such an unaccountable personage in our house. Mr. Twoshoes was, however, as I have said before, such a model lodger in every other respect, so kind and considerate in every way, such a punctual and liberal paymaster, that, debate the question as we would, we could by no means make up our minds to part with him. So we decided at last to keep our apprehensions and suspicions to ourselves, and mention them neither to Mr. Twoshoes nor to any prying neighbour, and to put down everything in our lodger’s ways of life for which we could not find a natural solution to the score of eccentricity—a term of very wide application indeed.
Mr. Twoshoes had been with us about five weeks, when Annie’s brother, Mr. Dick Dereham, came down from London to spend his holidays with us, for the sake of the fishing for which the neighbourhood of Markhallow is celebrated. He was in those days a tall raw-boned young fellow, with fair complexion, large blue eyes, cold and sceptical in expression, and a nose as sharp and inquisitive as that of a ferret; with, to crown all, a most excellent opinion of his own acuteness and general abilities, dashed with that slight superciliousness of tone and manner which, especially towards homely country-folk, is such a common characteristic of the middle-class Cockney. He had not been three hours in the house before he had wormed out of Annie everything that we knew, surmised, and imagined concerning Mr. Twoshoes. Here was a promising pie ready for an acute young Cockney to poke his finger into! No fishing to be done till it was disposed of to his satisfaction. Really the country was not such a dull place after all! He met me that afternoon at the bank door, and, linking his arm in mine, unburdened his mind as we walked home together.
“Nan has been opening her mind to me this afternoon about your lodger, Mr. Twoshoes,” he began.
“Indeed,” said I, dryly; “you were immensely interested, no doubt.”
“Oh! you may jest about it if you like, but the question is a serious one. There’s something bad about that fellow, you may depend upon it; and if I were you, I’d either report him privately to the police or else give him a week’s notice, and so get rid of him altogether.”
“Thank you,” I replied; “but, as I have no particular fault to find with Mr. Twoshoes, I don’t feel quite inclined to adopt either of your suggestions.”
“But consider, my dear fellow; it’s really not safe to have a man like that in your house—who frequently stays out all night—who dresses one day as a groom, another day as a merchant seaman, and the next as a curate or private gentleman. It arises from no mere eccentricity, you may depend on it. There’s some villany afloat, and it will be well if you are not implicated in it when the exposé comes—as come it must, some of these fine days.”
“Now, see you here, my pert young Cockney,” I replied; “Mr. Twoshoes is my lodger, and a man whom I respect, so don’t attempt to pull him to pieces in my presence. You always were a tolerable hand at discovering mares’-nests, but, please, don’t try to find any in my house. Whatever may be the little eccentricities of Mr. Twoshoes, they are no business of yours or mine. That he is a very worthy gentleman, and thoroughly honest and upright, I am fully convinced. My advice to you, therefore, is to go and look after the little fishes, and let my estimable lodger alone.”
Dick was terribly huffed by my plain speaking, and did not fail to complain to my wife about it; but what annoyed me more was to find that he had contrived to affect her to some extent with his own absurd fears, so that when we went to bed that night she would insist on having the bed-room door locked, a precaution she had never cared to exercise before, saying, in her circumlocutory, feminine way:
“There’s no knowing what may happen with such mysterious people in the house.”
A day or two after my conversation with Dick, our senior partner sent for me into the parlour, and informed me that he wanted me to set out for France by the mail that evening, on business of importance which would probably occupy me about a week. Having received my instructions, I hurried home, dined, made my few preparations as speedily as possible, sent for my Aunt Barbara to come and stay with Annie during my absence, and then lingered a moment to give a parting injunction to my wife and Dick respecting Mr. Twoshoes. I would not go till I had received an assurance from both of them that matters should go on as usual during my absence—that Mr. Twoshoes should be allowed to come and go as he might think proper, without notice or comment. Dick’s promise of neutrality was given too readily to satisfy me, and I thought I detected a malicious twinkle in his eye, as I shook his hand at parting, which boded no good to somebody. But there was no help for it—business called, and I must obey.
My visit to France, instead of occupying a week, lasted for a fortnight; and during the time I was away Markhallow races took place, the great festival of the year at our little town.
On the third and last day, Mr. Dick Dereham, growing tired of the monotony of rod and line, betook himself for a little variety to the race-course. The last race was over, and Dick had just turned his face homeward, and lighted a cigar to beguile the dusty way, when he was accosted by a fashionably dressed individual, who politely requested the favour of a light. Having obtained what he wanted, it was only natural, as they both happened to be going the same way, that the stranger should enter into conversation with Dick respecting the events of the day. Dick was charmed at once with his new acquaintance, who seemed to be thoroughly at home on all matters connected with the turf, and proved by a simple sporting equation how, instead of losing his little bet of eight half-crowns, Dick might just as easily have won as many pounds. In ten minutes they were on the footing of old friends; mutually pleased with each other, and each doing his best to impress the other with the extent and variety of his information and the brilliance of his remarks—a friendly rivalry in which Dick, self-conceited as he was,