Act 1 — INTERLUDE

He was nothing better than a consumer of the fruits of the earth. “Dost thou then,” quoth I, “imply that we should name such a creature as this—as we do the drone in the bee-hive—a blot upon the community, a mere drone at home, and abroad a disgrace to the state?” “Even so, Socrates,” said he.—Plato.

The houses, which compose a street at no great distance from the trees of Gray’s Inn, are for the most part occupied by authors, artists, actors, and architects engaged, like Icarus, in making wings.

The first letter of our alphabet originated it is said from the hieroglyphic picture of an eagle. Followers of the four professions beginning with that letter are, strictly speaking, not wanted. Everybody must need letter B as represented by baker and butcher. But letter A suggests luxuries. The picture of the eagle is therefore appropriate. Authors, artists, actors, and architects must learn first to fly, and then to soar well above smaller birds, before they can win success.

The side posts of each door are studded with an amazing number of brass knobs, intended originally to be in communication with bells upon every floor, but at present restricted seemingly to the duty of exposing lilliputian milk-cans to the public view. These great houses, which in the time of the Georges were occupied by people of title, have become brick-and-mortar masks, hiding the sunken eye and hollow cheek of poverty, in addition to the shame of rake and harlot, from the view of the town. On the ground floor of Number 15 a middle-aged man was brushing a long-haired terrier beside the open window of a wide room panelled with oak. It was close upon ten o’clock, but breakfast was still waiting. The interior was moderately well furnished, although with the typical middle-class disregard for art. The pictures were for the most part prints depicting scenes of sport. There were also a few German photographs in doubtful taste, and one or two engravings of river scenery in blurred and fly-spotted frames. There was not a book to be seen, except one which was open upon the sofa, and that to judge by its broken back was in continual use. Its title was Ruff’s Guide to the Turf.

A well-built man of not more than thirty years, unbecomingly attired in a yellow dressing-gown and scarlet slippers entered the room. His haggard face, listless attitude, and general appearance of disgust with himself and his surroundings, suggested that he had been in the habit of guiding his life according to the traditions of the house. As the middle-aged man turned to welcome him, the profligate yawned profoundly and lowering himself into a chair pushed the hair off his forehead with an irritated gesture.

“So you’re here again,” he muttered. “Drayton, you’re a regular vampire, always after money or food. I suppose you would suck my blood literally, if you weren’t afraid of poisoning yourself. What is it this morning? Breakfast I suppose?”

The other—he was a poor scribbler, who made a precarious livelihood by contributing paragraphs to popular penny weeklies—stroked his stubbly chin, laughed, and removed the dog from the chair as carefully as through the animal had been made of precious porcelain.

“As a simple statement of fact I have slept upon your premises,” he said, indicating the sofa. “Have you forgotten who guided your weary footsteps homeward during the early hours of the morning?”

The profligate bent over the table and picked up a letter which was addressed to “Charles Conway, Esquire,” in copper-plate handwriting. He tore open the envelope, yawned again, and inquired of his companion whether at the time specified he, the questioner, had been very grossly drunk.

“A gentleman of private means never gets drunk,” said the parasite. “We apply that term to costermongers and coal-heavers. But you were, I fancy, rapidly approximating towards that Bacchic state which in classical language is described as vino gravatus. Even the policeman at the corner of the street, whom for some reason best known to yourself you insisted upon greeting most fraternally, would never, I am sure, admit that you were more than foot-sore; but then you presented him with a shilling, thereby obtaining your commission as captain. You wasted that shilling. I would have installed you as a Field Marshal for half the amount.”

“Eat the breakfast,” said Conway, as he transferred himself wearily to the sofa and unfolded his letter. “And don’t talk so much. My head is tender.”

Drayton hurried to the table and surrounded himself with victuals; but before beginning he looked across and suggested, “Better have something. Try a kidney and a piece of toast?”

“You can get me a bottle of beer and an apple,” said Conway in his jaded manner.

Drayton bustled to a cupboard, bent his rheumatic knees, and after an interval approached the sofa in the capacity of waiter, bearing the desired refreshment.

“A glass of milk would be more appropriate, considering the time of day, only you might insist upon having whiskey in it,” he said. “You will soon resemble Lord John Hervey, who, in this neighbourhood, and perhaps in this very room, breakfasted on an emetic, dined on a biscuit, and regaled himself once a week with an apple. Here is your ale—all white and yellow! You can imagine it is a poached egg.”

The younger man gave no heed to the parasite’s chatter. He was studying his letter with a frown. When it was finished he leaned back, drank his refreshment, looked at his watch, then read the letter again.

“Bring me the newspaper,” he commanded.

The scribbler was making famine in the land. He believed in eating well, entirely mistrusting the French proverb, which associates a good stomach with a bad heart, and pinning his faith rather upon the creed which teaches that virtuous folk have hearty appetites. His own poor line of business rarely afforded him the means for more than one substantial meal in the course of the day, and too often not that; so when opportunity was given to kill a hearty appetite without lightening his pocket he was never wont to be backward.

Rising obediently Drayton opened the newspaper, folded it with the sporting intelligence outward, and so handed it to his patron with the remark, “There is no change in the betting.”

Conway did not even glance at the sheet, which had been presented as a matter of course; but turning to the general news searched each column carefully. For several minutes there was silence, while the scribbler made ruin of the breakfast. Then Conway threw the paper down and resumed his former attitude.

“Give me a cigarette,” he ordered.

The other briskly left the table, complied with the demand, and as briskly returned. A coal cart rumbled by, and the Stentor in charge announced his business by a long ear-shattering yell.

The noise seemed to stir Conway into life. He paced across the room and set his back against the door. “Drayton,” he said, “I have heard some extraordinary news this morning. My uncle has been murdered.”

“Great Heavens!” exclaimed the writer, his jaws ceasing from their labours.

“Don’t worry your brain to find condolences,” said the other coolly. “I have never to my knowledge seen this particular relative, so I am in no need of sympathy, especially since I benefit by his death. But I want to know whether you have read anything of the murder of a Henry Reed? I see there is no mention in to-day’s paper.”

“Sympathy apart, it’s an awful business,” said Drayton, pouring himself out another cup of tea. “No, I don’t remember to have heard anything. How did it happen?”

“It seems, from the bare narrative here, to have been a remarkable affair altogether,” Conway answered. “My uncle returned from America only a few weeks ago, to take up his residence in an old house belonging to him which had not been occupied for ages. Last Sunday morning he was discovered by the milk-woman, lying dead across the threshold of the hall-door. It appears that the house has a queer sort of reputation, and it was at first supposed he had died of fright. But at the inquest it was shown that he had been strangled. And the curious part of it is that no stranger had been seen in the place, and it is impossible to suspect any of the inhabitants of the village.”

“The mystery of the haunted house,” muttered Drayton professionally. “Perhaps there will be a chance for me to do something here. Where is the place, Mr. Conway?”

The younger man came away from the door without answering and walked up and down, swinging the tassels of his dressing-gown. Suddenly he sat down at the table and poured himself out some tea.

“That’s right,” said the scribbler approvingly. “Nothing half so stimulating as tea. I hope I have left enough.”

Conway filled a cup and drank off the contents. While doing so he kept his eyes fixed upon two grotesque objects above the chimney-piece, one on either side of a picture which depicted Isinglass winning the Derby; and when he set the cup down he remained in the same posture, staring at a pair of brown masks representing Comedy and Tragedy.

“My head is full of wheels,” he muttered. “Come and hit me, Drayton, that I may be sure I am alive. I must have played the fool badly last night. I remember coming back from Sandown, and driving to some restaurant in the Strand. The next thing I can recall is groping round my room for a drink of water. My body aches and pricks, and my head feels as heavy as lead, and my eyes—Great Heavens! are those faces laughing at me?”

The elder man had finished eating at last. He came round the table and placed his hand soothingly upon the profligate’s arm.

“Come over to the window and get some air,” he said quietly. “You have been making a hot pace these last few months. You’ll be breaking if you don’t hold up.”

“Look!” muttered Conway, pointing at the masks.

“Turn your back on them,” said the scribbler. “What are you going to do about your uncle’s death?”

Again Conway disregarded the question. Turning from the wall to the furrowed features of his poverty-stricken companion, he exclaimed thickly, “Sit down, Drayton, and don’t bother me. Do you know why I have those masks hanging there? They are family heirlooms, copies I have been told of a pair made in Nuremburg, during the eighteenth century, by a crazy toy-seller. These belonged to my mother before her marriage, and her father had a pair like them.”

“Where are the originals?” inquired the listener.

“They have been destroyed. There was something uncanny about them, but beyond that I know nothing. This is the crest of the Reeds.”

Conway drew a ring from his little finger and held it out with an unsteady hand. The other took it and saw a white cameo, showing two masks, leaning together, a cap and bells over the forehead of the one, a dagger over the other. He returned the ring, with the grave remark, “But you are not a Reed.”

“My mother was. The family emigrated to America, and there my mother married into the Conway family, and returned with her husband to England. My uncle leaves his property to me, not because he could have loved me, but I suppose there was no one else to whom he could leave it.”

“Go down and see the place. The change will pick you up,” suggested the elder man. “It isn’t probable you will live there?”

“What, give up London to rot away in a lonely country house?” said Conway contemptuously. “Is it likely? If I cannot let the place I shall try to sell it. What are you doing with yourself to-day?”

“The usual thing,” replied the man who lived by his poor wits. “The British Museum reading-room, in chase of a guinea. I have earned nothing this week.”

“You shall have a guinea, if you will pack my bag and take it to Paddington. I am going to see my late uncle’s lawyer, and will meet you at the station about noon. You can occupy these rooms until I come back.”

The literary adventurer closed with this offer promptly; and a few minutes after mid-day a train drew out of London, carrying the profligate Conway towards the influence of the Strath.