There is a quiet little road in St. John’s Wood which seems specially to have been designed for ladies and gentlemen of a retiring disposition, who wish for a peaceful arcadia at a convenient distance from trams, omnibuses, and railways. You turn out of the main thoroughfare to find yourself suddenly shut in between a double row of small villas, all well set back in high-walled gardens, and further protected from the gaze of the curious by luxuriant foliage.
The Arcadian inhabitants of this out-of-the-world by-way—a by-way so narrow that a hansom cab can scarcely be driven down it without getting on to the kerb—seem to be slightly suspicious of visitors. The villas are constructed on a system of defence not unpopular during the middle ages. There is no room for a drawbridge or a moat, but this deficiency is supplied by a very high and solid garden gate, which effectually bars the progress of the attacking party—and not only his progress but his view.
Over the tops of the trees in the front garden, if you stand well back on the opposite side, you may catch sight of the tops of the villa chimney-pots, but of the villas themselves you can see nothing.
The garden gate affords you no better standpoint. It is a solid piece of woodwork, grim and forbidding as a prison door.
If you knock and ring with the idea that the gate will be opened, and you will thus get a glimpse within, you are wofully mistaken.
Your summons may be answered or not, as the case may be. If it is, a small wooden flap at the back of an iron grill is let down, and a face appears blocking up the aperture. The eyes of this face regard you carefully, and if these eyes fail to recognise you the lips move and request to know your business. If your explanation is satisfactory, you may be admitted; if it is not, up goes the wooden flap again with a bang, and silence reigns around.
At the gate of one of these curious and secluded little villas, which by the inscription on the door-posts we learn is called ‘The Lodge,’ and by the brass plate on the door we find is inhabited by Dr. Oliver Birnie, there stands a gentleman whom we have seen before.
He is a tall, good-looking fellow, very shabby about the clothes, and not particularly tidy about the hair and beard.
The face which blocks up the little peephole of The Lodge is a female face of the domestic servant order, and it evidently regards the visitor with some suspicion. There has been a preliminary verbal passage of arms, and the female face is hot and angry-looking.
‘If you can’t tell me your name, I shan’t go and disturb master,’ say the lips.
‘You go and tell your master what I say,’ answers the shabby gentleman—‘that an old friend from abroad wishes to see him.’
The lips move again—this time in a curled-up and scornful manner.
‘People as is ashamed o’ their names ain’t no friends o’ master’s, I’m sure.’
‘That’s more than you know, you impertinent hussy! Take my message.’
‘Shan’t!’
With that the flap goes to with a bang.
The shabby gentleman is not in the least abashed. He takes the bell-handle calmly and proceeds to tug at it.
He continues tugging till the female face, hotter and angrier than ever, once more appears at the peephole.
‘If you don’t go away I shall send for the perlice.’
‘Will you take my message?’
‘No, master ain’t at home.’
‘Then why the devil didn’t you say so before?’
‘Cus I didn’t choose. P’raps you’d like to know where he is, and where he was borned, Mr. Impertinence; and how many times he’s been waksinated, and what he had for dinner o’ Sunday. Come, what is it? ’Ave you called to see the meter and help yourself to the hovercoats; or d’ye want to be shown in and see which is the heasiest way through the back window on sone futur’ ercashun?’
The domestic was fully roused now, and she let the shabby gentleman have it. She knew a thing or two; and she wasn’t going to be made a fool of, like the silly girls master read to her about in the newspapers.
Her particular instructions were never, under any circumstances, to admit a visitor when her master was out, and she meant to obey them. Besides, what could a shabby fellow like this want but what he’d no right to?
The shabby gentleman wasn’t angry in the least. He accepted the attack with a smile.
‘Bravo, Jemima! or whatever your name is,’ he said. ‘You are a shrewd girl, and deserve encouragement. I’ll report to the doctor, when I see him, what an admirable watch-dog you make.’
‘Dog yourself! and my name ain’t Jemima; and if it was, I shouldn’t be ashamed on it, like you are o’ yourn. Go away. There ain’t nothing to be got here.’
Bang went the flap, and the shabby gentleman was still on the wrong side of the door.
He was about to stroll away when a carriage came dashing down the narrow roadway, and was pulled up in front of The Lodge. Dr. Birnie jumped out, the carriage drove off, and then the shabby gentleman, coming close up to the doctor as he was putting his latchkey into the garden gate, touched him gently on the arm.
The doctor turned.
For a moment he hesitated and turned slightly pale, then he looked closely into the shabby gentleman’s face and gasped out: ‘Good God, Marston! I thought you were dead.’
Edward Marston smiled.
‘Not yet, Birnie. I’ve been very near it, though, once or twice.’
‘How strangely things happen,’ thought Birnie to himself. ‘I’ve been to Heckett’s and Egerton’s to-day, and now here’s Marston dropped from the skies, as if to complete the circle.’
The doctor glanced at his visitor’s costume, and then at his face again.
‘Hard up, I suppose?’ he said uneasily.
‘Devilish hard up, old man. So hard up that I have called for that bob you owe me for directing you to Little Queer Street the other night.’
The doctor started.
‘Good gracious, man! you don’t mean to say that was you?’
‘It was. Here’s the card you gave me. I’ve given you three days credit as it is.’ Marston drew the card from his pocket and give it to Birnie. ‘That’s how I knew where to find you. Deuced funny how things come about, isn’t it?’
Marston laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh, and the doctor didn’t respond to it.
He looked very uncomfortable, and hesitated for a moment; then, assuming an air of nonchalance, he said, with an affectation of cheeriness:
‘Well, old fellow, I’m glad to see you. Will you come in and have a chat?’
‘Just what I should like,’ answered Marston; ‘especially if there’s anything to eat with the chat.’
‘Certainly, my dear boy. Come along.’
The doctor pushed his gate open and walked in, followed by Marston. As they entered the house the servant came running to the doctor to tell him of the pertinacious shabby gentleman’s visit. The look of disgust on her face when she saw the shabby gentleman in the hall, was intense. She tossed her head, muttered, ‘Well, I’m sure!’ and rushed downstairs to the kitchen to protect the spoons and forks.
‘And so you’ve come back again, Ned?’ said Dr. Birnie, as, a few minutes later, he sat in his library with the shabby gentleman.
‘Yes, I have. But pleasure