Part 11 (2/2)

Masters would have scorned a suggestion of eavesdropping. He was aroused from the depths of the morning paper, in the columns of which he was immersed, by hearing his own name spoken. That is usually a call to attention to most of us. The voice of the neighbour reached him:

”Yes. My Liza saw 'em walking together, so to speak. Lord, 'e don't look a gent like that, do 'e? But you never know, do you? As I was only sayin' to Mrs. Robinson this very mornin', quiet ones is always the wust. She's a 'ot lot, and no mistake!”

”Are you sure it was my lodger?”

The inquiry was from his own landlady. He recognized her voice, low pitched as it was: there were top notes in it she could never eliminate.

The answer came over the garden wall:

”My Liza ain't a fool, I give you my word! There, as I says, you never know, do you? It don't always do to judge by 'pearances. Your ground floor looks as if b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in his mouth, as the sayin' is.

But she--there! You can tell with 'alf-an-eye what she is.”

”Yes. I s'pose there ain't no mistake about that. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds.”

”She's going about, in a manner of speaking, plainly dressed too, just now. Ev you noticed it? I see her with my own eyes in Juggins' shop without a single ring on her finger! She as used to ev a 'alf-dozen sparkling di'monds on each 'and.”

”p.a.w.ned 'em, perhaps.”

”No fear! She knows your lodger's well-to-do, and she's working 'im for all 'es wuth, as the sayin' is. Lor! She's up to snuff, I can tell you.

As I was sayin' to Mrs. Smith, them kind of women is up to every thing.”

A voice, presumably the tones of the afore-mentioned Liza, broke in. The next door neighbour was being called; some one was enquiring about lodgings. The conversation ended with the suddenness of an eye's twinkling.

Little as Masters had heard, he was the whole day trying to digest it.

Material for thought was there: a pregnancy of horrible suggestions.

As to his work, he did not write a line; could not read a paragraph.

After the manner of a caged beast walked up and down the room. When at last he sat, sheer exhaustion was the compelling force.

His mid-day meal was turned over on his plate; any idea of eating it was out of the question; it was taken away practically untouched. He had no room for physical food; he was so very full just then of mental provender. One dominating thought reigned over all others. What should--what could he do?

His habit was to drink a cup of tea in the early afternoon. His landlady entered bearing a little tray. Whilst she was spreading its contents, the thoughts consuming him found vent. He said:

”Don't go away--for a moment. I want to ask you something.”

”Yes, sir?”

”You know Ivy Cottage--on the front? Do you know who lives there?”

She looked at him for a moment before answering. An autumn bird needs careful handling; if it takes flight the nest remains empty till the following summer. She pa.s.sed her tongue over the thin lips which framed it; said warily:

”No, sir. That is to say, not their present names.”

Memory's finger pointed out the conversation of the morning over the garden wall; this woman's share in it. He knew she was lying. His anger against things in general was smouldering; something to let it loose on would be a relief. Why this deceit and mystery?

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