"You're Mr. Charlecotte?" he said interrogatively, but with a certain tone of assertion.
"Mr. Jones."
It was no use denying the soft impeachment. I stood on my own doorstep, and, though there was no nameplate on the door, there was one in the hall. Moreover, he had obtained a kind of admission of the fact from the housemaid, which convinced him that he was at least on the right track. So I boldly answered "Yes," and, with an indifference I did not entirely feel, rang the bell for the lift.
It was some time in coming, as it usually is. Mr. Jones's conversation seemed exhausted. He advanced upwards another step, still looking me all over with a curious gaze that conveyed a sort of proprietorship in me. As he emerged from the lower steps, I had opportunity of noting a curiously square-cut, nondescript coat, a pair of check trousers, evidently new, a blue necktie, and no gloves. Mr. Jones was evidently "dressed all in his best," prepared, if opportunity offered, "to walk abroad with Sally."
I caught myself peering down the staircase. Peradventure Sally was with him. But there was no one there, and presently the lift arrived.
With it came a gleam of wild hope of deliverance. I live on the topmost range of our flats. Five flights of stairs interpose between me and mother earth. Supposing I went down in the lift and Mr. Jones walked, I should be at the hall door fully two minutes before he arrived, and could be out of sight before he reached the street. Still it would be horribly rude, the lift being there, not to offer him a share of its convenience.
"Won't you come down in the lift?" I said, though I'm afraid not succeeding in throwing much heartiness into the invitation.
"No," said Mr. Jones, still gazing at me with that mysterious look indicative of my being somebody belonging to him, "I'll just walk."
As the lift flashed downwards I caught what I believed to be a final sight of Mr. Jones, his head leaning over the banisters to get a last look at me, a gleam of amused interest in his eyes, and a friendly smile extending in a straight line across the lower part of his face.
Things happened as I had foreseen. When I reached the hall Mr. Jones was not anywhere in sight. Listening a moment, I heard footsteps pattering rapidly down the stone staircase. I made off as quickly as possible, short of a run. I was going across the Park to look in at the club for five minutes on my way to the House. There were all kinds of turnings, and Mr. Jones, presently emerging in the street, would be sure to take the wrong one. I hastened along Palace road, making for Buckingham Gate and the Mall. I did not look back, but felt certain Mr. Jones was thrown off the scent. My spirits rose with a sense of deliverance from this mysterious man with his straw hat, his wholly unwarranted proprietorial air, and his resemblance to Mr. Alexander Bell, of Dundee.
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"His name is Alexander Bell,
His home Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
As he knows me."
I was beginning to be able to think of something else, when I heard footsteps behind. That is not an unusual phenomenon in a London street; but somehow, though I had never heard him walking before, I felt that this was Mr. Jones. I forbore to look back, and slightly increased my pace. The sound came nearer and nearer. Someone was walking at my right-hand side. I looked straight before me, but was conscious of the gleam of a straw hat in the sunshine, and felt in the small of my back the irritating influence of Mr. Jones's smile.
So we walked to the end of Palace-street, where I was to turn off to the right. In taking that direction, with Mr. Jones close at my right elbow, I must needs knock
