The Grey Wig: Stories and Novelettes

unsatisfactory or suspicious about the girl, not even though there were faults in spelling in the 'character' with which her last mistress had supplied her.

It was true that the puss had pricked up her ears when Denzil Cantercot's name was mentioned. Grodman saw it, and watched her, and fooled Wimp to the top of his bent. It was, of course, Wimp who introduced the poet's name, and he did it so casually that Grodman perceived at once that he wished to pump him. The idea that the rival bloodhound should come to him for confirmation of suspicions against his own pet jackal was too funny. It was almost as funny to Grodman that evidence of some sort should be obviously lying to hand in the bosom of Wimp's hand-maiden; so obviously that Wimp could not see it. Grodman enjoyed his Christmas dinner, secure that he had not found a successor after all. Wimp, for his part, contemptuously wondered at the way Grodman's thought hovered about Denzil without grazing the truth. A man constantly about him, too!

'Denzil is a man of genius,' said Grodman. 'And as such comes under the heading of Suspicious Characters. He has written an Epic Poem and read it to me. It is morbid from start to finish. There is 'death' in the third line. I dare say you know he polished up my book?' Grodman's artlessness was perfect.

'No. You surprise me,' Wimp replied. 'I'm sure he couldn't have done much to it. Look at your letter in the Pell Mell. Who wants more polish and refinement than that showed?'

'Ah, I didn't know you did me the honour of reading that.'

'Oh, yes; we both read it,' put in Mrs. Wimp. 'I told Mr. Wimp it was very clever and cogent. After that quotation from the letter to the poor fellow's fiancee there could be no more doubt but that it was murder. Mr. Wimp was convinced by it too, weren't you, Edward?'

Edward coughed uneasily. It was a true statement, and therefore an indiscreet. Grodman would plume himself terribly. At this moment Wimp felt that Grodman had been right in remaining a bachelor. Grodman perceived the humour of the situation, and wore a curious, sub-mocking smile.

'On the day I was born,' said Wimp's grand-mother-in-law, 'over a hundred years ago, there was a babe murdered.'-Wimp found himself wishing it had been she. He was anxious to get back to Cantercot. 'Don't let us talk shop on Christmas Day,' he said, smiling at Grodman. 'Besides, murder isn't a very appropriate subject.'

'No, it ain't,' said Grodman. 'How did we get on to it? Oh, yes-Denzil Cantercot. Ha! ha! ha! That's curious, for since Denzil revised Criminals I have Caught, his mind's running on nothing but murders. A poet's brain is easily turned.'

Wimp's eye glittered with excitement and contempt for Grodman's blindness. In Grodman's eye there danced an amused scorn of Wimp; to the outsider his amusement appeared at the expense of the poet.

Having wrought his rival up to the highest pitch, Grodman slyly and suddenly unstrung him.

'How lucky for Denzil!' he said, still in the same naive, facetious Christmasy tone, 'that he can prove an alibi in this Constant affair.'

'An alibi!' gasped Wimp. 'Really?'

'Oh, yes. He was with his wife, you know. She's my woman of all work, Jane. She happened to mention his being with her.'

Jane had done nothing of the kind. After the colloquy he had overheard, Grodman had set himself to find out the relation between his two employees. By casually referring to Denzil as 'your husband,' he so startled the poor woman that she did not attempt to deny the bond. Only once did he use the two words, but he was satisfied. As to the alibi, he had not yet troubled her; but to take its existence for granted would upset and discomfort Wimp. For the moment that was triumph enough for Wimp's guest.

'Par,' said Wilfred Wimp, 'what's a alleybi? A marble?'

'No, my lad,' said Grodman, 'it means being somewhere else when you're supposed to be somewhere.'

'Ah, playing truant,' said Wilfred, self-consciously; his schoolmaster had often proved an alibi against him. 'Then Denzil will be hanged.'

Was it a prophecy? Wimp accepted it as such; as an oracle from the gods bidding him mistrust Grodman. Out of the mouths of little children issueth wisdom; sometimes even when they are not saying their lessons.

'When I was in my cradle, a century ago,' said Wimp's grandmother-in-law, 'men were hanged for stealing horses.'

They silenced her with snapdragon performances.

Wimp was busy thinking how to get at Grodman's factotum.

Grodman was busy thinking how to get at Wimp's domestic.

Neither received any of the usual messages from the Christmas Bells.

* * * * *

The next day was sloppy and uncertain. A thin rain drizzled languidly. One can stand that sort of thing on a summer Bank Holiday; one expects it. But to have a bad December Bank Holiday is too much of a bad thing. Some steps should surely be taken to confuse the weather clerk's chronology. Once let him know that Bank Holiday is coming, and he writes to the company for more water. To-day his stock seemed low, and he was dribbling it out; at times the wintry sun would shine in a feeble, diluted way, and though the holiday-makers would have preferred to take their sunshine neat, they swarmed forth in their myriads whenever there was a ray of hope. But it was only dodging the raindrops; up went the umbrellas again, and the streets became meadows of ambulating mushrooms.

Denzil Cantercot sat in his fur overcoat at the open window, looking at the landscape in watercolours. He smoked an after-dinner cigarette, and spoke of the Beautiful. Crowl was with him. They were in the first floor front, Crowl's bedroom, which, from its view of the Mile End Road, was livelier than the parlour with its outlook on the backyard. Mrs. Crowl was an anti-tobacconist as regards the best bedroom; but Peter did not like to put the poet or his cigarette out. He felt there was something in common between smoke and poetry, over and above their being both Fads. Besides, Mrs. Crowl was sulking in the kitchen. She had been arranging for an excursion with Peter and the children to Victoria Park. (She had dreamed of the Crystal Palace, but Santa Claus had put no gifts in the cobbler's shoes.) Now she could not risk spoiling the feather in her bonnet. The nine brats expressed their disappointment by slapping one another on the staircases. Peter felt that Mrs. Crowl connected him in some way with the rainfall, and was unhappy. Was it not enough that he had been deprived of the pleasure of pointing out to a superstitious majority the mutual contradictions of Leviticus and the Song of Solomon? It was not often that Crowl could count on such an audience.

'And you still call Nature Beautiful?' he said to Denzil, pointing to the ragged sky and the dripping eaves. 'Ugly old scare-crow!'

'Ugly she seems to-day,' admitted Denzil. 'But what is Ugliness but a higher form of Beauty? You have to look deeper into it to see it; such vision is the priceless gift of the few. To me this wan desolation of sighing rain is lovely as the sea-washed ruins of cities.'

'Ah, but you wouldn't like to go out into it,' said Peter Crowl. As he spoke the drizzle suddenly thickened into a torrent.

'We do not always kiss the woman we love.'

'Speak for yourself, Denzil. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know if Nature isn't a Fad. Hallo, there goes Mortlake! Lord, a minute of this will soak him to the skin.'

The labour leader was walking along with bowed head. He did not seem to mind the shower. It was some seconds before he even heard Crowl's invitation to him to take shelter. When he did hear it he shook his head.

'I know I can't offer you a drawing-room with duchesses stuck about it,' said Peter, vexed.

Tom turned the handle of the shop door and went in. There was nothing in the world which now galled him more than the suspicion that he was stuck-up and wished to cut old friends. He picked his way through the nine brats who clung affectionately to his wet knees, dispersing them finally by a jet of coppers to scramble for. Peter met him on the stairs and shook his hand lovingly and admiringly, and took him into Mrs. Crowl's bedroom.

'Don't mind what I say, Tom. I'm only a plain man, and my tongue will say what comes uppermost! But it ain't from the soul, Tom, it ain't from the soul,' said Peter, punning feebly, and letting a mirthless smile play over his sallow features. 'You know Mr. Cantercot, I suppose? The Poet.'

'Oh, yes; how do you do, Tom?' cried the Poet. 'Seen the New Pork Herald lately? Not bad, those old times, eh?'

'No,' said Tom, 'I wish I was back in them.'

'Nonsense, nonsense,' said Peter, in much concern. 'Look at the good you are doing to the working man. Look how you are sweeping away the Fads. Ah, it's a grand thing to be gifted, Tom. The idea of your chuckin' yourself