Adventures of Martin Hewitt, Third Series. Morrison Arthur
of it, and could by no means extract from the notes anything resembling an air. I considered the thing a little more, and half thought of trying Martin Hewitt’s office door, in case he might still be there and could offer a guess at the meaning of my smashed window and the scrap of paper. It was most probable, however, that he had gone home, and I was about resuming my social economy when Hewitt himself came in. He had stayed late to examine a bundle of papers in connection with a case just placed in his hands, and now, having finished, came to find if I were disposed for an evening stroll before turning in—a thing I was in the habit of. I handed him the paper and the piece of concrete, observing, “There’s a little job for you, Hewitt, instead of the stroll. What do those things mean?” And I told him the complete history of my smashed window.
Hewitt listened attentively, and examined both the paper and the fragment of paving. “You say these people made absolutely no sound whatever?” he asked.
“None but that of scuffling, and even that they seemed to do quietly.”
“Could you see whether or not the two men gagged the other, or placed their hands over his mouth?”
“No, they certainly didn’t do that. It was dark, of course, but not so dark as to prevent my seeing generally what they were doing.”
“And when you first looked out of the window after the smash, you called out, but got no answer, although the man you suppose to have thrown these things must have been there at the time, and alone?”
“That was so.”
Hewitt stood for half a minute in thought, and then said, “There’s something in this; what, I can’t guess at the moment, but something deep, I fancy. Are you sure you won’t come out now?”
On this my mind was made up. That dreadful volume had vanquished me altogether three times already, and if I let it go again it would haunt me like a nightmare. There was indeed very little left to read, and I determined to master that and draft my review before I slept. So I told Hewitt that I was sure, and that I should stick to my work.
“Very well,” he said; “then perhaps you will lend me these articles?” holding up the paper and the stone as he spoke.
“Delighted to lend ’em, I’m sure,” I said. “If you get no more melody out of the clinker than I did out of the paper, you won’t have a musical evening. Good-night!”
Hewitt went away with the puzzle in his hand, and I turned once more to my social economy, and, thanks to the gentleman who smashed my window, conquered. I am sure I should have dropped fast asleep had it not been for that.
II
At this time my only regular daily work was on an evening paper, so that I left home at a quarter to eight on the morning following the adventure of my broken window, in order, as usual, to be at the office at eight; consequently it was not until lunchtime, when my work was over, that I had an opportunity of seeing Hewitt. I went to my own rooms first, however, and on the landing by my door I found the housekeeper in conversation with a shortish, sun-browned man with a goatee beard, whose accent at once convinced me that he hailed from across the Atlantic. He had called, it appeared, three or four times during the morning to see me, getting more impatient each time. As he did not seem even to know my name, the housekeeper had not considered it expedient to say when I was expected, nor indeed to give him any information about me, and he was growing irascible under the treatment. When I at last appeared, however, he left her and approached me eagerly.
“See here, sir,” he said, “I’ve been stumpin’ these here durn stairs o’ yours half through the mornin’. I’m anxious to apologise, I reckon, and fix up some damage.”
He had followed me into my sitting-room, and was now standing with his back to the fireplace, a dripping umbrella in one hand, and the forefinger of the other held up shoulder-high and pointing, in the manner of a pistol, to my window, which, by the way, had been mended during the morning, in accordance with my instructions to the housekeeper.
“Sir,” he continued, “last night I took the extreme liberty of smashin’ your winder.”
“Oh,” I said, “that was you, was it?”
“It was, sir—me. For that I hev come humbly to apologise. I trust the draft has not discommoded you, sir. I regret the accident, and I wish to pay for the fixin’ up and the general inconvenience.” He placed a sovereign on the table. “I ’low you’ll call that square now, sir, and fix things friendly and comfortable as between gentlemen, an’ no ill will. Shake.”
And he formally extended his hand.
I took it at once. “Certainly,” I said, “certainly. As a matter of fact, you haven’t inconvenienced me at all; indeed, there were some circumstances about the affair that rather interested me. But as to the damage,” I continued, “if you’re really anxious to pay for it, do you mind my sending the glazier to you to settle? You see, it’s only a matter of half a crown or so at most.” And I pushed the sovereign toward him.
“But then,” he said, looking a trifle disappointed, “there’s general discommodedness, you know, to pay for, and the general sass of the liberty to a stranger’s winder. I ain’t no down-easter—not a Boston dude—but I reckon I know the gentlemanly thing, and I can afford to do it. Yes. Say now, didn’t I startle your nerves?”
“Not a bit,” I answered, laughing. “In fact, you did me a service by preventing me going to sleep just when I shouldn’t; so we’ll say no more of that.”
“Well—there was one other little thing,” he pursued, looking at me rather sharply as he slowly pocketed the sovereign. “There was a bit o’ paper round that pebble that came in here. Didn’t happen to notice that, did you?”
“Yes, I did. It was an old piece of manuscript music.”
“That was it—just. Might you happen to have it handy now?”
“Well,” I said, “as a matter of fact a friend of mine has it now. I tried playing it over once or twice, as a matter of curiosity, but I couldn’t make anything of it, and so I handed it to him.”
“Ah!” said my visitor, watching me narrowly, “that’s a nailer, is that ‘Flitterbat Lancers’—a real nailer. It whips ’em all. Nobody can’t get ahead of that. Ha, ha!” He laughed suddenly—a laugh that seemed a little artificial. “There’s music fellers as ’lows to set right down and play off anything right away that can’t make anything of the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ That was two of ’em that was monkeyin’ with me last night. They never could make anythin’ of it at all, and I was tantalizing them with it all along till they got real mad, and reckoned to get it out o’ my pocket and learn it off quiet at home, and stop all my chaff. Ha, ha! So I got away for a bit, and bein’ a bit lively after a number of tooth-lotions (all three was much that way), just rolled it round a stone and heaved it through your winder before they could come up, your winder bein’ the nearest one with a light in it. Ha, ha! I’ll be considerable obliged if you’ll get it from your friend right now. Is he stayin’ hereabout?”
The story was so ridiculously lame that I determined to confront my visitor with Hewitt, and observe the result. If he had succeeded in making any sense of the “Flitterbat Lancers,” the scene might be amusing. So I answered at once, “Yes; his office is only on the floor below; he will probably be in at about this time. Come down with me.”
We went down, and found Hewitt in his outer office. “This gentleman,” I told him with a solemn intonation, “has come to ask for his piece of manuscript music, the ‘Flitterbat Lancers.’ He is particularly proud of it, because nobody who tries to play it can make any sort of tune out of it, and it was entirely because two dear friends of his were anxious to drag it out of his pocket and practice it over on the quiet that he flung it through my window-pane last night, wrapped round a piece of concrete.”
The stranger glanced sharply at me, and I could see that my manner and tone rather disconcerted him. But Hewitt came forward at once. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Just so—quite