Tom was quite aware that on this point he had committed an error of judgment5; but he never apprehended6 that the slightest danger could spring therefrom.
Mr. Wigley, after working very hard for six days, generally devoted7 a portion of the seventh to posting himself up in the news of the week. After a hearty8 dinner, it was his delight on a Sunday afternoon to sit at ease and enjoy his newspaper and his pipe. He had taken great interest in the escape of Lionel Dering, as detailed9 in his favourite journal; and week after week he carefully culled10 whatever scraps11 of news he could find, that bore the remotest reference to that strange occurrence. One day he came across the following lines, which he read to his wife.
"We understand that up to the present time the police have obtained no clue to the whereabouts of Mr. Dering, the prisoner whose clever escape from Duxley gaol was duly chronicled in our columns a few weeks ago. It was thought at one time that the right track had been hit upon, but, when promptly12 followed up, it ended in nothing--or rather, in the capture and detention13 of an innocent person for several hours. So long a time has now elapsed since the escape, that the chances of the prisoner being recaptured would seem to be very problematical indeed."
"I hope, with all my heart, that he'll get safe away," said Mrs. Wigley. "What a strange thing it was, Paul, that that queer wardrobe which you made for a gentleman a month or two since should be for somebody in Duxley--the very town where this Mr. Dering broke out of prison. What a capital hiding-place that would make for him, Paul, dear! All the police in England would never think of looking for him there."
"You talk like a fool, Maria," growled14 Mr. Wigley between the puffs16 at his pipe.
But however foolishly Mrs. Wigley might talk, the idea originated by her was one which took such persistent17 hold on her husband's mind that, three days later, he found himself at Duxley, and telling the tale of the wardrobe in the office of the superintendent18 of police. Very fortunately indeed it happened that on this particular afternoon Mr. Drayton was away on business at a neighbouring town, and that Sergeant19 Tilley was acting20 as deputy in his stead. Tilley listened to the man's story with dismay. He had pocketed the six hundred pounds; and now he felt almost as much interested in Mr. Dering's getting safely away as Tom Bristow himself. What was to be done? His first thought was to pooh-pooh Wigley and his story, and to persuade the little cabinet-maker to return to town by the first up train. But Wigley was not a man to let himself be snuffed out in that way, and he quietly intimated that he would await the return of Mr. Drayton himself. Then Tilley's manner changed, and, while professing21 to agree with him in everything, he persuaded Wigley to take his leave for a couple of hours, by which time, he told him, Mr. Drayton would have returned and would be at liberty to see him.
No sooner was Wigley gone than, leaving the office in charge of a subordinate, Tilley hastened by back streets and unfrequented ways to Alder Cottage. He asked for Edith and told her his story in a few hurried words. His counsel was that, at every risk, Mr. Dering must be got away from the cottage before seven o'clock that evening, as there was no doubt that shortly after that hour Mr. Drayton might be expected to pay a second domiciliary visit. He, Tilley, would take care that the policeman on duty on that particular beat should be withdrawn22 for a couple of hours on one pretext23 or another, so that there might be no fear of any interruption from him. Then, after a last word of warning, he went.
As it fell out, Tom Bristow was at the cottage at the very time of Tilley's visit. A council of war was immediately held. That Lionel must leave the cottage, and at once, was the one imperative24 necessity. Had it been mid-winter, instead of summer, he could easily have stolen away through the darkness, but at seven o'clock on an August evening everything is almost as clearly visible as at mid-day.
However, go Lionel must; and the only question was--whither should he go? Where should he hide himself for a few hours?--or till the plan of action already decided25 upon by the two friends could be safely carried into effect?
In this extremity26, Tom's thoughts seemed to revert28 naturally to Jane Culpepper; in which direction, indeed, they had travelled very often of late. Why not appeal to her? Why not ask her to shelter Lionel for a night or two at Pincote? He knew, without asking, that Miss Culpepper would be ready and glad to befriend Lionel at every risk.
A few minutes past seven o'clock, Tom Bristow walked leisurely29 out through the front door of Alder Cottage. A minute or two later Lionel Dering, dressed like a carpenter, with a paper cap on his head and a basket of tools slung30 over his left shoulder, walked leisurely out through the back door, and keeping Tom well in view, followed him at a distance of thirty or forty yards. Avoiding as much as possible the main thoroughfares of the little town, Tom dived through one back street after another, till after several twistings and turnings, he reached a lonely lane leading into some fields, through which ran a footpath31 in the direction of Pincote. Step for step, Lionel followed, smoking a short black pipe, and having the gait and manner of a man who is pretty well worn out with a long day's work. Through the fields they went thus in single file, without decreasing the distance between each other or speaking a word, till at length the path brought them to the outskirts32 of a tiny wood at one corner of the Pincote estate. There was not a soul to be seen, and the two men, overleaping the hedge, were soon buried among the tangled33 undergrowth of the plantation34. Here they held a hurried consultation35. It would not do for Lionel to venture any nearer to Pincote till after dark, and Tom had yet to contrive36 some means of seeing Miss Culpepper alone, and of explaining to her the position of Lionel and himself. The Squire37, when at home, generally dined between six and seven, and the best time for seeing Jane would be while her father was taking his post-prandial nap before he joined her in the drawing-room. So, leaving the wood, Tom went slowly toward Pincote, wishing that the shades of evening would deepen twice as fast as they were doing just then; while Lionel, left alone, clambered up into the green recesses38 of a sturdy chestnut39, and there, safely hidden from any chance passers by, awaited, with what patience was possible to him, the signal which would announce to him the return of his friend.
Once again Mr. Drayton's imperative summons echoed through Alder Cottage, but this time he was expected, and had not to wait so long for admission. As before, Martha Vince admitted him, and, as before, Edith came out of the little parlour at the first sound of his voice.
"Is the lady within whom I saw when I was here before?" asked the superintendent of Martha.
"Yes, I am here, as you see, Mr. Drayton," answered Edith. "To what circumstance do I owe the honour of a second visit from you?"
"Sorry to have to confess it, ma'am, but there was one part of the house which we seem to have quite overlooked when we were here last. You won't, perhaps, object to our having a look at it now?"
"My objections, I am afraid, would be of little value. I have no option but to submit."
"I must do my duty, you know, ma'am. Very disagreeable it is to do at times, I assure you."
"Doubtless, very. Martha, show these gentlemen whatever part of the house they may wish to see." With these words Edith went back into the parlour, but this time she did not shut the door.
Mr. Drayton was followed into the house by Wigley, the cabinet-maker; and the rear was brought up by a constable41 in plain clothes.
"Upstairs, if you please," said the superintendent to Martha. "I am quite satisfied with the downstairs part of the house."
So upstairs they all tramped, and without pausing, Drayton led the way into Edith's dressing42-room. Wigley's first mention of the wardrobe had brought to his recollection the fact of there being such a piece of furniture as the one described in one of the upstairs rooms.
Now that the moment for making the grand discovery was at hand, it would have been difficult to say whether the excitement of Drayton or of Wigley was the more intense. The latter was lured43 on by the prospect44 of the glittering reward that would become his, if, through his instrumentality, the escaped prisoner should be recaptured. Drayton was led on by a purely45 professional ardour. To succeed where the great Whiffins from Scotland Yard had failed, even though that success were won by a fluke, and by no brilliant stroke of his own genius, was in itself something to be proud of--something that would bring his name prominently before the notice of his superiors.
"This is the article that I've been speaking to you about," said Wigley, striking the polished surface of the wardrobe with his open palm.
"Open it, Mr. Wigley, if you please," said the superintendent. "This is a very curious piece of furniture, indeed, and I should like to examine it thoroughly46."
So Wigley proceeded to open it slowly and lovingly, as a man having a deep admiration47 for the work of his own hands. First the outer doors were flung wide open, revealing a few empty garments drooping48 drearily49 from the pegs50. But when Mr. Wigley, with a solemn finger, touched the secret spring, and the false back swung slowly open on its secret hinges, the three men pressed forward with beating pulses and staring eyes, feeling sure that in another moment the great prize would be in their grasp.
Drayton's fingers closed instinctively51 on the handcuffs in his pocket, while Martha Vince looked on from the background with a cynical52 smile.
The false back swung slowly open, and revealed the hiding-place behind. But it was empty.
"Flown!" said Wigley, with a deep sigh, all his golden visions vanishing like the shadow of a dream.
"Sold I most infernally sold!" exclaimed. Drayton, his face a picture of blank discomfiture53. "It's no good waiting here any longer," he added, as he turned on his heel. "He's got clear away, never fear."
Downstairs the three men tramped, without another word, and, marching out, banged the front door behind them with a force that made every window in the little cottage rattle54 in its frame.
"Gone at last, thank Heaven!" exclaimed Edith, as the echo of the retreating footsteps died away. "If only I had tidings that my darling is safe, then I almost think that I should be quite happy." Unbidden tears were in her eyes as she stood for a moment with clasped hands and upturned face, while from her heart a silent prayer of thankfulness winged its way on high.
Tom Bristow lingered about the grounds and shrubberies at Pincote till the dusky evening was deepening into night, and the lamps in the drawing-room were alight. Then, with cautious footsteps, he stole nearer the house, and at last found himself ensconced behind a clump55 of holly56, and close to one of the three French windows which opened from the drawing-room on to the lawn. The venetians were down, but between the interstices he could obtain a clear view of the room and its inmates57. The inmates were only two in number--Miss Culpepper and another young lady whom Tom had never seen before. The Squire, if at home, had not left the dining-room. How pretty Jane looked as she sat there in the lamplight, in her soft flowing dress of white and mauve, plying58 her needle swiftly--for Jane's fingers were rarely unemployed--while her companion read to her aloud! Her every look, her every gesture, went direct to Tom's heart. He was caught in the toils59 at last--this cold, self-willed, unimaginative man of the world--and he began to find that, even for such as he, such bonds are not easily broken.
"This is either love or something very much like it," he muttered to himself. "I find that I am just as great an ass40 as my fellow-men. What is it in this that fascinates me so strangely? She is not particularly clever, or handsome, or witty60, or accomplished61. I have been in the society of women who could outshine her in every way: and yet, for me, she is the one woman whom the world holds--the one woman whom I ever felt that I could love. It is easy to talk about dying for a woman, and not very difficult to do so, I dare say. The grand test of love, as it seems to me, is to live with a woman and to love her at the end of twenty years as well as you loved her on your wedding-day. Now, of all the women I have ever met, yonder fairy is the only one with whom I should care to try the experiment. Her I fancy I could love as well at the end of a hundred years as of twenty: and yet of what the charm consists that draws me to her--whence it comes, and how she exercises it--I know no more than the man in the moon."
But Tom's love-reveries did not absorb him to the extent of making him oblivious62 of the particular object which had brought him to Pincote. It was requisite63 that he should see Jane alone, and nothing could be done so long as Jane's companion was in the room with her. Besides which, the squire might come in at any moment, and then his last chance would be gone. Should the worst come to the worst, he was prepared to go up to the front door, knock like any ordinary visitor, and ask to see Miss Culpepper openly and boldly. But it was only as a last resource that he would adopt a measure which, should it come to the squire's ears, could only lead to inquiry64; and inquiry on the squire's part was what Tom was particularly wishful to avoid. Not that the old man would not have been as stanch65 as steel in such a case, and would have done anything and everything to assist Lionel. But, unfortunately, he had a garrulous66 tongue, which could not always be trusted to keep a secret--which often betrayed secrets without knowing that it had done so; and in a matter so grave as the one in which he was now engaged, Tom was careful to avoid the slightest unnecessary risk. It would be far better for every one that the squire should rest in happy ignorance, till the future should bring its own proper time for revealing everything.
Whenever any particular question pressed itself strongly on Tom's mind for solution, he had a habit of looking at it, not from one or two points of view only, but from several; and if nineteen ways out of a difficulty proved, from one cause or another, to be unavailable, he generally found the twentieth to be the very mode of egress67 for which he had been seeking. So it was in the present case. After considerable cudgelling of his brains, he hit on a simple expedient68 which seemed to him to be worth trying, but which might or might not prove successful in the result.
On the occasion of Tom's first visit to Pincote, among other pieces played by Jane in the drawing-room after dinner, was a plaintive69 little waltz, entitled "Venez à Moi," which took his fancy more than anything he had heard for a long time. Later on in the evening he had asked Jane to play it again, and for days afterwards the air clung to his memory, and seemed in some strange way to mix itself up in his musings whenever he thought of Jane. As if Jane had some faint divination70 that such was the case, the next time Tom was at Pincote she played the waltz again--this time without being asked; and so also on the third and last time he spent an evening with her. It was on this third occasion, as the final bars of the waltz were dying away in slow-breathed sweetness, that the eyes of Tom and Jane met across the piano--met for a moment only; but that one moment sufficed to reveal a secret which, as yet, they had hardly ventured to whisper to themselves. From that day forth71, never so long as they lived, could that simple French melody be forgotten by either of them.
Tom thought of Blondin, and determined72 to try the effect of "Venez à Moi" in attracting Jane's attention. Only, as he happened to live in this unromantic nineteenth century, and to be possessed73 neither of a harp74 nor of skill to play one, there was nothing left for him but to whistle it.
Retiring from the window a dozen yards or more, but still keeping well within the shelter of the shrubbery, Tom accordingly began to "flute75 the darkness with his low sweet note." In other words, he began to whistle "Venez à Moi." At the end of five minutes, which to him seemed more like an hour, the venetians were lifted, and some one could be seen peering into the darkness. A few quick strides carried Tom to the window.
Although startled when the first notes of the familiar air fell on her ear, Jane was not long in divining who it was that was there. Inventing an errand for her companion which took that young lady out of the room for a few minutes, she hurried to the window and looked out. A tap from Tom, and the window was opened. Although surprised to see him, and at being so summoned, she frankly76 offered her hand.
"When you shall have heard my errand, Miss Culpepper, you will, I am sure, pardon the liberty I have taken," said Tom.
Her thoughts reverted77 in an instant to her father, but he was snoring peacefully in the dining-room. "I hope, Mr. Bristow, that you are the bearer of no ill news," she said with simple earnestness.
"My news is either good or bad, as people may choose to take it," answered Tom. "Miss Culpepper--my friend, Lionel Dering, is hiding within a mile of this house."
"Oh, Mr. Bristow!" His words took her breath away. She turned giddy, and had to clutch at the window to keep herself from falling.
"The place where he has been hiding since his escape from prison is safe no longer," resumed Tom. "Another hiding-place must be found for him, and at once. In this great strait, I have ventured here to ask your assistance."
"And have made me your debtor78 for ever by so doing," said Jane, with fervour. "My help is yours in any way and in every way that you can make it useful."
"What I am here to ask you to do is, to give my friend food and shelter for three days and nights, by which time a plan, now in preparation, for getting him away to some more distant place, will be ready to be put into operation."
"I will have my own rooms got ready for Mr. Dering without a moment's delay," said Jane.
"Pardon me," said Tom, "but the very kindness of your offer would defeat the object we have most in view. Dering's safety depends on the absolute secrecy79 which must enshroud this night's transactions. What you have just suggested could not be carried out without exciting the suspicions of one or more of your servants. From suspicion to inquiry is only one step, and from inquiry to discovery is often only another."
"You are right, Mr. Bristow. But you are not without a plan of your own, I am sure."
"What I would venture to suggest is this," said. Tom: "that Dering be locked up in one or another of the disused and empty rooms of which I know there are several at Pincote. No domestic must have access to the room while he is there, nor even glean80 the faintest suspicion that the room is occupied at all. The secret of the hiding-place must be your secret and mine absolutely. If I am asking too much, or more than you can see your way to carry out without imperilling the safety of my friend, you will tell me so frankly, I am sure, and will aid me in devising some other and more feasible mode of escape."
"You are not asking too much, Mr. Bristow. In such a case you cannot ask too much. Your plan is better than mine. This old house is big enough to hide half-a-dozen people away in. There is a suite81 of four rooms in the left wing, which rooms have never been used since mamma's death, and which are never entered by the servants except for cleaning purposes, and then only by my instructions. Those rooms I place unreservedly at Mr. Dering's disposal. There he will be perfectly82 safe for as long a time as he may choose to stay. I will wait on him myself. No one else shall go near him."
"I felt sure that my appeal to you would not be in vain."
"It will make me happier than I can tell you, if I may be allowed to assist, in however humble83 a degree, in helping84 Mr. Dering to escape. We all liked him so much, and we were all so thoroughly convinced of his innocence85, that when the news was brought next morning of how he had got out of gaol overnight, I could not help crying, I felt so glad; and I never saw papa so pleased and excited before. Since then, it has always been my task at luncheon86 to run carefully through the morning papers and see whether there was any news of Mr. Dering. From our hearts we wished him God speed wherever he might be; and as day passed after day, and there came no news of his recapture, we cheered each other with the hope that he had got safely away to some far-distant land. And yet all this time, from what you say, he must have been hiding close at hand."
"Yes, very close at hand--within half a mile of the prison from which he escaped."
"And it was you who helped him to escape!" said Jane. "I know now that it could have been no one but you." She laid her fingers lightly on his arm as she said these words, and looked up full into his eyes. They both stood in the soft glow of the lamplight close to the open window. In Jane's eyes and face at this moment there was an expression--an indefinable something, tender and yet pathetic--that thrilled Tom as he had never been thrilled before, and told him, in language which could not be mistaken, that he was loved.
"Lionel Dering and I are friends. He saved my life. What could I do less than try to save his?"
"I wish that I had been born a man," said Jane, inconsequently, with a little sigh.
"In order that you might have gone about the world assisting prisoners to escape?"
"No--in order that I might try to win for myself such a friend as you are to Mr. Dering, or as Mr. Dering is to you."
"But your mission is a sweeter one than that of friendship: you were sent into the world to love."
"That is what men always say of women. But to me, friendship always seems so much purer and nobler than love. Love--as I have read and heard--is so selfish and exacting87, and----"
"Jane, dear, where are you?"
Jane gave a start, and Tom sank back into the shade. "Coming, dear, in one moment," cried. Jane. Then she whispered hurriedly to Tom: "Be here at half-past eleven to-night with Mr. Dering." She gave him her fingers for a moment and was gone.
For four days and four nights Lionel Dering lay in hiding at Pincote. Jane waited upon him herself, and so carefully was the secret kept that no one under that roof--inmate, guest, or servant--had the slightest suspicion of anything out of the ordinary course.
Meanwhile, Tom Bristow had paid a flying visit down into the wilds of Cumberland, among which, as incumbent88 of a tiny parish buried among the hills, was settled an old chum of Lionel--George Granton by name. To him, at Lionel's request, Tom told everything, and then asked him whether he would take Dering as a guest under his roof for two or three months to come. In the warmest manner possible Granton agreed to do this, and Tom and he became fast friends on the spot.
Two days later Lionel bade farewell to Pincote and its youthful mistress, and set out on his journey to the north. Tom and he started together one evening near midnight, and walked across country to a little roadside station some fifteen miles away, on a line different from that which ran though Duxley. Here they were in time to catch the early parliamentary train, and here the two friends bade each other goodbye for a little while. Lionel travelled under the name of the Rev27. Horace Brown, and that was the name on the one small portmanteau which formed his solitary89 article of luggage. He had injured his health by over-study, and he was going down into Cumberland to recruit. He was closely shaven, his complexion90 was dark, and his hair jet black. Being somewhat weak-sighted, he wore a pair of large blue spectacles. His hat, far from new, and rather broad in the brim, was set well back on his head, giving him a simple countrified expression. He wore a white cravat91, and a collar that was rather limp, and a long clerical coat that reached below his knees; while his black kid gloves were baggy92 and too long in the fingers. In one hand he carried an alpaca umbrella badly rolled up, and in the other--the weather being moist and muddy--a pair of huge goloshes, of which he seemed to take especial care. Such, in outward semblance93, was the Rev. Horace Brown.
At Crewe Station he had to alight, wait a quarter of an hour, and then change into another train. As he was slowly pacing the platform, whom should he see coming towards him but Kester St. George, who, on his side, was waiting for the express to London. The two men passed each other once, and then again, for Lionel was daring in the matter; but not the slightest look of recognition flashed into Kester's eyes as they rested for a moment on the face of the Rev. Horace Brown. A few minutes later their different trains came up, and each went his separate way.
Kester St. George's way was London-wards. He drove straight to his chambers94; and, after dressing, strolled out westward95, and presently found himself at his club. There were a number of men there whom he had not seen for some time, who came up to him in ones and twos and shook hands with him, and said, "How are you, old fellow? Glad to see you back;" or, "Ah, here you are, dear boy. Quite missed you for ever so long," and then passed on. Kester's monosyllabic answers were anything but propitiatory96, and by-and-by he was left to eat his dinner in sulky solitude97. Truth to say, he was fagged and worn, and was, in addition, seriously uneasy with regard to the state of his health. For the last two months he had been telling himself day after day that he would consult his physician, but he had not yet found courage to do so. It was an ordeal98 from which he shrank as a young girl might shrink at the sight of blood. So long as he had not consulted his doctor, and did not know the worst, he flattered himself that there could not be anything very serious the matter with him. "Once get into those vampires99' hands," he said, "and they will often keep a fellow lingering on for years." So he went on from day to day, and put off doing what he felt in his secret heart he ought to have done previously100. "I believe it's neither more nor less than indigestion," he would mutter to himself. "I believe that half the ills that flesh is heir to, spring from nothing but indigestion."
He was sitting moodily101 over his claret, and the club-room was almost deserted102, when who should come stepping daintily in but Bolus, the well-known fashionable doctor.
The evening was rather chilly103, and Dr. Bolus walked up to the fire and began to air his palms, before sitting down to the evening paper. Glancing round, after a minute or two, he saw Kester sitting alone no great distance away. "Evening, St. George. Revenons toujours, eh?" he said with a nod and a smile.
St. George rose languidly and crossed towards the fireplace. "Why not tell Bolus?" he said to himself. "Capital opportunity for getting his opinion unprofessionally as between one friend and another. If anybody can put me on my pins again, Bolus can."
Between Kester St. George and the fashionable doctor there were not many points in common. Their orbits of motion were diametrically opposed to each other, and, as a rule, were far apart. One bond of sympathy there was, however, between them: they were both splendid whist-players. At the club table they had sat in opposition104, or as partners, many a time and oft, and each respected the other's prowess, while thinking his own style of play incomparably superior.
"Not seen you here for some time," said the doctor, as Kester held out his hand.
"No, I only got back the other day from Baden and Homburg. Went for three months, but came back at the end of six weeks. One gets weary of the perpetual glitter and frivolity105 of those places: at least, I do. Besides which, I was a little hipped--a little bit out of sorts, I suppose--and so I seemed naturally to gravitate towards home again."
"Out of sorts, eh?" said Bolus, fixing him with his keen professional look. "What's amiss with you? Been punting too much, or backed the St. Leger favourite too heavily?" and he took St. George's wrist between his thumb and finger.
"Neither one nor the other," said Kester, with a little hollow laugh. "I seem to be getting out of repair generally. Some little cog or wheel inside won't act properly, I suppose, and so the whole machine is getting out of gear."
"So long as we keep the mainspring right there's not much to be afraid of," said Bolus with his expansive professional smile, which was as stereotyped106 and fictitious107 as professional smiles, whether of ballet-girls or doctors, always are.
"Your pulse is certainly not what it ought to be," went on Bolus, in his airy, graceful108 way, as though he were imparting a piece of information of the pleasantest kind; "but then how seldom one's pulse is what it ought to be. Do you ever experience any little irregularity in the action of the heart?"
"Yes, frequently. Sometimes it seems to stop beating for a second or two."
"Yes yes--just so," said Bolus, soothingly109.
"And you find yourself getting out of breath more quickly than you used to do, especially when you walk a little faster than ordinary, or have to climb a number of stairs?"
"Yes, a little thing nowadays puts me out of puff15."
"Precisely110 so. We are none of us so young as we were twenty years ago. And you sometimes feel as if you wanted an extra pillow under your head at night?"
"How the deuce do you know that?" said Kester, with a puzzled look.
Bolus laughed his little dry laugh, and began to air his palms again.
"And you have a troublesome little cough, and now and then your head aches without your being able to assign a cause why it should do so; and frequently in the night you start up in your sleep from some feeling of agitation111 or alarm--causeless, of course, but very real just for the moment?"
"By Jove, doctor, you read me like a book!"
"Did you think of going down to Doncaster this year?" asked Bolus, as he wheeled suddenly round on Kester.
"I certainly did think of doing so. I've not missed a St. Leger for many years."
"Then I wouldn't go if I were you."
St. George stared at him with a soft of sullen112 surprise. "And why would you not go if you were me?" he asked, sharply.
"Simply because what you want is not excitement, but rest. And in your case, St. George, I would live as quiet a life as possible for some time to come. Down in the country, you know--farming and that sort of thing."
"I know nothing of farming, and I hate the country, except during the shooting season."
"Ah, by-the-by, that's another thing you must give up--tramping after the partridges--for this one season at least. As I said before, what you want is quietude. Half a guinea on the odd trick is the only form of excitement on which you may venture for some time to come. And harkye--a word in your ear: not quite so many club cigars, my dear friend."
Two other men, known both to Bolus and St. George, came up at this moment, and the tête-à-tête was at an end.
It was late that night when St. George, got home. He let himself in with his latch-key. Groping his way into the sitting-room113, he struck a match, and turned on the gas. He was in the act of blowing out the watch when suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice whispered in his ear: "Come." Simply that one word, and nothing more. Kester shivered from head to foot, and glanced involuntarily round. He knew that he should see no one--that there was no one to be seen: but all the same he could not help looking. Twice before he had felt the same ghostly hand laid on his shoulder: twice before he had heard the same ghostly whisper in his ear. Was it a summons from the other world, or what was it? There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece, and, as he staggered forward a step or two, his eyes, glancing into it, saw there the reflection of a white and haggard face strangely unlike his own--the brow moist with sweat, the eyes filled with a furtive114 horror. Mr. St. George sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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5
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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13
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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15
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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16
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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18
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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19
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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20
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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21
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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22
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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23
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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24
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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25
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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26
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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27
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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28
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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29
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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30
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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31
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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32
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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33
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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34
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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35
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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36
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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37
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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38
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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39
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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40
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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41
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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42
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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43
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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45
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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46
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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47
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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48
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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49
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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50
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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51
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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52
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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53
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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54
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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55
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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56
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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57
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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58
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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59
toils
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| 网 | |
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60
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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61
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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62
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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63
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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64
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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65
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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66
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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67
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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68
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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69
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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70
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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71
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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72
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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73
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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74
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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75
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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76
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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77
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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78
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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79
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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80
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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81
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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84
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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85
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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86
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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87
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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88
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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89
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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90
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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91
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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92
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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93
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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94
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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95
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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96
propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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97
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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98
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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99
vampires
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| n.吸血鬼( vampire的名词复数 )；吸血蝠；高利贷者；（舞台上的）活板门 | |
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100
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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101
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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102
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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103
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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104
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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105
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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106
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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107
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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108
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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109
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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110
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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111
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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112
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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113
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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114
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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