A silent witness
something outside the shop.
For a few moments I took no notice; then, half-unconsciously, I looked
round just as some person moved away from the door. I looked once more
at Miss Vyne. She was quite unmistakably angry. Her cheeks were
flushed and there was a resentful light in her eyes that gave her an
expression quite new to me.
I suppose she caught my enquiring glance for she exclaimed:
“Did you see that woman? I never heard of such impertinence in my
life.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She came right up to the doorway and looked over your shoulder; and
then stared at me in the most singular and insolent manner. I could
have slapped her face.”
“Not through the glass door,” I suggested; on which her anger subsided
in a ripple of laughter as quickly as it had arisen. “What was this
objectionable person like?” I asked. “Was she a char-woman or a
slavey?”
“Oh, not at all,” replied Miss Vyne. “Quite a ladylike looking person,
except for her manners. Rather tastefully dressed, too; a black and
vermilion scheme of colour.”
The reply startled me a little. “Had she a scarlet bird’s wing in her
hat?” I asked.
“Yes, and a scarlet bow at her throat. I hope you are not going to say
that you know her.”
It was a rather delicate situation. I could not actually disavow the
acquaintance, but I did not feel inclined to have a black and scarlet
fly introduced into the sweet-smelling ointment of my intercourse with
the fair Sylvia; so I explained with great care the exact scope of the
acquaintance; on which Miss Vyne remarked that “she supposed that
doctors could not be held responsible for the people they knew”; and
proceeded to make her purchases.
I did not take the sketch away with me after all, for it occurred to
me that I might as well leave it to be framed; but instead, I carried
forth with me the parcel containing Miss Vyne’s purchases. I had not
far to carry it, for she was returning at once to Hampstead. I was
tempted to return, for the sake of enjoying a chat with her, too, but
discreetly withstood the temptation, and, having escorted her to a
tram, I turned my face south and walked away at a leisurely pace into
the jaws of an all-unsuspected danger.
It was some hours, however, before anything remarkable happened.
My immediate objective was Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where, at the College
of Surgeons, a lecture on Epidermic Appendages was to be delivered by
the Hunterian Professor; and there, in the college theatre, I spent a
delightful hour while the genial professor took his hearers with him
on a personally-conducted tour among structures that ranged from the
plumage of the sun-bird to the dermal plates of the crocodile, from
the silken locks of beauty to the quills of the porcupine or the mail
of the armadillo.
When I came out, the dusk was just closing in. It was a slightly foggy
evening. The last glow of the sunset in the western sky lighted up the
haze into a rosy background, against which the shadowy buildings were
relieved in shapes of cloudy grey. It was a lovely effect; an effect
such as London alone can show, and fugitive as a breath on a mirror.
As I sauntered westward up the Strand I presently bethought me that,
before the light should have faded completely, I would see how the
effect looked by the riverside. Walking quickly down Buckingham
Street, I came out on to the Embankment and looked into the west. But
the light was nearly gone, the shadows of evening were closing in
fast, and the fog, creeping up the river, ushered in the night.
I leaned on the parapet and watched the last glimmer die away; watched
the darkness deepen on the river and the faint lights on the barges
moored on the southern shore at first twinkle pallidly and then fade
out as the fog thickened. I lit my pipe and looked down at the dark
water swirling past, and gradually fell into a train of half-dreamy
meditation.
Not for the first time since the occurrence, my thoughts turned to
Mrs. Samway. Why had she stared at Miss Vyne in that singular
manner--if indeed it was really Mrs. Samway, and if she really had
stared in the manner alleged? It was an odd affair; but, after all, it
did not very much matter. And with this, my thoughts rambled off in a
new direction.
It was to the cottage on the Heath that they wandered this time, and
the picture of Thorndyke’s cat-like prowlings and pryings arose before
me. That was very queer, too. Was it possible that this learned and
astute man habitually went about eagerly probing into the personal
habits and trivial actions of chance strangers? The apparently puerile
inquisitiveness that he had displayed seemed totally out of character
with all that I knew about the man; but then it often happens that the
private life of public men develops personal traits that are
surprising and disappointing to those who have only known them in
connection with their public activities.
I had become so completely immersed in my thoughts as to be almost
oblivious of what was happening around. Indeed, there was mighty
little happening. The gathering darkness and the thin fog limited my
view to a few square yards. Now and again, a muffled hoot from the
lower river spoke of life and movement on the water, and at long
intervals an occasional wayfarer would pass along the pavement behind
me.
My reflections had reached the point recorded above, when a person
emerged from the obscurity near to the parapet and approached as if to
pass close behind me. I only caught the dusky shape indistinctly with
the tail of my eye; so indistinctly that I could not say certainly
whether it was that of a man or a woman, for I was still gazing down
at the dark water. He or she approached quietly, swerving towards me
across the wide pavement, and was in the act of passing quite close to
me when the thing happened. Of a sudden, I felt my knees clasped in a
powerful grip, and at the same moment I was lifted off my feet and
thrust forward over the parapet. Instinctively, I clutched at the
stonework, but its flat surface offered nothing for my fingers to
grasp. Then my assailant let go, and the next instant I plunged
head-first into the icy water.
It was fortunate for me that the tide was nearly full, else must I,
almost certainly, have broken my neck. As it was, my head struck on
the firm mud at the bottom with such force, that for some moments I
was half-stunned. Nevertheless, I must have struck out automatically,
for when I began to recover my wits my head was above water, and I was
swimming as actively as my clinging garments would let me. But,
apparently, in those moments of dazed semi-consciousness, I must have
struck out towards the middle of the river, for now I was encompassed
by a murky void in which nothing was visible save one or two reddish,
luminous patches--presumably, the lamps on the Embankment.
Towards one of these I turned and struck out vigorously. The water was
desperately cold, and hampered as I was with my clothing, I felt that
I should not be able to keep myself afloat very long, strong swimmer
as I was. The dim, red nebulæ of the unseen lamps moved past slowly,
showing me that I was drifting down on the ebb-tide. Before me, I
knew, was the long, inhospitable wall of the Embankment. True, there
were some steps, if I was not mistaken, by Cleopatra’s Needle, but the
question was whether I had not drifted past them already. I had given
one or two lusty shouts as soon as I had cleared my chest of the
mouthful of water that I got in my first plunge, and I was now letting
off another yell, when, out of the darkness behind me, came a
prolonged hoot.
I looked round quickly in the direction whence the sound had come, and
then became aware of the churning of a propeller. Almost at the same
moment, a dim, ruddy smudge of light broke through the darkness over
the river, and began rapidly to brighten until it took the form of the
twin mast-head lights of a tug with a vessel in tow.
For a moment I hesitated. My first impulse was to avoid the danger of
being run down; but suddenly I altered my mind. For, as the tug bore
down on me, with a roaring of water and a loud clank of machinery, I
saw that she was not absolutely end-on, for her green starboard light,
which had been for a moment visible, suddenly disappeared. Of what
happened during the next few moments, I have but a confused
recollection. A splashing and churning, with the loud wash of water,
the throb of the engines and a glare of light which blazed before my
eyes for a moment, to vanish in an instant into pitchy darkness; a
huge, black object, felt rather than seen to sweep past before me; and
then my hand clutched a wooden projection, and I felt myself dragged
violently through the water. The projection that I had laid hold of
was the lee-board of a sailing barge, as I discovered when the rush of
the water banged me against it; and much ado I had to hold on, with
the water dragging at me and spouting up over my head. But, with what
strength was left to me, I reached out with the other hand and clawed
hold of the dwarf bulwark over which the water was lapping; and so,
with a last violent effort, contrived to drag myself up on to the
deck.
I essayed to stand up, and did, in fact, succeed, but as my sensations
suggested those of a leaden statue with india-rubber legs, I sat down
hastily on the hatch-cover to avoid going overboard. And there I sat
for a minute or two leaning against the lowered mast with my teeth
chattering, and seeming to grow more and more chilled and exhausted
every moment.
Numb as my mind was by this time, my medical instincts told me that
this would not do. Somehow I must get warmth and shelter, for I might
as well have been drowned at once as die of exposure and cold. I
looked round lethargically. There was no sign of anyone on board.
Another barge was towing alongside, and the bows of two others were
dimly visible astern. On those rear-most barges there must certainly
have been someone steering. But they were inaccessible to me, and I
had not the energy to shout; nor could anyone have got across to me if
I had.
Suddenly my eye fell on the little chimney that rose by the cabin
scuttle. A thin stream of smoke issued from it and blew away astern.
Perhaps, then, the crew were below, or, if not, at least there was a
fire. I crawled aft, holding on with my hands, and, pushing back the
scuttle, backed cautiously down the ladder closing the scuttle after
me.
There seemed to be nobody below, and the cabin was in darkness, save
for the glow of the fire that burned in the little grate. The air was
probably warm, though to me it felt icy; but, at least, there was no
wind to play on my wet clothes.
I sat down on the locker as near to the fire as I could, and rested my
elbows on the little triangular table. Chilled to the marrow and
utterly exhausted, I was sensible of a growing desire to sleep; a
desire which I repressed, as I believed, with noble resolution. But
apparently my efforts in this respect were not so successful as I had
supposed, for the next incident opened with suspicious suddenness.
A vigorous shake, which dislodged one of my elbows, introduced the
episode.
I looked up, blinking sulkily, at a bright and most objectionably
dazzling light, which further inspection showed to proceed from a
hurricane lamp held by a rather dirty hand.
“Here, wake up, mister,” said a hoarse voice, “this here ain’t the
Hotel Cecil, you know.”
I sat up and stared vaguely at the speaker, or at least, the holder of
the lamp, but could not think of anything appropriate to say. Then
another voice emerged from nowhere in particular.
“’E’s been overboard, that’s what ’e’s been.”
“Any fool can see that,” said the first man; “but the question is, who