The Man Who Lost Himself Part 26

Only just those three words, yet they set him off.

"Ought I? Well, what of yourself? She told me last night things about _you_."

"About me. What things?"

"Never mind."

"But I do," she stopped and he stopped.

"I mind very much. What things did she tell you?"

"Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and that though I was bad you were worse."

Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train when she stopped dead like a pointer.

"That's them," she said, in a hard, tense whisper.

Jones looked.

A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella under his arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were making their way through the crowd towards the train.

The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she.

It was then that Venetia's effect upon him acted as the contents of the white-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the blue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder.

Venetia saw his face.

"Don't make a scene," she cried.

That was the stirring of the spoon.

He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked a powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played the part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their "power" and manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips.

Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at Joe Hennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger.

He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, right under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella--and then--swift as light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of the jaw.

The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under them, then, shouting for help--that was the humorous and pitiable part of it--scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again.

Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally injured.

The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds.

You can fancy the scene.

Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the display--and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds to see worse--were moving away together through the throng, the floored one with arms still out, was murmuring: "Brandee--brandee," into the ear of a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones' side.

Jones took him apart a few steps.

"I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, in a half whisper. "That guy has got what he wanted--never mind what he was doing--kick the beast awake and ask him if he wants to prosecute."

The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who was now leaning on one arm.

"Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?" asked the constable.

"Nichevo," murmured the other. "No. Brandee."

"Thought so," said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with the constable.

"My address is Carlton House Terrace," said he. "When you get that chap on his pins you can tell him to come there and I'll give him another dose. Here's a sovereign for you."

"Thanks, your Lords.h.i.+p," said the guardian of the Peace, "you landed him fine, I will say. I didn't see the beginning of the sc.r.a.p, but I saw the knock out--you won't have any more bother with him."

"I don't think so," said Jones.

He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind, all his evil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting jaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circ.u.mstance and the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when someone ran up from behind.

It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering.

"Teresa is in the car--You have done it now--you have done it now. What _made_ you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open station--before everyone--you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace on us--on _me_."

"Oh, shut up," said Jones.

He sighted the car, ran to it and opened the door. A whimpering bundle in the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off.

"Oh! oh! oh!" sighed and murmured the bundle.

Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in and kissed it. Then he turned to Venetia who had followed him.

"Get in," he said.

She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put her head out of the window:

"Home," cried she to the chauffeur.

Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then he began to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in a weird sort of monologue.

"All this is nothing," said he, "you must both forget it. When you hear what I have to tell you to-morrow you won't bother to remember all this.

No one that counts saw that, they were all strangers and making for the cars--I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this--I must have a meeting of the whole family to-morrow, to-morrow morning. Not about this affair, about something else, something entirely to do with me. I have been trying to explain all day--tried to write it out but couldn't. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you all out of time."

Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate.

"I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it--I hate him--oh, Ju-Ju, if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it, never, never, never."

"I know," he replied, "but it was not my fault leaving you like that. I had to go. You will know everything to-morrow--when you hear all you will very likely never speak to me again--though I am innocent enough, Lord knows."

Then came Venetia's voice: