The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK ®. Sarah Orne JewettЧитать онлайн книгу.
business through as if nothing whatever I had happened.”
“The last,” I replied, “is an impossible case. Mrs. Jelf thinks like a generous and delicate-minded woman, but not in the least like a board of railway directors. They would never carry forgiveness so far.”
“I fear not; and yet it is the only conjecture that bears a semblance of likelihood. However, we can run over to Clayborough tomorrow and see if anything is to be learned. By the way, Prendergast tells me you picked up his cigar-case.”
“I did so, and here it is.”
Jelf took the cigar-case, examined it by the light of the lamp, and said at once that it was beyond doubt Mr. Dwerrihouse’s property, and that he remembered to have seen him use it.
“Here, too, is his monogram on the side,” he added—“a big J transfixing a capital D. He used to carry the same on his note-paper.”
“It offers, at all events, a proof that I was not dreaming.”
“Ay, but it is time you were asleep and dreaming now. I am ashamed to have kept you up so long. Good night.”
“Good night, and remember that I am more than ready to go with you to Clayborough or Blackwater or London or anywhere, if I can be of the least service.”
“Thanks! I know you mean it, old friend, and it may be that I shall put you to the test. Once more, good night.”
So we parted for that night, and met again in the breakfast-room at half-past eight next morning. It was a hurried, silent, uncomfortable meal; none of us had slept well, and all were thinking of the same subject. Mrs. Jelf had evidently been crying, Jelf was impatient to be off, and both Captain Prendergast and myself felt ourselves to be in the painful position of outsiders who are involuntarily brought into a domestic trouble. Within twenty minutes after we had left the breakfast-table the dog-cart was brought round, and my friend and I were on the road to Clayborough.
“Tell you what it is, Langford,” he said, as we sped along between the wintry hedges, “I do not much fancy to bring up Dwerrihouse’s name at Clayborough. All the officials know that he is my wife’s relation, and the subject just now is hardly a pleasant one. If you don’t much mind, we will take the 11.10 to Blackwater. It’s an important station, and we shall stand a far better chance of picking up information there than at Clayborough.”
So we took the 11.10, which happened to be an express, and, arriving at Blackwater about a quarter before twelve, proceeded at once to prosecute our inquiry.
We began by asking for the station-master, a big, blunt, businesslike person, who at once averred that he knew Mr. John Dwerrihouse perfectly well, and that there was no director on the line whom he had seen and spoken to so frequently. “He used to be down here two or three times a week about three months ago,” said he, “when the new line was first set afoot; but since then, you know, gentlemen—”
He paused significantly.
Jelf flushed scarlet.
“Yes, yes,” he said, hurriedly; “we know all about that. The point now to be ascertained is whether anything has been seen or heard of him lately.”
“Not to my knowledge,” replied the station-master.
“He is not known to have been down the line any time yesterday, for instance?”
The station-master shook his head.
“The East Anglian, sir,”said he,”is about the last place where he would dare to show himself. Why, there isn’t a station-master, there isn’t a guard, there isn’t a porter, who doesn’t know Mr. Dwerrihouse by sight as well as he knows his own face in the looking-glass, or who wouldn’t telegraph for the police as soon as he had set eyes on him at any point along the line. Bless you, sir! there’s been a standing order out against him ever since the 25th of September last.”
“And yet,” pursued my friend, “a gentleman who travelled down yesterday from London to Clayborough by the afternoon express testifies that he saw Mr. Dwerrihouse in the train, and that Mr. Dwerrihouse alighted at Blackwater station.”
“Quite impossible, sir,” replied the station-master, promptly.
“Why impossible?”
“Because there is no station along the line where he is so well known or where he would run so great a risk. It would be just running his head into the lion’s mouth; he would have been mad to come nigh Blackwater station; and if he had come he would have been arrested before he left the platform.”
“Can you tell me who took the Blackwater tickets of that train?”
“I can, sir. It was the guard, Benjamin Somers.”
“And where can I find him?”
“You can find him, sir, by staying here, if you please, till one o’clock. He will be coming through with the up express from Crampton, which stays at Blackwater for ten minutes.”
We waited for the up express, beguiling the time as best we could by strolling along the Blackwater road till we came almost to the outskirts of the town, from which the station was distant nearly a couple of miles. By one o’clock we were back again upon the platform and waiting for the train. It came punctually, and I at once recognized the ruddy-faced guard who had gone down with my train the evening before.
“The gentlemen want to ask you something about Mr. Dwerrihouse Somers,” said the station-master, by way of introduction.
The guard flashed a keen glance from my face to Jelf’s and back again to mine.
“Mr. John Dwerrihouse, the late director?” said he, interrogatively.
“The same,” replied my friend. “Should you know him if you saw him?”
“Anywhere, sir.”
“Do you know if he was in the 4.15 express yesterday afternoon?”
“He was not, sir.”
“How can you answer so positively?”
“Because I looked into every carriage and saw every face in that train, and I could take my oath that Mr. Dwerrihouse was not in it. This gentleman was,” he added, turning sharply upon me. “I don’t know that I ever saw him before in my life, but I remember his face perfectly. You nearly missed taking your seat in time at this station, sir, and you got out at Clayborough.”
“Quite true, guard,” I replied; “but do you not also remember the face of the gentleman who travelled down in the same carriage with me as far as here?”
“It was my impression, sir, that you travelled down alone,” said Somers, with a look of some surprise.
“By no means. I had a fellow-traveller as far as Blackwater, and it was in trying to restore him the cigar-case which he had dropped in the carriage that I so nearly let you go on without me.”
“I remember your saying something about a cigar-case, certainly,” replied the guard; “but—”
“You asked for my ticket just before we entered the station.”
“I did, sir.”
“Then you must have seen him. He sat in the corner next the very door to which you came.”
“No, indeed; I saw no one.”
I looked at Jelf I began to think the guard was in the ex-director’s confidence, and paid for his silence.
“If I had seen another traveller I should have asked for his ticket,” added Somers. “Did you see me ask for his ticket, sir?”
“I observed that you did not ask for it, but he explained that by saying—” I hesitated. I feared I might be telling too much, and so broke off abruptly.
The guard and the station-master exchanged glances. The former looked impatiently at his watch.
“I