pgw.piccadillyjim-第37节

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　〃I　want　you；〃　said　Mrs。　Pett；　〃to　e　here　and　watch　some　men〃
　〃Men！　Thought　so！　Wh'　there's　trouble；　always　men't　bottom'f　it！〃
　〃You　do　not　like　men？〃
　〃Hate　'em！　Suff…gist！〃　She　looked　penetratingly　at　Mrs。　Pett。　Her　left　eye　seemed　to　pounce　out　from　under　its　tangled　brow。　〃You　S'porter　of　th'　Cause？〃
　Mrs。　Pett　was　an　anti…Suffragist；　but；　though　she　held　strong　opinions；　nothing　would　have　induced　her　to　air　them　at　that　moment。　Her　whole　being　quailed　at　the　prospect　of　arguing　with　this　woman。　She　returned　hurriedly　to　the　main　theme。
　〃A　young　man　arrived　here　this　morning；　pretending　to　be　my　nephew；　James　Crocker。　He　is　an　impostor。　I　want　you　to　watch　him　very　carefully。〃
　〃Whassiz　game？〃
　〃I　do　not　know。　Personally　I　think　he　is　here　to　kidnap　my　son　Ogden。〃
　〃I'll　fix'm；〃　said　the　fair　Trimble　confidently。　〃Say；　that　butler　'f　yours。　He's　a　crook！〃
　Mrs。　Pett　opened　her　eyes。　This　woman　was　manifestly　petent　at　her　work。
　〃Have　you　found　that　out　already？〃
　〃D'rectly　saw　him。〃　Miss　Trimble　opened　her　purse。〃　Go'　one　'f　his　photographs　here。　Brought　it　from　office。　He's　th'　man　that's　wanted　'll　right。〃
　〃Mr。　Sturgis　and　I　both　think　he　is　working　with　the　other　man；　the　one　who　pretends　to　be　my　nephew。〃
　〃Sure。　I'll　fix　'm。〃
　She　returned　the　photograph　to　her　purse　and　snapped　the　catch　with　vicious　emphasis。
　〃There　is　another　possibility；〃　said　Mrs。　Pett。　〃My　nephew；　Mr。　William　Partridge；　had　invented　a　wonderful　explosive；　and　it　is　quite　likely　that　these　men　are　here　to　try　to　steal　it。〃
　〃Sure。　Men'll　do　anything。　If　y'　put　all　the　men　in　th'　world　in　th'　cooler；　wouldn't　be　'ny　more　crime。〃
　She　glowered　at　the　dog　Aida；　who　had　risen　from　the　basket　and　removing　the　last　remains　of　sleep　from　her　system　by　a　series　of　calisthenics　of　her　own　invention；　as　if　she　suspected　her　of　masculinity。　Mrs。　Pett　could　not　help　wondering　what　tragedy　in　the　dim　past　had　caused　this　hatred　of　males　on　the　part　of　her　visitor。　Miss　Trimble　had　not　the　appearance　of　one　who　would　lightly　be　deceived　by　Man；　still　less　the　appearance　of　one　whom　Man；　unless　short…sighted　and　extraordinarily　susceptible；　would　go　out　of　his　way　to　deceive。　She　was　still　turning　this　mystery　over　in　her　mind；　when　her　visitor　spoke。
　〃Well；　gimme　th'　rest　of　th'　dope；〃　said　Miss　Trimble。
　〃I　beg　your　pardon？〃
　〃More　facts。　Spill　'm！〃
　〃Oh；　I　understand；〃　said　Mrs。　Pett　hastily；　and　embarked　on　a　brief　narrative　of　the　suspicious　circumstances　which　had　caused　her　to　desire　skilled　assistance。
　〃Lor'　W'sbeach？〃　said　Miss　Trimble；　breaking　the　story。　〃Who's　he？〃
　〃A　very　great　friend　of　ours。〃
　〃You　vouch　f'r　him　pers'n'lly？　He's　all　right；　uh？　Not　a　crook；　huh？〃
　〃Of　course　he　is　not！〃　said　Mrs。　Pett　indignantly。　〃He's　a　great　friend　of　mine。〃
　〃All　right。　Well；　I　guess　thass　'bout　all；　huh？　I'll　be　going　downstairs　'an　starting　in。〃
　〃You　can　e　here　immediately？〃
　〃Sure。　Got　parlour…maid　rig　round　at　m'　boarding…house　round　corner。　e　back　with　it　'n　ten　minutes。　Same　dress　I　used　when　I　w's　working　on　th'　Marling　D'vorce　case。　D'jer　know　th'　Marlings？　Idle　rich！　Bound　t'　get　'nto　trouble。　I　fixed　'm。　Well；　g'bye。　Mus'　be　going。　No　time　t'　waste。〃　　Mrs。　Pett　leaned　back　faintly　in　her　chair。　She　felt　overe。
　Downstairs；　on　her　way　out；　Miss　Trimble　had　paused　in　the　hall　to　inspect　a　fine　statue　which　stood　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs。　It　was　a　noble　work　of　art；　but　it　seemed　to　displease　her。　She　snorted。
　〃Idle　rich！〃　she　muttered　scornfully。　〃Brrh！〃
　The　portly　form　of　Mr。　Crocker　loomed　up　from　the　direction　of　the　back　stairs。　She　fixed　her　left　eye　on　him　piercingly。　Mr。　Crocker　met　it；　and　quailed。　He　had　that　consciousness　of　guilt　which　philosophers　tell　is　the　worst　drawback　to　crime。　Why　this　woman's　gaze　should　disturb　him　so　thoroughly；　he　could　not　have　said。　She　was　a　perfect　stranger　to　him。　She　could　know　nothing　about　him。　Yet　he　quailed。
　〃Say；〃　said　Miss　Trimble。　〃I'm　c'ming　here　's　parlour…maid。〃
　〃Oh；　ah？〃　said　Mr。　Crocker；　feebly。
　〃Grrrh！〃　observed　Miss　Trimble；　and　departed。
　
　CHAPTER　XVIII
　THE　VOICE　PROM　THE　PAST
　
　THE　library；　whither　Jimmy　had　made　his　way　after　leaving　Mrs。　Pett；　was　a　large　room　on　the　ground　floor；　looking　out　on　the　street　which　ran　parallel　to　the　south　side　of　the　house。　It　had　French　windows；　opening　onto　a　strip　of　lawn　which　ended　in　a　high　stone　wall　with　a　small　gate　in　it；　the　general　effect　of　these　things　being　to　create　a　resemblance　to　a　country　house　rather　than　to　one　in　the　centre　of　the　city。　Mr。　Pett's　town　residence　was　full　of　these　surprises。
　In　one　corner　of　the　room　a　massive　safe　had　been　let　into　the　wall；　striking　a　note　of　incongruity；　for　the　remainder　of　the　wall…space　was　pletely　covered　with　volumes　of　all　sorts　and　sizes；　which　filled　the　shelves　and　overflowed　into　a　small　gallery；　reached　by　a　short　flight　of　stairs　and　running　along　the　north　side　of　the　room　over　the　door。
　Jimmy　cast　a　glance　at　the　safe；　behind　the　steel　doors　of　which　he　presumed　the　test…tube　of　Partridgite　which　Willie　had　carried　from　the　luncheon…table　lay　hid：　then　transferred　his　attention　to　the　shelves。　A　cursory　inspection　of　these　revealed　nothing　which　gave　promise　of　whiling　away　entertainingly　the　moments　which　must　elapse　before　the　return　of　Ann。　Jimmy's　tastes　in　literature　lay　in　the　direction　of　the　lighter　kind　of　modern　fiction；　and　Mr。　Pett　did　not　appear　to　possess　a　single　volume　that　had　been　written　later　than　the　eighteenth　centuryand　mostly　poetry　at　that。　He　turned　to　the　writing…desk　near　the　window；　on　which　he　had　caught　sight　of　a　standing　shelf　full　of　books　of　a　more　modern　aspect。　He　picked　one　up　at　random　and　opened　it。
　He　threw　it　down　disgustedly。　It　was　poetry。　This　man　Pett　appeared　to　have　a　perfect　obsession　for　poetry。　One　would　never　have　suspected　it；　to　look　at　him。　Jimmy　had　just　resigned　himself；　after　another　glance　at　the　shelf；　to　a　bookless　vigil；　when　his　eye　was　caught　by　a　name　on　the　cover　of　the　last　in　the　row　so　unexpected　that　he　had　to　look　again　to　verify　the　discovery。
　He　had　been　perfectly　right。　There　it　was；　in　gold　letters。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　THE　LONELY　HEART
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　BY
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ANN　CHESTER
　He　extracted　the　volume　from　the　shelf　in　a　sort　of　stupor。　Even　now　he　was　inclined　to　give　his　goddess　of　the　red　hair　the　benefit　of　the　doubt；　and　assume　that　some　one　else　of　the　same　name　had　written　it。　For　it　was　a　defect　in　Jimmy's　characterone　of　his　many　defectsthat　he　loathed　and　scorned　minor　poetry　and　considered　minor　poets；　especially　when　feminine；　an　unnecessary　affliction。　He　declined　to　believe　that　Ann；　his　Ann；　a　girl　full　of　the　finest　traits　of　character；　the　girl　who　had　been　capable　of　encouraging　a　parative　stranger　to　break　the　law　by　impersonating　her　cousin　Jimmy　Crocker；　could　also　be　capable　of　writing　The　Lonely　Heart　and　other　poems。　He　skimmed　through　the　first　one　he　came　across；　and　shuddered。　It　was　pure　slush。　It　was　the　sort　of　stuff　they　filled　up　pages　with　in　the　magazines　when　the　detective　story　did　not　run　long　enough。　It　was　the　sort　of　stuff　which　long…haired　blighters　read　alone　to　other　long…haired　blighters　in　English　suburban　drawing…rooms。　It　was　the　sort　of　stuff　whichto　be　briefgave　him　the　Willies。　No；　it　could　not　be　Ann　who　had　written　it。
　The　next　moment　the　horrid　truth　was　thrust　upon　him。　There　was　an　inscription　on　the　title　page。
　〃To　my　dearest　uncle　Peter；　with　love　from　the　author；　Ann　Chester。〃
　The　room　seemed　to　reel　before　Jimmy's　eyes。　He　felt　as　if　a　friend　had　wounded　him　in　his　tenderest　feelings。　He　felt　as　if　some　loved　one　had　smitten　him　over　the　back　of　the　head　with　a　sandbag。　For　one　moment；　in　which　time　stood　still；　his　devotion　to　Ann　wobbled。　It　was　as　if　he　had　found　her　out　in　some　terrible　crime　that　revealed　unsuspected　flaws　in　her　hitherto　ideal　character。
　Then　his　eye　fell　upon　the　date　on　the　title　page；　and　a　strong　spasm　of　relief　shook　him。　The　clouds　rolled　away；　and　he　loved　her　still。　This　frightful　volume　had　been　published　five　years　ago。
　A　wave　of　pity　swept　over　Jimmy。　He　did　not　blame　her　now。　She　had　been　a　mere　child　five　years　ago；　scarcely　old　enough　to　distinguish　right　from　wrong。　You　couldn't　blame　her　for　writing　sentimental　verse　at　that　age。　Why；　at　a　similar　stage　in　his　own　career　he　had　wanted　to　be　a　vaudeville　singer。　Everything　must　be　excused　to　Youth。　It　was　with　a　tender　glow　of　affectionate　forgiveness　that　he　turned　the　pages。
　As　he　did　so　a　curious　thing　happened　to　him。　He　began　to　have　that　feeling；　which　every　one　has　experienced　at　some　time　or　other；　that　he　had　done　this　very　thing　before。　He　was　almost　convinced　that　this　was　not　the　first　time　he　had　seen　that　poem　on　page　twenty…seven　entitled　〃A　Lament。〃　Why；　some　of　the　lines　seemed　extraordinarily　familiar。　The　people　who　understood　these　things　explained　this　phenomenon；　he　believed；　by　some　stuff　about　the　cells　of　the　brain　working　simultaneously　or　something。　Something　about　cells；　anyway。　He　supposed　that　that　must　be　it。
　But　that　was　not　it。　The　feeling　that　he　had　read　all　this　before　grew　instead　of　vanishing；　a