which she laid on the table with a remark that Miss Jones ought to have been down before this. She supposed that she must have overslept.
Francis recalled the conversation by which he had secured asylum on the previous afternoon, and recognized that he had not been promised exclusive occupation of the room. It had been assumed by him, rather than said by her, and his position had not been favourable to a critical examination of the nature of the lodging, with partial board, for which Mrs. Benson had quoted. But he saw that if he were expected to take his breakfast (included in the quoted figure), or other meals (which would be extras), under the observation of others who would be able to compare him at close quarters with the descriptions which the morning newspapers would supply, it was an additional reason why his departure should not delay.
With these thoughts at the back of his mind, he answered Mrs. Benson’s remark as casually as it had been made: “Perhaps she won’t be long. I’m afraid I’m rather late myself.”
He glanced at a massive mantelpiece clock, the hands of which pointed to twenty minutes to nine. Her eyes followed his, and she said: “You mustn’t go by that. It’s half an hour slow, if not more.”
She pulled a chair up to the table for him, and he sat down as he replied: “It doesn’t really matter to me. I don’t think the bank opens before ten.”
“I’d better see if Miss Jones is up now,” Mrs. Benson replied, inconsequently, with a note of irritation in her voice. It was an hour at which she expected to have her breakfasts cleared away, and her washing-up done.
He saw that a newspaper lay on the table with an appearance of not having been opened. “I suppose that is Miss Jones’ paper?” he asked, as the woman was about to withdraw. If it were one that was free to the lodgers generally, he would much prefer to have it in his own hands before the lady’s arrival. Probably it would have another of those infernal portraits! But he doubted that Mrs. Benson would make such provision for her guests.
“No, sir. That’s Mr. Rabone’s, but he doesn’t look at it, more mornings than not.”
“And I suppose he’s another one who’s rather late this morning?”
“No, sir. He’s gone before now. He always leaves before this.” She went out as she replied, and he heard her ascending the creaking stairs.
He picked up the paper, but did not turn to the account of his own conviction, or subsequent escape. He had seen enough in the Evening News concerning a matter on which he knew more than he was likely to read. Nor did he need to be informed that the criminal was still “at large,” as it would be certain to state. It would be better that Miss Jones, if she were of an observant disposition, should see him reading the sporting news, or studying the exchanges of the previous day.
Supposing it to be the etiquette of the table that each lodger should settle to his own meal without reference to other comers, he commenced his breakfast, observing, as he did so, that he sat facing a window the side-curtains of which did not exclude the observation of those who passed in the street, though, the room being on a slightly higher level, it might be no more than his head which would be visible to anyone of average height. Suppose that a policeman, strolling along, and occupied only in observation of the potential criminals on his beat— The fact that the rain was descending steadily made such leisurely observation unlikely, but offered another trouble to his harassed mind. He had neither umbrella nor other covering from the weather. He neither desired to be soaked, nor to enter the bank with the appearance of a half-drowned fowl.
It was possible that Mr. Rabone had left a spare overcoat in his room, but there was little doubt as to what Mrs. Benson’s reaction would be if she should meet her new lodger on the stairs with such a garment upon him.... It seemed that it would be necessary to wait for the rain to cease.
He was still considering this problem when Miss Jones entered the room.
CHAPTER SIX
His eyes met those of a girl who was young, slim, dark, and of so self-possessed a manner that he had a moment’s doubt of whether it could be she whose voice he had heard through the attic door.
But when she spoke he recognized it as the same, though it was without any trace of the timidity which he had noticed before.
“Mrs. Benson told me that she had a new guest. I must introduce myself. I am Mary Jones.”
“It is pleasant to have company,” he answered, with more sincerity than he had expected to feel. “I thought I should be alone. My name is—” There was a second’s hesitation as his thought paused for the selection of the right lie, the instinct to give his true name being confused between the two others that he had subsequently assumed; but he did not think it to be observed, her interruption came so quickly: “Oh, yes. Mrs. Benson told me your name.”
Mr. Edwards, as he concluded that he had become to her, having risen to draw out the lady’s chair, which was at the side of the table facing the door, at right angles to his own, sat down again, sensible of the attractions of his breakfast companion, but most conscious of the need for that constant watchfulness which is common to most creatures which live in lasting peril of death should their wits relax, but from which civilized man, and some of his domesticated companions, have become normally free. Beneath this instinct there was another, subconsciously strong, urging him to make any friend he could from among those who had become his collective foes. It led him to lay down the newspaper, though with some reluctance, for he had realized its value in hiding him from the eyes of those who passed in the street.
He talked for a time, as the meal progressed, of trivial or indifferent things, but not without realizing how difficult it was, even in such conversation as that, to avoid self-revealing references to past environment or experience; and with his abnormally sensitive perceptions troubled by a feeling that the girl was concentrating her observation upon him with what he felt to be an abnormal intensity.
He thought he had the explanation of that, when she asked him, with a cool and smiling deliberation: “Mr. Edwards, do you mind telling me why you knocked at my door this morning?”
He found the truth to be the easiest, as it was certainly the wisest reply: “I wanted to borrow a razor.”
“And you got it from Mr. Rabone’s room?”
“Yes,” he said. “So I did. And returned it afterwards.”
She was silent for a moment, after which she looked at him in a more friendly intimate way than she had done previously. She asked: “Mr. Edwards, should you think it impertinent if I were to give you a word of advice?”
“No. I should be grateful.”
“I shouldn’t mention to Mr. Rabone, if I were you, that you went into his room.”
She spoke with a seriousness that seemed more than the incident could deserve, and he recalled the words that he had heard through the door when she had supposed that it was his fellow-lodger to whom she spoke.
“You don’t like Mr. Rabone?” he ventured.
Her reply paused. Then she said seriously: “You must please not conclude that. I trust you to respect my confidence when I say no more nor less than that I should be sorry for any stranger whom he might suspect of poking about his room.”
“Yet he leaves it unlocked?”
“I don’t suppose he minds Mrs. Benson putting it straight. That’s a very different thing.”
“Well,” he said, “thanks for the hint. I’m not likely to go there again.” He considered that he had more serious troubles than a borrowed razor was likely to stir, but he appreciated the friendly spirit in which the caution was given. He said: “I don’t see that there’ll be any occasion to mention it, as I put it back. For that matter, I mayn’t be here when he returns.”
He was pleased to see, or imagine, a shadow of annoyance if not regret on the girl’s face as she heard that. It strengthened an impulse to give her fuller confidence, which may have sprung in part from natural desire for any