Part 20 (1/2)
”If we remain here chattering, the constable will find us,” I remarked, so we all three went forth into the street, the ugly hunchback walking at my side, quite tractable and quiet.
Presently, unable to gather a single intelligible sentence from him, Jack and I resolved to leave him, and afterwards follow him and ascertain where he lived.
Why had he pointed to the garden and laughed so hilariously? Had he witnessed any of those nocturnal preparations--or interments?
At last, at the corner of Bishop's Road, we wished him farewell and turned away. Then, at a respectable distance, we drew into a gateway to watch. He remained standing where we had left him for some ten minutes or so, until a constable slowly approached, and, halting, began to chat to him.
Apparently he was a well-known figure, for we could hear the policeman speaking, and could distinguish the poor fellow laughing that queer, harsh, discordant laugh--the laugh of the idiot.
Presently the constable moved forward again, whereupon I said--
”I'll get on and have a chat with the policeman, Jack. You follow the hunchback if he moves away.”
”Right-ho,” replied my friend, while I sped off, crossing the road and making a detour until I met the constable.
Having wished him good-night, I inquired the ident.i.ty of the deformed youth.
”Oh, sir,” he laughed, ”that's Mad 'Arry. 'E's quite 'armless. 'E's out most nights, but we never see 'im in the day, poor chap. I've known 'im ever since he was about nine.”
”Does no work, I suppose?”
”None. 'Ow can 'e? 'E's as mad as a hatter, as the sayin' goes,”
replied the constable, his thumbs. .h.i.tched in his belt as he stood.
”A kind of midnight wanderer, eh?”
”Yes, 'e's always a-pryin' about at night. Not long ago 'e found burglars in a 'ouse in Gloucester Terrace, and gave us the alarm. We copped four of 'em. The magistrate gave 'im a guinea out o' the poor-box.”
”Ah! so he's of use to you?”
”Yes, sir, 'e's most intelligent where there's any suspicious characters about. I've often put 'im on the watch myself.”
”Then he's not quite insane?”
”Not on that point, at any rate,” laughed the officer.
”Where does he live?”
”'Is father's a hackney-carriage driver, and 'e lives with 'im up in Gloucester Mews, just at the back of Porchester Mews--I don't know if you know it?”
I was compelled to confess ignorance of the locality, but he directed me.
”Are you on night-duty in Porchester Terrace, constable?” I asked a few moments later.
”Yes, sir, sometimes. Why?”
”You know Althorp House, of course?”
”Yes, the 'aunted 'ouse, as some people call it. Myself, I don't believe in ghosts.”
”Neither do I,” I laughed, ”but I've heard many funny stories about that place. Have you ever heard any?”