When she returned from Condaford after the New Year, she had not heard from him for five consecutive7 days, so that he was bulking more largely in her thoughts.
“DEAR TONY,” she wrote to him at the Coffee House:
“Where and how are you? I am back. Very happy New Year!
“Yours always,
“CLARE.”
The answer did not come for three days, during which she felt at first huffy, then anxious, and finally a little scared. It was indited8 from the inn at Bablock Hythe:
“DARLING CLARE —
“I was ever so relieved to get your note, because I’d determined9 not to write until I heard from you. Nothing’s further from my thoughts than to bore you with myself, and sometimes I don’t know whether I am or not. So far as a person can be who is not seeing you, I’m all right; I’m overlooking the fitting up of the boxes for those mares. They (the boxes) will be prime. The difficulty is going to be acclimatisation; it’s supposed to be mild here, and the pasture looks as if it would be tip-top. This part of the world is quite pretty, especially the river. Thank God the inn’s cheap, and I can live indefinitely on eggs and bacon. Jack Muskham has been brick enough to start my salary from the New Year, so I’m thinking of laying out my remaining sixty-odd pounds on Stapylton’s old two-seater. He’s just off back to India. Once I’m down here it’ll be vital to have a car if I’m to see anything of you, without which life won’t be worth living. I hope you had a splendid time at Condaford. Do you know I haven’t seen you for sixteen days, and am absolutely starving. I’ll be up on Saturday afternoon. Where can I meet you?
“Your ever devoted10
“TONY.”
Clare read this letter on the sofa in her room, frowning a little as she opened, smiling a little as she finished it.
Poor dear Tony! Grabbing a telegraph form, she wrote:
“Come to tea Melton Mews. — C.”
and despatched it on her way to the Temple.
The importance attaching to the meeting of two young people depends on the importance which others attach to their not meeting. Tony Croom approached Melton Mews without thinking of anyone but Clare, and failed to observe a shortish man in horn-rimmed spectacles, black boots, and a claret-coloured tie, who looked like the secretary of a learned society. Unobtrusive and unobserved, this individual had already travelled with him from Bablock Hythe to Paddington, from Paddington to the ‘Coffee House,’ from the ‘Coffee House’ to the corner of Melton Mews; had watched him enter No. 2, made an entry in a pocket-book, and with an evening paper in his hand was now waiting for him to come out again. With touching11 fidelity12 he read no news, keeping his prominent glance on that peacock-blue door, prepared at any moment to close himself like an umbrella and vanish into the street-scape. And while he waited (which was his normal occupation) he thought, like other citizens, of the price of living, of the cup of tea which he would like, of his small daughter and her collection of foreign stamps, and of whether he would now have to pay income tax. His imagination dwelled, also, on the curves of a young woman at the tobacconist’s where he obtained his ‘gaspers.’
His name was Chayne, and he made his living out of a remarkable13 memory for faces, inexhaustible patience, careful entries in his pocket-book, the faculty14 of self-obliteration, and that fortunate resemblance to the secretaries of learned societies. He was, indeed, employed by the Polteed Agency, who made their living by knowing more than was good for those about whom they knew it. Having received his instruction on the day Clare returned to London, he had already been five days ‘on the job,’ and no one knew it except his employer and himself. Spying on other people being, according to the books he read, the chief occupation of the people of these islands, it had never occurred to him to look down on a profession conscientiously15 pursued for seventeen years. He took a pride in his work, and knew himself for a capable ‘sleuth.’ Though somewhat increasingly troubled in the bronchial regions owing to the draughts16 he had so often to stand in, he could not by now imagine any other way of passing his time, or any, on the whole, more knowing method of gaining a livelihood17. Young Croom’s address he had obtained by the simple expedient18 of waiting behind Clare while she sent her telegram; but, having just failed to read the message itself, he had started at once for Bablock Hythe, since when until now he had experienced no difficulty. Shifting his position from time to time at the end of the street, he entered the Mews itself when it became dark. At half-past five the peacock door was opened and the two young people emerged. They walked, and Mr. Chayne walked behind them. They walked fast, and Mr. Chayne, with an acquired sense of rhythm, at exactly the same pace. He soon perceived that they were merely going to where he had twice followed Lady Corven already — the Temple. And this gave him a sense of comfort, because of the cup of tea he pined for. Picking his way in and out among the backs of people large enough to screen him, he watched them enter Middle Temple Lane, and part at Harcourt Buildings. Having noted19 that Lady Corven went in, and that the young man began parading slowly between the entrance and the Embankment, he looked at his watch, doubled back into the Strand20, and bolted into an A.B.C. with the words “Cup of tea and Bath bun, miss, please.” While waiting for these he made a prolonged entry in his pocket-book. Then, blowing on his tea, he drank it from the saucer, ate half the bun, concealed21 the other half in his hand, paid, and re-entered the Strand. He had just finished the bun when he regained22 the entrance to the Lane. The young man was still parading slowly. Mr. Chayne waited for his back view, and, assuming the air of a belated solicitor’s clerk, bolted down past the entrance to Harcourt Buildings into the Inner Temple. There, in a doorway23, he scrutinised names until Clare came out. Rejoined by young Croom, she walked up towards the Strand, and Mr. Chayne walked too. When, shortly, they took tickets for a cinema, he also took a ticket and entered the row behind. Accustomed to the shadowing of people on their guard, the open innocence24 they were displaying excited in him a slightly amused if not contemptuous compassion25. ‘Regular babes in the wood’ they seemed to him. He could not tell whether their feet were touching, and passed behind to note the position of their hands. It seemed satisfactory, and he took an empty seat nearer to the gangway. Sure of them now for a couple of hours, he settled down to smoke, feel warm, and enjoy the film. It was one of sport and travel in Africa, where the two principals were always in positions of danger, recorded by the camera of someone who must surely have been in a position of still greater danger. Mr. Chayne listened to their manly26 American voices saying to each other: “Gee! He’s on us!” with an interest which never prevented his knowing that his two young people were listening too. When the lights went up he could see their profiles. ‘We’re all young at times,’ he thought, and his imagination dwelled more intensively on the young lady at his tobacconist’s. They looked so settled-in that he took the opportunity to slip out for a moment. It might not occur again for a long time. In his opinion one of the chief defects in detective stories — for he was given to busmen’s holidays — was that authors made their ‘sleuths’ like unto the angels, watching for days without, so to speak, taking their eye off the ball. It was not so in real life.
He returned to a seat almost behind his young couple on the other side just before the lights went down. One of his favourite stars was now to be featured, and, sure that she would be placed in situations which would enable him to enjoy her to the full, he put a peppermint27 lozenge in his mouth and leaned back with a sigh. He had not had an evening watch so pleasant for a long time. It was not always ‘beer and skittles’ at this season of the year; a ‘proper chilly28 job sometimes — no error.’
After ten minutes, during which his star had barely got into her evening clothes, his couple rose.
“Can’t stand any more of her voice,” he heard Lady Corven say; and the young man answering: “Ghastly!”
Wounded and surprised, Mr. Chayne waited for them to pass through the curtains before, with a profound sigh, he followed. In the Strand they stood debating, then walked again, but only into a restaurant across the street. Here, buying himself another paper at the door, he saw them going up the stairs. Would it be a private room? He ascended29 the stairs cautiously. No, it was the gallery! There they were, nicely screened by the pillars, four tables in!
Descending30 to the lavatory31, Mr. Chayne changed his horn spectacles to pince-nez and his claret-coloured tie to a rather floppy32 bow of black and white. This was a device which had often served him in good stead. You put on a tie of conspicuous2 colour, then changed it to a quieter one of a different shape. A conspicuous tie had the special faculty of distracting attention from a face. You became ‘that man with the awful tie!’ and when you no longer wore the tie, you were to all intents someone else. Going up again to a table which commanded a view, he ordered himself a mixed grill33 and pint34 of stout35. They were likely to be some two hours over their meal, so he assumed a literary air, taking out a pouch36 to roll himself a cigarette and inviting37 the waiter to give him a light for it. Having in this way established a claim to a life of his own, he read his paper like any gentleman at large and examined the mural paintings. They were warm and glowing; large landscapes with blue skies, seas, palms, and villas38, suggestive of pleasure in a way that appealed to him strongly. He had never been further than Boulogne, and, so far as he could see, never would. Five hundred pounds, a lady, a suite39 in the sun, and gaming tables handy, was not unnaturally40 his idea of heaven; but, alas41, as unattainable. He made no song about it, but, when confronted with allurements42 like these on the wall, he could not help hankering. It had often struck him as ironical43 that the people he watched into the Divorce Court so often went to Paradise and stayed there until their cases had blown over and they could marry and come to earth again. Living in Finchley, with the sun once a fortnight and an income averaging perhaps five hundred a year, the vein44 of poetry in him was damned almost at source; and it was in some sort a relief to let his imagination play around the lives of those whom he watched. That young couple over there, ‘good-lookers’ both of them, would go back together in a taxi as likely as not he’d have to wait hours for the young man to come away. The mixed grill was put before him, and he added a little red pepper in view of his probable future. This bit of watching, however, and perhaps another one or two, ought to do the trick; and on the whole ‘easy money.’ Slowly savouring each mouthful so that it might nourish him, and blowing the froth off his stout with the skill of a connoisseur45, he watched them bending forward to talk across the table. What they were eating he could not see. To have followed their meal in detail would have given him some indication of their states of mind. Food and love! After this grill he would have cheese and coffee, and put them down to ‘expenses.’
He had eaten every crumb46, extracted all the information from his paper, exhausted47 his imagination on the mural paintings, ‘placed’ the scattered48 diners, paid his bill, and smoked three ‘gaspers’ before his quarry49 rose. He was into his overcoat and outside the entrance before they had even reached the stairs. Noting three taxis within hail, he bent50 his attention on the hoardings of an adjoining theatre; till he saw the porter beckon51 one of them, then, walking into the middle of the Strand, he took the one behind it.
“Wait till that cab starts and follow it,” he said to the driver, “not too close when it stops.”
Taking his seat, he looked at his watch and made an entry in his pocket-book. Having before now followed a wrong cab at some expense, he kept his eyes glued on the taxi’s number, which he had noted in his book. The traffic was but thin at this hour before the theatres rose, and the procession simplicity52 itself. The followed cab stopped at the corner of the Mews. Mr. Chayne tapped the glass and fell back on the seat. Through the window he saw them get out and the young man paying. They walked down the Mews. Mr. Chayne also paid and followed to the corner. They had reached the peacock door and stood there, talking. Then Lady Corven put her key into the lock and opened the door; the young man, glancing this way and that, followed her in. Mr. Chayne experienced a sensation as mixed as his grill. It was, of course, exactly what he had hoped for and expected. At the same time it meant loitering about in the cold for goodness knew how long. He turned up his coat collar and looked for a convenient doorway. A thousand pities that he could not wait, say half an hour, and just walk in. The Courts were very particular nowadays about conclusive53 evidence. He had something of the feeling that a ‘sportsman’ has, seeing a fox go to ground and not a spade within five miles. He stood for a few minutes, reading over the entries in his pocket-book under the lamp, and making a final note; then walked to the doorway he had selected and stood there. In half an hour or so the cars would be coming back from the theatre, and he would have to be on the move to escape attention. There was a light in the upstairs window, but in itself, of course, that was not evidence. Too bad! Twelve shillings the return ticket, ten and six the night down there, cabs seven and six; cinema three and six, dinner six bob — he wouldn’t charge the tea — thirty-nine and six — say two pounds! Mr. Chayne shook his head, put a peppermint lozenge in his mouth, and changed his feet. That corn of his was beginning to shoot a bit. He thought of pleasant things: Broadstairs, his small daughter’s back hair, oyster54 patties, his favourite ‘star’ in little but a corset belt, and his own nightcap of hot whisky and lemon. All to small purpose; for he was waiting and waiting on feet that ached, and without any confidence that he was collecting anything of real value. The Courts, indeed, had got into such a habit of expecting the parties to be ‘called with a cup of tea’ that anything short of it was looked upon as suspect. He took out his watch again. He had been here over half an hour. And here came the first car! He must get out of the Mews! He withdrew to its far end. And then almost before he had time to turn his back there came the young man with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched55, hurrying away. Heaving a sigh of relief, Mr. Chayne noted in his pocket-book: “Mr. C. left at 11.40 p.m.”; and walked towards his Finchley bus.
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1
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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6
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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11
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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12
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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13
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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15
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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18
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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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21
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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23
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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24
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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27
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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28
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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29
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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floppy
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| adj.松软的，衰弱的 | |
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33
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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36
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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42
allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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43
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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44
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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45
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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46
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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47
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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48
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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49
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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50
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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51
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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52
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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53
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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54
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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55
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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