Part 50 (2/2)
”Wrong? Oh! no,” replied the Admiral grimly, ”nothing--wrong.
Oblige me by listening to this, madam.” He took up the paper and read aloud:
”ANOTHER DYNAMITE PLOT.
A WHOLE TOWN DECEIVED--EXTRAORDINARY PROCEEDINGS.
ESCAPE OF THE SUSPECTED PERSONS.
THE DYNAMITE FIENDS STILL AT LARGE.
”The existence of another of these atrocious conspiracies aimed at the security of our public buildings and the safety of peaceful citizens, has been brought to light by certain recent occurrences at the romantic little seaport town of Troy. We have reason to believe that the suspicions of the police have been for some time aroused; and it is to their unaccountable dilatoriness we owe it that the conspirators have for the time made good their escape and still continue to menace our lives and property. It appears that some months back a couple, giving the names of the Honourable Mr. and Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys--”
[”Really, Samuel, if you cannot eat an ordinary egg without clattering the spoon in that unseemly manner, I must ask you to suspend your meal until I have finished.”]
”appeared at Troy as tenants of one of the most fas.h.i.+onable villa residences in that town. The _elite_ [ahem] of the neighbourhood, too easily cajoled [h'm], and little suspecting their villainous designs, received the newcomers with open arms and a lamentable lack of inquisitiveness.”
”Well, really,” put in Mrs. Buzza, ”I don't know what they call 'inquisitiveness'; if a bra.s.s telescope--Why, Sam, dear, how pale you are!”
”Through the gross carelessness, we can hardly bring ourselves to say the connivance, of the Custom House officials, they were allowed to land with impunity a considerable quant.i.ty of dynamite, with which on Sat.u.r.day night they decamped. Their disappearance remained unsuspected up to a late hour on Sunday morning, when 'The Bower' was visited, and (to borrow the words of the great master of prose) _non sunt inventi_. The neatness with which the escape was executed points to the disquieting conclusion that they did not want for a.s.sistance.”
”I'll ask you to excuse me,” said Sam, rising abruptly and leaving the room. A sick terror possessed his heart; visions of the dock and the felon's cell followed him as he picked up his hat and crept into the street. Outside, the morning was serene, with the promise of a broiling noon; but as far as Sam was concerned, Egyptian darkness would have been better. He s.h.i.+vered: at the corner of the street he met the local policeman and winced.
But far, far worse was it with Mr. Moggridge, to whose lodgings his steps were bending. The Poet, as Sam entered, was seated as nearly as possible on the small of his back before the breakfast table.
If mental anguish can be expressed by unkempt hair and a disordered cravat, that of Mr. Moggridge was extreme; and the untasted bloater, pushed aside and half concealed by the newspaper, was full of lurid significance.
Sam paused at the door. The two friends had barely spoken for more than a month. Three days ago they had all but fought. All this, however, was forgotten now.
”Is that you, Sam? Come in.”
Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper feebly, and groaned.
”Moggridge, old man--”
”Sam!”
”What a pair of a.s.ses we have been!
”The Poet moaned, and pointed to the paper.
”I know,” nodded Sam; ”is it true, d'ye think?”
”My heart forebodes,” said Mr. Moggridge, collapsing still further-- ”my heart forebodes 'tis true, 'tis true; then deck my shroud about with rue, and lay me 'neath the dismal--”
”Pooh!” broke in Sam; ”stuff and nonsense, man! It's bad for you, I know, but after all _I'm_ the sufferer.”
The Collector of Customs turned a gla.s.sy stare upon him.
”_I_ carried the bag up to Five Lanes; _I_ put the infernal stuff into her very hands; _I_--”
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