"Panorama's among the black men, them's his oysters as we're eatin' now.

Try one, Mr. Kennedy. You look as if a drop of summat would do you good, so help me you do. Take a sup o' stout and rest yourself awhile. It is a surprise to see you, I must say."

"A very pleasant surprise, indeed," added the Archbishop, emphatically.

"There has been no event in my life for many months which has given me so much satisfaction. We have not so many friends that we can spare even one of them to those higher spheres, which, I must say, he has adorned with such conspicuous l.u.s.tre."

"Oh, spare me, reverence, don't talk nonsense to-night. I am tired as you see, tired and hungry. And I'm going to beg food and drink from old friends who have loved me. Now, Sarah, what's it to be?"

He drew the sofa nearer to the bare table and began to eat with them.

Sarah's motherly protestations induced him to take off his coat and hang it up in the watchman's office to dry. The same tender care served out to him the most delicate morsels, from a generous if uncouth table, and insisted upon their acceptance. If his old friends were hot with curiosity to know whence he came and what he had been doing, they, as the poor alone can do successfully, asked no questions nor even hinted at their desire. Not until the supper was over and the Archbishop had produced a little packet of cigars, did any general conversation interrupt that serious business of eating and drinking, so rarely indulged in, so sacred when opportunity offered.

This amiable truce to curiosity, dictated by nature, was first broken by the Archbishop, who did not possess my Lady Sarah's robust powers of self-command. Pa.s.sing Alban a cigar, he asked him a question which had been upon his lips from the beginning.

"You are just returned from Poland, Kennedy?"

"I have been in England two months, reverence."

"But not at Hampstead, my dear boy, not at Hampstead, surely?"

"As you say, not at Hampstead, at least not at "Five Gables." Mr.

Gessner is away yachting; I read it in the newspapers."

"You read it in the newspapers. G.o.d bless me! do you mean to say that he did not tell you himself?"

"He told me nothing. How could he? He hasn't got my address."

They all stared, open-eyed in wonder. Even the Lady Sarah had a question to ask now.

"You're not back in Whitechapel again."

"True as gold. I am living in Union Street, and going to be married."

"To be married; who's the lidy?"

"That's what I want to know; perhaps it would be little red-haired Chris Denholm. I can't exactly tell you, Sarah."

"Here none of that--you're pullin'--"

Sarah caught the Archbishop's frown, and corrected herself adroitly.

"It ain't true, Mr. Kennedy, is it now?"

"G.o.d knows, Sarah, I don't. I'm earning two pounds a week in a motor shop and living in the old ken by Union Street. Mr. Gessner has left the country and his daughter is married to w.i.l.l.y Forrest. I hope she'll like him. They'll make a pretty pair in a crow's nest. Pa.s.s the stout and let's drink to 'em. I must be off directly; if I don't walk home, it'll be pneumonia or something equally pleasant. But I'm glad to see you all, you know it, and I wish you luck from the bottom of my heart."

He took a long drink from a newly opened bottle and claiming his coat pa.s.sed out as mysteriously as he had come. The watchman said that a man waited for him upon the pavement, but his information seemed vague. The others continued to discuss him until weariness overtook them and they slept where they lay. His going had taken a friend away from them, and their friends were few enough, G.o.d knows!

CHAPTER x.x.xI

THE MAN UPON THE PAVEMENT

A well-meaning stage-door keeper for once had told the plain truth and there had been a man upon the pavement when Alban quitted the Regent Theatre.

Little more than six months ago, this identical fellow had been commissioned by Richard Gessner to seek Alban out and report upon his habits. He had visited the great ship-building yard, had made a hundred inquiries in Thrawl Street and the Commercial Road, had tracked his quarry to the Caves and carried his news thereafter triumphantly to Hampstead and his employer. To-night his purpose was otherwise. He sought not gossip but a man, and that man now appeared before him upon the pavement, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head bent, his att.i.tude that of utter dejection and despair.

"Mr. Kennedy, if you please."

The stranger spoke beneath the shadow of a great lamp in the Charing Cross Road. Not hearing him immediately, Alban had arrived at the next lamp before the earnest entreaty arrested him and found him erect and watchful in a moment.

"I beg your pardon, sir; you are Mr. Kennedy, are you not?"

"My name, at least the half of it."

"Mr. Alban Kennedy, shall we say. I have been looking for you for three days, sir. It is not often that I search three days for anybody when his house is known. Forgive me, it is not my fault that there has been a delay."

Alban knew no more than the man in the moon what he was driving at, and he thought it must be all a mistake.

"What's it all about, old chap?" he exclaimed, falling into the manners of the street. "Why have you been hurrying yourself on my account?"

"To give you this letter, sir, and to ask you to accompany me."

Alban whistled, but took the note nevertheless and tore it open with trembling fingers. He thought that he recognized the handwriting, but was not sure. When he had read the letter through, he turned to the man and said that he would go with him.

"Then I will call a hansom, sir."

The detective blew a shrill whistle, and a hansom immediately tried to cannon an omnibus, and succeeding came skidding to the pavement. The two men entered without a word to each other; but to the driver the direction was Hampstead Heath. He, wise merchant, demurred with chosen phrase of weight, until a fare was named and then lashed his horse triumphantly.

"My lucky's in," he cried to a friend upon another box, "it's a quid if I ain't bilked."

Alban meanwhile took a cigarette from a paper packet, and asked his companion for a light. When he struck it an observer would have noticed that his hand was still shaking.

"Did you go down yonder?" he asked, indicating generally the neighborhood east of Aldgate.

"Searched every coffee shop in Whitechapel, sir."

"Ah, you weren't lucky. I have been living three days on Hampstead Heath."

"On Hampstead Heath? My G.o.dfather, I wish I'd known."

They were driving through Regent's Park by this time, and the darkness of a tempestuous night enshrouded them. Alban recalled that unforgotten evening of spring when, with the amiable Silas Geary for his companion, he had first driven to Mr. Gessner's house and had heard the story of Wonderland, as that very ordinary cleric had described it. What days he had lived through since then! And now this news surpa.s.sing all the miracles! What must it mean to him, and to her! Had they been fooling him again or might he dare to accept it for the truth? He knew not what to think. A surpa.s.sing excitement seized upon him and held him dumb. He felt that he would give years of his life to know.

They toiled up the long hill to the Heath and entered the grounds of "Five Gables" just as the church clock was striking eleven. There were lights in the Italian Garden and in the drawing-room. Just as it had been six months ago, so now the obliging Fellows opened the door to them. Alban gave him a kindly nod and asked him where Lois was.

"The young lady is there, in the hall, sir. Pardon me saying it, she seems much upset to-night."

"Mr. Gessner is still away?"