us to piece together a complete picture of the manifold activities
of the man in the East End. He entered one way or another into the
lives of a good many people; is it true that he nowhere made
enemies? With the best intentions a man may wound or offend; his
interference may be resented; he may even excite jealousy. A young
man like the late Mr. Constant could not have had as much practical
sagacity as he had goodness. Whose corns did he tread on? The more
we know of the last few months of his life the more we shall know
of the manner of his death. Thanking you by anticipation for the
insertion of this letter in your valuable columns, I am, sir, yours
truly,
'George Grodman.
'46 Glover Street, Bow.'
'P. S.-Since writing the above lines I have, by the kindness of
Miss Brent, been placed in possession of a most valuable letter,
probably the last letter written by the unhappy gentleman. It is
dated Monday, 3 December, the very eve of the murder, and was
addressed to her at Florence, and has now, after some delay,
followed her back to London where the sad news unexpectedly brought
her. It is a letter couched, on the whole, in the most hopeful
spirit, and speaks in detail of his schemes. Of course, there are
things in it not meant for the ears of the public, but there can be
no harm in transcribing an important passage:
''You seem to have imbibed the idea that the East End is a kind of
Golgotha, and this despite that the books out of which you probably
got it are carefully labeled 'Fiction.' Lamb says somewhere that we
think of the 'Dark Ages' as literally without sunlight, and so I
fancy people like you, dear, think of the 'East End' as a mixture
of mire, misery and murder. How's that for alliteration? Why,
within five minutes' walk of me there are the loveliest houses,
with gardens back and front, inhabited by very fine people and
furniture. Many of my university friends' mouths would water if
they knew the income of some of the shop-keepers in the High Road.
''The rich people about here may not be so fashionable as those in
Kensington and Bayswater, but they are every bit as stupid and
materialistic. I don't deny, Lucy, I do have my black moments, and
I do sometimes pine to get away from all this to the lands of sun
and lotus-eating. But, on the whole, I am too busy even to dream of
dreaming. My real black moments are when I doubt if I am really
doing any good. But yet on the whole my conscience or my
self-conceit tells me that I am. If one cannot do much with the
mass, there is at least the consolation of doing good to the
individual. And, after all, is it not enough to have been an
influence for good over one or two human souls? There are quite
fine characters hereabout-especially in the women-natures capable
not only of self-sacrifice, but of delicacy of sentiment. To have
learnt to know of such, to have been of service to one or two of
such-is not this ample return? I could not get to St. James' Hall
to hear your friend's symphony at the Henschel concert. I have been
reading Mme. Blavatsky's latest book, and getting quite interested
in occult philosophy. Unfortunately I have to do all my reading in
bed, and I don't find the book as soothing a soporific as most new
books. For keeping one awake I find Theosophy as bad as
toothache....''
* * * * *
'THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED.
'Sir-I wonder if anyone besides myself has been struck by the
incredible bad taste of Mr. Grodman's letter in your last issue.
That he, a former servant of the Department, should publicly insult
and run it down can only be charitably explained by the supposition
that his judgment is failing him in his old age. In view of this
letter, are the relatives of the deceased justified in entrusting
him with any private documents? It is, no doubt, very good of him
to undertake to avenge one whom he seems snobbishly anxious to
claim as a friend; but, all things considered, should not his
letter have been headed 'The Big Bow Mystery Shelved?' I enclose my
card, and am, sir,
'Your obedient servant,
'Scotland Yard.'
George Grodman read this letter with annoyance, and, crumpling up the paper, murmured scornfully, 'Edward Wimp.'
CHAPTER V.
'Yes, but what will become of the Beautiful?' said Denzil Cantercot.
'Hang the Beautiful!' said Peter Crowl, as if he were on the committee of the Academy. 'Give me the True.'
Denzil did nothing of the sort. He didn't happen to have it about him.
[Illustration: Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette.]
Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette in his landlord's shop, and imparting an air of distinction and an agreeable aroma to the close leathery atmosphere. Crowl cobbled away, talking to his tenant without raising his eyes. He was a small, big-headed, sallow, sad-eyed man, with a greasy apron. Denzil was wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar. He was never seen without it in public during the winter. In private he removed it and sat in his shirt sleeves. Crowl was a thinker, or thought he was-which seems to involve original thinking anyway. His hair was thinning rapidly at the top, as if his brain was struggling to get as near as possible to the realities of things. He prided himself on having no fads. Few men are without some foible or hobby; Crowl felt almost lonely at times in his superiority. He was a Vegetarian, a Secularist, a Blue Ribbonite, a Republican, and an Anti-Tobacconist. Meat was a fad. Drink was a fad. Religion was a fad. Monarchy was a fad. Tobacco was a fad. 'A plain man like me,' Crowl used to say, 'can live without fads.' 'A plain man' was Crowl's catchword. When of a Sunday morning he stood on Mile-end Waste, which was opposite his shop-and held forth to the crowd on the evils of kings, priests and mutton chops, the 'plain man' turned up at intervals like the 'theme' of a symphonic movement. 'I am only a plain man and I want to know.' It was a phrase that sabered the spider-webs of logical refinement, and held them up scornfully on the point. When Crowl went for a little recreation in Victoria Park on Sunday afternoons, it was with this phrase that he invariably routed the supernaturalists. Crowl knew his Bible better than most ministers, and always carried a minutely-printed copy in his pocket, dogs-eared to mark contradictions in the text. The second chapter of Jeremiah says one thing; the first chapter of Corinthians says another. Two contradictory statements may both be true, but 'I am only a plain man, and I want to know.' Crowl spent a large part of his time in setting 'the word against the word.' Cock-fighting affords its votaries no acuter pleasure than Crowl derived from setting two texts by the ears. Crowl had a metaphysical genius which sent his Sunday morning disciples frantic with
