IV
A Very Black Business
Mr. Brown was in the act of looking down the barrel of a revolver when a noise—a call—somewhere in the stairway of his block of flats arrested his hand. There were three reasons why at that supreme moment he was susceptible to so slight an influence; the cry was a curiously melodious one, and the hearer was by nature and profession a musician; it was, as well as a melodious call, a strangely old-world one; and it seemed to speak of coal. Now it was precisely the absence of this commodity that was driving the musician to his rash act. A trivial cause for so tremendous a result, it may be urged, and perhaps it was, but Mr. Brown was of the artistic temperament and therefore quite outside the ordinary standard of reasonable conduct.
In this matter of coal he had really very little to complain of. Warned both by the previous winter's experience and by certain official recommendations, he had gone to his usual coal merchant early in the month of May and ordered the full capacity of his modest cupboard—a single ton. Delivery was faithfully promised for that day week—between nine and ten in the morning—and, rejoicing greatly, Mr. Brown returned with the assurance.
In July Mrs. Brown gave up carpeting the hall with newspapers on wet days in anticipation of the coal-man's arrival.
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