OF certain supreme moments in life it is not easy to write. The workaday teller of tales, whose gifts, if any, lie rather in the direction of recording events than of analysing emotion, finds himself baffled by them. To say that Sam Shotter was relieved by this sudden reappearance of his old friend would obviously be inadequate. Yet it is hard to find words that will effectually meet the case. Perhaps it is simplest to say that his feelings at this juncture were to all intents and purposes those of the garrison besieged by savages in the final reel of a motion-picture super-super-film when the operator flashes on the screen the subtitle, “Hurrah! Here come the United States Marines!”
And blended with this heart-shaking thankfulness, came instantaneously the thought that he must not let the poor fish get away again.
“Here, I say!” said Mr. Braddock, becoming aware of a clutching hand upon his coat sleeve.
“It’s all right, Bradder, old man,” said Sam. “It’s only me.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“Sam Shotter.”
“Sam Shotter?”
“Sam Shotter.”
“Sam Shotter who used to be at school with me?”
“The very same.”
“Are you Sam Shotter?”
“I am.”
“Why, so you are!” said Mr. Braddock, completely convinced. He displayed the utmost delight at this re-union. “Mosestraornary coincidence,” he said as he kneaded Sam lovingly about the shoulder. “I was talking to a fellow in the Strand about you only an hour ago.”
“Were you, Bradder, old man?”
“Yes; nasty ugly-looking fellow. I bumped into him, and he turned round and the very first thing he said was, ‘Do you know Sam Shotter?’ He told me all sorts of interesting things about you too—all sorts of interesting things. I’ve forgotten what they were, but you see what I mean.”
“I follow you perfectly, Bradder. What’s become of your hat?”
A look of relieved happiness came in to Willoughby Braddock’s face.
“Have you got my hat? Where is it?”
“I haven’t got your hat.”
“You said you had my hat.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Braddock, disappointed. “Well, then, come and have a cuppa coffee.”
It was with the feelings of a voyager who after much buffeting comes safely at last to journey’s end that Sam ranged himself alongside the counter which for so long had been but a promised land seen from some distant Mount Pisgah. The two gentlemen of leisure had melted away into the night, but the uniformed man remained, eating seedcake with a touch of bravado.
“This gentleman a friend of yours, Sam?” asked Mr. Braddock, having ordered coffee and eggs.
“I should say not,” said Sam with aversion. “Why, he thinks the Duke of York has a small clipped moustache!”
“No!” said Mr. Braddock, shocked.
“He does.”
“Man must be a thorough ass.”
“Dropped on his head when a baby, probably.”
“Better have nothing to do with him,” said Mr. Braddock in a confidential bellow.
The meal proceeded on its delightful course. Sam had always been fond of Willoughby Braddock, and the spacious manner in which he now ordered further hard-boiled eggs showed him that his youthful affection had not been misplaced. A gentle glow began to steal over him. The coffee was the kind of which, after a preliminary mouthful, you drink a little more just to see if it is really as bad as it seemed at first, but it was warm and comforting. It was not long before the world appeared very good to Sam. He expanded genially. He listened with courteous attention to Mr. Braddock’s lengthy description of his speech at the Old Wrykynian dinner, and even melted sufficiently to extend an olive branch to the man in uniform.
“Looks like rain,” he said affably.
“Who does?” asked Mr. Braddock, puzzled.
“I was addressing the gentleman behind you,” said Sam.
Mr. Braddock looked cautiously over his shoulder.
“But are we speaking to him?” he asked gravely. “I thought——”
“Oh, yes,” said Sam tolerantly. “I fancy he’s quite a good fellow really. Wants knowing, that’s all.”
“What makes you think he looks like rain?” asked Mr. Braddock, interested.
The chauffeur of the taxicab now added himself to their little group. He said that he did not know about Mr. Braddock’s plans, but that he himself was desirous of getting to bed. Mr. Braddock patted him on the shoulder with radiant bonhomie.
“This,” he explained to Sam, “is a most delightful chap. I’ve forgotten his name.”
The cabman said his name was Evans.
“Evans! Of course. I knew it was something beginning with a G. This is my friend Evans, Sam. I forget where we met, but he’s taking me home.”
“Where do you live, Bradder?”
“Where do I live, Evans?”
“Down at Valley Fields, you told me,” said the cabman.
“Where are you living, Sam?”
“Nowhere.”
“How do you mean—nowhere?”
“I have no home,” said Sam with simple pathos.
“I’d like to dig you one,” said the man in uniform.
“No home?” cried Mr. Braddock, deeply moved. “Nowhere to sleep to-night, do you mean? I say, look here, you must absolutely come back with me. Evans, old chap, do you think there would be room for one more in that cab of yours? Because I particularly want this gentleman to come back with me. My dear old Sam, I won’t listen to any argument.”
“You won’t have to.”
“You can sleep on the sofa in the drawing-room. You ready, Evans, old man? Splendid! Then let’s go.”
From Lupus Street, Pimlico, to Burberry Road, Valley Fields, is a distance of several miles, but to Sam the drive seemed a short one. This illusion was not due so much to the gripping nature of Mr. Braddock’s conversation, though that rippled on continuously, as to the fact that, being a trifle weary after his experiences of the night, he dozed off shortly after they had crossed the river. He awoke to find that the cab had come to a standstill outside a wooden gate which led by a short gravel path to a stucco-covered house. A street lamp, shining feebly, was strong enough to light up the name San Rafael. Mr. Braddock paid the cabman and ushered Sam through the gate. He produced a key after a little searching, and having mounted the steps opened the door. Sam found himself in a small hall, dimly lighted by a turned-down jet of gas.
“Go right in,” said Mr. Braddock. “I’ll be back in a moment. Got to see a man.”
“Got to what?” said Sam, surprised.
“Got to see a man for a minute. Fellow named Evans, who was at school with me. Most important.”
And with that curious snipelike abruptness which characterised his movements to-night, Willoughby Braddock slammed the front door violently and disappeared.
Sam’s feelings, as the result of his host’s impulsive departure, were somewhat mixed. To the credit side of the ledger he could place the fact that he was safely under the shelter of a roof, which he had not expected to be an hour ago; but he wished that, before leaving, his friend had given him a clew as to where was situated this drawing-room with its sofa whereon he was to spend the remainder of the night.
However, a brief exploration would no doubt reveal the hidden chamber. It might even be that room whose door faced him across the hall.
He was turning the handle with the view of testing this theory, when a voice behind him, speaking softly but with a startling abruptness, said, “Hands up!”
At the foot of the stairs, her wide mouth set in a determined line, her tow-coloured hair adorned with gleaming curling pins, there was standing a young woman in a pink dressing gown and slippers. In her right hand, pointed at his head, she held a revolver.