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Page 8
Confound it, I don't know! I have never been in Texas. It is a
vice in me I hope soon to correct. All day I intended to look up
Texas in the encyclopedia. But all day I have dwelt in the clouds.
And there are no reference books in the clouds.
Now I am down to earth in my quiet study. Pens, ink and paper are
before me. I must prove myself a person worth knowing.
From his rooms, they say, you can tell much about a man. But, alas!
these peaceful rooms in Adelphi Terrace--I shall not tell the
number--were sublet furnished. So if you could see me now you
would be judging me by the possessions left behind by one Anthony
Bartholomew. There is much dust on them. Judge neither Anthony
nor me by that. Judge rather Walters, the caretaker, who lives
in the basement with his gray-haired wife. Walters was a gardener
once, and his whole life is wrapped up in the courtyard on which
my balcony looks down. There he spends his time, while up above
the dust gathers in the corners--
Does this picture distress you, my lady? You should see the
courtyard! You would not blame Walters then. It is a sample of
Paradise left at our door--that courtyard. As English as a hedge,
as neat, as beautiful. London is a roar somewhere beyond; between
our court and the great city is a magic gate, forever closed. It
was the court that led me to take these rooms.
And, since you are one who loves mystery, I am going to relate to
you the odd chain of circumstances that brought me here.
For the first link in that chain we must go back to Interlaken.
Have you been there yet? A quiet little town, lying beautiful
between two shimmering lakes, with the great Jungfrau itself for
scenery. From the dining-room of one lucky hotel you may look up
at dinner and watch the old-rose afterglow light the snow-capped
mountain. You would not say then of strawberries: "I hate them."
Or of anything else in all the world.
A month ago I was in Interlaken. One evening after dinner I strolled
along the main street, where all the hotels and shops are drawn up at
attention before the lovely mountain. In front of one of the shops
I saw a collection of walking sticks and, since I needed one for
climbing, I paused to look them over. I had been at this only a
moment when a young Englishman stepped up and also began examining
the sticks.
I had made a selection from the lot and was turning away to
find the shopkeeper, when the Englishman spoke. He was lean,
distinguished-looking, though quite young, and had that well-tubbed
appearance which I am convinced is the great factor that has enabled
the English to assert their authority over colonies like Egypt and
India, where men are not so thoroughly bathed.
"Er--if you'll pardon me, old chap," he said. "Not that stick--if
you don't mind my saying so. It's not tough enough for mountain
work. I would suggest--"
To say that I was astonished is putting it mildly. If you know the
English at all, you know it is not their habit to address strangers,
even under the most pressing circumstances. Yet here was one of
that haughty race actually interfering in my selection of a stick.
I ended by buying the one he preferred, and he strolled along with
me in the direction of my hotel, chatting meantime in a fashion
far from British.
We stopped at the Kursaal, where we listened to the music, had a
drink and threw away a few francs on the little horses. He came
with me to the veranda of my hotel. I was surprised, when he took
his leave, to find that he regarded me in the light of an old friend.
He said he would call on me the next morning.
I made up my mind that Archibald Enwright--for that, he told me,
was his name--was an adventurer down on his luck, who chose to
forget his British exclusiveness under the stern necessity of getting
money somehow, somewhere. The next day, I decided, I should be the
victim of a touch.
But my prediction failed; Enwright seemed to have plenty of money.
On that first evening I had mentioned to him that I expected shortly
to be in London, and he often referred to the fact. As the time
approached for me to leave Interlaken he began to throw out the
suggestion that he should like to have me meet some of his people
in England. This, also, was unheard of--against all precedent.
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