CHAPTER VII.

MR. DUNN.

The solemn but beautiful days of a fine English October, surely dreary nowhere except in London, but there preëminently so, were half through their number, when Mrs. Watts, the owner of a highly respectable lodging-house in Queen-street, Mayfair, received with surprise and gratitude the naturally unexpected application for apartments to let.

It was just the time of year when there was least going on, when people were quite decidedly 'out of town' whoever went out of town at all, and people who hurriedly came back had not yet made up their minds to do so.

Mrs. Watts had quite a superfluity of rooms to let, though her drawing-rooms were taken for what she had hoped as a permanency. The disappointment of this expectation, however, did not enable her to hold out the hope to the new applicants that she should be able to afford them the accommodation of what Mrs. Watts quite sincerely believed to be an unparalleled drawing-room floor; she was only going to lose her lodger, she hadn't yet lost him; and the new applicants, who made their appearance under exceptionably respectable circumstances, with a large quantity of luggage, and in a handsome hired carriage, were obliged to content themselves with the dining-room, a large and commodious bedroom at the back of it, and a pleasant bedroom upstairs, at a considerable height, for the gentleman.

The applicants were a gentleman and a lady, brother and sister, as they hastened to explain; and Mrs. Watts was afterwards heard to remark, 'That never was she more took by the looks of any one than by those of the gentleman. She had nothing to say against the lady either, who was very good-looking and quiet mannered, only she didn't seem quite so much of a lady as the gentleman seemed of a gentleman; and if there is anybody,' Mrs. Watts would add in conclusion, 'as can see far through a deal board, a lone woman as lets lodgings in Queen-street, Mayfair, is that person.'

The arrangements were quickly concluded, and it was understood that the new lodgers would come in that night; in fact, after a short parley, it was proposed that the lady should remain with Mrs. Watts then and there; while the gentleman went out to luncheon at a restaurant, and undertook not to return until everything was in order. This bargain concluded, the gentleman went his way; and the lady applied herself, with the hearty coöperation of Mrs. Watts and a prim housemaid, to the disposition and arrangement of the voluminous luggage which had accompanied them, and which, considering the very quiet appearance of the lady, who was attired in deep mourning weeds, and had anything but a dressy appearance, might perhaps have been brought rather as a certificate of character, in the event of it being inconvenient to apply for recommendations, than as representing actual necessity.

Mrs. Watts was a very good-humoured woman, with a turn for sociability, and a decided taste for gossip, which just at this season of the year she found it particularly hard to indulge; for not only were her own rooms standing empty, but those of her neighbours; and her neighbours themselves were for the most part gone off on their annual jaunts; an indulgence which Mrs. Watts did not allow herself. She found the autumn particularly dull, and to the unexpected gratification of letting rooms and taking money for them at an unlikely period, when her neighbours were not letting their rooms, and were spending the money they had accumulated during the summer, was added the prospect of some pleasant talk with her strange lodger, in whom she at once recognised a thoroughly approachable person.

Accordingly, when the luggage was disposed of, a friendly cup of tea, to be partaken of jointly in the dining-room, was gratefully accepted by Mrs. Watts; who shortly found herself in the high tide of talk respecting London, its goings-on, the advantages of the situation in any street in Mayfair, and the difficulties of lone women who let lodgings, with a person who frankly acknowledged herself totally unacquainted with the great metropolis.

'Your first visit, ma'am? Dear me,' said Mrs. Watts, 'how odd that seems, to be sure! But your brother's been here before, and knows the ways of town well?'

'Yes,' said the stranger, 'I believe my brother, Mr. Clarke, knows London very well indeed; but I feel rather timid about it, and it has been a great anxiety with me as to where we should settle down for the six weeks of important business that he has to carry through. I don't want any gadding about or sight-seeing; I only want to feel sure of being in a respectable house, where I can go my own ways and carry on my own occupations just as if I was at home in my country village, though, of course, I shall not object to a peep at the gay streets sometimes.'

'You won't see much gaiety in the streets or anywhere else in October in London,' said Mrs. Watts; 'but if you like to be quiet and carry on just as if you were in your own home, you could not be better off. Then, as I say, for six weeks to come we've not a soul in the house but Mr. Dunn, even if he was to stay, which I fear there is no chance of; for he did tell me on Wednesday as he was going to America in earnest.'

'That's the gentleman in the drawing-room, isn't it,' said the stranger, 'you are speaking of?'

Mrs. Watts assented. 'And a very nice gentleman he is. We like him very much, only we sometimes think he is rather odd; and I never saw a man in my life as could not bear to be asked the slightest question except Mr. Dunn. I do assure you he was quite angry with me for wanting to know, which I thought was reasonable, when the drawing-rooms was likely to be vacant; which I had to remind him that it was fair on my part, for if he didn't give me notice he would have to give me money. Well, do you know, he is that peculiar, that I think he would rather have had to pay up when the time came, than tell me out downright plain that he was going back to America in a fortnight.'

'Really,' said the stranger, 'he must be an odd sort of man. Has he been with you long?'

'A goodish while now. He came back to us once after he had left us, and I am sure then he went with the intention of going to America, though he didn't say so; and something, I suppose, changed his mind at the last minute, for back he came with all his luggage and reëngaged his rooms, and here he's been quite quiet and contented ever since; never gives a bit of trouble nor has anybody in to give more. However, he's one of them lodgers, as I always say, as is too good to last, and vexed that he was when I had asked the question, he did tell me that he was really going this time.'

'Really going! I should think everybody "really" went when such a journey as America was in question.'

'Not him, though, mum. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if we saw him back again after he starts next time.'

'What aged man is he?' asked the stranger carelessly. 'I ask, you know, because it seems so odd that an old man should be so restless and not know his own mind.'

'O, he isn't old, bless you,', said Mrs. Watts; 'he isn't much above thirty, if he's that; a small, slight, wiry little man; leastways I call him little--I daresay you wouldn't--because all my brothers were so uncommon big; looks as if he could bear any amount of journeys to America or anywhere else, and think nothing at all about them, if he had the spirits.'

'Hasn't he spirits, then?'

'No, he's very dull at times. He used to be a good deal jollier when he first came, and he used to go to the theatre a good deal, and out to dinner--leastways he didn't dine at home; but he's dropped all that now, I suppose he hasn't any place to go to, and there are no theatres at this time of the year, at least not theatres for gentlefolk, you understand; there's places where they plays Shakespeare and that, which people like him would never think of looking at; and so he stays at home and mopes a good deal, I should think. At what hour did you say you would dine every day, mum?'

The stranger named the hour, and then went on to say, 'Then there really is no one in the house but Mr. Dunn at present?'

'Not a soul!' was the decisive answer.

'I ask, you see, Mrs. Watts, because I have a great fancy for seeing after my brother's room myself. When it has been made up in the morning, I like to put his things tidy, lay out his dressing things and collect his letters, and all that sort of thing; and as he will be sleeping at the top of the house, and I at the bottom, I should have to go up and down stairs to get at his things, and I would rather know that I should not run the risk of meeting people about the house. If there was any such risk, I should get you to tell me when was the best time to make sure of their all being out.'

Again Mrs. Watts assured the stranger that she could run no possible risk of meeting anybody who could alarm the shyest individual. She had already made her acquaintance of the housemaid; and unless she put herself personally in his way she was extremely unlikely to encounter Mr. Dunn, who hardly ever came down the lower flight of stairs except to leave his letters on the hall-table, just before post hour, after which he usually went out for a stroll, to return with exemplary punctuality at dinner-time.

The stranger thanked her for these assurances and for her general civility, and Mrs. Watts retired to the lower regions, to issue orders for the preparation of dinner for her new lodger in a satisfactory and confidence-inspiring style.

The arrival down-stairs and the stir in the house had apparently not disturbed the secluded tenant of the drawing-room floor. He had indeed thrown aside the window-blind and looked out for a moment, as the heavily-laden carriage rumbled up to the door, but it was only because the habitual emptiness of the street had hardly been interrupted before that day. He saw a woman in deep widow's weeds step out of the carriage, attended by a slight, active-looking young man, and enter the house; then he let the blind fall, and returned to his occupation, and thought no more of the incident.

Mrs. Watts had some reason to be proud of her drawing-room floor. It consisted of two very well-proportioned apartments, and a smaller room, intended for the dignified purposes of a boudoir, but which, under the lodging-house régime, served as dressing and bath room. The sitting-room and bedroom were handsomely furnished, and presented an aspect of very decided comfort, though it was a London house in October; a cheerful wood fire, just enough to brighten the room without overheating it, burned in the bright steel grate; a handsome easy-chair stood near it, the castors buried in the thick white sheep-skin rug; while a writing-table, laden with papers and the paraphernalia of a business man, was wheeled into a convenient position with regard to both fire and light.

Let us have a look at Mr. Dunn, Mrs. Watts's model lodger, as he paces the sitting-room from end to end, absorbed in meditations, which, to judge by the abstraction of his countenance, have nothing whatever to do with the actual scene. Mrs. Watts's brothers must have indeed confused her notions of the stature of human beings out of Yorkshire, to which county she belonged, if she considered Mr. Dunn a little man. Other people would have pronounced him decidedly tall; his figure was slim but wiry built, about twenty-eight years of age, with long, thin, close-shaved face, small deeply-set eyes, and thin bloodless lips. He walked up and down with a slow measured pace, his arms folded tightly on his chest, and the fingers of each hand gripping the coat-sleeves with a curious fixity of grasp, corresponding with his set teeth and intent frowning eyes. Occasionally in his walk he stopped at his writing-table, uncrossed his arms, took up a sheet of paper from the number which lay scattered on the blotting-book, read it, laid it down again, refolded his arms, and commenced his uneasy, ill-regulated perambulation.

If the reader, Asmodeus-like, had been permitted to glance over his shoulder while he read these pages, he would have perceived how far Mrs. Watts's estimate of the good-nature and affability of her gentleman-like and most desirable lodger was to be relied upon. When he had taken up the third, he glanced over it viciously, as though uncertain whether he had made the terms of it bitter and imperative enough.

With the matter of these documents we have, however, no immediate concern. He read and re-read them; and then, having lighted the gas in his rooms, he sat down at the writing-table, collected the sheets, which, as they were written on very thin paper, he was enabled to fold into a small compass, and made a kind of précis of their contents in cipher in a memorandum-book, which he locked away in one of the drawers of the writing-table before he proceeded to place the address on the envelope into which he had carefully packed the written sheets. The envelope was of the buff colour and medium texture which we are accustomed to associate with letters of business from America; but contrary to usual custom, no part of the address was printed, nor was there any printing upon the impressed wafer.

His task completed, Mr. Dunn drew his chair closer to the fire and took up a book, but he seemed unable to occupy his attention with its contents, and after turning over a few pages in a desultory way, he flung it down and went into his bedroom, from which he emerged in a quarter of an hour, dressed for walking. Once more he crossed the sitting-room, approached the fire, and leaning against the mantelpiece, hat in hand, muttered, 'I cannot account for it, I cannot account for the delay of those letters; it is either foul play or an accident. If it is foul play, he is the most ungrateful scoundrel unhanged; if it is an accident--ah, "if!" where am I?'

With these words, uttered half aloud, and which seemed to have in them some mysterious and weighty meaning, Mr. Dunn took up the letter which he had just addressed, and went slowly down-stairs, carrying it in his hand.

The business of putting out of sight the luggage appertaining to the new arrivals was not yet quite completed, and Mr. Dunn's eyes lighted upon a very shiny black-leather valise, which was resting on one end against the clock-case until such time as it should be convenient to have it carried up to the new gentleman's room at the top of the house; for his appellation, Mr. Clarke, had not yet come pat to the tongues of Mrs. Watts and her domestics.

There was nothing remarkable about the valise, except its newness and its shininess, and painted in white upon the lid were the initials 'T.C.;' and as Mr. Dunn looked at it he thought idly, 'That hasn't seen much travel, anyhow.'

He laid his letter on the table in the hall, from which it would be duly conveyed to the post at five o'clock; and also observing carelessly that the door of the dining-room was ajar and that the gas was alight within, an appearance from which he arrived at the conclusion that the lady and gentleman whom he had seen getting out of the carriage had made it all right with Mrs. Watts, and were actually then in occupation, he opened the hall-door for himself, felt mechanically in his pocket to make sure that he had his latch-key, in case of a late return, and went out into the soft chill October evening.

The dining-room in the house which Mr. Dunn had just quitted was looking as cheerful as a dining-room not used for any other purpose than that of eating in ever can look. Mr. Clarke's sister, who had informed Mrs. Watts that her own unassuming name was Jones, and who had not needed to inform her that she was a widow, the fact being made abundantly evident by her dress, had set to work with a quiet notability to arrange it comfortably, and was now seated by the fire with a piece of needlework in her hands, and looked as much at home as if she had lived there all her life.

There was only one sign of innovation, only one instance of discomfort to be observed about the room: the door was open, and suffered to remain so. Presently, Patty, the housemaid, came to speak to Mrs. Jones, and announced that they were about to take the gentleman's valise up-stairs. She also asked should she shut the door, having found it open.

'No, thank you,' was Mrs. Jones's reply; 'the room is rather warm.'

'Very odd,' said Patty to herself, 'people are about doors. She likes it open; but the fuss as some of 'em make if one doesn't shut it every minute after the lock slips in one's hand, as would make one think one would die at a breath from a key-hole! She doesn't look a fanciful sort, nor a delicate sort neither, for that matter.'

Presently Mrs. Jones heard Patty's by no means fairy footfall redescending the lower flight of stairs, and she appeared at the dining-room door, and asked the girl with a kindly civility, which had already gone far to win her in several small matters since the arrival of the new lodger--an event not quite two hours old--whether she was going to the post shortly.

Patty replied by a glance at the hall table. 'O dear, yes, ma'am,' said she, 'I have got to go. There is that Mr. Dunn passes the pillar two minutes after he goes out of the house, and would never have the thought to post his letters himself, and I am as busy as I can be.'

'Never mind, Patty,' replied Mrs. Jones gently, 'I have a letter or two to write; they will be done in a few minutes, and if you will tell me on which side I shall find the pillar-post, I will take them myself. I shall be glad of a breath of fresh air, and I want to buy a few trifles at that famous brush-shop round the corner. Mr. Clarke showed it to me this morning when we were coming up here.'

'O, thank you,' said Patty, 'there won't be any more except yours; for Mr. Dunn has gone out, as I said just now, and he won't be in till goodness knows when, so I know he's got no more to write.'

'Then I will just put it in my bag now,' said Mrs. Jones, opening a small leather reticule and placing the letter with ostentatious care in it, and she immediately reëntered the dining-room and took out her own writing materials.

Mrs. Jones did not, however, seem to be in any hurry to get on with her letters; she merely laid a half-written page of note-paper open on the blotting-book, dipped her pen in the ink, and sat down before the table, but made no attempt to write. In about five minutes she rang the bell, which was answered by Patty.

'I have been so stupid,' said Mrs. Jones, 'as to forget to buy some sealing-wax, and I particularly want to seal the letter I am writing; do you think your mistress can lend me a bit?'

'Certainly, madam,' said Patty, and ran away with alacrity to fetch the desired article, which she brought back.

'Stay a moment,' said Mrs. Jones, 'I shall have done with it presently, and I would rather return it to Mrs. Watts, if you please; I shall get some when I am out.' She then proceeded to seal two directed envelopes, which she stamped and placed in a bag beside Mr. Dunn's letter.

Having thus elaborately established the fact that she had been writing letters and was about to post them, Mrs. Jones put on her bonnet and cloak and went out, having received accurate instructions from Patty as to where she could find the pillar-post, and how she was to turn in order to reach the brush-shop.

In about half an hour Mrs. Jones returned. In her hand was a small paper parcel, and on her arm hung the leather reticule, with the spring gaping open, so that as Patty opened the door to admit her she could see that the bag was empty. During the time that had elapsed between her coming in and the return of her brother, Mr. Clarke, Mrs. Jones made no attempt to occupy herself in any way whatever. She sat by the fire with an intent and brooding face, while the cloth was laid for dinner and Patty was coming in and out of the room. She held a newspaper between her face and the light, and the girl concluded that Mrs. Jones was very tired, for she did not seem so friendly or inclined to talk as she had done in the beginning.

At six o'clock Mr. Clarke returned, and greeted his sister cheerfully, with an inquiry as to how she found the rooms, and whether she was getting things straight and comfortable. Mrs. Jones assured him that everything was all right, and told Patty that dinner might be sent up as soon as it was ready.

At length the two were alone, and then Mrs. Jenkins told Thornton Carey, with eager though subdued excitement, that she had secured possession of a priceless document, which had, she believed, placed their prey securely within their reach.

No time had been lost by Thornton Carey in carrying out the resolution of noble and disinterested friendship at which he had arrived. The details of what he was to do on reaching England had been fixed between him and Bryan Duval and their professional advisers; in fact, it was most important so to fix them, it was indispensable that he should be guided to a certain extent by circumstances, and that he should act with such caution and circumspection as to avoid the danger of awakening any suspicion on the part of Warren at his presence in England.

When a full statement of the conclusion at which our friends had arrived had been laid before Helen Griswold, she was entirely overwhelmed by the conviction that they were right. That she had no power to contend with the active and operative part of their decision, that some one must undertake the unmasking of her deadly enemy, was clear to her; but that Thornton Carey should be the person to do it appeared a curious complication of the difficulties and distress of her fate. To one man who had loved her, her love had brought death in its most horrible and appalling form--that of base, cruel, cowardly murder; to another man whom she had loved purely and nobly indeed, but with a sentiment which was a growing force according as every day, hour, made her more and more dependent upon him for support and counsel and encouragement, her love was about to bring trouble and danger.

That there could be danger in his pursuit of Warren, Thornton Carey utterly denied, but uselessly; nothing could remove from Helen's mind the conviction of the power as well as the villany of this man. The frightful skill, the deadly calculation, and the hideous success with which he had carried out his machinations against her husband, had impressed Helen with an almost preternatural dread of him.

It was not that she believed he would escape, it was not that she for a moment supposed Thornton Carey's designs would utterly fail or be frustrated; but that she had a rooted conviction that terrible and deadly danger would befall him in the carrying of them out. In the extreme weakness and nervous excitement and spirit-broken timidity of her grief she felt herself a doomed and a cursed person.

'I bring evil,' she said, lamenting freely and with all her full heart to her humble but true friend, between whom and herself there now existed the bond of a common grief, 'and now he will be involved in my doom!' But she made no remonstrance, she felt sure that so it must be.

Thornton Carey had left New York without any formal leave-taking with Helen, and it was only two days prior to his departure that Mrs. Jenkins announced her intention of accompanying him. The idea had occurred to her when Mrs. Griswold had first told her that Thornton Carey was about to proceed to England on this mission of vengeance, in which she and Mrs. Jenkins were equally concerned, for had not the murderer of Alston Griswold been also the cause of Ephraim Jenkins's death?

The argument was not very sustainable, but it was very readily accepted by the two women who were suffering together. If Warren's conduct had not in reality caused his brother's death, his influence had at least caused him to die under circumstances to which his wife could never look back without horrible regret, and in her mind there was a little longing that the punishment of this man's crimes should come down upon him, and that she should have a share in the agency which should bring it about.

'Let me go with him,' she had said to Helen Griswold; 'I will travel with him as his sister, and if I cannot be of any use to him, I will at least be no drawback.'

Helen had from the first encouraged the notion, simply from the sense that to avoid utter loneliness for Carey in his dismal task would be a comfort to her; but a few moments' reflection showed her the full value of the suggestion, which was received with applause and enthusiasm by Bryan Duval, to whom she at once confided it.

Thornton Carey had never seen Trenton Warren; he was therefore not in a position to identify him absolutely, how complete the chain of evidence might otherwise be. Trenton Warren was also totally unacquainted with the personal appearance of Thornton Carey, would not recognise him if he saw him, and therefore would associate no suspicion with him. Neither had Mrs. Jenkins seen her husband's brother, who was, it must be remembered, in total ignorance of her existence; but she had had so much evidence, so many proofs of the strong resemblance which existed between Ephraim Jenkins and Trenton Warren, proofs which had culminated in Miss Montressor's exclamation upon seeing him, that Mrs. Jenkins felt convinced she would be able to identify him for the information and satisfaction of Thornton Carey, who might otherwise be entirely thrown off the scent by a change of name. Supposing on his arrival in London he were to find out that Mr. Dolby had ceased to be Mr. Dolby, he would be perfectly helpless in the matter; but it was of no consequence to her by what name the murderer should be passing among the unconscious crowd; the man whose face and figure might be mistaken for those now mouldering in the grave, the face and figure of him who had been so dear to her with all his faults and shortcomings, could not escape her lynx-eyed recognition and her determined pursuit.

Thornton Carey and Mrs. Jenkins were not long in getting through the ceremonial of dinner, after which, when their undisturbed solitude was assured, they opened the letter which Mr. Dunn had with unsuspecting reliance placed that day upon the table in the hall.

The object of Thornton Carey's absence during the afternoon had been to obtain an interview with some of the police authorities in London, to whom he had made certain statements, which had resulted in a close watch being set upon the movements of the occupant of Mrs. Watts's incomparable drawing-room floor.

It was not with any remarkable reluctance, or any sense that she was doing what, under other circumstances, would have been a felony, that Mrs. Jenkins had abstracted the letter upon which so much depended. In her eyes, everything that could be done for the furtherance of the project upon which she and her companion were bent would have been strictly allowable, if not praiseworthy. Thornton Carey's notions were a good deal more formal; but he had secured himself against risk in this matter. The trap in which Mr. Dunn was to be caught when all their preparations were so complete that it was impossible he should set himself free from it by any exercise of teeth or claws, or their equivalent in human cunning--when he would walk into it was not even left to his discretion--we shall shortly see.

For a moment, when Mrs. Jenkins put the letter into his hand and drew her chair up to the table alongside of his, that they might peruse its contents together, Thornton Carey experienced a passing pang of pity for the villain who had wrought such wrongs and misery to others in order that he might involve himself in the deepest and most ignominious ruin. As he broke open the envelope, he said drearily: 'What a clever fool this man is; what invention and ingenuity he has displayed in putting the rope round his neck!' Then he took up the sheets one by one as their writer had put them in, smoothed them out upon the blotting-pad as their writer had smoothed them out, and proceeded to read their contents aloud for his companion, who was soon sobbing bitterly, but in a guarded manner, over the terms of abuse and tyranny lavished upon him whom they were never to wound.

Mrs. Jenkins and Thornton Carey had met on that morning for the first time, after a short absence on Thornton's part, whose purport will shortly be explained; but they had known all about Mr. Dunn's residence at Mrs. Watts's before he had left her for Liverpool. Hitherto, not a hitch had come in their plan; they had carried out their programme from step to step with exact punctuality and with undeviating success; the finishing touch had been put to their projects in a respect which they had been obliged to leave to the mercy of chance. They had concluded to a nicety that Mr. Dunn would be writing to Trenton Warren at Chicago, on this day preceding the departure of the American mail; but what they had not calculated upon was, that Mr. Dunn would entrust the posting of his letter to any other hands. An unexpected piece of conviction had therefore come into theirs, and Mrs. Jenkins, with unfeigned thankfulness, blessed Providence for the fortunate accident.

Thornton Carey hardly felt that he dared be so demonstrative; the subject presented itself in a more complex aspect to his mind than to that of his companion and coadjutor.

The sheets of paper were still lying upon the table, and Thornton Carey and Mrs. Jenkins were still discussing their contents and exulting in the acceleration of their projects rendered possible by this most fortunate turn of fate, when Mr. Dunn, returning to his lodging at an unusually early hour, let himself in with his latch-key, and went softly up-stairs, remarking to himself as he did so, that 'They seem to be quiet people who have taken the dining-room floor.'