been, he was embarrassed. He wished that he could have obliged this kindhearted girl by taking her picture, but a natural delicacy restrained him from touching on this subject. They went down the stairs in silence.
On the first landing a hand was placed on his in the darkness and the girl’s voice whispered in his ear.
“We are just outside father’s study,” he heard her say. “We must be as quiet as mice.”
“As what?” said Clarence.
“Mice.”
“Oh, rather,” said Clarence, and immediately bumped into what appeared to be a pedestal of some sort.
These pedestals usually have vases on top of them, and it was revealed to Clarence a moment later that this one was no exception. There was a noise like ten simultaneous dinner-services coming apart in the hands of ten simultaneous parlour-maids; and then the door was flung open, the landing became flooded with light, and the Mayor of Tooting East stood before them. He was carrying a revolver and his face was dark with menace.
“Ha!” said the Mayor.
But Clarence was paying no attention to him. He was staring open-mouthed at the girl. She had shrunk back against the wall, and the light fell full upon her.
“You!” cried Clarence.
“This—” began the Mayor.
“You! At last!”
“This is a pretty—”
“Am I dreaming?”
“This is a pretty state of af—”
“Ever since that day I saw you in the cab I have been scouring London for you. To think that I have found you at last!”
“This is a pretty state of affairs,” said the Mayor, breathing on the barrel of his revolver and polishing it on the sleeve of his coat. “My daughter helping the foe of her family to fly—”
“Flee, father,” corrected the girl, faintly.
“Flea or fly—this is no time for arguing about insects. Let me tell you—”
Clarence interrupted him indignantly.
“What do you mean,” he cried, “by saying that she took after you?”
“She does.”
“She does not. She is the loveliest girl in the world, while you look like Lon Chaney made up for something. See for yourself.” Clarence led them to the large mirror at the head of the stairs. “Your face—if you can call it that—is one of those beastly blobby squashy sort of faces—”
“Here!” said the Mayor.
“—whereas hers is simply divine. Your eyes are bulbous and goofy—”
“Hey!” said the Mayor.
“—while hers are sweet and soft and intelligent. Your ears—”
“Yes, yes,” said the Mayor, petulantly. “Some other time, some other time. Then am I to take it, Mr. Mulliner—”
“Call me Clarence.”
“I refuse to call you Clarence.”
“You will have to very shortly, when I am your son-in-law.”
The girl uttered a cry. The Mayor uttered a louder cry.
“My son-in-law!”
“That,” said Clarence, firmly, “is what I intend to be—and speedily.” He turned to the girl. “I am a man of volcanic passions, and now that love has come to me there is no power in heaven or earth that can keep me from the object of my love. It will be my never-ceasing task—er—”
“Gladys,” prompted the girl.
“Thank you. It will be my never-ceasing task, Gladys, to strive daily to make you return that love—”
“You need not strive, Clarence,” she whispered, softly. “It is already returned.”
Clarence reeled.
“Already?” he gasped.
“I have loved you since I saw you in that cab. When we were torn asunder, I felt quite faint.”
“So did I. I was in a daze. I tipped my cabman at Waterloo three half-crowns. I was aflame with love.”
“I can hardly believe it.”
“Nor could I, when I found out. I thought it was threepence. And ever since that day—”
The Mayor coughed.
“Then am I to take it—er—Clarence,” he said, “that your objections to photographing my daughter are removed?”
Clarence laughed happily.
“Listen,” he said, “and I’ll show you the sort of son-in-law I am. Ruin my professional reputation though it may, I will take a photograph of you too!”
“Me!”
“Absolutely. Standing beside her with the tips of your fingers on her shoulder. And what’s more, you can wear your cocked hat.”
Tears had begun to trickle down the Mayor’s cheeks.
“My boy!” he sobbed, brokenly. “My boy!”
And so happiness came to Clarence Mulliner at last. He never became President of the Bulb-Squeezers, for he retired from business the next day, declaring that the hand that had snapped the shutter when taking the photograph of his dear wife should never snap it again for sordid profit. The wedding, which took place some six weeks later, was attended by almost everybody of any note in Society or on the Stage; and was the first occasion on which a bride and bridegroom had ever walked out of church beneath an arch of crossed tripods.
Honeysuckle Cottage
“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked Mr. Mulliner abruptly.
I weighed the question thoughtfully. I was a little surprised, for nothing in our previous conversation had suggested the topic.
“Well,” I replied, “I don’t like them, if that’s what you mean. I was once butted by one as a child.”
“Ghosts. Not goats.”
“Oh, ghosts? Do I believe in ghosts?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, yes—and no.”
“Let me put it another way,” said Mr. Mulliner, patiently. “Do you believe in haunted houses? Do you believe that it is possible for a malign influence to envelop a place and work a spell on all who come within its radius?”
I hesitated.
“Well, no—and yes.”
Mr. Mulliner sighed a little. He seemed to be wondering if I was always as bright as this.
“Of course,” I went on, “one has read stories. Henry James’s Turn of the Screw. …”
“I am not talking about fiction.”
“Well, in real life—Well, look here, I once, as a matter of fact, did meet a man who knew a fellow. …”
“My distant cousin James Rodman spent some weeks in a haunted house,” said Mr. Mulliner, who, if he has a fault, is not a very good listener. “It cost him five thousand pounds. That is to say, he sacrificed five thousand pounds by not remaining there. Did you ever,” he asked, wandering, it seemed to me, from the subject, “hear of Leila J. Pinckney?”
Naturally I had heard of Leila J. Pinckney. Her death some years ago has diminished her vogue, but at
