|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 11
With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the
Texas statesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room
at the Carlton. There was no question about it--the first epistle
from the strawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention. All
day, as she dragged her father through picture galleries, she found
herself looking forward to another morning, wondering, eager.
But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom
this odd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver. The
news rather disappointed the daughter of Texas. At noon she insisted
on returning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed
out, they were far from the Carlton at the time. Her journey was
rewarded. Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped.
DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am writing this at three in the morning,
with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden. That I am so
late in getting to it is not because I did not think of you all day
yesterday; not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last
evening to address you. Believe me, only the most startling, the
most appalling accident could have held me up.
That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.
I am tempted to give you the news at once in one striking and
terrible sentence. And I could write that sentence. A tragedy,
wrapped in mystery as impenetrable as a London fog, has befallen
our quiet little house in Adelphi Terrace. In their basement
room the Walters family, sleepless, overwhelmed, sit silent; on
the dark stairs outside my door I hear at intervals the tramp of
men on unhappy missions--But no; I must go back to the very start
of it all:
Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson's, in the Strand--so
early that I was practically alone in the restaurant. The letter
I was about to write to you was uppermost in my mind and, having
quickly dined, I hurried back to my rooms. I remember clearly that,
as I stood in the street before our house fumbling for my keys,
Big Ben on the Parliament Buildings struck the hour of seven.
The chime of the great bell rang out in our peaceful thoroughfare
like a loud and friendly greeting.
Gaining my study, I sat down at once to write. Over my head I
could hear Captain Fraser-Freer moving about--attiring himself,
probably, for dinner. I was thinking, with an amused smile, how
horrified he would be if he knew that the crude American below him
had dined at the impossible hour of six, when suddenly I heard, in
that room above me, some stranger talking in a harsh determined
tone. Then came the captain's answering voice, calmer, more
dignified. This conversation went along for some time, growing
each moment more excited. Though I could not distinguish a word of
it, I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was a controversy on;
and I remember feeling annoyed that any one should thus interfere
with my composition of your letter, which I regarded as most
important, you may be sure.
At the end of five minutes of argument there came the heavy
thump-thump of men struggling above me. It recalled my college
days, when we used to hear the fellows in the room above us throwing
each other about in an excess of youth and high spirits. But this
seemed more grim, more determined, and I did not like it.--However,
I reflected that it was none of my business. I tried to think about
my letter.
The struggle ended with a particularly heavy thud that shook our
ancient house to its foundations. I sat listening, somehow very
much depressed. There was no sound. It was not entirely dark
outside--the long twilight--and the frugal Walters had not lighted
the hall lamps. Somebody was coming down the stairs very quietly
--but their creaking betrayed him. I waited for him to pass
through the shaft of light that poured from the door open at my back.
At that moment Fate intervened in the shape of a breeze through my
windows, the door banged shut, and a heavy man rushed by me in the
darkness and ran down the stairs. I knew he was heavy, because the
passageway was narrow and he had to push me aside to get by. I
heard him swear beneath his breath.
Quickly I went to a hall window at the far end that looked out on
the street. But the front door did not open; no one came out. I
was puzzled for a second then I reentered my room and hurried to my
balcony. I could make out the dim figure of a man running through
the garden at the rear--that garden of which I have so often spoken.
He did not try to open the gate; he climbed it, and so disappeared
from sight into the alley.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|