Uneasy Money · Chapter 18 (2/2)

A sense of something incongruous jarred upon Bill. Something seemed to be interfering with the supreme romance of that golden moment. It baffled him at first. Then he realized that he was still holding Eustace by the tail.

Dudley Pickering had watched these proceedings as well as the fact that it was extremely dark and that he was endeavoring to hide a portly form behind a slender bush would permit him⁠—with a sense of bewilderment. A comic artist, drawing Mr. Pickering at that moment, would no doubt have placed above his head one of those large marks of interrogation which lend vigor and snap to modern comic art. Certainly such a mark of interrogation would have summed up his feelings exactly. Of what was taking place he had not the remotest notion. All he knew was that for some inexplicable reason his quarry had come to a halt and seemed to have settled down for an indefinite stay. Voices came to him in an indistinguishable murmur, intensely irritating to a conscientious tracker. One of Fenimore Cooper’s Indians⁠—notably Chingachgook, if, which seemed incredible, that was really the man’s name⁠—would have crept up without a sound and heard what was being said and got in on the ground floor of whatever plot was being hatched. But experience had taught Mr. Pickering that, superior as he was to Chingachgook and his friends in many ways, as a creeper he was not in their class. He weighed thirty or forty pounds more than a first-class creeper should. Besides, creeping is like golf. You can’t take it up in the middle forties and expect to compete with those who have been at it from infancy.

He had resigned himself to an all-night vigil behind the bush, when to his great delight he perceived that things had begun to move again. There was a rustling of feet in the undergrowth, and he could just see two indistinct forms making their way among the bushes. He came out of his hiding place and followed stealthily, or as stealthily as the fact that he had not even taken a correspondence course in creeping allowed. And profiting by earlier mistakes, he did succeed in making far less noise than before. In place of his former somewhat elephantine method of progression he adopted a species of shuffle which had excellent results, for it enabled him to brush twigs away instead of stepping flat-footedly on them. The new method was slow, but it had no other disadvantages.

Because it was slow Mr. Pickering was obliged to follow his prey almost entirely by ear. It was easy at first, for they seemed to be hurrying on regardless of noise. Then unexpectedly the sounds of their passage ceased.

He halted. In his boyish way the first thing he thought was that it was an ambush. He had a vision of that large man suspecting his presence and lying in wait for him with a revolver. This was not a comforting thought. Of course, if a man is going to fire a revolver at you it makes little difference whether he is a giant or a pygmy, but Mr. Pickering was in no frame of mind for nice reasoning. It was the thought of Bill’s physique which kept him standing there irresolute.

What would Chingachgook⁠—assuming, for purposes of argument, that any sane godfather could really have given a helpless child a name like that⁠—have done? He would, Mr. Pickering considered, after giving the matter his earnest attention, have made a detour and outflanked the enemy. An excellent solution of the difficulty. Mr. Pickering turned to the left and began to advance circuitously, with the result that, before he knew what he was doing, he came out into a clearing and understood the meaning of the sudden silence which had perplexed him. Footsteps made no sound on this mossy turf.

He knew where he was now, the clearing was familiar. This was where Lord Wetherby’s shack studio stood; and there it was, right in front of him, black and clear in the moonlight. And the two dark figures were going into it.

Mr. Pickering retreated into the shelter of the bushes and mused upon this thing. It seemed to him that for centuries he had been doing nothing but retreat into bushes for this purpose. His perplexity had returned. He could imagine no reason why burglars should want to visit Lord Wetherby’s studio. He had taken it for granted, when he had tracked them to the clearing, that they were on their way to the house, which was quite close to the shack, separated from it only by a thin belt of trees and a lawn.

They had certainly gone in. He had seen them with his own eyes⁠—first The Man, then very close behind him, apparently holding to his coat, the girl. But why?

Creep up and watch them? Would Chingachgook have taken a risk like that? Hardly, unless insured with some good company. Then what? He was still undecided when he perceived the objects of his attention emerging. He backed a little farther into the bushes.

They stood for an instant, listening apparently. The Man no longer carried the sack. They exchanged a few inaudible words. Then they crossed the clearing and entered the wood a few yards to his right. He could hear the crackling of their footsteps diminishing in the direction of the road.

A devouring curiosity seized upon Mr. Pickering. He wanted, more than he had wanted almost anything before in his life, to find out what the dickens they had been up to in there. He listened. The footsteps were no longer audible. He ran across the clearing and into the shack. It was then that he discovered that he had no matches.

This needless infliction, coming upon him at the crisis of an adventurous night, infuriated Mr. Pickering. He swore softly. He groped round the walls for an electric-light switch, but the shack had no electric-light switches. When there was need to illuminate it an oil lamp performed the duty. This occurred to Mr. Pickering after he had been round the place three times, and he ceased to grope for switches and began to seek a matchbox. He was still seeking it when he was frozen in his tracks by the sound of footsteps, muffled but by their nearness audible, just outside the door. He pulled out his pistol, which he had replaced in his pocket, backed against the wall, and stood there, prepared to sell his life dearly. The door opened.

One reads of desperate experiences aging people in a single night. His present predicament aged Mr. Pickering in a single minute. In the brief interval of time between the opening of the door and the moment when a voice outside began to speak, he became a full thirty years older. His boyish ardor slipped from him, and he was once more the Dudley Pickering whom the world knew, the staid and respectable middle-aged man of affairs, who would have given a million dollars not to have got himself mixed up in this deplorable business.

And then the voice spoke.

“I’ll light the lamp,” it said; and with an overpowering feeling of relief Mr. Pickering recognized it as Lord Wetherby’s. A moment later the temperamental peer’s dapper figure became visible in silhouette against a background of pale light.

“Ah-hum!” said Mr. Pickering.

The effect on Lord Wetherby was remarkable. To hear someone clear his throat at the back of a dark room, where there should rightfully be no throat to be cleared, would cause even your man of stolid habit a passing thrill. The thing got right in among Lord Wetherby’s highly sensitive ganglions like an earthquake. He leaped in the air with a strangled cry, then dashed out and slammed the door behind him.

“There’s someone in there!”

Lady Wetherby’s tranquil voice made itself heard.

“Nonsense, who could be in there?”

“I heard him, I tell you. He growled at me!”

It seemed to Mr. Pickering that the time had come to relieve the mental distress which he was causing his host. He raised his voice.

“It’s all right!” he called.

“There!” said Lord Wetherby.

“Who’s that?” asked Lady Wetherby through the door.

“It’s all right. It’s me⁠—Pickering.”

The door was opened a few inches by a cautious hand.

“Is that you, Pickering?”

“Yes. It’s all right.”

“Don’t keep saying it’s all right,” said Lord Wetherby irritably. “It isn’t all right. What do you mean by hiding in the dark and popping out and barking at a man? You made me bite my tongue. I’ve never had such a shock in my life.”

Mr. Pickering left his lair and came out into the open. Lord Wetherby was looking aggrieved, Lady Wetherby peacefully inquisitive. For the first time Mr. Pickering discovered that Claire was present. She was standing behind Lady Wetherby with a floating white something over her head, looking very beautiful.

“For the love of Mike!” said Lady Wetherby.

Mr. Pickering became aware that he was still holding the revolver.

“Oh, ah!” he said, and trousered the weapon.

“Barking at people!” muttered Lord Wetherby in a querulous undertone.

“What on earth are you doing, Dudley?” said Claire.

There was a note in her voice which both puzzled and pained Mr. Pickering, a note that seemed to suggest that she found herself in imperfect sympathy with him. Her expression deepened the suggestion. It was a cold expression, unfriendly, as if it was not so keen a pleasure to Claire to look at him as it should be for a girl to look at the man whom she is engaged to marry. He had noticed the same note in her voice and the same hostile look in her eye earlier in the evening. He had found her alone, reading a letter, which, as the stamp on the envelope showed, had come from England. She had seemed so upset that he had asked her if it contained bad news, and she had replied in the negative with so much irritation that he had desisted from inquiries. But his own idea was that she had had bad news from home. Mr. Pickering still clung to his early impression that her little brother Percy was consumptive, and he thought the child must have taken a turn for the worse. It was odd that she should have looked and spoken like that, and it was odd that she should look and speak like that now. He had been vaguely disturbed then and he was vaguely disturbed now. He had the feeling that all was not well.

“Yes,” said Lady Wetherby. “What on earth are you doing, Dudley?”

“Popping out!” grumbled Lord Wetherby.

“We came here to see Algie’s picture, which has got something wrong with its eyes apparently, and we find you hiding in the dark with a gun. What’s the idea?”

“It’s a long story,” said Mr. Pickering.

“We have the night before us,” said Lady Wetherby. “Push it out.”

“You remember The Man⁠—the fellow I found looking in at the window⁠—The Man who said he knew Claire?”

“You’ve got that man on the brain, Dudley. What’s he been doing to you now?”

“I tracked him here.”

“Tracked him? Where from?”

“From that bee farm place where he’s living. He and that girl you spoke of went into these woods. I thought they were making for the house, but they went into the shack.”

“Studio,” said Lord Wetherby.

“Studio,” said Mr. Pickering.

“What did they do then?” asked Lady Wetherby.

“They came out again.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I was trying to find out.”

Lord Wetherby uttered an exclamation.

“By Jove!” There was apprehension in his voice, but mingled with it a certain pleased surprise. “Perhaps they were after my picture. I’ll light the lamp. Good Lord, picture thieves⁠—Romneys⁠—missing Gainsboroughs⁠—” His voice trailed off as he found the lamp and lit it. Relief and disappointment were nicely blended in his next words. “No, it’s still there.”

The soft light of the lamp filled the studio.

“Well, that’s a comfort,” said Lady Wetherby, sauntering in. “We couldn’t afford to lose⁠—Oh!”

Lord Wetherby spun round as her scream burst upon his already tortured nerve centers. Lady Wetherby was kneeling on the floor. Claire hurried in.

“What is it, Polly?”

Lady Wetherby rose to her feet and pointed. Her face had lost its look of patient amusement. It was hard and set. She eyed Mr. Pickering in a menacing way.

“Look!”

Claire followed her finger.

“Good gracious! It’s Eustace!”

“Shot?”

She was looking intently at Mr. Pickering.

“Well, Dudley,” she said coldly, “what about it?”

Mr. Pickering found that they were all looking at him⁠—Lady Wetherby with glittering eyes, Claire with cool scorn, Lord Wetherby with a horror which he seemed to have achieved with something of an effort.

“Well!” said Claire.

“What about it, Dudley?” said Lady Wetherby.

“I must say, Pickering,” said Lord Wetherby, “much as I disliked the animal, it’s a bit thick!”

Mr. Pickering recoiled from their accusing gaze.

“Good heavens! Do you think I did it?”

In the midst of his anguish there flashed across his mind the recollection of having seen just this sort of situation in a moving picture and of having thought it far-fetched.

Lady Wetherby’s good-tempered mouth, far from good-tempered now, curled in a devastating sneer. She was looking at him as Claire, in the old days when they had toured England together in road companies, had sometimes seen her look at recalcitrant landladies. The landladies, without exception, had wilted beneath that gaze, and Mr. Pickering wilted now.

“But⁠—but⁠—but⁠—” was all he could contrive to say.

“Why should we think you did it?” said Lady Wetherby bitingly. “You had a grudge against the poor brute for biting you. We find you hiding here with a pistol and a story about burglars which an infant couldn’t swallow. I suppose you thought that, if you planted the poor creature’s body here, it would be up to Algie to get rid of it, and that if he were found with it I should think that it was he who had killed the animal.”

The look of horror which Lord Wetherby had managed to assume became genuine at these words. The gratitude which he had been feeling toward Mr. Pickering for having removed one of the chief trials of his existence vanished.

“Great Scott!” he cried. “So that was the game, was it!”

Mr. Pickering struggled for speech. This was a nightmare.

“But I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t! I tell you I hadn’t the remotest notion the creature was there.”

“Oh, come, Pickering!” said Lord Wetherby. “Come, come, come!”

Mr. Pickering found that his accusers were ebbing away. Lady Wetherby had gone. Claire had gone. Only Lord Wetherby remained, looking at him like a pained groom. He dashed from the place and followed his hostess, speaking incoherently of burglars, outhouses and misunderstandings. He even mentioned Chingachgook. But Lady Wetherby would not listen. Nobody would listen.

He found Lord Wetherby at his side, evidently prepared to go deeper into the subject. Lord Wetherby was looking now like a groom whose favorite horse has kicked him in the stomach.

“Wouldn’t have thought it of you, Pickering,” said Lord Wetherby. Mr. Pickering found no words. “Wouldn’t, honestly. Low trick!”

“But I tell you⁠—”

“Devilish low trick!” repeated Lord Wetherby, with a shake of the head. “Laws of hospitality⁠—eaten our bread and salt, what!⁠—all that sort of thing⁠—kill valuable monkey⁠—not done, you know⁠—low, very low!”

And he followed his wife, now in full retreat, with scorn and repulsion written in her very walk.

“Mr. Pickering!”

It was Claire. She stood there, holding something toward him, something that glittered in the moonlight. Her voice was hard and the expression on her face suggested that in her estimation he was a particularly low-grade worm, one of the submerged tenth of the worm world.

“Eh?” said Mr. Pickering dazedly.

He looked at what she had in her hand, but it conveyed nothing to his overwrought mind.

“Take it!”

“Eh?”

Claire stamped.

“Very well,” she said.

She flung something on the ground before him, a small, sparkling object. Then she swept away, his eyes following her, and was lost in the darkness of the trees. Mechanically Mr. Pickering stooped to pick up what she had let fall. He recognized it now. It was her engagement ring.