# The Agony Column/Chapter 5

pp. 81–113.

### CHAPTER V

HIS daughter heard these words with a sinking heart. She had a most unhappy picture of herself boarding a ship and sailing out of Liverpool or Southampton, leaving the mystery that so engrossed her thoughts forever unsolved. Wisely she diverted her father's thoughts toward the question of food. She had heard, she said, that Simpson's, in the Strand, was an excellent place to dine. They would go there, and walk. She suggested a short detour that would carry them through Adelphi Terrace. It seemed she had always wanted to see Adelphi Terrace.
As they passed through that silent Street she sought to guess, from an inspection of the grim forbidding house fronts, back of which lay the lovely garden, the romantic mystery. But the houses were so very much like one another. Before one of them, she noted, a taxi waited.
After dinner her father pleaded for a music-hall as against what he called “some highfaluting, teacup English play.” He won. Late that night, as they rode back to the Carlton, special editions were being proclaimed in the streets. Germany was mobilizing!
The girl from Texas retired, wondering what epistolary surprise the morning would bring forth. It brought forth this:
    Dear Daughter of the Senate: Or is it Congress? I could not quite decide. But surely in one or the other of those august bodies your father sits when he is not at home in Texas or viewing Europe through his daughter's eyes. One look at him and I had gathered that.
    But Washington is far from London, isn't it? And it is London that interests us most—though father's constituents must not know that. It is really a wonderful, an astounding city, once you have got the feel of the tourist out of your soul. I have been reading the most enthralling essays on it, written by a newspaper man who first fell desperately in love with it at seven—an age when the whole glittering town was symbolized for him by the fried-fish shop at the corner of the High Street. With him I have been going through its gray and furtive thoroughfares in the dead of night, and sometimes we have kicked an ash-barrel and sometimes a romance. Some day I might show that London to you—guarding you, of course, from the ash-barrels, if you are that kind. On second thoughts, you aren't.
    But I know that it is of Adelphi Terrace and a late captain in the Indian Army that you want to hear now. Yesterday, after my discovery of those messages in the Mail and the call of Captain Hughes, passed without incident. Last night I mailed you my third letter, and after wandering for a time amid the alternate glare and gloom of the city, I went back to my rooms and smoked on my balcony while about me the inmates of six million homes sweltered in the heat.
    Nothing happened. I felt a bit disappointed, a bit cheated, as one might feel on the first night spent at home after many successive visits to exciting plays. To-day, the first of August dawned, and still all was quiet. Indeed, it was not until this evening that further developments in the sudden death of Captain Fraser-Freer arrived to disturb me. These developments are strange ones surely, and I shall hasten to relate them.
    I dined to-night at a little place in Soho. My waiter was Italian, and on him I amused myself with the Italian in Ten Lessons of which I am foolishly proud. We talked of Fiesole, where he had lived. Once I rode from Fiesole down the hill to Florence in the moonlight. I remember endless walls on which hung roses, fresh and blooming. I remember a gaunt nunnery and two gray-robed sisters clanging shut the gates. I remember the searchlight from the military encampment, playing constantly over the Arno and the roofs—the eye of Mars that, here in Europe, never closes. And always the flowers nodding above me, stooping now and then to brush my face. I came to think that at the end Paradise, and not a second-rate hotel, was waiting. One may still take that ride, I fancy. Some day—some day—
    I dined in Soho. I came back to Adelphi Terrace in the hot, reeking August dusk, reflecting that the mystery in which I was involved was, after a fashion, standing still. In front of our house I noticed a taxi waiting. I thought nothing of it as I entered the murky hallway and climbed the familiar stairs.
    My door stood open. It was dark in my study, save for the reflection of the lights of London outside. As I crossed the threshold there came to my nostrils the faint sweet perfume of lilacs. There are no lilacs in our garden, and if there were it is not the season. No, this perfume had been brought there by a woman—a woman who sat at my desk and raised her head as I entered.
    “You will pardon this intrusion,” she said in the correct careful English of one who has learned the speech from a book. “I have come for a brief word with you—then I shall go.”
    I could think of nothing to say. I stood gaping like a schoolboy.
    “My word,” the woman went on, “is in the nature of advice. We do not always like those who give us advice. None the less, I trust that you will listen.”
    I found my tongue then.
    “I am listening,” I said stupidly. “But first—a light—” And I moved toward the matches on the mantelpiece.
    Quickly the woman rose and faced me. I saw then that she wore a veil—not a heavy veil, but a fluffy, attractive thing that was yet sufficient to screen her features from me.
    “I beg of you,” she cried, “no light!” And as I paused, undecided, she added, in a tone which suggested lips that pout: “It is such a little thing to ask—surely you will not refuse.”
    I suppose I should have insisted. But her voice was charming, her manner perfect, and that odor of lilacs reminiscent of a garden I knew long ago, at home.
    “Very well,” said I.
    “Oh—I am grateful to you,” she answered. Her tone changed. “I understand that, shortly after seven o'clock last Thursday evening, you heard in the room above you the sounds of a struggle. Such has been your testimony to the police?”
    “It has,” said I.
    “Are you quite certain as to the hour?” I felt that she was smiling at me. “Might it not have been later—or earlier?”
    “I am sure it was just after seven,” I replied. “I'll tell you why: I had just returned from dinner and while I was unlocking the door Big Ben on the House of Parliament struck—”
    She raised her hand.
    “No matter,” she said, and there was a touch of iron in her voice. “You are no longer sure of that. Thinking it over, you have come to the conclusion that it may have been barely six-thirty when you heard the noise of a struggle.”
    “Indeed?” said I. I tried to sound sarcastic, but I was really too astonished by her tone.
    “Yes—indeed!” she replied. “That is what you will tell Inspector Bray when next you see him. 'It may have been six-thirty,' you will tell him. 'I have thought it over and I am not certain.'”
    “Even for a very charming lady,” I said “I can not misrepresent the facts in a matter so important. It was after seven—”
    “I am not asking you to do a favor for a lady,” she replied. “I am asking you to do a favor for yourself. If you refuse the consequences may be most unpleasant.”
    “I'm rather at a loss—” I began.
    She was silent for a moment. Then she turned and I felt her looking at me through the veil.
    “Who was Archibald Enwright?” she demanded. My heart sank. I recognized the weapon in her hands. “The police,” she went on, “do not yet know that the letter of introduction you brought to the captain was signed by a man who addressed Fraser-Freer as Dear Cousin, but who is completely unknown to the family. Once that information reaches Scotland Yard, your chance of escaping arrest is slim.
    “They may not be able to fasten this crime upon you, but there will be complications most distasteful. One's liberty is well worth keeping—and then, too, before the case ends, there will be wide publicity—”
    “Well?” said I.
    “That is why you are going to suffer a lapse of memory in the matter of the hour at which you heard that struggle. As you think it over, it is going to occur to you that it may have been six-thirty, not seven. Otherwise—”
    “Go on.”
    “Otherwise the letter of introduction you gave to the captain will be sent anonymously to Inspector Bray.”
    “You have that letter!” I cried.
    “Not I,” she answered. “But it will be sent to Bray. It will be pointed out to him that you were posing under false colors. You could not escape!”
    I was most uncomfortable. The net of suspicion seemed closing in about me. But I was resentful, too, of the confidence in this woman's voice.
    “None the less,” said I, “I refuse to change my testimony. The truth is the truth—”
    The woman had moved to the door. She turned.
    “To-morrow,” she replied, “it is not unlikely you will see Inspector Bray. As I said, I came here to give you advice. You had better take it. What does it matter—a half-hour this way or that? And the difference is prison for you. Good night.”
    She was gone. I followed into the hall. Below, in the street, I heard the rattle of her taxi.
    I went back into my room and sat down. I was upset, and no mistake. Outside my windows the continuous symphony of the city played on—the busses, the trains, the never-silent voices. I gazed out. What a tremendous acreage of dank brick houses and dank British souls! I felt horribly alone. I may add that I felt a bit frightened, as though that great city were slowly closing in on me.
    Who was this woman of mystery? What place had she held in the life—and perhaps in the death—of Captain Fraser-Freer? Why should she come boldly to my rooms to make her impossible demand?
    I resolved that, even at the risk of my own comfort, I would stick to the truth. And to that resolve I would have clung had I not shortly received another visit—this one far more inexplicable, far more surprising, than the first.
    It was about nine o'clock when Walters tapped at my door and told me two gentlemen wished to see me. A moment later into my study walked Lieutenant Norman Fraser-Freer and a fine old gentleman with a face that suggested some faded portrait hanging on an aristocrat's wall. I had never seen him before.
    “I hope it is quite convenient for you to see us,” said young Fraser-Freer.
    I assured him that it was. The boy's face was drawn and haggard; there was terrible suffering in his eyes, yet about him hung, like a halo, the glory of a great resolution.
    “May I present my father?” he said. “General Fraser-Freer, retired. We have come on a matter of supreme importance—”
    The old man muttered something I could not catch. I could see that he had been hard hit by the loss of his elder son. I asked them to be seated; the general complied, but the boy walked the floor in a manner most distressing.
    “I shall not be long,” he remarked. “Nor at a time like this is one in the mood to be diplomatic. I will only say, sir, that we have come to ask of you a great—a very great favor indeed. You may not see fit to grant it. If that is the case we can not well reproach you. But if you can—”
    “It is a great favor, sir!” broke in the general. “And I am in the odd position where I do not know whether you will serve me best by granting it or by refusing to do so.”
    “Father—please—if you don't mind—” The boy's voice was kindly but determined. He turned to me.
    “Sir—you have testified to the police that it was a bit past seven when you heard in the room above the sounds of the struggle which—which— You understand.”
    In view of the mission of the caller who had departed a scant hour previously, the boy's question startled me.
    “Such was my testimony,” I answered. “It was the truth.”
    “Naturally,” said Lieutenant Fraser-Freer. “But—er—as a matter of fact, we are here to ask that you alter your testimony. Could you, as a favor to us who have suffered so cruel a loss—a favor we should never forget—could you not make the hour of that struggle half after six?”
    I was quite overwhelmed.
    “Your—reasons?” I managed at last to ask.
    “I am not able to give them to you in full,” the boy answered. “I can only say this: It happens that at seven o'clock last Thursday night I was dining with friends at the Savoy—friends who would not be likely to forget the occasion.”
    The old general leaped to his feet.
    “Norman,” he cried, “I can not let you do this thing! I simply will not—”
    “Hush, father,” said the boy wearily. “We have threshed it all out. You have promised—”
    The old man sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands.
    “If you are willing to change your testimony,” young Fraser-Freer went on to me, “I shall at once confess to the police that it was I who—who murdered my brother. They suspect me. They know that late last Thursday afternoon I purchased a revolver, for which, they believe, at the last moment I substituted the knife. They know that I was in debt to him; that we had quarreled about money matters; that by his death I, and I alone, could profit.”
    He broke off suddenly and came toward me, holding out his arms with a pleading gesture I can never forget.
    “Do this for me!” he cried. “Let me confess! Let me end this whole horrible business here and now.”
    Surely no man had ever to answer such an appeal before.
    “Why?” I found myself saying, and over and over I repeated it—“Why? Why?”
    The lieutenant faced me, and I hope never again to see such a look in a man's eyes.
    “I loved him!” he cried. “That is why. For his honor, for the honor of our family, I am making this request of you. Believe me, it is not easy. I can tell you no more than that. You knew my brother?”
    “Slightly.”
    “Then, for his sake—do this thing I ask.”
    “But—murder—”
    “You heard the sounds of a struggle. I shall say that we quarreled—that I struck in self-defense.” He turned to his father. “It will mean only a few years in prison—I can bear that!” he cried. “For the honor of our name!”
    The old man groaned, but did not raise his head. The boy walked back and forth over my faded carpet like a lion caged. I stood wondering what answer I should make.
    “I know what you are thinking,” said the lieutenant. “You can not credit your ears. But you have heard correctly. And now—as you might put it—it is up to you. I have been in your country.” He smiled pitifully. “I think I know you Americans. You are not the sort to refuse a man when he is sore beset—as I am.”
    I looked from him to the general and back again.
    “I must think this over,” I answered, my mind going at once to Colonel Hughes. “Later—say to-morrow—you shall have my decision.”
    “To-morrow,” said the boy, “we shall both be called before Inspector Bray. I shall know your answer then—and I hope with all my heart it will be yes.”
    There were a few mumbled words of farewell and he and the broken old man went out. As soon as the street door closed behind them I hurried to the telephone and called a number Colonel Hughes had given me. It was with a feeling of relief that I heard his voice come back over the wire. I told him I must see him at once. He replied that by a singular chance he had been on the point of starting for my rooms.
    In the half-hour that elapsed before the coming of the colonel I walked about like a man in a trance. He was barely inside my door when I began pouring out to him the story of those two remarkable visits. He made little comment on the woman's call beyond asking me whether I could describe her; and he smiled when I mentioned lilac perfume. At mention of young Fraser-Freer's preposterous request he whistled.
    “By gad!” he said. “Interesting—most interesting! I am not surprised, however. That boy has the stuff in him.”
    “But what shall I do?” I demanded.
    Colonel Hughes smiled.
    “It makes little difference what you do,” he said. “Norman Fraser-Freer did not kill his brother, and that will be proved in due time.” He considered for a moment. “Bray no doubt would be glad to have you alter your testimony, since he is trying to fasten the crime on the young lieutenant. On the whole, if I were you, I think that when the opportunity comes to-morrow I should humor the inspector.”
    “You mean—tell him I am no longer certain as to the hour of that struggle?”
    “Precisely. I give you my word that young Fraser-Freer will not be permanently incriminated by such an act on your part. And incidentally you will be aiding me.”
    “Very well,” said I. “But I don't understand this at all.”
    “No—of course not. I wish I could explain to you; but I can not. I will say this—the death of Captain Fraser-Freer is regarded as a most significant thing by the War Office. Thus it happens that two distinct hunts for his assassin are under way—one conducted by Bray, the other by me. Bray does not suspect that I am working on the case and I want to keep him in the dark as long as possible. You may choose which of these investigations you wish to be identified with.”
    “I think,” said I, “that I prefer you to Bray.”
    “Good boy!” he answered. “You have not gone wrong. And you can do me a service this evening, which is why I was on the point of coming here, even before you telephoned me. I take it that you remember and could identify the chap who called himself Archibald Enwright—the man who gave you that letter to the captain?”
    “I surely could,” said I.
    “Then, if you can spare me an hour, get your hat.”
    And so it happens, lady of the Carlton, that I have just been to Limehouse. You do not know where Limehouse is and I trust you never will. It is picturesque; it is revolting; it is colorful and wicked. The weird odors of it still fill my nostrils; the sinister portrait of it is still before my eyes. It is the Chinatown of London—Limehouse. Down in the dregs of the town—with West India Dock Road for its spinal column—it lies, redolent of ways that are dark and tricks that are vain. Not only the heathen Chinee so peculiar shuffles through its dim-lit alleys, but the scum of the earth, of many colors and of many climes. The Arab and the Hindu, the Malayan and the Jap, black men from the Congo and fair men from Scandinavia—these you may meet there—the outpourings of all the ships that sail the Seven Seas. There many drunken beasts, with their pay in their pockets, seek each his favorite sin; and for those who love most the opium, there is, at all too regular intervals, the Sign of the Open Lamp.
    We went there, Colonel Hughes and I. Up and down the narrow Causeway, yellow at intervals with the light from gloomy shops, dark mostly because of tightly closed shutters through which only thin jets found their way, we walked until we came and stood at last in shadow outside the black doorway of Harry San Li's so-called restaurant. We waited ten, fifteen minutes; then a man came down the Causeway and paused before that door. There was something familiar in his jaunty walk. Then the faint glow of the lamp that was the indication of Harry San's real business lit his pale face, and I knew that I had seen him last in the cool evening at Interlaken, where Limehouse could not have lived a moment, with the Jungfrau frowning down upon it.
    “Enwright?” whispered Hughes.
    “Not a doubt of it!” said I.
    “Good!” he replied with fervor.
    And now another man shuffled down the street and stood suddenly straight and waiting before the colonel.
    “Stay with him,” said Hughes softly. “Don't let him get out of your sight.”
    “Very good, sir,” said the man; and, saluting, he passed on up the stairs and whistled softly at that black depressing door.
    The clock above the Millwall Docks was striking eleven as the colonel and I caught a bus that should carry us back to a brighter, happier London. Hughes spoke but seldom on that ride; and, repeating his advice that I humor Inspector Bray on the morrow, he left me in the Strand.
    So, my lady, here I sit in my study, waiting for that most important day that is shortly to dawn. A full evening, you must admit. A woman with the perfume of lilacs about her has threatened that unless I lie I shall encounter consequences most unpleasant. A handsome young lieutenant has begged me to tell that same lie for the honor of his family, and thus condemn him to certain arrest and imprisonment. And I have been down into hell, to-night and seen Archibald Enwright, of Interlaken, conniving with the devil.
    I presume I should go to bed; but I know I can not sleep. To-morrow is to be, beyond all question, a red-letter day in the matter of the captain's murder. And once again, against my will, I am down to play a leading part.
    The symphony of this great, gray, sad city is a mere hum in the distance now, for it is nearly midnight. I shall mail this letter to you—post it, I should say, since I am in London—and then I shall wait in my dim rooms for the dawn. And as I wait I shall be thinking not always of the captain, or his brother, or Hughes, or Limehouse and Enwright, but often—oh, very often—of you.
    In my last letter I scoffed at the idea of a great war. But when we came back from Limehouse to-night the papers told us that the Kaiser had signed the order to mobilize. Austria in; Serbia in; Germany, Russia and France in. Hughes tells me that England is shortly to follow, and I suppose there is no doubt of it. It is a frightful thing—this future that looms before us; and I pray that for you at least it may hold only happiness.
    For, my lady, when I write good night, I speak it aloud as I write; and there is in my voice more than I dare tell you of now.
The Agony Column Man.
Not unwelcome to the violet eyes of the girl from Texas were the last words of this letter, read in her room that Sunday morning. But the lines predicting England's early entrance into the war recalled to her mind a most undesirable contingency. On the previous night, when the war extras came out confirming the forecast of his favorite bootblack, her usually calm father had shown signs of panic. He was not a man slow to act. And she knew that, putty though he was in her hands in matters which he did not regard as important, he could also be firm where he thought firmness necessary. America looked even better to him than usual, and he had made up his mind to go there immediately. There was no use in arguing with him.
At this point came a knock at her door and her father entered. One look at his face—red, perspiring and decidedly unhappy—served to cheer his daughter.
“Been down to the steamship offices,” he panted, mopping his bald head. “They're open to-day, just like it was a week day—but they might as well be closed. There's nothing doing. Every boat's booked up to the rails; we can't get out of here for two weeks—maybe more.”
“I'm sorry,” said his daughter.
“No, you ain't! You're delighted! You think it's romantic to get caught like this. Wish I had the enthusiasm of youth.” He fanned himself with a newspaper. “Lucky I went over to the express office yesterday and loaded up on gold. I reckon when the blow falls it'll be tolerable hard to cash checks in this man's town.”
“That was a good idea.”
“Ready for breakfast?” he inquired.
“Quite ready,” she smiled.
They went below, she humming a song from a revue, while he glared at her. She was very glad they were to be in London a little longer. She felt she could not go, with that mystery still unsolved.