“We do,” agreed Marion, “especially when we are modelling a portrait bust and the likeness won’t come although every part appears to be correct and all the measurements seem to agree. A true likeness is an extraordinarily subtle and exact piece of work.”
“So I have always thought,” said Thorndyke. “But I mustn’t delay you any longer. May I have my precious parcel?”
Marion handed him the not very presentable bundle with a smile and a bow. He then took his leave of her and I escorted him to the door, where he paused for a moment as we shook hands.
“You are bearing my advice in mind, I hope, Gray,” he said.
“As to keeping clear of unfrequented places? Yes, I have been very careful in that respect, and I never go abroad without the pistol. It is in my hip-pocket now. But I have seen no sign of anything to justify so much caution. I doubt if our friend is even aware of my existence, and in any case, I don’t see that he has anything against me, excepting as Miss D’Arblay’s watchdog.”
“Don’t be too sure, Gray,” he rejoined earnestly. “There may be certain little matters that you have overlooked. At any rate, don’t relax your caution. Give all unfrequented places a wide berth and keep a bright lookout.”
With this final warning, he turned away and strode off down the road while I reentered the studio just in time to see Polton mix the first bowl of plaster, as Marion, having washed the clay from the transformed mask, dried it and rehung it on its peg.
XIII
A Narrow Escape
The statement that I had made to Thorndyke was perfectly true in substance; but it was hardly as significant in fact as the words implied. I had, it is true, in my journeyings abroad, restricted myself to well-beaten thoroughfares. But then I had had no occasion to do otherwise. Until Polton’s arrival on the scene my time had been wholly taken up in keeping a watch on Marion; and so it would have continued if I had followed my own inclination. But at the end of the first day’s work she intervened resolutely.
“I am perfectly ashamed,” she said, “to occupy the time of two men, both of whom have their own affairs to attend to, though I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for sacrificing yourselves.”
“We are acting under the doctor’s orders, Miss,” said Polton, thereby, in his opinion, closing the subject.
“You mean Dr. Thorndyke’s?” said Marion, not realizing—or not choosing to realize—that, to Polton, there was no other doctor in the world who counted.
“Yes, Miss. The doctor’s orders must be carried out.”
“Of course they must,” she agreed warmly, “since he has been so very good as to take all this trouble about my safety. But there is no need for both of you to be here together. Couldn’t you arrange to take turns on duty—alternate days or a half-day each? I hate the thought that I am wasting the whole of both your times.”
I did not look on the suggestion with favour, for I was reluctant to yield up to any man—even to Polton—the privilege of watching over the safety of one who was so infinitely dear to me. Nor was Polton much less unwilling to agree, for he loathed to leave a piece of work uncompleted. However, Marion refused to accept our denials (as is the way of women), and the end of it was that Polton and I had to arrange our duties in half-day shifts, changing over at the end of each week, the first spell allotting the mornings to me and the latter half of the day—with the duty of seeing Marion home—to him.
Thus, during each of the following six working days, I found myself with the entire afternoon and evening free. The former I usually spent at the hospital, but in the evenings, feeling too unsettled for study, I occupied myself very pleasantly with long walks through the inexhaustible streets, extending my knowledge of the town and making systematic explorations of such distant regions as Mile End, Kingsland, Dalston, Wapping, and the Borough.
One evening I bethought me of my promise to look in on Usher. I did not find myself yearning for his society, but a promise is a promise. Accordingly, when I had finished my solitary dinner, I set forth from my lodgings in Camden Square and made a beeline for Clerkenwell: so far, that is to say, as was possible, while keeping to the wider streets. For in this respect, I followed Thorndyke’s instructions to the letter, though, as to the other matter—that of keeping a bright lookout—I was less attentive, my mind being much more occupied with thoughts of Marion (who would, just now, be on her way home under Polton’s escort) than with any considerations of my own personal safety. Indeed, to tell the truth, I was inclined to be more than a little sceptical as to the need for these extraordinary precautions.
I found Usher in the act of bowing out the last of the “evening consultations,” and was welcomed by him with enthusiasm.
“Delighted to see you, old chap!” he exclaimed, shaking my hand warmly. “It is good of you to drop in on an old fossil like me. Didn’t much think you would. I suppose you don’t often come this way?”
“No,” I replied. “It is rather off my beat. I’ve finished with Hoxton—for the present, at any rate.”
“So have I,” said Usher, “since poor old Crile went off to the better land.”
“Crile?” I repeated. “Who was he?”
“Don’t you remember my telling you about his funeral, when they had those Sunday-school kids yowling hymns round the grave? That was Mr. Crile—Christian name, Jonathan.”
“I remember; but I didn’t realize that he was a Hoxton aristocrat.”
“Well, he was. Fifty-two, Field Street was his earthly abode. I used to remember it by the
