Mrs. Cuttle was the loser by her husband's death. In one stroke she was deprived of her comfortable income, her big house and garden, and her future honours. She would never be Lady Cuttle and receive her civic guests in the glory of sapphire velvet and ermine at the Mayor's Reception.
After her first outburst of hysteria, she bore up well and displayed both calm and fortitude. Instead of nursing her grief, she set about making her arrangements for the future. As she waited in the drawing-room for the master of the house to come home, the housemaid tapped at the door.
"It's the vicar, mum. Will you see him?"
"Yes."
The vicar rather dreaded the interview because of its tragic circumstances. Fortunately for his peace of mind he was ignorant as the widow of the inquest sensation. But to his relief, Mrs. Cuttle was stoically unemotional. Dressed in deepest mourning, she sat still as an ebony statue, and listened stonily to his condolences.
"Thank you, vicar," she said. "Now I want to settle about the funeral."
Although she was slow, she was business-like in making the necessary arrangements for the service.
"I want the hymn to be 'For all the saints who from their labours rest,'" she told him.
The vicar made a note of it, although his expression was rather doubtful. His own respect for the marriage bond made him prone to censure the late alderman's amorous character.
"I hope we are not going to lose you, too," he said.
Mrs. Cuttle began to tell him her plans.
"I'm going away directly I've settled up. Perhaps I'll take a cottage in the country. My means will be small. The alderman didn't save. But there's the insurance. And the house and furniture. There's a lot of money locked up here."
The vicar, whose simple taste was revolted by the crowded luxury of the drawing-room, wondered whether it would be easy to sell a white elephant like Stonehenge Lodge.
"I hope you'll soon find a purchaser," he said.
"There's one now," Mrs. Cuttle told him. "He's wired that he'll send the cheque as soon as the sale goes through. He's a buyer who used to come here with the alderman. He always coveted the house and furniture."
"But has he the means?"
"Yes, he came into money. He made us a spot-cash offer then. But Mr. Cuttle wouldn't sell."
The vicar tactfully congratulated her on her good fortune.
"Although money does not count in the face of your loss, it would be worse if you were left destitute," he reminded her.
"Yes," she nodded. "I'm going to sell the shop, too. One or two will bite. It's the best business premises in the town. I've a lot to see to."
As she stared at him with expressionless blue eyes, he wondered what depths of desolation they shielded.
"You've much on your shoulders," he said. "Have you no relatives?"
"No."
A life partnership of many years' standing had been violently ruptured. The vicar felt she must be bleeding inwardly. She had no child to help her bear the burden. She suffered in silence, and alone.
"You will be given courage and strength," he told her. "Even now, you are being helped in material ways. Perhaps your husband is still looking after you from the other side."
For the first time, Mrs. Cuttle gulped.
"It was our silver wedding next year," she said.
"Then you've much to remember. Twenty-five years is a long time."
"Yes, you get used to each other...I've lost the best husband in the world, vicar."
"I'm sure of it."
"There's some that misunderstood him. About—about women and girls. But it was only his fun. They wouldn't leave him alone. I want you to know that he never gave me the least cause for jealousy."
The vicar looked at her with new respect. He felt that this stupid dumpy envelope concealed an unsuspected force of character. When Mrs. Cuttle left the town they would lose a personality.
"I've always had much liking for your husband," he said. "He was kind-hearted, sympathetic and generous. Whenever I made an appeal, he was first to respond."
"Yes, vicar. If he hadn't given so much to charity, I might have kept my beautiful home. But you'll miss his subscriptions. I'd like to send you a last cheque before I go. It will be from both of us."
The vicar thanked her and rose to go. As he shook her limp hand, she asked him a question.
"Do you believe there's no marriage in heaven?"
"I'm sure we shall not be parted from those we truly love," he replied.
"Um...But the Bible must be true."
Slightly at a loss, he smiled down at her.
"I'll pray for you," he promised.
At the door, he looked back at her, a solid black shape blocked out against the ornate furniture, motionless and inscrutable as Fate.
Walking down the drive, however, two lines of Browning's flitted across his mind.
"I knew you once, but in paradise,
If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face."
Suddenly he wondered whether Mrs. Cuttle was really anxious for future reunion. Even the most patient wife might weary in forgiveness. He had a fleeting vision of Mrs. Cuttle cutting her husband in some celestial street. Her loyalty might be a form of the Lie Magnificent.
When she was alone, the black widow ceased to be an enigma. She looked around her with a glare of hatred. She had grown to loathe this room, because of endless hours spent in pacing the carpet while her husband stayed at the shop with Miss Yates. It recalled tortures of imagination, as she pictured them making love and planning divorce, while they jeered at the stupid dupe at home.
All the same, the house had been her best investment. It was a means of saving, for the alderman liked the best of everything, in order to advertise his prosperity. Those weary years of accumulating still more furniture to be polished were justified. At last she would be able to convert her frozen capital.
She gave a sigh. For the first time she felt secure. Her pupils shrank to pin-pricks as she thought of the time when she had nursed the alderman through typhoid. She was a plain woman in the thirties, stupid in her profession, and worried about the future.
Her refuge lay in marriage. She had practised every art, and—to her own surprise—had succeeded in snaring her patient. But she was never sure of him. Outwardly a model husband, his eyes were always rolling after other women.
Those other women. She was jealous of every fresh face. Each successive flirtation put her on a rack of suspense. With the advent of Miss Yates her anxiety grew more intense, for it was plain that an understanding existed between the two. Her husband's appraising glance seemed to weigh her in the balance. She was a symbol of respectability, but the world has a short memory.
Hatred of her husband had grown from a compact of jealousy and fear. She lay awake at night, sweating. And then Nurse Davis had made her a present of the idea.
She remembered the afternoon when her husband had forced her to give a tea-party for a strange woman, and had insulted her further by bringing back a parcel of his girls. The model, Bessie Blair, had asked questions about poisons. As she listened to Nurse Davis' explanation, she suddenly realised that she had special facilities for getting away with a crime.
It was difficult to convict in a poisoning charge, unless the purchase and possession could be proved. Her own case of hypodermics was a relic of her nursing days; no one knew about it, and it would be impossible to connect her with a sale.
To her great surprise, just as she was wiping a tiny spot of grease from the teapot, she resolved to poison her husband.
It was true that she was shocked by the idea. It lay dormant in her brain as a remote possibility. But she had gradually grown used to it, so that it no longer repelled her.
When her husband hinted that he was not coming home that night, she had jumped to the conclusion of another woman. Flayed with jealousy, something had snapped in her head. She had waited until he was in his study, to steal downstairs and mix digitaline with his devilled chicken.
When she heard of the tragedy, she was shaken with gusts of natural remorse. She could not believe that she had actually done this terrible thing. Her slow brain had only dully realised that the logical sequence to an act of murder was death.
But as the instinct of self-preservation began to stir, she shed her regrets, and thought all around her crime. The threat of arrest did not touch her supreme imperturbability. As the death had taken place, most providentially, in the Waxwork Gallery, she hoped that it might be attributed to a stroke. In her opinion, Dr. Nile was a fool who could be dissuaded from performing a post-mortem. And at the worst it would be impossible to connect her directly with the crime.
After many years she felt secure. Owing to the insurance her future was provided for. She reminded herself, also, that she must lose no time in destroying her case of hypodermics. Yesterday she had been too upset to think about evidence.
But there was plenty of time. First, she would sign that cheque for the vicar. It was not only a gesture to win the respect of the town, but a bid to get on the right side of the church. The vicar was going to pray for her, so all would be well.
She did not know that, even then, two gentlemen visitors were on their way. One was the alderman returning in state to his house. The second was Superintendent Fricker, who had recently acquired the key to the locked medicine-chest in her bedroom.
Miss Yates had just given it to him. She had been linked to the alderman by joint interests, and also by a twin passion of cupidity. Furious at the loss of her partner, she had resolved to avenge his death. Although she despised the tongue-tied wife, the silent widow had seemed sinister as the dog that does not bark. Rent by sudden suspicion she had made an excuse to return to the bedroom alone. Prudence had told her not to search in the cupboard, but merely to remove the key.
In a few minutes Superintendent Fricker would politely request Mrs. Cuttle's permission to unlock the chest in her presence. The case, with its empty phial of digitaline, would bear the betraying signature of her finger-prints. These would be awkward to explain away in the presence of another fact.
A policeman and two maids had eaten the devilled chicken with no ill results. It was between the hours of eight and ten—when she and her husband were alone in the house—that the fowl had been further devilled by the addition of toxin.
As she crossed the room to her desk, she glanced absently at the clock. It had stopped at the fateful hour of eight.
She took her book out of a drawer, found her pen, and squared her elbows to write. The front door bell rang, as—august and respectable in deepest mourning—the black widow made out a cheque for the vicar.
A grim smile was upon her lips. For she did not know that, through the irony of Fate, she had murdered her husband solely for a crime which he had never committed.
He had always been faithful to his wife.
THE END
As the Town Hall clock struck two, the porter of the Riverpool Waxwork Gallery stirred uneasily in bed.
"What's the matter, Ames?" asked his wife sleepily.
"Nothing," was the reply. "Only, I remember taking a candle with me into the Horrors, and I can't rightly say as I took it out again."
Instantly there was an upheaval under the quilt, followed by an eruption of blankets. Then an elephantine hump, silhouetted on the reflected light of the wall, told Ames that his wife was sitting up in bed.
"That Gallery's our bread," she declared. "Besides, think of my poor figures trapped in a fire. You get up, Ames, and make sure the candle's out."
"Oh, I doubted it. I remember. Lay down again."
But Mrs. Ames had surged out of bed and was slipping into her shoes. Having achieved his object, her husband drew the blanket over his head. Salving his conscience by repeating, "I doubted it," he went to sleep again.
With her tweed coat buttoned over her nightdress, and her hat, adorned with an eye veil, perched on top of her curlers, Mrs. Ames went out into the night. She was not nervous of the darkness, while the Gallery was only the length of a short street away.
Directly she turned the key in the great lock and pushed open the massive mahogany doors, she felt that she was really at home. She had brought her pocket-torch, for she knew that if she switched on the light, a policeman might notice the illumination and feel it his duty to investigate. And, as she was one of those free and fearless souls who strew the grass of public parks with chocolate paper and cigarette stumps, she had an instinctive distrust of the law.
She entered the Gallery, and then stood on the threshold—aware of a change. This was not the familiar place she knew so well.
It seemed to be full of people. Seen in the light from the street lamp, which streamed in through the high window, their faces were those of men and women of character and intelligence. They stood in groups as though in conversation, or sat apart in solitary reverie.
But they neither spoke nor moved.
When she had seen them last, a few hours ago, under the dim electric globes, they had been a collection of ordinary waxworks, representing conventional historical personages and Victorian celebrities. Only a few were in really good condition, while some were ancient, with blurred features and threadbare clothes.
But now, they were all restored to health and electric with life. Napoleon frowned as he planned a new campaign. Charles II. mistook her for an orange-girl and ogled her. Henry VIII. shook with silent laughter.
Mrs. Ames felt absurdly abashed by the transformation. She knew she had only to snap on the light to shatter the illusion. Restrained by the memory of the policeman, she did her best to put the figures back in their proper places.
"Hallo, dearies," she called. "Mother's popped in to see you."
Her voice echoed queerly under the domed mahogany roof. She had a vague impression that the Waxworks resented her liberty, as she hurried towards the Hall of Horrors.
A crack of light which outlined its doors told her that her husband had been too optimistic about his memory. This smaller Gallery had not been wired, for it held no lurid attractions. She rushed inside, to see a guttering candle stuck upon the floor.
Although no damage had been done, her indignation swept away imagination. But after she had blown out the flame, she became dimly afraid of her surroundings.
There was no special reason for her to feel nervous. The Hall of Horrors housed only a small number of selected murderers, whom, normally, she despised. These figures were not spectacular, like her cherished Royalties. They wore dull coats and trousers, and could easily be mistaken for nonentities such as Gladstone and Tennyson.
But, as she threw her torch over them, a pinprick of light gleamed in each glassy eye, imparting a fiction of life. They seemed to be looking at her with intent and furtive speculation, as though she were the object of a private and peculiarly personal inventory.
Suddenly she remembered that she was among a company of—poisoners.
Although she was furious with herself for her weakness, her nerve crashed. It was in vain that she reminded herself that these were, in reality, her very own Waxworks. She treated them as her children. It was true that they were a neglected family, for she was an amiable sloven; but, occasionally, she brushed their clothes and hair, or cleaned their faces with a lick of spit.
Now, however, as she hurried down the Gallery, she felt that they had grown alien and aloof. They seemed to regard her with unfriendly eyes, as though she had interrupted some secret and exciting mystery.
They resented her presence. At this hour, the gallery belonged to Them.
Mrs. Ames lost no time in taking their hint. She shuffled through the door, locked it behind her, and ran down the street in flapping shoes. Less than five minutes later, she woke up her husband, to relate her experience.
"I was never so scared in my life. They weren't like the Waxworks I knew. All the time I was there, they were watching me, just as if it was their place, and I'd no right there...Go on, laugh. You've been safe and warm in bed, after trying to burn the gallery down...But you listen to me, Ames. I tell you, those figures were up to some business of their own. And I felt in my bones that it was no good business either."
Before ever she saw her, Sonia Thompson looked upon Mrs. Cuttle as a predestined victim.
She was stupid, complacent, blind. She possessed what other women coveted, but had not the wit to appraise its value, or the imagination to guard it. And she was at the mercy of unscrupulous persons.
Of course, the first suggestion was the result of idle gossip. The impression it made upon Sonia was probably due to the fact that she was both physically tired and mentally excited, and therefore, strung up to a condition of sensitised perception.
When, afterwards, she looked back on her first night at Riverpool, it always appeared intangible as the dust of a dream, so that she could not be sure of her memory. Every place seemed to be dark, and buildings rocked. There was confusion of senses, and optical illusion, in which men were transformed into waxworks and waxworks into men.
She had travelled direct from Geneva, and she still swayed with the motion of the train when she signed the register of the Golden Lion Hotel.
"Sonia Thompson." She lingered for a moment to look at it.
"Wonder if that name will ever be famous," she thought.
The coffee-room had a sunken floor, dark flock wallpaper, and was dimly lit. Apparently the windows were hermetically sealed, and the odours of heavy Victorian dinners—eaten long ago—were marooned on the warm still air. Directly she had gulped down a quick meal of bacon and eggs, Sonia went out to explore the town.
It was between nine and ten, when Riverpool looked especially dreary, with shuttered shops and deserted streets. A fine spit of rain was falling which slimed the cobbles of the road. She wandered rather than walked, while the Channel steamer pitched again under her feet, so that—occasionally—she reeled in a nightmare of wet heaving pavements and flickering lights.
It was in a sober and stationary moment that she found herself standing outside the Waxwork Gallery.
The place had a sinister reputation. Built in 1833, it had been unlucky almost from its beginning. The speculative builder who erected it had hanged himself in the Hall of Horrors. During the Hungry Forties a tramp had been found inside—dead from starvation. In the Naughty Nineties a painted woman of the town had been murdered in the alcove, wherein was staged—appropriately—the final tableau in the career of Vice.
Only recently, there had been a fresh link in the chain of tragedies. A stranger—a commercial traveller—had sought a free lodging in the Gallery, and had paid his bill, according to precedent. The porter discovered him in the morning, lying in Virtue's bed; and the worthy patriarch had a corpse for a bedfellow.
The post-mortem disclosed cirrhosis of the liver. A letter, vowing ferocious vengeance, and signed, "Your loving husband," indicated an unfaithful wife. The combined effect of rage and drink had been a fit.
Although Sonia knew nothing of its history, she felt the pull of some macabre attraction which drew her inside the Gallery. Directly she passed through its massive doors, she was further excited by its peculiar and distinctive atmosphere—sour-sweet, like the stale perfume of a soiled lace handkerchief.
The building was large and dim, panelled with mahogany and draped with tawdry black velvet, filmed with dust. One side had been built into alcoves which housed tableaux depicting scenes in the careers of Virtue and Vice. In spite of being faintly lit with a few pendant electric globes, it smelt of gas.
At first blink, Sonia thought the gallery was full of curious people. Then she realised that she was being tricked in, the usual way. She spoke to the commissionaire at the door, before she discovered that she was asking her question of a dummy.
Apart from the Waxworks, the place seemed to be empty. No other visitors inspected the collection, which was large and second-rate. She picked out Henry VIII., in a buff suit padded and slashed with scarlet; Elizabeth, in grimed ruff and blister-pearls; Mary of England, pasty as dough, but resplendent in new plum satin.
As she paused before Charles II., who had preserved his swagger and leer, although his white velvet suit had yellowed to the tint of parchment, a second trick was played upon her. Two figures seated in a shady corner suddenly came to life, and moved, swiftly and silently, towards the exit.
Sonia could see only the back of the man, who was tall and broad-shouldered. His lady, too, had the collar of her coat drawn up to the level of her eyes; but under her tilted cap was a gleam of conspicuous honey-gold hair.
They threaded their way expertly through the groups of Waxworks, and had slipped through the door almost before Sonia could realise that they were not a delusion.
She was staring in their direction when Mrs. Ames came out of the Hall of Horrors. As usual, she was doing duty for her husband, who was in bed with seasonal screws.
Sonia turned at the sound of flapping footsteps, and saw a tall stooping woman, with big regular features, large mournful eyes, and a mild sagging face. She wore a dirty smock of watercress-green, and a greasy black velvet ribbon in her grey hair, which was cut in a long Garbo bob.
In her relief at meeting someone who was definitely human, Sonia spoke to her with enthusiasm.
"What a marvellous place. It has atmosphere."
"It has not." Mrs. Ames' voice was indignant. "Besides I like it. It's healthy."
"No, no. I meant—tradition, background. One feels there are stories here...Who was that couple who went out just now?"
"Couple?" repeated Mrs. Ames. "I saw no couple."
"But you must have seen them," insisted Sonia. "They had to pass you. A tall man with a white muffler, and a lady with fair hair."
Mrs. Ames' face remained blank.
"You must have been mistaken, or else seen ghosts," she said. "Plenty of ghosts here—or ought to be. Would you like a catalogue, miss?"
"Why?" Sonia spoke absently, for she was still baffled by the mystery. "All the figures are labelled."
"Only for the public. The intelligent visitors always like to have them explained."
Sonia was not exactly impressed by this test of intelligence. She looked at Mrs. Ames, and decided that if her face were lifted and made of wood, it would be a handsome figure-head for a ship. She saw it, wet and magnified, rising and falling triumphantly through a smother of green sea—and again, the Channel steamer pitched under her feet.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that a journalist should not neglect any chance of learning some local history.
"Perhaps you could show me round instead?" she asked.
As a coin was slipped into her palm, Mrs. Ames revived like a wilting flower after aspirin has been added to its water. She swept, like an argosy in full sail, towards Henry VIII., and introduced him with a grand flourish.
"This is the finest figure in our collection. Henry Rex Eight. Magnificent torso. I've sat for the figure myself, so I should know."
"And where is his collection of wives?" asked Sonia.
"Only six, miss," remarked Mrs. Ames stiffly. "And he was married to all of them. Not many gentlemen, to-day, as can say as much...This is Charles the Second."
"And I suppose he was another pure and virtuous king?"
"Well, miss "—Mrs. Ames hesitated—"if he wasn't a king, perhaps we might call him a naughty boy. But, whatever he did, he paid for it. He was executed at Whitehall...This is Elizabeth. A very clever queen. She never married, but had lovers, so they called her 'Good Queen Bess.'...Bloody Mary. When she was dead, they cut open her heart, and found 'Calais' written on it."
Sonia began to feel that her shilling was not wasted on Mrs. Ames. The woman was a character and probably had a Past. Her voice was educated, although the foundations of her history had slipped.
"Is this the oldest figure in the collection?" she asked, as she paused before a pathetic waxwork, with a blurred pallid face, and a robe of moth-eaten black velveteen.
"One of them," replied Mrs. Ames sadly. "Mary of Scotland. But she's worn the worst. She—she's got to go. But we keep putting it off."
She gulped as though she were discussing the fate of some pet animal, while Sonia sighed in sympathy.
"Poor doomed Mary," she murmured. "She reminds me of my favourite doll. I wouldn't go to sleep without her. They burned her because they said she was germy, and gave me a new one which I slaughtered on the spot. But Mother always knows best...I do feel for you about poor Mary. I expect she's real to you."
As a wave of sympathy spread between them, Mrs. Ames relaxed into gossip.
"As real as the townspeople. In fact, some of the Waxworks remind me of them, and I get quite mixed. Henry the Eighth is the spit of Alderman Cuttle. He's got the big shop, like Selfridge, and he's going to be our next mayor. He's a terror for the ladies. I could fall for him myself. And Elizabeth's got the same red hair and sharp face as Miss Yates. She's Alderman Cuttle's secretary, but she means to be the second Mrs. Cuttle."
"Is the Alderman's wife dead?" asked Sonia.
"Not yet."
"What's Mrs. Cuttle like?"
"Like a sack of potatoes, except she hasn't got their eyes. She'll need them. She was only a nurse, but she pulled the Alderman through a bad illness, and he married her. And now she stops the way. I wouldn't be in her shoes for all her fine house."
Mrs. Ames sniffed ominously and passed on to the next figure.
"This is Cardinal Wolsey. I expect you recognise him, for he's the advertisement for woollen pants. He said, 'If I had served—'"
"Yes, thanks," interrupted Sonia, "but I've seen enough. I've had a long journey. I'll just rest for a minute and then I'll go."
As she dropped down on a wooden chair, she realised that she was desperately tired and not quite normal. The lack of ventilation had drained her of her energy; but, while her legs felt leaden, her brain ticked away feverishly.
Her nerves quivered to the spur of sharpened senses; she became aware of hidden life—a stealthy movement behind a curtained alcove—the stir of a whisper.
"Do you get many visitors?" she asked.
"Now and again," was the vague reply. "The fact is, miss, the Gallery's got a—a bad name. They say you can't stay here all night and live to tell the tale."
"That's intriguing." Sonia felt a flicker of reviving interest. "Some one ought to test that theory."
"Someone did. Last month. And they found him, next morning, dead as frozen mutton. He threw a fit and passed out."
"Oh, tough luck. Coincidence, I suppose. Curious. It might be an idea for a newspaper. Perhaps I'll try it out and write it up, myself."
As she spoke, Sonia had the feeling that the Waxworks were listening to her. The Gallery had suddenly grown still and silent as a stagnant pond.
"Are you a writer?" asked Mrs. Ames.
"Yes, I'm on the staff of the Riverpool Chronicle. At least, I will be. To-morrow. I really must push off now."
She sprang to her feet, and then staggered in momentary vertigo. The walls of the gallery rocked and there were rushes of darkness. Afterwards, she believed that she was gripped by a premonition of the future, for she was filled with horror of the Gallery.
She saw the Waxworks, not as harmless dummies, but as malign agents in a corrupt traffic, while Mrs. Ames' face—wooden and gigantic—tossed in the swell of a grey sea. It dwindled to life size, and she realised that she had grasped the woman by her arm.
"A bit dizzy?" asked Mrs. Ames.
"Only a black out," replied Sonia. "I'm quite fit now, thanks. Good-night. I'll come and see you again."
Directly Sonia had gone, Mrs. Ames glanced at the clock, and then closed the Gallery. It was a simple business; she merely rang a hand-bell, and the public—represented by a few couples—immediately took the hint.
It was a curiously furtive and speedy exodus. They slipped out of corners and alcoves, and reached the door by circuitous routes. Each respected the anonymity of the other. No greeting was exchanged, although they might probably speak in the street.
For the Gallery had sunk to be a place of assignation—of stolen meetings and illicit love. People no longer came to view the carefully renewed bloodstains in the alcove—which, officially, could not be washed out—or to shudder at the builder's rope, which was the star relic in the Hall of Horrors. They came only to whisper and kiss.
It is true that it witnessed the course of true romance when sweethearts sought sanctuary from the streets. It is also true that every one looked respectable and behaved discreetly. A middle-aged pair might be obviously prosperous tradespeople; but, if the man were Mr. Bones the butcher, the inference was that the lady was Mrs. Buns the baker.
Mrs. Ames watched the last couple steal through the door, with a sentimental smile which said plainly, "Aren't we all?" Then she rang her bell again, shouted "Every one out?" and switched off the light.
On the threshold, she turned back to speak to her beloved Waxworks.
"Good-night, dearies. Be good. And if you can't be good, be careful."
Sonia had barely returned to her hotel when she saw a ghost.
The Golden Lion was an old coaching inn, and, although large and rambling, had been modernised only to a limited extent. Instead of a lounge, there was an entrance hall, with uneven oaken floor, which led directly to the private bar.
Sonia sank down on the first deep leather chair, and was opening her cigarette case, when she recognised, a few yards away, the spectre of the Waxworks.
He had not materialised too well. In the dim gallery, he had been a tall romantic figure. Here, he was revealed as a typical Club man, with a hard, clean-shaven face and black varnished hair. It is true that his profile had the classical outline of a head on an old coin; but it was a depreciated currency.
"Who is that?" she whispered, as the waiter came forward with a lighted match.
"Sir Julian Gough," was the low reply.
"Of course. Isn't his wife tall, with very fair hair?"
"No, miss." The waiter's voice sank lower. "That would be Mrs. Nile. The doctor's wife. That's the doctor—the tall gentleman with the white scarf."
Sonia forgot her exhaustion as she studied the communal life of the bar. Dr. Nile was a big middle-aged man, with rather a worried face and a charming voice. Sonia decided that, probably, he was not clever, but scored over rival brains by his bedside manner.
"I wonder if he knows what I've seen to-night," she thought.
On the surface, the men did not appear to be hostile. They exchanged casual remarks, and seemed chiefly interested in the contents of their glasses. Sonia decided that it was a dull drinking scene, as she listened sleepily to the burr of voices and the clink of glasses. The air was hazed with skeins of floating smoke and it was very warm.
She was beginning to nod over her cigarette, when she was aroused by a shout of laughter. A big burly man, accompanied by two ladies, had just rolled into the bar. Although he was not in the least like Henry the Eighth, she recognised Alderman Cuttle by Mrs. Ames' description. He was florid and ginger, with a deep organ voice and a boisterous laugh.
"Well, ma. How's my old sweetheart tonight?" he roared, as he kissed the stout elderly proprietress on the cheek.
"Not leaving home for you," she replied, pushing him away with a laugh. "Brought the beauty chorus along?"
"Just these two girls, ma. Miss Yates has been working late and can do with a gin and it. And Nurse Davis works all the time. Eh, nurse?"
As he spoke he winked at the nurse. She was a mature girl of about forty-five, plump, with a heart-shaped face and a small mouth, curved like a bow. She wore very becoming uniform.
As for the other "girl," Miss Yates, Sonia could not imagine her meagre painted cheeks with a youthful bloom. She looked hard, ruthless and artificial. Her sharp light eyes were accentuated by green shading powder, and her nails were enamelled ox-blood. Her best points were her light red hair and her wand-like figure.
She wore what is vaguely described as a "Continental Mode" of black and white, which would not have been out of place in Bond Street.
As she watched her thin-lipped scarlet mouth, and listened to her peacock scream laugh, Sonia remembered the stupid shapeless wife at home.
"Poor Mrs. Cuttle," she thought. "That woman's cruel and greedy as Mother Ganges."
With the alderman's entrance, fresh life flowed into the stagnant bar. There was no doubt that the man possessed that indefinite quality known as personality. His remarks were ordinary, but his geniality was unforced. He seemed to revel in noise, much in the spirit of a boy with a firework.
His popularity, too, was amazing. The women clustered round him like bees on a sunflower; but the men, also, plainly regarded him as a good sport. It was obvious that he had both sympathy and tact. Although he regarded the limelight as his special property he could efface himself. Sonia noticed that he, alone, listened to Dr. Nile's longwinded story about an anonymous patient without a trace of boredom.
He fascinated her, so that she could not remove her gaze from him; but, while the amorous alderman flirted as much with the plain elderly barmaid as with the others, he showed no interest in herself.
Sir Julian had already remarked that she was an attractive girl, for he repeatedly tried to catch her eye with the object of putting her into general circulation. But the alderman cast her one penetrating glance from small almond-shaped hazel eyes. It was impersonal, but appraising—and it might have reminded Mrs. Ames of the scrutiny of the poisoners in the Hall of Horrors.
"Thinks me too young," thought Sonia. "How revolting."
As she pressed out her cigarette, the landlady looked across at her young guest.
"Did you have a nice walk?" she asked professionally.
"Yes, thanks," replied Sonia. "I discovered your Waxwork Gallery."
As she spoke, she had an instinctive sense of withdrawals and recoils, as though she had thrown a stone into a slimy pool, and disturbed hidden forms of pond life.
"That's rather a low part of the town," said the landlady. "I'm ashamed to say I've never been in the Gallery myself."
"Neither have I," declared Sir Julian.