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'The undertaker's men have arrived, sir. They are closing the coffin now.'

'Closing the coffin!'

I waited to hear no more. Never before had I mounted a flight of stairs as I did those then. I was up them in a hop, skip, and jump; not pausing to consider what I was to say or do when I reached the chamber of the supposititious dead, but only anxious to get there.

When I got there it was already too late. I saw it at a glance. Never shall I forget with what sensations!

Four men were in the room, all dressed in black. One had his hat on; the hats of the other three were together on a single chair. An oak coffin stood on a black velvet pall, which doubtless covered trestles. Two men, one at either end, were screwing on the lid. A third was prowling about the room. The fourth-the one with his hat on-was standing, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the proceedings. They all glanced towards me as I entered, unmistakably taken by surprise. The fourth man, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, made haste to remove his hat. The prowler came hurrying towards the others.

'You're-you're not closing the coffin?'

'Yes, sir. By Mr. Tattenham's instructions.'

'But it's not time.'

'Excuse me, sir, but it is. The coffin has to be placed in the van before it's attached to the train; and that means some time before it's due to start. Did you wish, sir, to see him?'

I felt dazed; filled with a whirl of confused thoughts. The voice of the undertaker's man sounded to me like a voice in a dream.

'See him. Is he'-I was about to add 'in there?' Because it seemed incredible that even so consummate an artist as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe could consent to remain quiescent while being consigned to a living tomb. But the question in such a form might have seemed too suggestive; so I substituted, 'Is he all right?'

It seemed that the man somewhat mistook my drift.

'Perfectly, sir. Make a fine photograph, sir. Looks calm and peaceful; as well as he possibly could look. We can easily remove the lid; would you like to see him, sir?'

'See him? No. I-I don't want to see him.'

'In that case, since the lid is closed, we'll be starting, sir, if you don't mind.'

I do not know what I said. Something, I suppose; because shouldering the coffin there and then, they started. They carried it from the room and bore it from my sight. I remained behind, picturing the man inside fighting for freedom. I wondered when the struggle would begin. What was that? I thought I heard a voice calling to me from the stairs without; a voice I seemed to know. I went to the door and listened. Not a sound. Across the hall below passed the four men in black, bearing the living man shut up in the box upon their shoulders.

Was he already tapping at the inner shell? Would they hear him if he were? The shell was presumably a substantial one; the wood of the outer coffin thick. He would be shrouded in his winding-clothes; his movements would be cumbered. He would quite possibly be unable to rap with sufficient force to make them hear him. He might call; or try to. In that stifling atmosphere would he be able to use his voice?

At any rate it seemed plain that nothing took place inside that polished tomb to attract their attention. The bearers passed through the swing doors, out into the street. I waited. No doubt the coffin was being placed inside the hearse. Was Mr. Babbacombe aware of it? Presently one of the undertaker's men returned to fetch the four hats which had been left behind in the room. He went down the stairs with two in either hand. Another interval. Presumably the hearse had started.

What was that noise-like the scratching of fingernails against wood? Whose voice called me? Did it come from the bed? I spun round like a teetotum.

It was merely a delusion. It must have been. The bed was unoccupied. Its emptiness affected me more than anything which had gone before. It exercised on me so singular a fascination that I continued to stare at it as if unable to take my eyes away.

What was that noise-like the scratching of a man's nails against wood? The hearse must have long since got out of the street. If it had a fast pair of horses it was probably already half-way to the station. It could not come from the bed.

When-I do not know how long afterwards-I went down the stairs, feeling as if a century had elapsed since I went up them, the landlord stopped me to express a hope that everything had been done to my satisfaction.

BOOK II. – THE LOST HUSBAND
THE STORY IS CONTINUED BY MRS. JAMES MERRETT

CHAPTER XI
AN ENCOUNTER IN PICCADILLY

I couldn't make it out. Nor could Mr. FitzHoward.

'Well,' said Mr. FitzHoward to me, 'your governor certainly is a caution'-which I was far from denying it-'but this beats anything; it does that.'

And tilting his hat on to the back of his head, he looked at the ceiling, as if in the hope of seeing James up there. But nothing of the kind.

'You say you've heard nothing of him,' he continued. 'You're quite sure? This isn't a little game he's playing off on me, in which you're taking a hand?'

'Mr. FitzHoward, I'm not that sort of person. I've not heard one word; nor half a one. He came home that night after he'd been doing that sleep at the Aquarium-well, he'd been drinking.'

'You'd have been drinking if you'd only just woke up after being asleep for thirty days.'

'No, Mr. FitzHoward, I should not; though I can quite understand what an awful feeling it must be. And how he can go wasting his life like that-'

'You don't call it wasting his life when he earns nearly a hundred pounds in a month?'

'It's the first I've heard of it if he did earn nearly a hundred pounds. He gave me the money to pay the rent, and five pounds to pay the bills, and another five pounds to buy the children and me some clothes-it's a lucky thing I didn't buy them, or I should have been penniless-and that's all the money I ever heard of. That was on the Sunday morning. He had on a suit of clothes which I'd never seen before, and in them he looked a perfect gentleman.'

'He's a gentleman to his finger-tips-when he likes.'

'When he chooses he's anything and everything. His equal I never knew or heard tell of. I'm not a superstitious woman, but it's sometimes my belief that he has dealings with those he didn't ought to.'

'I shouldn't be surprised.'

I could tell from his tone that he was laughing; as I let him see.

'You may laugh, Mr. FitzHoward, and welcome. But I know more about him than you do, and he's done things which make me believe he has traffic with the powers of evil.'

'You'd better tell him so.'

'I have told him so, more than once; and then he's spoken as if he was running a sword right through me. Not cross-that's one of his queer ways-he never is cross; you can't make him cross. But for sarcasm there never was his match. He makes you wish that you'd bitten your tongue off before you spoke. Well, as I was saying, that Sunday morning he came down with a new suit of clothes on, laid the money on the table, said what it was for, and walked right out. I didn't dare to ask him where he was going to.'

'They aren't many wives like you, Mrs. Merrett.'

'And there aren't many wives, Mr. FitzHoward, who've got husbands like mine. However, though I asked no questions I thought that, after being away a month, he'd be home for dinner, especially as I had expressly told him that I'd got as good a dinner for him as man could want. The children and I waited till the dinner was spoilt, but he never came. I cried; I was disappointed. That's nearly a fortnight ago, and from that hour to this I've seen and heard nothing of him.'

'Has he done this kind of thing before?'

'Plenty of times. Sometimes he's been away months at a stretch.'

'And left you penniless?'

'He's never done that. Money's always come along just as I was beginning to want it; with nothing, except his writing on the envelope, to show from whom it came.'

'He's a curiosity.'

'He's more than that. He's a mystery.'

'I don't know if you're aware that he's entered into certain contracts, and that, if he doesn't keep them, it'll be a serious thing for me.'

'He thinks nothing of breaking contracts; not he.'

'That's pleasant hearing. I hope he'll think something of breaking these.' He stood biting his fingernails; which is a habit I can't abide.

'Do you know anything about a man named Smith?'

'I've known something about a good many Smiths.'

'Yes, but this is a particular Smith. A very tall, well-set man; swell written large all over him; a military swagger; and a big brown moustache just turning grey.'

'I can't say that I recognise him from your description. But there's very few of my husband's friends I do know. Was this Mr. Smith a friend of his?'

'That's what I would like to know. I can give you one piece of information, Mrs. Merrett. When your husband left here that Sunday morning I can tell you where he went.'

'Perhaps you can tell me where he is now.'

'I wish I could. It would be a weight off my mind. He's booked to open at Manchester next week, and I want to see him to make arrangements. That Sunday morning he went to the York Hotel. There he engaged a private sitting-room, in which he had an interview, by appointment, with Mr. John Smith. After Mr. Smith went he had dinner.'

'Did he?'

'He did; and a good one, too-from what I hear. He stayed at the York Hotel all day; he slept there that night.'

'How could he! And I sat up half the night hoping and longing for him to come home.'

'He left very early the next morning, without leaving word where he was going; and where he did go is what I want to know.'

'How do you know all this?'

'It's no secret. I happened to mention, in the hearing of the young lady behind the bar, that I couldn't make out what had become of Babbacombe, and she said that he'd slept there one night. Then the boss told me all there was to tell.'

'Who is this Mr. Smith James had the interview with?'

'That's another thing I want to know; and that's why I asked if you knew. The first time I saw him was on the Thursday-the twenty-eighth day of your husband's sleep. When he caught sight of your governor he turned quite queer.'

'Queer? What do you mean?'

'Why, he went so white and tottery that, for all the big man he is, I thought he was going to faint. If he hadn't seen your husband before, and wasn't precious sorry to see him again, I'm a Dutchman. The next day, Friday, he turned up again. Then he said that if I'd manage to let him speak to your husband he'd give me a five-pound note.'

'Good gracious! He must have been very anxious to speak to him.'

'He was-uncommon. Sure enough on the Saturday night he was there. After your husband had finished his show, I told him that a party named Smith wanted to see him.'

'Did you tell him he had offered to give you a five-pound note?'

'No; I didn't think that was necessary. The governor said, "Show him in." As I showed him in he slipped me the fiver. When I came back, I saw that something had taken place between them which had put your husband in a mood I couldn't understand. He must have made an appointment with this Smith for the next morning-though he said nothing about it to me. As he kept that appointment, and after keeping it disappeared, it looks very much as if Smith knew where he disappeared to, and why: if we could only find him.'

'If you take my advice, Mr. FitzHoward, you won't interfere in my husband's private affairs any more than you can help. He's not the kind of man who takes interference kindly.'

'His private affairs in this case are mine. At his request I have made certain engagements for him. If he doesn't keep them I shall be blamed. I'm a man, Mrs. Merrett, to whom professional reputation is dear. If he doesn't keep them it shall be through no fault of mine. If what you call interference is necessary to induce him to keep them, I'm going in for just as much of it as ever I can.'

'Very well, Mr. FitzHoward. Only don't ask me to help you. I've long since given up interfering with Mr. Merrett's comings and goings, either by word or deed.'

'As I said before, Mrs. Merrett, you're a remarkable wife. You see, I'm only his business manager; so I expect I'm actuated by different motives.'

Shortly after that he took himself away. And I wasn't sorry to see him go. Though, when he went, he left behind him as unhappy a woman as you'd find in England.

James used to tell me I was pretty. He tells me so sometimes now. I wish he'd say it oftener; because it won't be true of me much longer, and my prettiness is all I ever had. I'm not a bit clever. I'm an ignorant, common woman. That's all. My father was a small farmer over Horsham way. James came to lodge with us one summer; for we took lodgers sometimes, when we could get them. He hadn't been in the house a week before he was all the world to me. He was years and years older than I was; nigh as old as father. But that made no difference. There never was another man like him. Not all the other men put together would make his equal. I thought so then, and I think so now.

The strange thing was that he cared for me. He told me so one afternoon. And while I was half beside myself with joy they came and told me father was dead. He had been thatching the big barn, and had slipped off the roof and broken his neck. The day after father was buried, I went over with James to Horsham, and was married at the registrar's by special licence. Father was all the relation I had, and me being alone in the world, with no money, James thought it would be best.

James being as near as possible a stranger, it wasn't till after we were married that I learned anything at all about him; and then only what he chose to tell me. It wasn't long, however, before I began to find out that I'd got a queer one for a husband; but how queer I don't believe I know to this very hour. I'm not one to tell tales of my own man, the father of my children, but I could tell tales which would make some people's hair stand up on end. Some of the things he's done have made me wonder if he's not in league with the devil. Not that I wasn't happy-at least until I saw that to him a woman was just nothing at all. Though he loved me in his way. But his way was such a funny one. For a week together he'd be so nice that I'd begin to think I was in Heaven. Then he'd go out, as I'd think just for a stroll, and I'd never see him again for weeks, and sometimes months. Where he went to, or what he did, he'd never tell me. And, in time, I gave up asking; because the way he treated me when I did ask made me more miserable than ever.

I'm not old now. I've not been married six years, and I wasn't seventeen when I was married. And twenty-three isn't old compared to some. And I've two of the dearest little children. I believe they're a blessing God has given me to make up for what I have to bear from James. Jimmy, he's four and a half, and good as gold; and Pollie, she's three, the prettiest and best child that ever lived. They say that she takes after me; but I'm sure that I don't know. What I should do without them I tremble to think.

And now here was James gone off again! He'd been giving some dreadful performance-though, to my thinking, performance was not the word-at the Royal Aquarium. Actually been to sleep for thirty days on end. It made my blood run cold to think of it. What people could see in such a thing beats me. But there-you never know. Some like all kinds of things. There was once a lady who lived near me who called herself the Boneless Wonder. She was a wonder! She'd twist herself into the most horrid shapes you ever saw. Yet she seemed to like to do it, and people paid to see her. One afternoon when I was having a cup of tea with her, she did such awful things right in front of me upon the kitchen table that I was ill for a week.

There are some women who wish their husbands never would come home. But I'm not that sort. When James has been away, how I've waited and watched for him no one knows, or ever will. And prayed too. And I've taught the children to pray for Daddy to come home. We've all three knelt down together, though they can hardly speak. And when Jimmy says 'Please, God, send Daddy soon,' it goes right through me. I wish He would-to stop. Every footfall I've hoped was his, and at a rap at the door my heart stopped beating. And then when he did come, he'd be as cool and as calm as if he'd never been away. If you ran to him, and made a fuss, he'd say something that would cut you like a knife. But if you kept yourself in as tight as you could, and waited for him to start the fussing, sometimes he'd be that nice that I'd forget all my heavy heart and weary watching, and be as happy as the day was long.

Mr. FitzHoward hadn't got used to him like I had. He hadn't been his 'business manager' for long-though what business James had that he was manager of was beyond me altogether-and the way in which James had taken himself away again seemed to worry him even more than it did me. So far as I could make out, James had bound himself to go to certain towns on certain dates; and if he didn't go Mr. FitzHoward would have to pay. He didn't like the idea of that at all. And I can't say that I blame him. He was in and out sometimes two or three times a day to know if there was news of him. What with his constant worrying, and James keeping away, it was almost more than I could stand. It was only the children kept me up. If I hadn't loved my husband it wouldn't have mattered; but I did. And though I let no one guess it, least of all Mr. FitzHoward, my heart kept crying out for him as if it would break.

One morning, two days after he'd been telling me about that mysterious Mr. Smith, he came rushing into the house without even so much as knocking. He was so excited that he made me excited too. I went up to him with my hands clenched at my sides, feeling all of a tremble.

'Well, where is he?'

His answer made me go as cold as I'd gone hot.

'I'd give a five-pound note to know; the one presented me by Mr. Smith, with another one on top of it.'

'What's the matter with you then, if you don't know?'

He seemed to think that there was something singular in my appearance.

'I say-Mrs. Merrett-don't hit me!' As if I was going to hit him. Though he deserved shaking for making me think such things. I went back to the roly-poly pudding I was making for the children's dinner. 'I tell you what it is, Mrs. Merrett; I'm beginning to feel uneasy.'

'Who cares what you feel?'

Disappointment had made me angry.

'Not many people, I admit. It's a solemn fact that my feelings are not of national importance; but when you've heard what I've got to say, perhaps you'll begin to feel uneasy; then it'll be my turn to make inquiries. You know that Mr. Smith I told you about?' I nodded. I had heard enough of the mysterious Smith. 'Yesterday afternoon, as I was going along Piccadilly on a 'bus, I saw him on the pavement.

'Alone?'

'He was alone right enough; though, for all I know, a ghost ought to have been walking by his side.'

'Mr. FitzHoward! What do you mean?'

'Aren't I going to tell you, if you'll wait? Even the best of women-and, Mrs. Merrett, you must pardon my saying that you are the best I ever met, and I've met some-are impatient.' I wished he'd stop his nonsense. 'I jumped off the 'bus, went up to Mr. Smith from behind, reached out my hand, and touched him on the shoulder. He gave such a jump that he made me jump too. I never saw a man so startled. He didn't look much happier when he saw me; he knew me right enough. "Good God!" he said. "You!" "Yes," I said. "Mr. – Mr. Smith, might I be permitted to inquire what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe?" I don't know what made me ask the question, at least in that way. It must have been a kind of inspiration. For when I did ask it, it seemed to strike him all of a heap. He gave a lurch so that I thought that he was going to fall; and if the wall of St. James's Church hadn't been handy for him to lean against, he'd have come a cropper. The sight he was took me quite aback. It made me think all sorts of things. I couldn't make it out at all. It was some time before he'd got hold of himself enough to speak; and then it was with a stammer. "What-what do you mean by-by asking me such a question?" "I asked it because I want an answer. What's become of him since you had that interview with him at the York Hotel?" "How do you know I had an interview with him?" "That's tellings. I know one or two things, and I want to know one or two more. Mr. Smith, what have you done with Mr. Babbacombe?" "I know nothing whatever, sir, of the person to whom you refer." He tried to pull himself together, and pass things off with an air. But it wasn't altogether a success. Just as he was making as if to take himself off, a friend came rushing up to him. "Hollo, Howarth!" he cried, "you're the very man I wanted to see." I pricked up my ears at this. "Excuse me, sir," I said. "Is this gentleman's name Howarth?" The friend looked me up and down; like those swells do. "Who's this?" he asked. Mr. Smith-or Mr. Howarth-took his arm. "Some person who wishes to make himself offensive to me." And he was going to walk off. But I got in front of him. "Excuse me, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, or whatever your name is, but before you go perhaps you'll tell me what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe." He was more himself by now, and looked at me in a way I didn't like; as if I was so much dirt under his feet. "What's he mean?" asked his friend. My gentleman beckoned to a policeman who was standing a little way off. "Officer," he said, "be so good as to prevent this person from annoying me." "Constable," I said in my turn, "I want to know what this gentleman has done with a friend of mine." However, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, called a cab; and as the bobby had as near as a toucher, planted himself on my toes, I had to let him get into it. "Who's that?" I asked the copper, as he was driving off. "That's the Honourable Douglas Howarth. What do you want with him?" "I want to know what size he takes in boots," I said. That gentleman in blue had given me the needle. There's a Court Guide where I live. When I opened it this morning the first name I saw was Howarth. The Hon. Douglas Howarth is the third son of the late Earl of Barnes, and the uncle of the present Earl. He's a bachelor. He has a sister, Lady Violet, who's unmarried; and he lives in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. All of which sounds very different to "John Smith."'

'But why should he have called himself Smith? And what was it he was so anxious to say to James?'

'Exactly. That's what you're going to find out.'

'I! Mr. FitzHoward!'

'You-Mrs. Merrett! Who's entitled to know who killed the husband if it isn't his wife?'

'Mr. FitzHoward!'

'So this afternoon you're going to call on the Hon. Douglas Howarth, alias Mr. John Smith, at his residence in Brook Street, to make inquiries.'