Part 7 (1/2)

I heard some one near me murmur, ”Hear, hear,” at the back of the room.

The comment encouraged me.

”You will not address me in that fas.h.i.+on again, please,” my interlocutor answered hotly, reddening.

”In what fas.h.i.+on?”

”You will not call me `your dear sir.' I object. I strongly object.”

A t.i.tter of amus.e.m.e.nt trickled through the room. My adversary's fingers-- for he had become an adversary--twitched.

”I was under the impression,” he remarked pompously, ”that I was addressing a gentleman.”

I am not good at smart retorts, but I got one in when I answered him.

”A gentleman--I?” I exclaimed blandly. ”I a.s.sure you, my dear sir, that I don't pose as a gentleman. I am quite a common man--just like yourself.”

Considerable laughter greeted this remark, but it was at once suppressed. Still, I knew that this single quick rejoinder had biased ”the gallery” in my favour. Common people enjoy witnessing the discomfiture of any individual in authority.

Two days later, I left Oakham and returned to London, feeling like a schoolboy going home for Christmas.

The days went by. On the following week I again went to Oakham to attend the adjourned inquest. In the case of the butler, an open verdict was returned, but in the case of the driver, one of murder by some person unknown.

Of Vera I had had no news.

”Twenty-six Upper...” That might be in London, or in Brighton. It might even be in some other town. I thought it probable, however, that the address she had been about to give was a London address, so I had spent the day before the inquest in trying the various London ”Uppers”

contained in ”Kelly's Directory.”

Heavens, what an array! When my eyes fell upon the list, my heart sank.

For there were no less than fifty-four ”Uppers” scattered about the Metropolis. Some, obviously, might be ruled out at once, or so I conjectured. Upper Street, Islington, for instance, close to the _Angel_, did not sound a likely ”residential locality”--as the estate agents say--for people of Sir Charles and Lady Thorold's position to be staying in. Nor did Upper Bland near the _Elephant and Castle_, nor Upper Grange Road, off the Old Kent Road; nor Upper Chapman Street, Shadwell. On the other hand, Upper Brook Street; Upper George Street, Sloane Square; Upper Grosvenor Street, Park Lane; even Upper Phillimore Gardens, Kensington, seemed possible spots, and these and many other ”Uppers” I tried, spinning from one to another in a taxi, until the driver began to look at me as though he had misgivings as to my sanity.

”Twenty-six don't seem to be your lucky number, sir,” he said jocularly, when he had driven me to thirty-seven different ”Uppers” and called in each at the house numbered twenty-six. ”It wouldn't be twenty-six in some `Lower' Street, or Place, or Road, or Gardens, would it, sir?”

He spoke only half in jest, but I resented his familiarity, and I told him so. His only comment, muttered beneath his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, was--

”Lummy! the cove's dotty in 'is own `upper,' that's what _'ee_ is.”

On my return from Oakham I went to Brighton, wandering aimlessly about the streets and on the esplanade, hoping against hope that some fortunate turn in the wheel of Fate might bring me unexpectedly face to face with my sweet-faced beloved, whose prolonged and mysterious absence seemed to have made my heart grow fonder. Alas! fate only grinned at me ironically.

Vera had vanished with her family--entirely vanished.

But not wholly ironically. I had been distressed to find that the little silver flask picked up at Houghton had been mislaid. For hours I had hunted high and low for it in my flat. John had turned out all my clothes, and pulled the pockets inside out, and I had bullied him for his carelessness in losing it, and almost accused him of stealing it.

It was while in the train on my way back to London, after my second futile visit to Brighton, that I sat down on something hard. Almost at once I guessed what it was. Briefly, there had been a hole in the inside breast-pocket of my overcoat. It had been mended by John's wife--whose duty it was to keep all my clothes in order--before I knew of its existence. Therefore, when I had naturally enough suspected there being a hole in one of my pockets, and sought one, I had found all the pockets intact. The woman had mended the hole without noticing that the little flask, which had dropped through it, lay hidden in the bottom of the lining.

I ripped open the lining at once, and pulled out the flask, delighted at the discovery. And, as soon as I reached town, I took the flask to a chemist I knew and asked him to a.n.a.lyse its contents. He would do so without delay, he said, and let me know on the following morning the result of his a.n.a.lysis.

”It's a mixture of gelsiminum and ether,” he said, as soon as I entered his shop next day.

”Poison, of course,” I remarked.