href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@35775@[email protected]#chap10" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">CHAPTER X

The House among the Pines

FIRST PERSON PARAMOUNT

I

THE HOUSE IN CURZON STREET

My name is Agar Hume. My mother died when I was two years old. My father was the first violin in a second-rate music hall orchestra at Birmingham. He had once been a gentleman. He taught me French and how to play the flute. Between whiles he treated me like a dog. He wished me to become a member of his orchestra. My tastes, however, inclined to the stage. From early childhood I had possessed an almost perfect talent for mimicry. When I was nineteen years old, there was not an artist I had ever seen whom I could not represent to the life. One morning, about that time, in a fit of drunken rage my father gave me a terrible beating. I was then somewhat undersized—the result of irregular meals and bad food. I could neither retaliate nor defend myself. That night, as soon as my father had set off for the theatre, I ran away from home. I walked to Liverpool, and easily obtained employment at a music hall, where for three years I nightly imitated every actor and person of note whom the Liverpudlians wished to see. They grew tired of me at last and ceased to applaud my turn. I was promptly discharged by the management. Not caring to return to Birmingham, as my father had never forgiven me for deserting him, I made my way to London. I had saved a little money, and I thought that before it was spent I should procure a new engagement. The London market, however, was simply glutted with mimics, and before three months had passed I was penniless and still without a place. I haunted the theatres and employment agencies to no purpose. I was obliged to pawn my wardrobe, and at last a day came when I stood in the Strand owning nothing in the world but the suit of decent black I wore and my make-up box, which I carried in my hand because I had been turned out of my lodging-house that morning. I had not tasted food for four-and-twenty hours. I mentioned the latter fact ten minutes later to the manager of the next employment agency I visited. He had seen me so often that he knew me well, and he sympathized with my misfortune.

"Look here," said he, "if you are so hard up as all that, your only hope is to try your hand at something else. There is no chance for you at the theatres."

"I'm ready to turn boot-black!" I assured him.

"Well, well," said he, "a client of ours inquired yesterday for a valet. If you are really willing to put your pride in your pocket, I shall personally recommend you."

"I have no pride," I answered, "but I have also no experience."

He gave me a pitying smile. "Certainly not, but I believe that you are hungry—you look it!"

I was so hungry indeed that I thanked him warmly, and a few minutes afterwards I was walking as fast as I could towards Piccadilly with a letter in my pocket which bore the following address:—"Sir William Dagmar, Bart., 22a Curzon Street."

It was a small two-storied house, but it looked good, and I raised the knocker tremblingly.

A footman opened the door, to whom I gave my precious letter. He was civil because my clothes were well cut, and because I have the appearance of a gentleman. He invited me to a seat in an anteroom, and went off with my letter. When he returned, he carried his nose in the air, and his bearing was unaffectedly contemptuous.

"Huh!" he sniffed. "Step this way, but wipe your shoes on that mat first, please!"

I obeyed. He led me to a room on the first floor, opened the second door and announced in an oily voice

"The valet—Sir William."

Had I been a man of pride, I should have felt offended. As it was I walked into the room quite undisturbed, and with the most respectful mien I was able to assume.

The door closed behind me. The walls of the room, which was a large one, were piled from floor to ceiling with books, which ran in long straggling tiers, on shelves of carven oak. Books littered the carpet about the bases of the shelves. Rows of books lying one upon another, were heaped upon an immense table that occupied the centre of the room. Dust covered the books. A revolving bookcase crammed with books stood beside the chair upon which Sir William Dagmar sat. The apartment resembled, except for its air of general untidiness, nothing so much as a corner in the British Museum library. It possessed no windows, and was lighted from the roof like a gallery of pictures. I am a keenly observant man by nature, and from a lad I had persistently developed my peculiar faculty for the sake of my profession. At that time it was only necessary for me to glance at a place, person or thing in order to photograph its character and details on my mind. A second after I entered the room I looked at Sir William, but I had already said to myself: "A book-worm!"

So he appeared, and nothing to my surprise. He was of middle size and age. His features were regular and even handsome. His complexion was yellow and bloodless. He possessed a broad rather high forehead, and a large head covered with a mass of stubbly iron-grey hair. His nose was long and straight. His chin was a trifle weak. He was clean shaven. The key to his face was his mouth. It was large and sensitive. It had a trick of screwing itself up at the corners, and sending the upper lip into a curl of sneering querulousness, which I immediately experienced an itch to imitate. His teeth were long, even and very white, but the right incisor was lacking, and this circumstance made his voice sound slightly sibilant. His eyes were grey like my own, but they were set deeper in his head, and the man had twice my weight of years stooping his narrow shoulders.

He regarded me appraisingly. "I need a valet," he began. His voice was querulous like his mouth.

"Yes, sir," said I.

"You are recommended by Mr. Bray. You look young—rather too young. Why did you leave your last place?"

"My employer could not afford to keep me any longer. I was with him for three years, sir."

"Show me your references."

I had expected that demand. "I gave them to Mr. Bray, sir," I answered glibly. "Did he not send them on to you? He said he would enclose them in his letter!"

Sir William shook his head, and a bored look crept into his eyes. "I suppose they are all right," he muttered wearily. "I like your voice; it is soft. If you want to please me never raise it. My head aches very easily."

"I shall remember, sir," I answered in my mildest accents.

"When could you commence your duties?"

"At once, sir."

He raised his eyebrows, then nodded languidly.

"Very well. I shall give you a trial. Your wages will be £5 a month and your keep. Butts, the footman, will show you to your room and explain my ways to you. I shall ring when I require you."

"Thank you, sir."

"By the way, Bray writes me that your name is Agar Hume. I dislike it. Once upon a time I had a friend named Hume. I shall call you Brown."

"Very good, sir."

I backed out of the room, and as I half expected found the footman in the passage. His air of defiant indifference informed me that he had been listening through the keyhole. He was an owlish looking creature, but there were garrulous wrinkles about his eyes and lips which determined me to treat him civilly.

"Sir William has engaged me, Mr. Butts," I said in a low voice. "Will you be good enough to show me to my room. I am to start work at once."

"You won't stay here long," he mumbled as he tip-toed off. "They never do."

I had no intention of staying one day longer than I could help. But I did not confide the fact to Butts. As I followed him my one thought was to get my hands on food as soon as possible. I was