Mr. X flicked a crumb off the front of his coat.
“And that was strictly true as to her. Though Horne, for instance, understood very well; and so did I, especially after we had been to Sevrin’s lodging in a dismal back street of an intensely respectable quarter. Horne was known there as a friend, and we had no difficulty in being admitted, the slatternly maid merely remarking, as she let us in, that ‘Mr Sevrin had not been home that night.’ We forced open a couple of drawers in the way of duty, and found a little useful information. The most interesting part was his diary; for this man, engaged in such deadly work, had the weakness to keep a record of the most damnatory kind. There were his acts and also his thoughts laid bare to us. But the dead don’t mind that. They don’t mind anything.
“‘From conviction.’ Yes. A vague but ardent humanitarianism had urged him in his first youth into the bitterest extremity of negation and revolt. Afterwards his optimism flinched. He doubted and became lost. You have heard of converted atheists. These turn often into dangerous fanatics, but the soul remains the same. After he had got acquainted with the girl, there are to be met in that diary of his very queer politico-amorous rhapsodies. He took her sovereign grimaces with deadly seriousness. He longed to convert her. But all this cannot interest you. For the rest, I don’t know if you remember — it is a good many years ago now — the journalistic sensation of the ‘Hermione Street Mystery’; the finding of a man’s body in the cellar of an empty house; the inquest; some arrests; many surmises — then silence — the usual end for many obscure martyrs and confessors. The fact is, he was not enough of an optimist. You must be a savage, tyrannical, pitiless, thick-and-thin optimist, like Horne, for instance, to make a good social rebel of the extreme type.
He rose from the table. A waiter hurried up with his overcoat; another held his hat in readiness.
“But what became of the young lady?” I asked.
“Do you really want to know?” he said, buttoning himself in his fur coat carefully. “I confess to the small malice of sending her Sevrin’s diary. She went into retirement; then she went to Florence; then she went into retreat in a convent. I can’t tell where she will go next. What does it matter? Gestures! Gestures! Mere gestures of her class.”
He fitted on his glossy high hat with extreme precision, and casting a rapid glance round the room, full of well- dressed people, innocently dining, muttered between his teeth:
“And nothing else! That is why their kind is fated to perish.”
I never met Mr. X again after that evening. I took to dining at my club. On my next visit to Paris I found my friend all impatience to hear of the effect produced on me by this rare item of his collection. I told him all the story, and he beamed on me with the pride of his distinguished specimen.
“Isn’t X well worth knowing?” he bubbled over in great delight. “He’s unique, amazing, absolutely terrific.”
His enthusiasm grated upon my finer feelings. I told him curtly that the man’s cynicism was simply abominable.
“Oh, abominable! abominable!” assented my friend, effusively. “And then, you know, he likes to have his little joke sometimes,” he added in a confidential tone.
I fail to understand the connection of this last re-mark. I have been utterly unable to discover where in all this the joke comes in.
AN INDIGNANT TALE
THE BRUTE
DODGING in from the rain-swept street, I exchanged a smile and a glance with Miss Blank in the bar of the Three Crows. This exchange was effected with extreme propriety. It is a shock to think that, if still alive, Miss Blank must be something over sixty now. How time passes!
Noticing my gaze directed inquiringly at the partition of glass and varnished wood, Miss Blank was good enough to say, encouragingly:
“Only Mr. Jermyn and Mr. Stonor in the parlour with another gentleman I’ve never seen before.”
I moved towards the parlour door. A voice discoursing on the other side (it was but a matchboard partition), rose so loudly that the concluding words became quite plain in all their atrocity.
“That fellow Wilmot fairly dashed her brains out, and a good job, too!”
This inhuman sentiment, since there was nothing profane or improper in it, failed to do as much as to check the slight yawn Miss Blank was achieving behind her hand. And she remained gazing fixedly at the window-panes, which streamed with rain.
As I opened the parlour door the same voice went on in the same cruel strain:
“I was glad when I heard she got the knock from somebody at last. Sorry enough for poor Wilmot, though. That man and I used to be chums at one time. Of course that was the end of him. A clear case if there ever was one. No way out of it. None at all.”
The voice belonged to the gentleman Miss Blank had never seen before. He straddled his long legs on the hearthrug. Jermyn, leaning forward, held his pocket-handkerchief spread out before the grate. He looked back dismally over his shoulder, and as I slipped behind one of the little wooden tables, I nodded to him. On the other side of the fire, imposingly calm and large, sat Mr. Stonor, jammed tight into a capacious Windsor armchair. There was nothing small about him but his short, white side-whiskers. Yards and yards of extra superfine blue cloth (made up into an overcoat) reposed on a chair by his side. And he must just have brought some liner from sea, because another chair was smothered under his black waterproof, ample as a pall, and made of three-fold oiled silk, double- stitched throughout. A man’s hand-bag of the usual size looked like a child’s toy on the floor near his feet.
I did not nod to him. He was too big to be nodded to in that parlour. He was a senior Trinity pilot and condescended to take his turn in the cutter only during the summer months. He had been many times in charge of royal yachts in and out of Port Victoria. Besides, it’s no use nodding to a monument. And he was like one. He didn’t speak, he didn’t budge. He just sat there, holding his handsome old head up, immovable, and almost bigger than life. It was extremely fine. Mr. Stonor’s presence reduced poor old Jermyn to a mere shabby wisp of a man, and made the talkative stranger in tweeds on the hearthrug look absurdly boyish. The latter must have been a few years over thirty, and was certainly not the sort of individual that gets abashed at the sound of his own voice, because gathering me in, as it were, by a friendly glance, he kept it going without a check.
“I was glad of it,” he repeated, emphatically. “You may be surprised at it, but then you haven’t gone through the experience I’ve had of her. I can tell you, it was something to remember. Of course, I got off scot free myself —
