Part 25 (2/2)

Night brooded here like a dyspeptic raven with moulting tail-feathers and ragged wings. But London is eloquent of surprises. The cab turned a corner, and instantly they were in a wide and rain-swept street, long and straight, and lined with reserved houses, that shrank back from the publicity of the pa.s.sing traffic at the end of narrow alleys protected by iron gates. Over many of these gates appeared lit arches of gla.s.s on which names were inscribed: ”Albion Hotel,” ”Valetta Hotel,” ”Imperial Hotel,” ”Cosmopolitan Hotel,”--great names for small houses. These houses had front doors with gla.s.s panels, and all the panels glowed dimly with gas.

The cab flashed by them, and Julian read the fleeting names, until his eyes were suddenly saluted with ”European Hotel.”

Violently the cabman drew up. The smoking horse was squeezed upon its haunches, and its feet slithered harshly along the stones. It tried to sit down, was hauled up by the reins, and stood trembling as the right wheel of the cab collided with the pavement edge, and the water in the gutter splashed up as if projected from a spray.

”Beg pardon, gents. I thought it was a bit further on,” said the cabby, leering down cheerfully. ”Nice night, sir, ain't it?”

He shook the reluctant drops of moisture from his waterproof-shrouded hat, and drove off.

Valentine opened the damp iron gate, and they walked up the paved alley to the door.

CHAPTER IV

THE EUSTON ROAD EPISODE

Opening the door, they found themselves in a squalid pa.s.sage. A room on the left was fronted by a sort of counter, above which was a long window giving onto the pa.s.sage, and as the shrill tinkle of a bell announced their entrance this window was pushed up, and the large red face and furtive observant eyes of a man stared upon them inquiringly.

”Do you require a room for the night?” he asked, in a husky voice, invaded by a strong French accent. ”Because--”

”No,” interrupted Julian.

The man nodded, and, strange to say, with apparent content.

”There is trouble in my house,” he said. ”I am unlucky; I come to England from my country to earn an honest living, and before two years, I have the police here last night.”

”Yes,” said Julian, ”I know.”

”What? You know it? Well, it is not my fault. The gentleman come last night with a lady, his wife, I suppose. How am I to know? He ask for a room. He look perfectly well. I give them the room. They go to bed. At four o'clock in the morning I hear a bell ring. I get up. I go on the landing to listen. I hear the bell again. I run to the chamber of the lady and gentleman. The lady is gone. The gentleman falls back on the bed as I come in and dies. Mon Dieu! It is--”

He suddenly paused in his excited narrative. Valentine had moved his position slightly and was now standing almost immediately under the gas-lamp that lit the gla.s.s door.

”You--you are relation of him?” he said. ”You come to see him?”

”I have come to see him, certainly,” said Valentine. ”But I am no relation of his. This gentleman,” and he pointed to Julian, ”knew him well, and wished to look at him once more.”

The landlord seemed puzzled. He glanced from Valentine to Julian, then back again to Valentine.

”But,” he began, once more addressing himself to the latter, ”you are like--there is something; when the poor gentleman fell on the bed and died he had your eyes. Yes, yes, you are relation of him.”

”No,” Valentine said; ”you are mistaken.”

”I should think so,” exclaimed Julian. ”Poor Marr's face was as utterly different from yours, Valentine, as darkness is different from light.”

”No, no; it is not the eyes of the gentleman,” the landlord continued, leaning forward through his window, and still violently scrutinizing Valentine,--”it is not the eyes. But there is something--the voice, the manner--yes, I say there is something, I cannot tell.”

”You are dreaming, my friend,” Valentine calmly interposed. ”Now, Julian, what do you want to do?”

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