Part 23 (1/2)

He walked back to Whitehall, his mind fully occupied with the momentous events of the day. It was a raw February evening, sleet was falling in the street, a piercing easterly wind drove even through his thick overcoat. In such doorways as offered protection from the bitter elements the wreckage of humanity which clings to the West end of London, as the singed moth flutters about the flame that destroys it, were huddled for warmth.

T. X. was a man of vast human sympathies.

All his experience with the criminal world, all his disappointments, all his disillusions had failed to quench the pity for his unfortunate fellows. He made it a rule on such nights as these, that if, by chance, returning late to his office he should find such a s.h.i.+vering piece of jetsam sheltering in his own doorway, he would give him or her the price of a bed.

In his own quaint way he derived a certain speculative excitement from this practice. If the doorway was empty he regarded himself as a winner, if some one stood sheltered in the deep recess which is a feature of the old Georgian houses in this historic thoroughfare, he would lose to the extent of a s.h.i.+lling.

He peered forward through the semi-darkness as he neared the door of his offices.

”I've lost,” he said, and stripped his gloves preparatory to groping in his pocket for a coin.

Somebody was standing in the entrance, but it was obviously a very respectable somebody. A dumpy, motherly somebody in a seal-skin coat and a preposterous bonnet.

”Hullo,” said T. X. in surprise, ”are you trying to get in here?”

”I want to see Mr. Meredith,” said the visitor, in the mincing affected tones of one who excused the vulgar source of her prosperity by frequently reiterated claims to having seen better days.

”Your longing shall be gratified,” said T. X. gravely.

He unlocked the heavy door, pa.s.sed through the uncarpeted pa.s.sage--there are no frills on Government offices--and led the way up the stairs to the suite on the first floor which const.i.tuted his bureau.

He switched on all the lights and surveyed his visitor, a comfortable person of the landlady type.

”A good sort,” thought T. X., ”but somewhat overweighted with lorgnettes and seal-skin.”

”You will pardon my coming to see you at this hour of the night,” she began deprecatingly, ”but as my dear father used to say, 'Hopi soit qui mal y pense.'”

”Your dear father being in the garter business?” suggested T. X.

humorously. ”Won't you sit down, Mrs. ----”

”Mrs. Ca.s.sley,” beamed the lady as she seated herself. ”He was in the paper hanging business. But needs must, when the devil drives, as the saying goes.”

”What particular devil is driving you, Mrs. Ca.s.sley?” asked T. X., somewhat at a loss to understand the object of this visit.

”I may be doing wrong,” began the lady, pursing her lips, ”and two blacks will never make a white.”

”And all that glitters is not gold,” suggested T. X. a little wearily.

”Will you please tell me your business, Mrs. Ca.s.sley? I am a very hungry man.”

”Well, it's like this, sir,” said Mrs. Ca.s.sley, dropping her erudition, and coming down to bedrock homeliness; ”I've got a young lady stopping with me, as respectable a gel as I've had to deal with. And I know what respectability is, I might tell you, for I've taken professional boarders and I have been housekeeper to a doctor.”

”You are well qualified to speak,” said T. X. with a smile. ”And what about this particular young lady of yours! By the way what is your address?”

”86a Marylebone Road,” said the lady.

T. X. sat up.

”Yes?” he said quickly. ”What about your young lady?”

”She works as far as I can understand,” said the loquacious landlady, ”with a certain Mr. Kara in the typewriting line. She came to me four months ago.”