The Late Tenant (Supernatural Mystery). Tracy Louis

      CHAPTER IV

      “JOHANN STRAUSS”

       Table of Contents

      On Monday morning David made the acquaintance of the genus “housekeeper,” when the woman recommended by Dibbin arrived to take him in hand. He had thought that she would sleep in the place, and had rather looked forward to the human companionship, for nothing is more cut off from the world of the living than a flat, if one is alone in it, especially through the watches of the night. Surely, if there are ghosts in want of undisturbed house-room, every bachelor’s flat must be haunted.

      Mrs. Grover, the housekeeper, however, said that “sleeping in” was not the arrangement suggested to her by Dibbin, since there were “the children to be looked after.” David, for his part, would not let it appear that he cared at all; so Mrs. Grover, a busy little fat woman, set to work making things rattle, on an understanding of “sleeping out” and freedom for church services o’ Sunday.

      This Monday was David’s appointed day for beginning work. But he did not prosper very well. Plenty of paper, lots of ink, and a new gold pen make no Shakespeare. And it is always hard to begin, even when the mind does not wander. But Violet Mordaunt had brown eyes, so soft, so grave, as those that beam with pity over the dying. She was more beautiful than her sister, whose face, too, David could see through the back of his head. Also, Van Hupfeldt was undoubtedly a more elegant object for the eye of woman to rest upon than David Harcourt.

      David wondered if Van Hupfeldt was engaged to Violet. He had certainly spoken to her at the grave with much tender gallantry of manner, as if something was understood between them. And since Violet’s mother sent this man to seek her in his carriage, that must mean that they were on familiar terms; unless, indeed, the mother was pressingly anxious about Violet, could not go herself, and had no one else to win the young woman home from her sister’s grave. Such questionings were the cause of long pauses between the writing of David’s sentences. He was glad when something interrupted—when the bell rang, and Dibbin was ushered in.

      “I have looked in for one minute on the subject of that—grate,” said the agent. “Do not disturb yourself, I beg. Well, I see that Mrs. Grover is duly in her place, and you as snug here as a bird in its nest.”

      “So snug,” said David, “that I feel stifled. It beats me how people can get so accustomed to this sort of prison as not even to remember any longer that they are in prison. No air, no room to stretch, coal-dust in your very soul, and even at night in your bed!”

      “Dash it all, don’t say it.”

      “Say what?”

      “Were you about to refer to any fresh experiences?”

      “Of the ghost? Not a bit of it!” said David. “I have seen, heard, or smelled nothing more of anything.”

      “Good, good!” went on Dibbin, softly. “Keep on like that, and we shall pull through yet. I find you are well stocked with violets, meantime.”

      David laughed a little uneasily, and said “Yes”—no more. Whiffs of violets in a lonely flat, for which one can’t account, are not altogether pleasant things. David had therefore surrounded himself with violets, in order, when he was greeted with a scent of violets, to be able to say to himself that the scent came from those which he had bought. He had not admitted even to himself what his motive was in buying; nor would he admit it to Mr. Dibbin. There, however, the violets were in several pots, and their fragrance at once drew the notice of a visitor, for the London florist has an art to heighten dull nature in violets and much else.

      “Have a seat, Mr. Dibbin,” said David, “and let us talk.”

      “I am afraid I must be off,” began the other.

      “Well, have a B. and S. any way. I only want to hear from you whatever you can tell me of Mrs. and Miss Violet Mordaunt.”

      “What? You have discovered their names?” cried Dibbin with a start.

      “I have.”

      “Mr. Harcourt, you are a remarkable man,” said the agent with quiet certainty.

      “Oh, not too remarkable. But since I do know something, you might let yourself loose as to the rest, as I am interested. You have seen the mother, I know. Have you seen the daughter, too?”

      “Several times.”

      “Pretty girl, eh? Or what do you think?”

      “Well, I am getting an old man now,” said Dibbin; “but I have been young, and I think I can remember how I should have felt at twenty-five in the presence of such a being.”

      “Pretty, you think her, eh?”

      “Rather!”

      “Prettier than Gwendoline? Prettier than her sister?”

      “Well, I don’t know so much about that neither—different type—graver, softer in the eye and hair, taller, darker, not so young; but that poor dead girl was something to make the mouth water, too, sir—such a cut diamond! to see her in her full war-paint, turned out like a daisy!—in short, lovely beings, both of ’em, both of ’em.”

      “Fairly well fixed, the mother?”

      “You mean financially? Oh, I think so. Got a fine place down in Warwickshire, I know—not far from Kenilworth. Good old family, and that sort of thing.”

      “But how on earth this man Strauss, more or less an adventurer, I take it, could have got hold of such a girl, to the extent of drawing her from her happy home, and sending her on the stage. He didn’t marry her, Dibbin? He didn’t marry her?”

      “How can I say?” asked Dibbin, blinking. “We can all make a shrewd guess; but one can’t be absolutely certain, though the fact of her suicide would seem to be a sort of proof.”

      “What do the mother and Miss Mordaunt think of it? Do they assume that she was married? Or do they know enough of the world to guess that she was not? I suppose you don’t know.”

      “They know what the world thinks, I’m afraid,” answered Dibbin. “I am sure of that much. Yes, they know, they know. I have been with Mrs. Mordaunt a good many times, for one reason