The Crime and the Criminal. Marsh Richard

in colour almost matched the whiskers. There was something about the man which reminded me of some one I had seen before. Who it was, at the moment, I could not think.

      He addressed me with what he probably intended for an ingratiating smile, "This is Victoria." I told him I was aware of it. "All get out here." I added that I was also aware of that.

      His eyes, which had been travelling round and round the carriage in an eager, searching fashion, which, for some reason, made me curiously uneasy, finally rested on my face. He at once noticed the blood-stained handkerchief which I still was holding to my cheek.

      "Nose bleeding?"

      "No; I've cut my cheek."

      I don't know why I sat there speaking to the man as I did.

      "Permit me to offer you my handkerchief; yours seems soaked with blood."

      Taking out a red silk handkerchief, the corner of which had been protruding from the outside pocket of his overcoat, he held it out to me. I was reluctant to take it. One is reluctant to accept the loan of a silk handkerchief from a perfect stranger, more especially, perhaps, from the sort of stranger he appeared to be. But what was I to do? I was in want of a handkerchief. My own was worse than useless. It was reeking wet. Great gouts of blood were commencing to drop from it. My cheek was bleeding as profusely as ever. I was beginning to wonder if a blood-vessel had been severed. One cannot buy handkerchiefs on a Sunday night. I should have to borrow from some one. So I borrowed from him. Unwillingly enough, I admit. As I applied his handkerchief to my cheek, turning, I threw my own through the open window at my side.

      He rushed forward, as if to stay my arm. He was too late. The handkerchief had gone. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "what have you done?"

      He seemed unnecessarily excited, considering that, in any case, the handkerchief was mine.

      "I've thrown it away. You don't suppose that, in that condition, I could carry it home." He looked at me with his eager eyes.

      "Was your name upon it?"

      "I believe so; why?"

      Leaning over, he laid his hand upon my shoulder. He spoke in a tone of voice which, in spite of myself, sent a thrill all over me.

      "Man, supposing they find it? It may be a question of life or death. Let's get out of this-come!"

      It was time that we left the carriage. I had noticed a porter staring in, as if wondering why we remained its occupants. But that was no reason why the stranger, thrusting his arm through mine, should have almost dragged me out on to the platform. As he continued to cling to me when we were on the platform, I remonstrated-"Be so good as to release my arm."

      Paying no attention to my request, he made as if to hurry me on.

      "Come to a little place I know near here. I am a bit of a doctor. I'll soon make that cut of yours all right."

      I did not budge. I repeated my request-

      "Be so good as to release my arm. I am obliged to you for your suggestion. I, however, prefer to go straight home."

      "Quite right; there is no place like home. Let's go and find a cab."

      Not at all nonplussed, he again made as if to hasten on. I still declined to budge.

      "Thank you. I can perform that office for myself. If you will give me your address, I will forward you your handkerchief. Or, if you prefer it, I will deposit with you its value."

      "Sir, I am a gentleman." He drew himself up with an assumption of dignity which was so overdone as to be ludicrous. The two last words he repeated-"A gentleman!"

      "I do not doubt it. It is I who may not be a gentleman."

      "I, sir, can tell a gentleman when I see one." He laid a stress upon the personal pronoun, as if he wished me to infer that such clearness of vision might be a personal peculiarity. "I will give you my address in the cab."

      Willing to humour him, I suffered him to stroll up the platform at my side. I held out my hand to him when we reached a hansom.

      "Your address?"

      "I said I would give you my address in the cab." Leaning towards me, he spoke in that curious tone which had impressed me so unpleasantly in the railway carriage. "Get into the cab, man; I travelled from Brighton in the next compartment to yours."

      I was foolish. I ought, even at the eleventh hour, to have addressed myself to an official, to have made a clean breast of it, to have told him of the accident, the unavoidable accident, which had happened on the line. I know that now too well. I knew it, dimly, then. But, at the moment, I was weak. The fellow's manner increased my state of mental confusion. In a sense, his words overwhelmed me. I yielded to him. I got into the cab. He placed himself at my side.

      "Where shall I tell the man to drive?" he asked.

      "Anywhere."

      "Piccadilly Circus!" he shouted. The cab was off.

      We sat in silence, I in a state of mind which I should find some difficulty in making plain. I will not attempt it. I will only say that I should have dearly liked to have taken my friend, the stranger, by the scuff of his neck and to have thrown him out into the street. I did not dare.

      When we were clear of the traffic I asked him, in a voice which I scarcely knew to be my own, it was so husky and dry-

      "What did you mean by saying that you travelled from Brighton in the next compartment to mine?"

      "Mean? My dear sir, I meant what I said. It was a coincidence-nothing more." He spoke lightly; impudently even. I felt incapable of pressing him for a more precise explanation. He added, as a sort of afterthought, "I'm a detective."

      I turned to him with a start. "A detective?"

      He pretended to be surprised by my surprise.

      "What's the matter, my dear sir?" He paused. Then, with a sneer, "I'm not that sort. I'm the respectable sort. I'm a private detective, sir. I make delicate inquiries for persons of position and of means." He emphasised "means." "Have you a cigar?"

      "I gave him one; he proceeded to light it. I was conscious that, since I had admitted him to a share of the cab, a change had taken place in his bearing. It was not only familiar, it was positively brutal. Yet, strange though it may appear-and I would point out that nothing is so common as that sort of wisdom which enables us to point out the folly of each other's behaviour-I found myself unable to resent it.

      "I've been down to Brighton on business; to make inquiries about a woman."

      "A woman?"

      "A woman who is missing-women are missing now and then-Louise O'Donnel. I suppose you never happen to have heard the name?"

      "Louise O'Donnel?" I wondered what he meant; there was meaning in his tone. Indeed, every word he uttered, every gesture he made, seemed pregnant with meaning. The more I saw of him, the more uncomfortable I became. "I do not remember to have heard the name Louise O'Donnel."

      "Yes, Louise O'Donnel. You're quite sure you never heard it?"

      "So far as I remember, never."

      "Perhaps your memory is at fault; one never knows." He puffed at his cigar-or, rather, he puffed at my cigar. "I don't think I'll give you my address. I'll call for the handkerchief at yours. What is your address?"

      I hesitated. I was quite aware that to give him my address would be to commit a further act of folly. But, at the same time, I did not see how I could avoid giving it him without a row or worse.

      "My office is in Austin Friars?"

      "Austin Friars? You don't happen to have a card about you?"

      I did happen to have one of my business cards in my letter-case. Taking it out, I gave it to him. He looked at it askance, reading the name on it out loud.

      "Thomas Tennant. Rather an alliterative kind of name. Almost like a pseudonym." I sat in silence. "However, there may be some one about with such a name." He slipped the card into his waistcoat pocket. "I shall have pleasure, Mr. Tennant, in calling on you, for my silk handkerchief, in Austin Friars; possibly to-morrow, possibly next week, or the week