Devlin the Barber. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

if he ain't fit to look after hisself, it's for me to look after him, and so, sir, I thought the best thing for me to do was to keep a dairy."

      "A dairy!" I echoed, in wonder.

      "Yes, sir, a dairy-to put down in writing everything what happened at the very time."

      "O," I said, "you mean a diary!"

      "If that's what you call it, sir. I got an old lodger's book that wasn't all filled up. I keep it locked in my desk, sir. Perhaps you'd like to look at it?"

      "It may be as well, Fanny."

      "If," she said, fumbling in her pocket for a key, and placing one by one upon the table the most extraordinary collection of oddments that female pocket was ever called upon to hold, "if, when we come into this house to retire and live genteel, after Lemon had sold his business, I'd have known what was to come out of my notion to let the second floor front to a single man, I'd have had my feet cut off before I'd done it. But I did it for the best, to keep down the egspenses. Here it is, sir."

      CHAPTER VII

DEVLIN'S FIRST INTRODUCTION INTO THE MYSTERY

      She had found the key she had been searching for, and now she opened a mahogany desk, from which she took a penny memorandum-book. She handed it to me in silence, and I turned over the leaves. Most of the pages were filled with weekly accounts of her lodgers, in which "ham and eggs, 8d .;" "a rasher, 5d .;" "chop, 8d .;" "two boyled eggs, 3d .;" "bloater, 2d .;" "crewet, 4d .;" and other such-like items appeared again and again. There was also, at the foot of pages, receipts for payment, "Paid, Fanny Lemon." And this, in the midst of the presumably tragic business upon which we were engaged, brought to my mind an anomaly which had often occurred to me, namely, that landladies should present their accounts to their lodgers in penny memorandum-books, should receive the money, should sign a receipt, and then take away the books containing their acknowledgment of payment. In view of the grave issues impending, it is a trivial matter to comment upon, but it was really a relief to me to dwell for a moment or two upon it. At the end of the memorandum-book which I was looking through were five or six leaves which had not been utilised for lodgers' accounts, and these Mrs. Lemon had pressed into service for her diary. She was a bad writer and an indifferent speller, and the entries were brief, and, to me, at that point, incomprehensible.

      "I see, Fanny," I said "that your first entry is made on a Thursday, a good many weeks ago."

      "Yes, sir."

      "I must confess I can make nothing of it. It states that Lemon rose at eight o'clock on that morning, that he had breakfast at half-past eight, that he ate four slices of bread and butter, two rashers of bacon, and two eggs-"

      "Ah!" sighed Mrs. Lemon, interrupting me. "He had his appetite then, had Lemon! He ain't got none now to speak of."

      "And," I continued, "that he went out of the house at nine o'clock with a person whose name is unintelligible. It commences, I think, with a D."

      "D-e-v-l-i-n," said Mrs. Lemon, her eyes almost starting out of her head as she spelt the name, letter by letter.

      "I can make it out now. That is it, Devlin. A peculiar name, Fanny."

      "Everything about him is that, sir, and worse."

      "Had it been a common name, I daresay I should have made it out at once. Now, Fanny, who is this Devlin?"

      "You called him a man, sir," said Mrs. Lemon, striving unsuccessfully to keep her eyes from the portrait of her husband, from the evil-beaked bird, and from the image of the stone monster on the mantelshelf.

      The magnetism was not in her, it was in the objects, and as she turned from one to the other I also turned-as though I were a piece of machinery and she was setting me in motion. But it is likely that my eyes would have wandered in those directions without her silent prompting. One peculiarity of the fascination-growing more horrible every moment-exercised by the three objects, was that I could not look upon the one without being compelled to complete the triangle formed by the positions in which they were placed-the wall, the window, the mantelshelf.

      "It was Devlin, then," I said, "who painted the portraits and stuffed the bird and gave you the stone monster?"

      "You've guessed it, sir. It was him."

      Referring to the entry in the memorandum-book, I asked, "Did this Devlin call for your husband on the Thursday morning that they went out together?"

      "No, sir, he lodged here."

      "Does he lodge here now?"

      "Yes, sir, I am sorry to say. If I could only see the last of him I'd give thanks on my bended knees morning, noon, and night."

      "Why don't you get rid of him, then?"

      "I can't, sir."

      I accepted this as part of the mystery, and did not press her on the point, but I asked why she would feel so grateful if he were gone from the house.

      "Because," she replied, "it's all through him that Lemon is as he is."

      "Am I to see this man before I leave?"

      "It ain't for me to say, sir."

      "Is he in the house now?"

      "No, sir."

      I inwardly resolved if he came into the house before I left it, that I would see the man of whom Mrs. Lemon so evidently stood in dread.

      "I suppose, Fanny, you will tell me something more of him."

      "That is why I asked you to come, sir. If you're to do any good in this dreadful affair, you must know as much as I do about him."

      "Very well, Fanny." I referred again to the first entry in the diary. "After stating that your husband went out with Devlin at nine o'clock in the morning, you say that he returned alone at six o'clock in the evening, and that he did not stir out of the house again on that night."

      "Yes, sir."

      "I see that you have made a record of the time Lemon went to bed and the time he rose next morning."

      "To which, sir, I am ready to take my gospel oath."

      "Supposing your gospel oath to be necessary."

      "It might be. God only knows!"

      I stared at her, beginning to doubt whether she was sane; but there was nothing in her face to justify my suspicion. The expression I saw on it was one of solemn, painful, intense earnestness.

      "Go on, sir," she said, "if you please."

      I turned again to the concluding words of the first entry, and read them aloud:

      "Devlin did not come home all night. I locked the street-door myself, and put up the chain. I went down at seven in the morning, when Lemon was asleep, and the chain was up. I went to Devlin's room, the second floor front, and Devlin was not there!"

      "That's true, sir. I can take my gospel oath of that."

      "Fanny," I said, with the little book in my hand, closed, but keeping my forefinger between the leaves upon which the first entry was made, "I cannot go any farther until you tell me what all this means."

      "After you've finished what I wrote, sir," was her reply, "I'll make a clean breast of it, and tell you everything, or as much of it as I can remember, from the time you saw me last-a good many years ago, wasn't it, sir? – up to this very day."

      I thought it best to humour her, and I looked through the remaining entries. They were all of the same kind. Mr. Lemon rose in the morning at such a time; he had breakfast at such a time; he went out at such a time, with or without Devlin; he came home at such a time, with or without Devlin; and so on, and so on. It was a peculiar feature in these entries that Lemon never went out or came home without Devlin's name being mentioned.

      I handed the book back to her; she took it irresolutely, and asked,

      "Did you read what I last wrote, sir?"

      "Yes, Fanny, the usual thing."

      "Perhaps, sir, but the time I wrote it; that is what I mean."

      "No, Fanny, I don't think I noticed that."

      "It