‘Miss Dement, are you ill?’ he said.
It was not an exclamation; there was neither alarm nor solicitude in it. If he had added: ‘I suppose that is about what I am expected to say,’ he would hardly have expressed his sense of the situation more clearly. His manner filled me with shame and indignation, for I was suffering acutely. I wrenched my hand out of his, grasped the arm supporting me, and, pushing myself free, fell plump into the sand and sat helpless. My hat had fallen off in the struggle, and my hair tumbled about my face and shoulders in the most mortifying way.
‘Go away from me,’ I cried, half choking. ‘Oh, PLEASE go away, you – you Thug! How dare you think THAT when my leg is asleep?’
I actually said those identical words! And then I broke down and sobbed. Irene, I BLUBBERED!
His manner altered in an instant – I could see that much through my fingers and hair. He dropped on one knee beside me, parted the tangle of hair, and said, in the tenderest way: ‘My poor girl, God knows I have not intended to pain you. How should I? – I who love you – I who have loved you for – for years and years!’
He had pulled my wet hands away from my face and was covering them with kisses. My cheeks were like two coals, my whole face was flaming and, I think, steaming. What could I do? I hid it on his shoulder – there was no other place. And, oh, my dear friend, how my leg tingled and thrilled, and how I wanted to kick!
We sat so for a long time. He had released one of my hands to pass his arm about me again, and I possessed myself of my handkerchief and was drying my eyes and my nose. I would not look up until that was done; he tried in vain to push me a little away and gaze into my eyes. Presently, when it was all right, and it had grown a bit dark, I lifted my head, looked him straight in the eyes, and smiled my best – my level best, dear.
‘What do you mean,’ I said, ‘by “years and years”?’
‘Dearest,’ he replied, very gravely, very earnestly, ‘in the absence of the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the lank hair, the slouching gait, the rags, dirt, and youth, can you not – will you not understand? Gunny, I’m Dumps!’
In a moment I was upon my feet and he upon his. I seized him by the lapels of his coat and peered into his handsome face in the deepening darkness. I was breathless with excitement.
‘And you are not dead?’ I asked, hardly knowing what I said.
‘Only dead in love, dear. I recovered from the road agent’s bullet, but this, I fear, is fatal.’
‘But about Jack – Mr. Raynor? Don’t you know—’
‘I am ashamed to say, darling, that it was through that unworthy person’s invitation that I came here from Vienna.’
Irene, they have played it upon your affectionate friend,
MARY JANE DEMENT.
P.S. – The worst of it is that there is no mystery. That was an invention of Jack to arouse my curiosity and interest. James is not a Thug. He solemnly assures me that in all his wanderings he has never set foot in Sepoy.
The Coin of Dionysius (Ernest Bramah)[70]
It was eight o’clock at night and raining, scarcely a time when a business so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could hope to attract any customer, but a light was still showing in the small shop that bore over its window the name of Baxter, and in the even smaller office at the back the proprietor himself sat reading the latest Pall Mall[71]. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for presently the door bell gave its announcement, and throwing down his paper Mr. Baxter went forward.
As a matter of fact the dealer had been expecting someone and his manner as he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller of importance. But at the first glance towards his visitor the excess of deference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessed shopman in the presence of the casual customer.
‘Mr. Baxter, I think?’ said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping umbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner pocket. ‘You hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr. Carlyle – two years ago – I took up a case for you—’ The Coin of Dionysius
‘To be sure, Mr. Carlyle, the private detective—’
‘Inquiry agent,’ corrected Mr. Carlyle precisely.
‘Well,’ smiled Mr. Baxter, ‘for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I can do for you?’
‘Yes,’ replied his visitor; ‘it is my turn to consult you.’ He had taken a small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned something carefully out upon the counter. ‘What can you tell me about that?’
The dealer gave the coin a moment’s scrutiny.
‘There is no question about this,’ he replied. ‘It is a Sicilian tetradrachm[72] of Dionysius.’
‘Yes, I know that – I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tell you further that it’s supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave two hundred and fifty pounds for at the Brice sale in ’94.’
‘It seems to me that you can tell me more about it than I can tell you,’ remarked Mr. Baxter. ‘What is it that you really want to know?’
‘I want to know,’ replied Mr. Carlyle, ‘whether it is genuine or not.’
‘Has any doubt been cast upon it?’
‘Certain circumstances raised a suspicion – that is all.’
The dealer took another look at the tetradrachm through his magnifying glass, holding it by the edge with the careful touch of an expert. Then he shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance.
‘Of course I could make a guess—’
‘No, don’t,’ interrupted Mr. Carlyle hastily. ‘An arrest hangs on it and nothing short of certainty is any good to me.’
‘Is that so, Mr. Carlyle?’ said Mr. Baxter, with increased interest.
‘Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was a rare Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I’d stake my reputation on my opinion, but I do very little in the classical series.’
Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket.
‘I had been relying on you,’ he grumbled reproachfully. ‘Where on earth am I to go now?’
‘There is always the British Museum.’
‘Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?’
‘Now? No fear!’ replied Mr. Baxter. ‘Go round in the morning—’
‘But I must know to-night,’ explained the visitor, reduced to despair again. ‘To-morrow will be too late for the purpose.’
Mr. Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances.
‘You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now,’ he remarked. ‘I should have been gone these two hours