Twelve Stories and a Dream by H. G. Wells (good romance books to read .TXT) 📖

was an itching of my face, which I could only relieve by violent grimacing—I tried to raise my hand, but the rustle of the sleeve alarmed me. After a time I had to desist from this relief also, because—happily in time—I discovered that my facial contortions were shifting my glasses down my nose. Their fall would, of course, have exposed me, and as it was they came to rest in an oblique position of by no means stable equilibrium. In addition I had a slight cold, and an intermittent desire to sneeze or sniff caused me inconvenience. In fact, quite apart from the extreme anxiety of my position, my physical discomfort became in a short time very considerable indeed. But I had to stay there motionless, nevertheless.”

After an interminable time, there began a chinking sound. This deepened into a rhythm: chink, chink, chink—twenty-five chinks—a rap on the writing-table, and a grunt from the owner of the stout legs. It dawned upon Mr. Ledbetter that this chinking was the chinking of gold. He became incredulously curious as it went on. His curiosity grew. Already, if that was the case, this extraordinary man must have counted some hundreds of pounds. At last Mr. Ledbetter could resist it no longer, and he began very cautiously to fold his arms and lower his head to the level of the floor, in the hope of peeping under the valance. He moved his feet, and one made a slight scraping on the floor. Suddenly the chinking ceased. Mr. Ledbetter became rigid. After a while the chinking was resumed. Then it ceased again, and everything was still, except Mr. Ledbetter's heart—that organ seemed to him to be beating like a drum.

The stillness continued. Mr. Ledbetter's head was now on the floor, and he could see the stout legs as far as the shins. They were quite still. The feet were resting on the toes and drawn back, as it seemed, under the chair of the owner. Everything was quite still, everything continued still. A wild hope came to Mr. Ledbetter that the unknown was in a fit or suddenly dead, with his head upon the writing-table....

The stillness continued. What had happened? The desire to peep became irresistible. Very cautiously Mr. Ledbetter shifted his hand forward, projected a pioneer finger, and began to lift the valance immediately next his eye. Nothing broke the stillness. He saw now the stranger's knees, saw the back of the writing-table, and then—he was staring at the barrel of a heavy revolver pointed over the writing-table at his head.

“Come out of that, you scoundrel!” said the voice of the stout gentleman in a tone of quiet concentration. “Come out. This side, and now. None of your hanky-panky—come right out, now.”

Mr. Ledbetter came right out, a little reluctantly perhaps, but without any hanky-panky, and at once, even as he was told.

“Kneel,” said the stout gentleman, “and hold up your hands.”

The valance dropped again behind Mr. Ledbetter, and he rose from all-fours and held up his hands. “Dressed like a parson,” said the stout gentleman. “I'm blest if he isn't! A little chap, too! You SCOUNDREL! What the deuce possessed you to come here to-night? What the deuce possessed you to get under my bed?”

He did not appear to require an answer, but proceeded at once to several very objectionable remarks upon Mr. Ledbetter's personal appearance. He was not a very big man, but he looked strong to Mr. Ledbetter: he was as stout as his legs had promised, he had rather delicately-chiselled small features distributed over a considerable area of whitish face, and quite a number of chins. And the note of his voice had a sort of whispering undertone.

“What the deuce, I say, possessed you to get under my bed?”

Mr. Ledbetter, by an effort, smiled a wan propitiatory smile. He coughed. “I can quite understand—” he said.

“Why! What on earth? It's SOAP! No!—you scoundrel. Don't you move that hand.”

“It's soap,” said Mr. Ledbetter. “From your washstand. No doubt it—”

“Don't talk,” said the stout man. “I see it's soap. Of all incredible things.”

“If I might explain—”

“Don't explain. It's sure to be a lie, and there's no time for explanations. What was I going to ask you? Ah! Have you any mates?”

“In a few minutes, if you—”

“Have you any mates? Curse you. If you start any soapy palaver I'll shoot. Have you any mates?”

“No,” said Mr. Ledbetter.

“I suppose it's a lie,” said the stout man. “But you'll pay for it if it is. Why the deuce didn't you floor me when I came upstairs? You won't get a chance to now, anyhow. Fancy getting under the bed! I reckon it's a fair cop, anyhow, so far as you are concerned.”

“I don't see how I could prove an alibi,” remarked Mr. Ledbetter, trying to show by his conversation that he was an educated man. There was a pause. Mr. Ledbetter perceived that on a chair beside his captor was a large black bag on a heap of crumpled papers, and that there were torn and burnt papers on the table. And in front of these, and arranged methodically along the edge were rows and rows of little yellow rouleaux—a hundred times more gold than Mr. Ledbetter had seen in all his life before. The light of two candles, in silver candlesticks, fell upon these. The pause continued. “It is rather fatiguing holding up my hands like this,” said Mr. Ledbetter, with a deprecatory smile.

“That's all right,” said the fat man. “But what to do with you I don't exactly know.”

“I know my position is ambiguous.”

“Lord!” said the fat man, “ambiguous! And goes about with his own soap, and wears a thundering great clerical collar. You ARE a blooming burglar, you are—if ever there was one!”

“To be strictly accurate,” said Mr. Ledbetter, and suddenly his glasses slipped off and clattered against his vest buttons.

The fat man changed countenance, a flash of savage resolution crossed his face, and something in the revolver clicked. He put his other hand to the weapon. And then he looked at Mr. Ledbetter, and his eye went down to the dropped pince-nez.

“Full-cock now, anyhow,” said the fat man, after a pause, and his breath seemed to catch. “But I'll tell you, you've never been so near death before. Lord! I'M almost glad. If it hadn't been that the revolver wasn't cocked you'd be lying dead there now.”

Mr. Ledbetter said nothing, but he felt that the room was swaying.

“A miss is as good as a mile. It's lucky for both of us it wasn't. Lord!” He blew noisily. “There's no need for you to go pale-green for a little thing like that.”

“If I can assure you, sir—” said Mr. Ledbetter, with an effort.

“There's only one thing to do. If I call in the police, I'm bust—a little game I've got on is bust. That won't do. If I tie you up and leave you again, the thing may be out to-morrow. Tomorrow's Sunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday—I've counted on three clear days. Shooting you's murder—and hanging; and