I wondered at first if Harley’s frequent references to the eccentric American genius, to whom he accorded a sort of hero-worship, were responsible for my imagining a close resemblance where only a slight one existed. But inspection of that strange, dark face convinced me of the fact that my first impression had been a true one. Perhaps, in my curiosity, I stared rather rudely.
“You will pardon me, sir,” said the stranger, and I was startled to note that he spoke with a faint American accent, “but are you a literary man?”
As I had judged to be the case, he was slightly bemused, but by no means drunk, and although his question was abrupt it was spoken civilly enough.
“Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed,” I replied, lightly.
“You are not a fiction writer?”
“I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir.”
The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whisky. “Nevertheless,” he said, and raised his finger solemnly, “you were thinking that I resembled Edgar Allan Poe!”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. “You clearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you to inform me how you deduced such a fact from a mere glance of mine.”
“I will tell you, sir,” he replied. “But, first, I must replenish my glass, and I should be honoured if you would permit me to replenish yours.”
“Thanks very much,” I said, “but I would rather you excused me.”
“As you wish, sir,” replied the American with grave courtesy, “as you wish.”
He stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it with half a crown, until the landlady appeared. She treated me to a pathetic glance, but refilled the empty glass.
My American acquaintance having returned to his seat and having added a very little water to the whisky went on:
“Now, sir,” said he, “my name is Colin Camber, formerly of Richmond, Virginia, United States of America, but now of the Guest House, Surrey, England, at your service.”
Taking my cue from Mr. Camber’s gloomy but lofty manner, I bowed formally and mentioned my name.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Knox,” he assured me; “and now, sir, to answer your question. When you came in a few moments ago you glanced at me. Your eyes did not open widely as is the case when one recognizes, or thinks one recognizes, an acquaintance, they narrowed. This indicated retrospection. For a moment they turned aside. You were focussing a fugitive idea, a memory. You captured it. You looked at me again, and your successive glances read as follows: The hair worn uncommonly long, the mathematical brow, the eyes of a poet, the slight moustache, small mouth, weak chin; the glass at his elbow. The resemblance is complete. Knowing how complete it is myself, sir, I ventured to test my theory, and it proved to be sound.”
Now, as Mr. Colin Camber had thus spoken in the serious manner of a slightly drunken man, I had formed the opinion that I stood in the presence of a very singular character. Here was that seeming mesalliance which not infrequently begets genius: a powerful and original mind allied to a weak will. I wondered what Mr. Colin Camber’s occupation might be, and somewhat, too, I wondered why his name was unfamiliar to me. For that the possessor of that brow and those eyes could fail to make his mark in any profession which he might take up I was unwilling to believe.
“Your exposition has been very interesting, Mr. Camber,” I said. “You are a singularly close observer, I perceive.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I have passed my life in observing the ways of my fellowmen, a study which I have pursued in various parts of the world without appreciable benefit to myself. I refer to financial benefit.”
He contemplated me with a look which had grown suddenly pathetic.
“I would not have you think, sir,” he added, “that I am an habitual toper. I have latterly been much upset by— domestic worries, and— er— ” He emptied his glass at a draught. “Surely, Mr. Knox, you are going to replenish? Whilst you are doing so, would you kindly request Mrs. Wootton to extend the same favour to myself?”
But at that moment Mrs. Wootton in person appeared behind the counter. “Time, please, gentlemen,” she said; “it is gone half-past two.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Camber, rising. “What is that? You decline to serve me, Mrs. Wootton?”
“Why, not at all, Mr. Camber,” answered the landlady, “but I can serve no one now; it’s after time.”
“You decline to serve me,” he muttered, his speech becoming slurred. “Am I, then, to be insulted?”
I caught a glance of entreaty from the landlady. “My dear sir,” I said, genially, “we must bow to the law, I suppose. At least we are better off here than in America.”
“Ah, that is true,” agreed Mr. Camber, throwing his head back and speaking the words as though they possessed some deep dramatic significance. “Yes, but such laws are an insult to every intelligent man.”
He sat down again rather heavily, and I stood looking from him to the landlady, and wondering what I should do. The matter was decided for me, however, in a way which I could never have foreseen. For, hearing a light footfall upon the step which led up to the bar-parlour, I turned — and there almost beside me stood a wrinkled little Chinaman!
He wore a blue suit and a tweed cap, he wore queer, thick-soled slippers, and his face was like a smiling mask hewn out of very old ivory. I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses, since the Lavender Arms was one of the last places in which I should have looked for a native of China.
Mr. Colin Camber rose again, and fixing his melancholy eyes upon the newcomer:
“Ah Tsong,” he said in a tone of cold anger, “what are you doing here?”
Quite unmoved the Chinaman replied:
“Blingee you chit, sir, vellee soon go back.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Camber. “Answer me, Ah Tsong: who sent you?”
“Lilly missee,” crooned the Chinaman, smiling up into the other’s face with a sort of childish entreaty. “Lilly missee.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Camber in a changed voice. “Oh.”
He stood very upright for a moment, his gaze set upon the wrinkled Chinese face. Then he looked at Mrs. Wootton and bowed, and looked at me and bowed, very stiffly.
“I must excuse myself, sir,” he announced. “My wife desires my presence at home.”
I returned his bow, and as he walked quite steadily toward the door, followed by Ah Tsong, he paused, turned, and said: “Mr. Knox, I should esteem it a friendly action if you would spare me an hour of your company before you leave Surrey. My visitors are few. Any one, any one, will direct you to the Guest House. I am persuaded that we have much in common. Good-day, sir.”
He went down the steps, disappearing in company with the Chinaman, and having watched them go, I turned to Mrs. Wootton, the landlady, in silent astonishment.
She nodded her head and sighed.
“The same every day and every evening for months past,” she said. “I am afraid it’s going to be the death of him.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Camber comes here every day and is always fetched by the Chinaman?”
“Twice every day,” corrected the landlady, “and his poor wife sends here regularly.”
“What a tragedy,” I muttered, “and such a brilliant man.”
“Ah,” said she, busily removing jugs and glasses from the counter, “it does seem a terrible thing.”
“Has Mr. Camber lived for long in this neighbourhood?” I ventured to inquire.
“It was about three years ago, sir, that he took the old Guest House at Mid-Hatton. I remember the time well enough because of all the trouble there was about him bringing a Chinaman down here.”
“I can imagine it must have created something of a sensation,” I murmured. “Is the Guest House a large property?”
“Oh, no, sir, only ten rooms and a garden, and it had been vacant for a long time. It belongs to what is called the Crayland Park Estate.”
“Mr. Camber, I take it, is a literary man?”
“So I believe, sir.”
Mrs. Wootton, having cleared the counter, glanced up at the clock and then at me with a cheery but significant smile.
