The next thing was to get the watchman’s name and address, and to arrange for his appearance if he were called upon. The old man readily gave the particulars; but when Ellery talked of payment for his services, he refused. “I don’t want money for it,” he said; “not unless I have to appear in court. Then I’ll want my expenses same as another. But I’ll tell you what. If I’ve done you a good turn, you come here again some night and talk to me about books. That’ll be a lot more to me than what you’d give me. There ain’t no one I’ve got to talk to about what I read. It’ll be a treat to have a talk to a gent like you, what knows all about books and what’s inside ’em.”
“I’m afraid,” said Ellery, “you do me too much credit. It’s years since I read Carlyle, and I’ve forgotten most about him. But I’ll come back, and lend you some more of him if you want it. But I expect you know a lot more about him than I do.”
It turned out that what the old man wanted above all else was a copy of Carlyle’s Cromwell. Ellery promised to bring it, and after a few words more they parted on the best of terms, and Ellery walked on slowly along Coventry Street and into Leicester Square. He felt that luck was on his side.
XVII
The Lovely Lady
To walk round Leicester Square in search of the mysterious Kitty gave Ellery an uncomfortable feeling. Kitty appeared to belong to a type of lovely lady which had not come much in his way, and his first sensation was one of strong distaste. Moreover, he very soon realised that the description given to him was not likely to be of much value. There seemed to be a whole tribe of Kittys in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, and Ellery liked each one he set eyes on less than the last. He came speedily to two conclusions—first, that he would never spot the right one by means of the description which Walter Brooklyn had given, and secondly, that it would be quite out of his power to address one of these ladies, or to do anything but seek refuge in flight if, as seemed most probable, one of them attempted to address him. He tried to overcome this feeling; but it was no use. Even though no one had yet spoken to him, he turned tail, and took refuge in Orange Street for a few minutes’ reflection.
He knew that he could not do it. Moreover, to walk round Leicester Square addressing strange females by a Christian name which might or might not belong to them was probably an excellent prelude to adventures of a sort, but hardly to the gaining of the particular information of which he was in search. The way to find Kitty was not to hunt for a hypothetical needle in a very unpleasant haystack, but to go straight to someone who was likely to know. And who would be more likely than Will Jaxon, who was celebrated as the devil of a fellow with the women, and lived, moreover, in bachelor chambers hardly more than round the corner in Panton Street? Ellery set off there to find his man.
Jaxon had been with Ellery at Oxford, and, dissimilar as many of their tastes were, they had kept up the acquaintance. They had in common an intense absorption in the technique of the theatre, in which Ellery was interested as a young and promising writer of plays, and Jaxon as an equally promising producer. But Jaxon’s way of living was very different from his friend’s. He was not a vicious man; but he said that vice, and still more the shoddy imitation of it which passes current in the London demimonde, attracted him as a study. He liked watching the game, and making little bets with himself as to its fortunes. It was, he said, a harmless amusement, and, if the professors of psychology based their views largely on a study of the “diseases of personality,” why should not he, a mere amateur, follow their example? So he passed much of his time among persons whose ways of living were, to say the least, not in conformity with the dictates of the Nonconformist conscience. It was his pride to know the Society underworld; and, in particular, he was wont to boast that he knew the “points” of all the important “lovely ladies” of London. It was ten to one that he would know where to find Kitty.
Jaxon, fortunately, was in, and Ellery was soon able to explain his business. He wanted a woman, none too young, and getting fat, whose name was Kitty something-or-other. She was, he believed, often to be found round about Leicester Square.
“You’re the very last man I ever expected to come to me on a quest like that,” said Jaxon with a laugh. “Now, if it had been Lorimer or Wentworth—but you of all men. Oh, I know it’s all right, and your intentions are strictly honourable. But do you know that there are at least a dozen Kittys, all of them celebrated in their way, who conform fully to the description you have given me? How am I to know which one you want?”
Ellery repeated his description, giving every detail that had been told him—the golden, dyed hair, the smile that switched on and off like an electric light—“That’s not much help. It’s part of the professional equipment,” said Jaxon—the dark eyes, the slovenly walk.
“The golden hair and the dark eyes help to narrow the field; but there are still half a dozen it might be—all of the fat and forty brigade, and all of them no better than they should be according to the world’s reckoning. Five of the six are just the ordinary thing; but the other is something quite
