She pretends to believe it. If it’s true, you tell me this—why did none of his friends know he was here? Marsden didn’t. I talked to him last night. He wouldn’t believe that Trent had had rooms here for years. Neither would the woman who was with him, Vera Thornton. Fine woman that, by the way. Plenty of her—not one of these boys in skirts like most women are nowadays. Well, neither of them would believe it about Trent. They went to dine together to discuss it.”

“And what is your explanation?” Rendell asked with simulated interest, for, actually, he was thanking destiny that Frazer had not interviewed Rosalie Vivian and knew nothing about her.

“Explanation! Obvious, my good sir. He used this house for his filthy affairs. There’s a woman, an artist’s model, who stays here sometimes, who knows more than she’ll say. A red-haired beauty, who hasn’t a farthing. But that’s by the way. That’s why Mr. Trent had those rooms all these years. And that Bible-punching wife of mine knows it. That’s why our Mr. Trent bribed her by lending her money to keep the damned place going. Why——”

Frazer broke off abruptly. He was standing by the window.

“There she is! Mrs. Basement must have forgotten something. Bah! She looks like a servant. I’m getting out of this. I can’t stand it for another second!”

He disappeared, and almost immediately the front door banged. But as, a moment later, Mrs. Frazer knocked on Rendell’s door, it is probable that she had guessed the nature of her husband’s activities during her absence.

“Come in,” Rendell cried in response to the knock. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Frazer. I——”

“He’s not been troubling you, has he?” she asked tonelessly.

“Yes. He’s been in here.”

“Did he show you his room?”

“He did.”

“I thought so. Always shows someone his room: after we’ve had a row.”

She stood motionless, holding a heavily-laden shopping basket with both hands.

“Did he mention Mr. Trent?”

“Yes, I’m afraid he did.”

“Ah well!”

She put the basket on the floor with a weary movement.

“He’s going to make trouble,” she added.

“You mean that he’s discovered that Mr. Trent’s friends did not know he had rooms here, and——” Rendell hesitated

“Yes, that’s what’s worrying me. He loves to think the worst. And he’ll borrow money, if he can, from the people who call to inquire. He had some from Mr. Marsden last night.”

Rendell turned a laugh into a cough, then said sympathetically:

“I’m afraid he gives you plenty to worry about.”

“Worry!”

And then, mechanically and in a drab tone, she enumerated certain of the more quotable of her husband’s activities. Rendell learned that, should a prospective lodger call when his wife was out, he would give him or her instant possession of a vacant room, providing something was paid there and then to him on account. Also, ignoring her entreaties, he would collect a part of the rent from the less reputable lodgers, giving a receipt for the whole of it. In addition, if a bottle of whisky was left out in any of the rooms, the Captain would help himself frequently and with liberality. And, finally, that in a number of ways—some of which Mrs. Frazer preferred not to mention—he conducted underground warfare against her, and the lodgers who were loyal to her, ceaselessly and with great cunning.

When she had finished, Rendell turned to her and said emphatically:

“Now, you listen to me, Mrs. Frazer. If you drift on like this, he’ll bring you and himself to the gutter. Why don’t you allow him thirty shillings a week on the express condition that he gets out—and stays out.”

There was a long silence. Then, slowly, she raised her eyes till her glance met his. It told him that she loved her wreck of a husband.

“Good God,” he said softly, “good God.”

Then, fearing he might have embarrassed her, he added with an attempt at jocularity:

“Well, it’s fortunate you haven’t any children.”

“I have one,” she replied enigmatically, then picked up the heavy basket and went slowly out of the room. . . .

As a result of these disclosures, and a long conversation with the servant, Mary, which occurred soon after Mrs. Frazer had left him, Rendell gained an accurate knowledge of No. 77 and its lodgers.

Briefly summarised, he learned that the house contained a fixed and a floating population and that, roughly, the fixed were Mrs. Frazer’s allies, and the floating were the Captain’s. The term, fixed, was a relative one, however, as it was conferred on anyone who had been in the house for three months and had no immediate intention of departing. But this stable element was in the minority—and whether or not the palmist and clairvoyante was to be numbered among its members was a problem which would have extended a subtler brain than Rendell’s.

But one thing was definite. Respectability had only two representatives. One was a withered old lady, who spoke to no one and lived with a cat in a small room on the second floor. The other was a faded and angular Civil Servant of about fifty, who was nicknamed Clockwork Charlie, owing to the regularity of his daily departures and returns.

Another member of the fixed population was a woman gossip writer employed by a pictorial daily paper, who went to bed one night in seven, and lived exclusively on tinned food. She was as thin as a fountain-pen, but had sharply-cut remarkable features and fiercely intelligent grey eyes. It was whispered that she was of a good family, and that her journalistic activities were the spoils of a battle for independence which she had waged and won in the study of a mellow parsonage in the west of England. Probably this was a fact, for she possessed one of those upper-class voices which charm and madden simultaneously. You heard it long after she had ceased to speak. It was incisive, authoritative, cultured, and triumphant over all competitors. It was heard frequently, for she had a telephone in her room. When she was not in, the bell rang out, hour after hour. When she was in, the voice rang out, hour after hour. She went everywhere, interviewed everyone who came into the news, “covered” every social function—and got thinner and thinner, and more and more vital, as a result of this whirlwind existence. She was killing herself, and no one dared tell her so. Somehow, she compelled admiration and affection. That she belonged wholly to her job was evidenced by the fact that she cried if her “copy” was altered.

The room opposite hers was occupied by a young man of about twenty-three. He was remarkably handsome in a dashing rather desperate way, but had two peculiarities not wholly desirable in a lodging-house. One was that he was unable to remain motionless for a moment: the other was that he could not endure a second’s silence. He shaved to the strains of “Hold Me—Never Let Me Go,” emitted by an unusually powerful gramophone. It, or the wireless, performed whenever he was in his room. So you always knew.

He had a host of men and women friends—mostly long and thin, and with very definite voices. Rakish cars, laden with a selection of them, often drew up outside No. 77 and hooted—and continued to hoot—till he appeared. He returned usually at three in the morning. If alone, he leaped up the stairs whistling. If with others, the cavalcade would ascend, frequently pausing for one, or other, or all, to emit certain very definite statements in very definite voices. On reaching his room, when alone, the gramophone would immediately begin to function—a cushion having been placed upon it, since the young man held the theory that this device made the instrument wholly inaudible to others, while permitting him to hear it in all its accustomed power.

In due course, Rendell was interested to ascertain that this young man was regarded by his fellow lodgers as a student.

The student was on the friendliest terms with the lady journalist. Frequently, while he was dressing for dinner and she was opening tins—banging them on the floor to expedite the operation—they would shout the liveliest comments to one another, peppering their remarks with the most intimate details concerning the lives of well-known persons—in a manner that was instructive and stimulating to less well-informed people.

The floating population was drab by comparison with these vivid personalities, but, if it lacked colour, it possessed mystery. Its members consisted of men who were either nondescript or sinister-looking, and whose activities could not be imagined. Their stay was short and their departure usually abrupt. They never paid their rent when it was due, never paid it in full, and rarely paid it at all. They were always in their rooms—or never in them. They seldom received letters, but had interminable conversations on the telephone at the back of the hall, to which one could listen for half an hour without deriving any clear conception as to their purport. This floating population was either extremely active, or lacked occupation—and one or two of its members only went out by night.

Rendell obtained this graphic account of the lodgers from the servant, Mary, whose faculty for observation impressed him by its breadth and penetration. Subsequent experience only confirmed the facts as narrated by her. Nevertheless, two minor problems, and a major one, presented themselves to Rendell. Why did the withered old lady with the cat, and the faded angular Civil Servant, live in such surroundings? These were the minor problems, but Mary solved them instantly by explaining that the old lady could hear nothing, and that the Civil Servant loved noise. “He’d be lonely without it,” she added disparagingly.

The major problem was Ivor Trent’s presence in such a house—but Rendell did not mention this to Mary. He gave her five shillings, however, thereby obtaining the first claim on her services.

Soon after his conversation with her, Rendell went to luncheon, returning at about three o’clock. He encountered Captain Frazer in the hall, who made it clear in a number of staccato sentences that in future he would deal with inquirers about Trent. He implied that his object in so doing was to spare Rendell the irritation of continual interruptions, but the latter was not deceived. Frazer’s curiosity had been quickened by the discovery that Marsden did not know that Trent had had rooms in the house for years, and the Captain was now determined to ascertain whether all Trent’s friends were equally ignorant. Their brief conversation revealed to Rendell that Frazer had always disliked Trent and was jealous of him, and that therefore any circumstances unfavourable to him gave Frazer an underground satisfaction.

But the number of callers diminished rapidly. Every post brought a pile of letters for Trent, but callers at No. 77 became less and less, greatly to Frazer’s annoyance.

In fact that afternoon only Marsden appeared. He arrived at about five o’clock, brushed Frazer aside, and made his way to Rendell’s room in a state of considerable excitement.

After the briefest of greetings, and with no reference to the manner in which he had contradicted Rendell’s statements the evening before—statements which Marsden’s subsequent inquiries had established as facts—he shot a number of questions at Rendell with great volubility.

“Well, what do you think about all this? Is he better? Have you talked to any of the people who have called to inquire? Has he asked to see me? I’ve been thinking about this all day and can make nothing of it. I resent his deceiving me. I tell you that—flat! There’s a mystery behind all this, and I doubt if it’s a pleasant one.”

“And I’ll tell you something else too,” Marsden raced on, as Rendell remained silent, “I dined with Vera Thornton last night. She’s known Trent about three years and saw a lot of him till just recently. Well, she knew nothing about his being here. But that’s not the point. Trent never told me how well he knew her, although I met her once at his flat.”

“Why the devil should he?” Rendell asked mildly.

“Because I’m an old friend of his. That’s why. You seem to forget that he and I have been friends for years.”

“I’ve not forgotten,” Rendell said slowly, “that you told me last Sunday that you didn’t know much about him.”

“Damn what I said last Sunday. The night before I’d had a talk with that Denis Wrayburn, and he’d muddled me. Incidentally, I loathe and detest Wrayburn more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Is that why you described me to him, told him my movements, and then let him go to look for me?”

“Yes, it was—if you want to know.”

“I did want to know, that’s why I asked the question.”

“Wanted to see what you’d make of him,” Marsden said quickly. “Did he find you?”

“He did, and we dined together.”

“Well, and what did you make of him? Had he a theory about Trent being here? He’s a theory about most things.”

“He wasn’t in the least interested.”

Marsden gave an indignant shout.

“He wouldn’t be! He’s an inhuman icy little egotist! God! I can’t stand him! Sometimes he impresses you when you’re with him, but—later—you find that everything he said was pretentious rubbish. Vera loathes him. You did too, I’ll bet.”

Rendell hesitated.

“I’d find it difficult to say just what I do think of him,” he said at last. “But he’s not a negligible person.”

“Oh well, never mind him! Look here—I may as well tell you everything—though this is between ourselves, mind! I like Vera. I like her a lot after our talk last night. But I’ve made a discovery about her.”

“And what’s that?” Rendell asked, as Marsden suddenly became silent.

“She’s afraid of something. I’m certain of it. And I believe it’s something to do with Trent. Of course I may be wrong, but she seemed odd. And—and——”

Again Marsden broke off, but almost immediately he went on:

“Well—this really is between ourselves, mind!—she wanted to come back here at ten o’clock to see if Trent was quieter. That struck me as damned peculiar. Why, we didn’t leave this place till after seven! Also, from something she said I gathered that she didn’t think Trent had many women friends—lot of acquaintances, of course, but not many women friends. And she seemed damned anxious to know just what sort of a person you were.”

“Did you enlighten her?”

“I told her that you were a well-known consulting mining engineer, who’d been all over the place, and made a good deal of money. And I explained that, till last Sunday, I hadn’t seen you for years. But what the hell did she want to know about you for?”

“All very mysterious, Marsden, I agree.”

“Anyway, she’s very intelligent. She knows several languages and has a job in the foreign department of a bank. Did you know? And she reads a lot. She knew my work quite well. She really is very intelligent—attractive too. I’m seeing her again tomorrow. In fact, I mean to see her pretty often.”

A long silence, then Marsden suddenly exclaimed:

“Look here, Rendell! I’d like to ask you a straight question.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Do you know Trent?”

“No.”

“Never seen him?”

“No.”

Marsden hesitated, then risked it.

“And your story as to why you came here is a true one and omits nothing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, all I can say is that the whole damned thing from first to last is the most extraordinary business I’ve ever run into.”

He rose, collected his crutches, then announced with great emphasis:

“But one thing is certain. I’m going to get to the bottom of all this. I’m going to find out why Trent’s been here for years and told none of his friends. I’ve made up my mind about that. I’m going to find out.”

Rendell rose and got Marsden’s overcoat.

“Well, I don’t want to discourage you,” he said slowly, “but I’ve a feeling that you won’t find it an easy job. Still, I wish you luck. I’ll be seeing you before long, I expect.”

XI

When Marsden had gone, Rendell looked round the room, surprised to find himself alone. Soon, however, he found he was restless and irritable, and in a manner hitherto unknown.

Sentences from the many conversations he had had since his arrival at No. 77, nearly forty-eight hours ago, shot across his memory. Then, one after another, he seemed to see Rosalie Vivian, Vera Thornton, and Denis Wrayburn. He felt that each was a character from a different drama, in each of which he was destined to become involved. Yet, from another angle, the whole situation was fantastic. These people were strangers to him. He had met them owing to a sudden interest in Ivor Trent—a man he did not know and had not seen—a man who was lying ill upstairs in this impossible house.

But it was useless to speculate about him. It would be comparable to an attempt to assemble a jig-saw puzzle, of which many of the sections were missing.

He stood motionless, staring into the fire, amazed by the extent to which his curiosity had been captured by Trent. He felt that now—at this actual moment—he must take some action that might produce additional data concerning him. Otherwise, he would spend the evening in a mental cul-de-sac. He must find someone who knew Trent. His conversation with the servant had revealed that none of the present lodgers had met him. There was nothing to be learned therefore from them.

He drew the curtain apart and looked out. The sky glimmered with the light of a hidden moon. The pavements were wet but the rain had ceased. Rendell decided to go and have a drink somewhere before dinner.

Then he remembered the barmaid who had called to ask about Trent. Rummy! Yes, that was what she was called, and she served in the long bar of the Cosmopolitan. He would go there and see what happened.

He left the house, walked quickly towards the King’s Road, half regretting that the decision to visit Rummy necessitated going to the West End. Already he had become subject to the illusion, which Chelsea creates, that its unique atmosphere removes it from the common categories of town, country, or suburb. Physically, London may be near, but—psychically—it is far removed. It is true that the foundations of this illusion tremble once the King’s Road is encountered. The unending roar of that long narrow thoroughfare disturbs the calm certainties of even the ripest Chelsea residents. Rendell, however, preserved a remnant of illusion by taking a taxi on reaching the King’s Road, telling the driver to go to the Cosmopolitan.

On arrival, he glanced through the glass door before entering. Rummy was on duty, and Rendell believed that, had he known nothing of her, he would have detected her superiority to her surroundings. The other barmaids were typical—Rummy was individual. The contour and expression of the face, the line of the figure, every movement, indefinably asserted the possession of some quality which had triumphantly survived its environment.

He went to the bar and seated himself on a high stool. Rummy went to take his order.

“Well, you don’t remember me?”

She looked up at him quickly.

“Yes I do. You’re the gentleman I saw at Potiphar Street yesterday. Nice of you to come so soon.” She smiled, then added: “Didn’t think you’d come yet a bit—even if you came at all.”

A man a few yards to Rendell’s right rapped the counter and Rummy went to attend to him.

“How much, m’dear?”

“What! You going, uncle? Short visit to-night. Let’s see. One and nine.”

“I’m not very well, m’dear. It’s me knees.”

Rendell glanced at him. He was stout, heavily built, with a bulky head and projecting teeth.

“It’s me knees,” he repeated. “Otherwise—all right. There you are, m’dear.”

He went out slowly, leaning heavily on his stick.

“That’s uncle,” Rummy explained, “been here every day, so they say, since his wife died twenty-five years ago. But never mind about him. How’s Mr. Trent?”

“Somewhat better, I’m told.”

“That’s something, anyway. Funny his being taken queer like that.”

“Very,” Rendell agreed. “I’ll have a glass of sherry. What are you going to have?”

“I’ll have a packet of cigarettes, if you don’t mind.”

She got his drink, then, as a number of men entered the bar, she was busy for some minutes.

Rendell amused himself by watching the expressions of the men she was serving. Most of them looked at her with varying degrees of appetite. One calculated her points with the cynical appraisement of long experience: another adopted a confidential air implying intimacy: a third inquired loudly as to her activities the night before, guffawing answers to his own questions: a fourth leered at her, believing he was smiling: while the fifth stared at her breasts with an expression of leaden apathy. All were over fifty. There were not more than three young men in the crowded bar.

Having served their drinks, Rummy returned to Rendell.

“Yes, funny being taken queer like that,” she began, picking up their conversation where they had dropped it. “Did give me a shock when I saw that paragraph. Couldn’t believe it. Quite upset me, it did.”

“Did you know where he lived, Rummy?”

“No. I didn’t know anything about him—really. Just knew his name and that he wrote books. That’s all. Sometimes he wouldn’t come in for months together.”

While she spoke, she wiped the counter, or emptied an ash-tray, or rinsed a glass in a hidden receptacle, or polished it till it was ready for use. But she performed these activities automatically, giving Rendell her essential attention. Also, while she talked, she glanced round mechanically, noting arrivals and departures, distributing salutations—and frequently darted away to execute an order or to receive payment.

“Yours is a hell of a life, Rummy!” Rendell exclaimed when she returned after her sixth trip to a customer.

“Oh well, it’s a job. You last about twelve years in a bar, you know—if you’re lucky.”

“And then?”

“Well, if you’re in a place like this, and you want to stay on, you become a dispensing barmaid.”

“A what!”

“Dispensing barmaid. You know—you’re not in a public bar like this, you’re in a bar behind, and serve the waiters who come with orders from the café.”

“That must be pretty uproarious, I imagine. What do they pay you?”

“Twenty-six shillings a week. But there’s tips, of course.”

“There would need to be. And what time do you start?”

Rummy laughed gaily.

“Well, I never! You’re just like Mr. Trent. He always wanted to know everything about my job. Ask questions, and listen for hours—sometimes he would.”

“Well, and what time do you start?”

“Nine thirty. You see, all these racks here have to be scrubbed each morning. We do two hours charing first thing. Look at my hands! And then there’s requisitions and stock to check, and one thing and another.”

“Tell me this—do you have all the drinks you’re stood?”

“Oh no—couldn’t! We keep one under the counter and produce it for the customer to see. Then, later, we take the money. Some of them give us money. Sometimes we say we’d rather have cigarettes—like I did to you.”

Again she laughed.

Rendell gazed at her in silence. Here she was, in this bar—young, attractive, virginal—for hours every day, surrounded by smoke, laughter, coarse jokes. A human target!

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“I was thinking that it’s a hell of a world, Rummy.”

“Well, really, I shall begin to think you are Mr. Trent in a minute! He used to say it was a hell of a world. And the questions he used to ask me! You’ve no idea.”

“Didn’t talk about himself much, then?”

“Oh no! He’s not like the others. He’s strong, so he doesn’t have to tell you all his troubles, like most of them. I never guessed he was so well known. The paper said eminent.”

“Ever read any of his books?”

“Yes, I read one. He knows everything, if you ask me.

Rendell got off the stool and held out his hand.

“I must go, but I’ll come again.”

They shook hands.

“I’ve enjoyed our talk,” he added.

“So have I. Do come again. It makes such a difference having a chat with someone—well, you know—like you—sometimes. If it’s only for a few minutes. You’ve no idea what a difference it makes. You get miserable sometimes—feel you’d do anything—then someone comes in, not like the usual lot, and you feel all right again.”

“I’ll come in before long.”

“Will you? I’d be glad if you would. Good night.”

“Good night, Rummy.”

He bought a paper as he left the bar, then went to dine at an obscure restaurant where he was unlikely to find anyone he knew.

During dinner he went over his conversation with Rummy, seeking to identify himself imaginatively with her existence. Was that what had interested Trent? And was he a writer because he possessed this faculty for identifying himself with the thoughts and emotions of others to an exceptional degree? Anyhow, one thing was definite: there was no mystery in Rummy’s relations with Trent.

Rendell dined quickly, then glanced at the paper while he smoked a cigarette over his black coffee. But, although the news from every quarter was sensational, it failed to hold his interest. He felt he was waiting for the end of an interval in an exciting play. But the fact that he could be so absorbed in the destinies of a number of people, unknown three days ago, clearly revealed the extent of his own loneliness.

“I knew I was pretty down to it,” he said to himself, “when I asked Marsden to dine with me last Sunday, but I didn’t know how bad it was.”

He rose, paid the bill, then drove back to Chelsea.

When he opened the front door, a man was descending the stairs. Rendell glanced at him, then said instinctively:

“You won’t mind my asking, but are you the doctor?”

“I am. I’ve just left Trent.”

“I wonder if you’d mind giving me a minute. I shan’t keep you long.”

“That’s all right.”

“Good! Thanks. Come in here—and what about a drink? Whisky and soda?”

“That’s an idea. Thanks.”

The doctor glanced round the room mechanically. He was about thirty-five and was obviously tired. He sank into a chair, then watched Rendell’s movements as if glad to give his attention to the trivial.

“That about right?” Rendell asked, handing him a drink.

“Drop more soda. Thanks. Not sorry to have a drink. Pretty stiff day—and I was called out in the night.”

“Well, it’s a damned shame to keep you, but it won’t be for long. I don’t know Trent, but I’ve a letter and a message for him—both pretty important, I gather. So I want to know what you think of him.”

“Nothing organically wrong. I should say he’s been in a highly nervous condition for some months—and has had some kind of a shock.”

“You wouldn’t let him see anyone?”

“He wouldn’t, if I said he could. Any more than he’ll open that pile of letters he’s got up there. Anyhow, he’s too excited to see people.”

“He’s chosen a lively house to be ill in.”

The doctor smiled.

“I ought to have had him out of it on Sunday night. Afterwards, he refused to go, and I thought it best to humour him. Ever seen his rooms? Oh well, they are all right. He’s really got a little flat up there—and an attractive one. There’s a door at the bottom of the staircase. It’s quite cut off from the rest of the house. In fact, with its double doors and windows, it’s remarkably quiet.”

There was a silence, then Rendell asked:

“Has he a night nurse?”

“No, only a day one. She’ll go soon. Mrs. Frazer’s going to take Trent on. She’ll get extra help to allow her to do so. Incidentally, that is Trent’s idea, not mine.”

Then, after a long pause, the doctor added:

“Of course it’s a queer case. No doubt about that. I see plenty of neurotic cases—God knows!—nowadays. But he’s a bit new to me. Don’t repeat this, but—when you’re with him—you feel that he’s longing for you to go.”

“To go,” Rendell echoed with considerable emphasis.

“Yes. He wants to be alone. The nurse irritates him—I irritate him. He doesn’t mind Mrs. Frazer. He’s used to her, I suppose. If I called another doctor in to-night, I’d bet a lot that he would say Trent was well.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do indeed. Of course, he’d see he was nervous, excited, irritable—but he’d think a few days’ rest would put that right.”

“Yes, but after all,” Rendell protested, “the man collapsed in the hall on Sunday night—and you don’t do that for nothing.”

“I agree—but a highly-strung man like Trent can do it without it meaning a vast amount. I attend a number of artists, and I know what tricks their nerves can play them. Anyhow, if you’ve a letter and a message for him, send them up. He’ll ignore them, but you’ll have no further responsibility.”

He finished his drink, rose, then added:

“Still, I’m glad I was called in. Not sorry to have met Trent. I read one of his books—I forget the title—but it interested me. A patient of mine told me to read it—a barrister. Every read any?”

“I read one—read it three times.”

“Really? Odd you should be in this house.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But I mustn’t keep you. I’ll send up the letter and the message.”

“Best thing you can do. Well, I’ll get on. Good night.”

“Good night—and many thanks.”

Rendell went to the front door to see him off, then returned to his room.

He lit a cigarette and began to pace slowly up and down.