“Company, eh?” said the man, rising. “Get rid of him. I’ve a lot to say. I’ll go in here.”
He went straight to the doorway1 on the right of the fireplace.
“No, no,” cried Stratton harshly; “that is a false door.”
“False door?” said the man; “is this?”
He laid his hand upon the other on the left of the fireplace, and opened it.
“All right. Bath room. I’ll go in here.”
As the man shut himself in Stratton reeled as if he would have fallen, but a second rat-tat upon the little brass2 knocker brought him to himself, and, after a glance at the closet door, he opened that of the entry, and then the outer door, to admit a good looking, fair-haired young fellow of about five-and-twenty, most scrupulously3 dressed, a creamy rose in his buttonhole, and a look of vexation in his merry face as he stood looking at his white kid gloves.
“I say, old chap,” he cried, “I shall kill your housekeeper4. She must have black-leaded that knocker. Morning. How are you. Pretty well ready?”
“Ready?” said Stratton hurriedly. “No, not yet. I’m sure I—”
“Why, hullo, old chap; what’s the matter?”
“Matter? Nothing, nothing.”
“Well, you look precious seedy. White about the gills. Why, hang it, Malcolm, don’t take it like that. Fancy you being nervous. What about? Packed up, I see.”
“Yes—yes.”
“Wish it was my turn,” continued the newcomer. “Might as well have been two couples: Mr and Mrs Malcolm Stratton; Mr and Mrs Percy Guest. Why, I say, old chap, you are ill.”
“No, no,” cried Stratton hurriedly; and a sudden thought struck him.
Catching5 up the telegram from the table, he handed it to his friend.
“Hullo! Nothing serious? Poof! What a molehill mountain. You shouldn’t let a thing like this agitate6 your noble nerves. Bless the dear little woman. I’ll run on to Common Garden, Central Avenue, as we say in some suckles, bully7 the beggar for not sending it, start him, and be back for you in a jiffy.”
“No, no,” cried Stratton excitedly, “don’t trust them. Get the bouquet8, and take it yourself. Don’t come back. I’ll meet you at the church.”
“All right, old chap. Your slave obeys. Only, I say, I would have a duet—S. and B.—before I started. Screw up, and don’t come with a face like that.”
The speaker went to the door, opened it, and looking round laughingly: “Precious dull; I’ll tell ’em to turn on the sun,” he said, and hurried out.
As the outer door closed Stratton darted9 to the inner and shut it, while, as he turned, his unwelcome visitor stepped out of the bath room—evidently formerly10 a passage leading into the next chamber—and returned to his chair, “Best man—bouquets—carriages waiting—church—wedding breakfast,” he said laughingly. “By Jove! I could drink a tumbler of champagne12.”
By this time Stratton had grown firmer, and, pointing to the door, he cried:
“Look here, sir; I’ll have no more of this. You are an impostor. I don’t know where you obtained your information, but if you have come to levy13 blackmail14 on the strength of such a mad tale, you have failed; so go.”
“To my wife?”
“To the police-station if you dare to threaten me. Look here: James Barron, otherwise James Dale, died two years ago.”
“Then he has come to life again, that’s all,” said the man coolly. “Now, look here, you; I’ve not come to quarrel. I call on you, and of course it must be just dampening at such a time, but, you see, I had no option. It wasn’t likely that—be cool, will you? Let that poker15 rest!”
He spoke16 savagely18, and took a revolver from a hip19 pocket.
“I say it wasn’t likely that you would be pleased to see me, and I’m not surprised at your crying impostor, because, as I well enough know, the papers said I was dead, and for the past two years my beautiful little wife has worn her widow’s weeds.”
Stratton made a gesture to start forward, but the man sat back in his chair and raised the pistol.
“I’m a very good shot,” he said coolly. “Be quiet and listen. I’m an impostor, am I? I was not married to Myra Jerrold, I suppose, directly after the old man had taken her for a continental20 tour with pretty, merry little Edie Perrin. Bless her—sweet little girl! I’d rather have had her if she had possessed21 Myra’s money. It’s all right, my dear sir. I can give you chapter and verse, and commas and full stops, too, if you want satisfying. But you do not; you know it’s all true. Why don’t I put in my claims? Well, there is that little unpleasantness with the police, and that is why,” he continued as he toyed with the revolver. “I object to your calling them in to interfere22. No, Mr Malcolm Stratton, I shall not let you call them in for more reasons than one. Ah! you begin to believe me. Let me see now, can I give you a little corroborative23 evidence? You don’t want it, but I will. Did the admiral ever tell you what an excellent player I was at piquet?”
Stratton started.
“Yes, I see he did. And how I used to sing ‘La ci darem’ with Myra, and played the accompaniment myself? Yes, he told you that, too. My dear sir, I have a hundred little facts of this kind to tell you, including my race after Myra’s horse when it took fright and she was thrown. By the way, has the tiny little red scar faded from her white temple yet?”
Stratton’s face was ghastly now.
“I see I need say no more, sir. You are convinced Myra is my wife. There has been no divorce, you see, so you are at my mercy.”
“But she is not at yours,” cried Stratton fiercely. “You go back to your cell, sir, and she will never be polluted by the touch of such a scoundrel again.”
“Polluted? Strong language, young man, and you are losing your temper. Once more, be cool. You see I have this, and I am not a man to be trifled with. I do not intend to go back to my cell: I had enough of that yonder, but mean to take my ease for the future. These chambers24 are secluded25; a noise here is not likely to be heard, and I should proceed to extremities26 if you forced me.”
“You dare to threaten me?”
“Yes, I dare to threaten you, my dear sir. But keep cool, I tell you. I didn’t come here to quarrel, but to do a little business. Did you expect me? I see you have the money ready.”
He pointed27 to the notes—notes to defray a blissful honeymoon28 trip—and Stratton had hard work to suppress a groan29.
“There, I’m very sorry for you, my dear sir,” continued the scoundrel, “and I want to be friendly, both to you and poor little Myra—good little soul! She thought me dead; you thought me dead; and I dare say you love each other like pigeons. Next thing, I admired her, but she never cared a sou for me. Well, suppose I say that I’ll be dead to oblige you both. What do you say to that?”
Malcolm was silent.
“I never wanted the poor little lass. Frankly30, I wanted her money, and the admiral’s too—hang the old rascal31, he won about fifty pounds of me. But to continue. Now, Mr Malcolm Stratton, time is flying, and the lady will soon be at the church, where you must be first. I tell you that I will consent to keep under the tombstone where the law and society have placed me, for a handsome consideration. What do you propose?”
“To hand you over to the police,” said Stratton firmly, but with despair in his tone.
“No, you do not. You propose to give me the money on the table there, to sign an agreement to pay me three hundred a year as long as I keep dead, and then to go and wed11 your pretty widow, and be off to the continent or elsewhere.”
Bigamy—blackmailed by a scoundrel who would make his life a hell—through constant threats to claim his wife—a score of such thoughts flashed through Stratton’s brain as he stood there before the cool, calculating villain32 watching him so keenly. Money was no object to him. Mr Brettison would let him have any amount, but it was madness to think of such a course. There was only one other—to free the innocent, pure woman he idolised from the persecution33 of such a wretch34, and the law would enable him to do that.
Malcolm Stratton’s mind was made up, and he stood there gazing full in his visitor’s eyes.
“Well,” said the man coolly, “time is on the wing, as I said before. How much is there under that letter weight?”
“One hundred and fifty pounds,” said Stratton quietly.
“Write me a cheque for three hundred and fifty pounds then, and the bargain is closed.”
“Not for a penny,” said Stratton quietly.
“You will. The lady is waiting.”
“So are the police.”
“What!” cried the man, rising slowly and with a menacing look in his countenance35. “No fooling, sir. You see this, and you know I shall not be trifled with. Once more let me remind you that a noise here would hardly be heard outside. But you are not serious. The prize for you is too great. Police? How could you marry the lady then? Do you think my proud, prudish36 little Myra would take you, knowing me to be alive? Stop, will you?” he cried with a savage17 growl37 like that of a wild beast, “or, by all that’s holy—Here, what are you going to do, fool?”
“Summon the police,” cried Stratton, who was half-way to the door, as the man sprang at him with the activity of a panther.
For the next minute there was a desperate struggle, as the men wrestled38 here and there, both moved by one object—the possession of the deadly weapon.
Then one arm was freed, there was the sharp report of a pistol, and a puff39 of ill smelling smoke partially40 hid the struggling pair.
Another shot with the smoke more dense41.
A heavy fall.
Then silence—deathlike and strange.
Outside, on the staircase a floor higher, a door was opened; there were steps on the stone landing, and a voice shouted down the well: “Anything the matter?” After a moment another voice was heard: “Nonsense—nothing. Someone banged his oak.” There was the sound of people going back into the room above, and in the silence which followed, broken only by the faintly heard strain of some street music at a distance, the door below, on the first floor landing, was opened a little way, the fingers of a hand appearing round the edge, and a portion of a man’s head came slowly out, as if its owner was listening.
The door was closed once more as softly as it was opened, and the sun, which had been hidden all the morning by leaden clouds, sent a bright sheaf of golden rays through the dust-incrusted staircase window, straight on to the drab-painted outer door, with the occupant’s name thereon in black letters:
Mr Malcolm Stratton.
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收听单词发音
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1
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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2
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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3
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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4
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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5
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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6
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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8
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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9
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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10
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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11
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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12
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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13
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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15
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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16
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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19
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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20
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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21
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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22
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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23
corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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24
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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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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27
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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28
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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37
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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38
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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39
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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40
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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41
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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