back. Or someone will.”
“What’ll we do? Don’t want anyone bothering Mr. Martin. I like him,” Chris decided.
Quickly the girl took thought. “I know!”
Within the hour the bell rang again. This man was much younger, and obviously of higher social status. Bright eyes, dark curly hair. “Excuse me, Miss? Are you the woman of the house?”
“Who wants her?”
“I’m George Harris, of Harris and Sons, moving and shipment.” A large, clean hand with well-trimmed nails offered a business card. Carrie read the address:
“Oh. I suppose you’re one of the sons.”
“That’s right, Miss. I’m looking about this neighborhood for a box that seems to have got misplaced. There’s evidence it was brought to this house, some days ago. One of a large shipment, fifty in all, there’s been a lot of hauling of ‘em to and fro around London, one place and another. Ours not to reason why, as the poet says. But our firm feels a certain responsibility.”
“What sort of box?”
George Harris had a good description, down to the rope handles. “Seen anything like that, Miss?” Meanwhile his eyes were probing the empty house behind her.
And Carrie was looking out past him, as a cab came galloping to a stop outside. Two well-dressed young gentlemen leaped out and climbed the steps. George Harris, who seemed to know them as respected clients, made introductions. Lord Godalming, no less, but called “Art” by his companion, Mr. Quincey Morris, who was carrying a carpetbag, and whose accent, though not at all the same as Mr. Martin’s, also seemed uncommon even for Soho.
The new arrivals made nervous, garbled attempts at explaining their urgent search. There had been, it seemed, twenty-one boxes taken from some place called Carfax, and so forty-nine of fifty were somehow now accounted for. But this time, Lord Godalming or not, Carrie held her place firmly in the doorway, allowing no one in.
“If there is a large box on the premises, I must examine it.” A commanding tone, as only one of his lordship’s exalted rank could manage.
At that, Carrie gracefully gave way. “Very well, sir, my lord, there is a strange box here, and where it came from, I’m sure I don’t know.”
Three men came bustling into the house, ready for action, Morris actually, for some reason, beginning to pull a thick wooden stake out of his carpetbag—and three men were deflated, like burst balloons, when they beheld the thin-sided, commonplace container on the parlor floor.
“Our furniture has not arrived yet, as you can see.” The lady of the house was socially apologetic.
Quincey Morris, muttering indelicate words, kicked off the scruffy lid, and indeed there was dirt inside, but only a few handfuls. And the two gentlemen hastily retreated to their waiting cab.
But George Harris lingered in the doorway, exchanging a few more words with Carrie. Until his lordship shouted at him to get a move on, there were other places to be examined. On with the search!
At sunset Carrie’s and Christopher’s cotenant came walking down the stairs into the parlor as before. There he paused, fussing with his cuffs as on the previous evening, But now his attention was caught by the rejected box. “And what is this? An attempt at furnishing?”
“You had some callers, Mr. Martin—de Ville—while you were asleep. I thought as maybe you didn’t wish to be disturbed.” And Carrie gave details.
“I see.” His dark eyes glittered at her. “Arid this—?”
“The gentlemen said they were looking for a large box of earth. So I thought the easiest way was to show ‘em one. Chris and I put some dirt in and dragged it up from the cellar.’Course this one ain’t nearly as big as yours. Not big enough for a tall man to lie down in. The gents were upset—this weren’t at all the one they wanted to find.”
There was a long pause, in which de Ville’s eyes probed the children silently. Then he bowed. “It seems I am greatly in your debt, Miss Carrie. Very greatly. And in yours, Master Christopher.”
Mr. de Ville seemed to sleep little the next day, or not at all, for the box in the garret held only earth. In the afternoon, Carrie by special invitation went with her new friend and his strange box to Doolittle’s Wharf, where she watched the man and his box board the sailing ship
As she returned to the house, feeling once more alone and unprotected, she noted that the evil Vincent was openly watching her again.
He grew bolder when, after several days, it seemed that the man of the house was gone.
George Harris came back once, on some pretext, but obviously to see Carrie, and they talked for some time. She learned that he was seventeen, and admitted she was three years younger.
Five days, then six, had passed since
George Harris came back again, this time wondering if he might have left his order book behind on his previous visit. Carrie made him tea, out of the newly restocked pantry. Mr. de Ville had left them what he called a token of his gratitude for their timely help, and sometimes Carrie was almost frightened when she counted up the golden coins. There was a bed in each bedroom now, and chairs and tables below.
Tonight Chris was in the house alone, curled up and reading by the fire, nursing a cough made worse by London air. Carrie was out alone in the London fog, walking through the greasy, smoky chill.
She heard the terrifying voice of Vincent, not far away, calling her name. There were footsteps in pursuit, hard confident strides, and in her fresh anxiety she took a wrong turning into a deadend mews.
In another moment she was running in panic, on the verge of screaming, feeling in her bones that screaming would do no good.
Someone, some presence, was near her in the fog—but no, there was no one and nothing there.
Only her pursuer’s footsteps, which came on steadily, slow and loud and confident—until they abruptly ceased.
Backed into a corner, she strained her ears, listening—nothing. Vincent must be playing cat and mouse with her. But at last a breath of wind stirred the heavy air, the gray curtain parted, and the way out of the mews seemed clear. Utterly deserted, only the body of some derelict, rolled into a corner.
No—someone was visible after all. Half a block ahead, a tall figure stood looking in Carrie’s direction, as if he might be waiting for her.
With a surge of relief and astonishment she hurried forward. “Mr. de Ville!”
“My dear child. It is late for you to be abroad.”
“I saw you board a ship for the Black Sea!”
His gaze searched the fog, sweeping back and forth over her head. “It is important that certain men believe I am still on that ship. And soon I really must depart from England. But I shall return to this sceptered isle one day.”
Anxiously she looked over her shoulder. “There was a man—”
“Your former neighbor, who meant you harm.” De Ville’s forehead creased. His eyes probed shadows in the mews behind her. “It is sad to contemplate such wickedness.” He sighed, put out a hand, patted her cheek. “But no matter. He will bother you no more. He told me—”
“You’ve seen him, sir?”
“Yes, just now—that he is leaving on a long journey—nay, has already left.”
Carrie was puzzled. “Long journey—to where, sir? America?”
“Farther than that, my child. Oh, farther than that.”
A man’s voice was audible above the endless traffic rumble, calling her name through the night from blocks away. The voice of George Harris, calling, concerned, for Carrie.
Bidding Mr. de Ville a hasty good night, she started to go to the young man. Then, meaning to ask another question, she turned back—the street was empty, save for the rolling fog.
