Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned his steps up Bedford Street. “Why not?” mused Johnny. “Nobody else seems to have a suspicion. Why should they? I’ll never hear the last of it if they find me out. But why should they find me out? Well, something’s got to be done.”
Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus Club he was undecided for a moment, then took his courage in both hands and plunged through the swing doors.
“Is Mr. Herring—Mr. Jack Herring—here?”
“Find him in the smoking-room, Mr. Bulstrode,” answered old Goslin, who was reading the evening paper.
“Oh, would you mind asking him to step out a moment?”
Old Goslin looked up, took off his spectacles, rubbed them, put them on again.
“Please say Miss Bulstrode—Mr. Bulstrode’s sister.”
Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest argument on Hamlet—was he really mad?
“A lady to see you, Mr. Herring,” announced old Goslin.
“A what?”
“Miss Bulstrode—Mr. Bulstrode’s sister. She’s waiting in the hall.”
“Never knew he had a sister,” said Jack Herring, rising.
“Wait a minute,” said Harry Bennett. “Shut that door. Don’t go.” This to old Goslin, who closed the door and returned. “Lady in a heliotrope dress with a lace collar, three flounces on the skirt?”
“That’s right, Mr. Bennett,” agreed old Goslin.
“It’s the Babe himself!” asserted Harry Bennett.
The question of Hamlet’s madness was forgotten.
“Was in at Stinchcombe’s this morning,” explained Harry Bennett; “saw the clothes on the counter addressed to him. That’s the identical frock. This is just a ‘try on’—thinks he’s going to have a lark with us.”
The Autolycus Club looked round at itself.
“I can see verra promising possibilities in this, provided the thing is properly managed,” said the Wee Laddie, after a pause.
“So can I,” agreed Jack Herring. “Keep where you are, all of you. ’Twould be a pity to fool it.”
The Autolycus Club waited. Jack Herring re-entered the room.
“One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my life,” explained Jack Herring in a whisper. “Poor girl left Derbyshire this morning to come and see her brother; found him out—hasn’t been seen at his lodgings since three o’clock; fears something may have happened to him. Landlady gone to Romford to see her mother; strange woman in charge, won’t let her in to wait for him.”
“How sad it is when trouble overtakes the innocent and helpless!” murmured Somerville the Briefless.
“That’s not the worst of it,” continued Jack. “The dear girl has been robbed of everything she possesses, even of her umbrella, and hasn’t got a sou; hasn’t had any dinner, and doesn’t know where to sleep.”