Kenelm Jerton entered the dining-hall of the Golden Galleon1 Hotel in the full crush of the luncheon2 hour. Nearly every seat was occupied, and small additional tables had been brought in, where floor space permitted, to accommodate latecomers, with the result that many of the tables were almost touching3 each other. Jerton was beckoned4 by a waiter to the only vacant table that was discernible, and took his seat with the uncomfortable and wholly groundless idea that nearly every one in the room was staring at him. He was a youngish man of ordinary appearance, quiet of dress and unobtrusive of manner, and he could never wholly rid himself of the idea that a fierce light of public scrutiny5 beat on him as though he had been a notability or a super-nut. After he had ordered his lunch there came the unavoidable interval6 of waiting, with nothing to do but to stare at the flower-vase on his table and to be stared at (in imagination) by several flappers, some maturer beings of the same sex, and a satirical-looking Jew. In order to carry off the situation with some appearance of unconcern he became spuriously interested in the contents of the flower-vase.
“What is the name of these roses, d’you know?” he asked the waiter. The waiter was ready at all times to conceal7 his ignorance concerning items of the wine-list or menu; he was frankly8 ignorant as to the specific name of the roses.
“Amy Sylvester Partinglon ,” said a voice at Jerton’s elbow.
The voice came from a pleasant-faced, well-dressed young woman who was sitting at a table that almost touched Jerton’s. He thanked her hurriedly and nervously9 for the information, and made some inconsequent remark about the flowers.
“It is a curious thing,” said the young woman, that, “I should be able to tell you the name of those roses without an effort of memory, because if you were to ask me my name I should be utterly10 unable to give it to you.”
Jerton had not harboured the least intention of extending his thirst for name-labels to his neighbour. After her rather remarkable11 announcement, however, he was obliged to say something in the way of polite inquiry12.
“Yes,” answered the lady, “I suppose it is a case of partial loss of memory. I was in the train coming down here; my ticket told me that I had come from Victoria and was bound for this place. I had a couple of five-pound notes and a sovereign on me, no visiting cards or any other means of identification, and no idea as to who I am. I can only hazily13 recollect14 that I have a title; I am Lady Somebody — beyond that my mind is a blank.”
“Hadn’t you any luggage with you?” asked Jerton.
“That is what I didn’t know. I knew the name of this hotel and made up my mind to come here, and when the hotel porter who meets the trains asked if I had any luggage I had to invent a dressing-bag and dress-basket; I could always pretend that they had gone astray. I gave him the name of Smith, and presently he emerged from a confused pile of luggage and passengers with a dressing-bag and dress-basket labelled Kestrel–Smith. I had to take them; I don’t see what else I could have done.”
Jerton said nothing, but he rather wondered what the lawful15 owner of the baggage would do.
“Of course it was dreadful arriving at a strange hotel with the name of Kestrel–Smith, but it would have been worse to have arrived without luggage. Anyhow, I hate causing trouble.”
Jerton had visions of harassed16 railway officials and distraught Kestrel–Smiths, but he made no attempt to clothe his mental picture in words. The lady continued her story.
“Naturally, none of my keys would fit the things, but I told an intelligent page boy that I had lost my key-ring, and he had the locks forced in a twinkling. Rather too intelligent, that boy; he will probably end in Dartmoor. The Kestrel–Smith toilet tools aren’t up to much, but they are better than nothing.”
“If you feel sure that you have a title,” said Jerton, “why not get hold of a peerage and go right through it?”
“I tried that. I skimmed through the list of the House of Lords in ‘Whitaker,’ but a mere17 printed string of names conveys awfully18 little to one, you know. If you were an army officer and had lost your identity you might pore over the Army List for months without finding out who your were. I’m going on another tack19; I’m trying to find out by various little tests who I am not — that will narrow the range of uncertainty20 down a bit. You may have noticed, for instance, that I’m lunching principally off lobster21 Newburg.”
Jerton had not ventured to notice anything of the sort.
“It’s an extravagance, because it’s one of the most expensive dishes on the menu, but at any rate it proves that I’m not Lady Starping; she never touches shell-fish, and poor Lady Braddleshrub has no digestion22 at all; if I am her I shall certainly die in agony in the course of the afternoon, and the duty of finding out who I am will devolve on the press and the police and those sort of people; I shall be past caring. Lady Knewford doesn’t know one rose from another and she hates men, so she wouldn’t have spoken to you in any case; and Lady Mousehilton flirts23 with every man she meets — I haven’t flirted24 with you, have I?”
Jerton hastily gave the required assurance.
“Well, you see,” continued the lady, “that knocks four off the list at once.”
“It’ll be rather a lengthy25 process bringing the list down to one,” said Jerton.
“Oh, but, of course, there are heaps of them that I couldn’t possibly be — women who’ve got grandchildren or sons old enough to have celebrated26 their coming of age. I’ve only got to consider the ones about my own age. I tell you how you might help me this afternoon, if you don’t mind; go through any of the back numbers of Country Life and those sort of papers that you can find in the smoking-room, and see if you come across my portrait with infant son or anything of that sort. It won’t take you ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the lounge about tea-time. Thanks awfully.”
And the Fair Unknown, having graciously pressed Jerton into the search for her lost identity, rose and left the room. As she passed the young man’s table she halted for a moment and whispered:
“Did you notice that I tipped the waiter a shilling? We can cross Lady Ulwight off the list; she would have died rather than do that.”
At five o’clock Jerton made his way to the hotel lounge; he had spent a diligent27 but fruitless quarter of an hour among the illustrated28 weeklies in the smoking-room. His new acquaintance was seated at a small tea-table, with a waiter hovering29 in attendance.
“China tea or Indian?” she asked as Jerton came up.
“China, please, and nothing to eat. Have you discovered anything?”
“Only negative information. I’m not Lady Befnal. She disapproves30 dreadfully of any form of gambling31, so when I recognised a well-known book maker32 in the hotel lobby I went and put a tenner on an unnamed filly by William the Third out of Mitrovitza for the three-fifteen race. I suppose the fact of the animal being nameless was what attracted me.”
“Did it win?” asked Jerton.
“No, came in fourth, the most irritating thing a horse can do when you’ve backed it win or place. Anyhow, I know now that I’m not Lady Befnal.”
“It seems to me that the knowledge was rather dearly bought,” commented Jerton.
“Well, yes, it has rather cleared me out,” admitted the identity-seeker; “a florin is about all I’ve got left on me. The lobster Newburg made my lunch rather an expensive one, and, of course, I had to tip that boy for what he did to the Kestrel–Smith locks. I’ve got rather a useful idea, though. I feel certain that I belong to the Pivot33 Club; I’ll go back to town and ask the hall porter there if there are any letters for me. He knows all the members by sight, and if there are any letters or telephone messages waiting for me of course that will solve the problem. If he says there aren’t any I shall say: ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ so I’ll find out anyway.”
The plan seemed a sound one; a difficulty in its execution suggested itself to Jerton.
“Of course,” said the lady, when he hinted at the obstacle, “there’s my fare back to town, and my bill here and cabs and things. If you’ll lend me three pounds that ought to see me through comfortably. Thanks ever so. Then there is the question of that luggage: I don’t want to be saddled with that for the rest of my life. I’ll have it brought down to the hall and you can pretend to mount guard over it while I’m writing a letter. Then I shall just slip away to the station, and you can wander off to the smoking-room, and they can do what they like with the things. They’ll advertise them after a bit and the owner can claim them.”
Jerton acquiesced34 in the manoeuvre35, and duly mounted guard over the luggage while its temporary owner slipped unobtrusively out of the hotel. Her departure was not, however, altogether unnoticed. Two gentlemen were strolling past Jerton, and one of them remarked to the other:
“Did you see that tall young woman in grey who went out just now? She is the Lady —”
His promenade36 carried him out of earshot at the critical moment when he was about to disclose the elusive37 identity. The Lady Who? Jerton could scarcely run after a total stranger, break into his conversation, and ask him for information concerning a chance passer-by. Besides, it was desirable that he should keep up the appearance of looking after the luggage. In a minute or two, however, the important personage, the man who knew, came strolling back alone. Jerton summoned up all his courage and waylaid38 him.
“I think I heard you say you knew the lady who went out of the hotel a few minutes ago, a tall lady, dressed in grey. Excuse me for asking if you could tell me her name; I’ve been talking to her for half an hour; she — er — she knows all my people and seems to know me, so I suppose I’ve met her somewhere before, but I’m blest if I can put a name to her. Could you —?”
“Certainly. She’s a Mrs. Stroope.”
“Yes, she’s the Lady Champion at golf in my part of the world. An awful good sort, and goes about a good deal in Society, but she has an awkward habit of losing her memory every now and then, and gets into all sorts of fixes. She’s furious, too, if you make any allusion40 to it afterwards. Good day, sir.”
The stranger passed on his way, and before Jerton had had time to assimilate his information he found his whole attention centred on an angry-looking lady who was making loud and fretful-seeming inquiries41 of the hotel clerks.
“Has any luggage been brought here from the station by mistake, a dress-basket and dressing-case, with the name Kestrel–Smith? It can’t be traced anywhere. I saw it put in at Victoria, that I’ll swear. Why — there is my luggage! and the locks have been tampered42 with!”
Jerton heard no more. He fled down to the Turkish bath, and stayed there for hours.
收听单词发音 |
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galleon
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| n.大帆船 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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hazily
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| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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