Lady Maude's Mania

“Been here five minutes, my lady. He is in his lordship’s study.”

“Show him up, Robbins, and we are at home to no one until he is gone.”

The butler bowed, went out, and returned with a tall, rather ungainly man in black, who had something of the appearance of a country carpenter who had taken to preaching. He had a habit of buttoning his black coat up tightly, with the consequence that it made a great many wrinkles round his body, and though he was fully six feet high, you felt that these wrinkles were caused by a kind of contraction, his body being of the nature of concertina bellows, and that you might pull him out to a most amazing extent.

He favoured this conceit, too, by being very cartilaginous in the spine, and softly pressing his hands to his breast, and bowing and undulating gently in different directions to the party assembled in the room.

“Hang him!” muttered Tom, scowling at the new comer. “He looks, as if he were in training for a spiral spring. Who the deuce is he?”

“Tom,” whispered his lordship, “that man makes me feel queer; get some brandy and soda in your room after he has gone.”

Tom favoured his father with a peculiar wink, and the old gentleman felt in his pockets once more, to be sure that he had not flung something out with his handkerchief.

“Mr Irkle, I think?” said her ladyship, blandly.

“Hurkle, my lady,” said the new arrival, bowing. “Hurkle and Slant, Murley Court, Obun.”

“Oban?” said her ladyship; “I thought your place of business was in town.”

“Yes, my lady, Obun, W.C., near top o’ Charn-shery Lane.”

“Go it, old chap,” said Tom; “never mind the H’s.”

“Tom, be silent.”

“All right!”

“I think we need no preliminaries, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship. “Perhaps you will favour me by reading a few notes from your diary.”

“Thank you, my lady, yes, certainly,” said the new arrival, taking out a large flat pocket-book, and then getting into difficulties with his gloves and hat, setting the latter down upon a chair and putting the former in his pocket, then altering his mind, and taking the gloves out of his pocket, dropping one, and putting the other in his hat, which he took up and placed under the chair instead of upon it. Then he had to pick up the stray glove and put it in his pocket, evidently feeling uneasy directly after because he had not put it in his hat, but not liking to make a fresh alteration.

He now coughed behind the pocket-book very respectfully, opened it, turned over a few leaves, drew out a pencil, and laid it across, so as not to lose the place, coughed again, and said —

“Your ladyship would like me to begin at the beginning?”

“Certainly, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship with dignity; and then with Maude sitting with her eyes half-closed, Tom walking up and down the room, and Lord Barmouth looking very much troubled and caressing his leg, the visitor coughed again, and began in a low subdued tone indicative of the secrecy of his mission.

“‘Thursday, twelft. Called into Lady Barmouth’s’” – no mention was made of Lord Barmouth whatever – “‘Portland Place. Private inquiry. No expense to be spared.’”

“I think you may omit all that part, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship, graciously.

“Thank you, my lady. Hem!” said the visitor, going on reading. “‘Decided to take up case myself, Mr Slant being in Paris’ – That is the end of that entry, my lady.”

“Thank you,” said her ladyship, bowing, and Tom began to whistle softly, and to wonder what the man would say if he kicked his hat across the room like a football.

“‘Friday, thirteent,’” continued the visitor, turning over a leaf. “Hem!” His cough seemed to be brought on by the fact that he was in the presence of the nobility, and it troubled him slightly as he went on – “‘Melton, Charles, Esquire, 150 Duke Street, Saint James. Went out with bull-dog, 10:50, Burlington Arcade, Gardens, Vigo Street, Regent Street, Portland Place, Upper Gimp Street. Must have got into house there. Missed. Took up clue in Duke Street 2:30. Came back. Admiration Club. Back home at 11:30,’ – That is the second entry, my lady.”

“Thank you, Mr Hurkle – proceed,” said her ladyship; and Lord Barmouth yawned so loudly that her ladyship turned upon him with a portentous frown.

“‘Saturday, fourteent,’ Hem!” said Mr Hurkle. “‘Met C.M. in Strand. Followed to hosier’s shop; stayed ten minutes – gloves. Went west. Cosmo Club. Stayed an hour. Came out. Walked to Barker’s, Jermyn Street,’ Hem!”

Mr Hurkle looked up after coughing apologetically.

“Barker’s – notorious gambling house, my lady.”

“Bosh!” said Tom. “Fellows play a friendly game of pool sometimes.”

“I must request that you will not interrupt, Lord Diphoos,” said her ladyship, sternly.

“Time to interrupt when I’m called upon to listen to a cock-and-bull story like this,” cried Tom. “Barker’s isn’t a notorious gambling house.”

Mr Hurkle raised his eyebrows and then his hand to his lips, and said “Hem!”

“May I ask how you know?” said her ladyship.

“Been there myself, hundreds of times,” said Tom, sturdily.

“Oh!” ejaculated her ladyship; and that “Oh!” was wonderful in the meaning it expressed. For it seemed to say, “I thought as much! That accounts for the amount of money squandered away!” and her ladyship gazed at her son from between her half-closed lids as she said aloud, “Go on, Mr Hurkle, if you please.”

“Hem! ‘Left Barker’s at eleven Pee Hem. Returned to Duke Street.’ That is the whole of the third entry, my lady.”

“Thank you. Proceed.”

“Eleven o’clock, eh?” said Tom. “Well, very respectable time.”

“Be silent, if you please, sir. Continue, Mr Hurkle.”

“‘Sunday, fifteent. Went out at three. To Barker’s, Jermyn Street.’”

“Hum! Gambling house on a Sunday,” said her ladyship, sarcastically. “Continue, Mr Hurkle.”

“Here, shall I finish for you?” cried Tom. “Went to Barker’s, and had a chop for lunch, read the papers till dinnertime – a wicked wretch, on a Sunday too; then dined – soup, fish, cutlet, cut, off the joint, pint o’ claret, and on a Sunday. Is that right, my hawk-eyed detective?”

“No, my lord. Hem!”

“Will you be silent, Lord Diphoos?” cried her ladyship.

“That is the whole of the fourt entry, my lady.”

“And cheap at the money, whatever it is,” cried Tom. “I say,” he added, scornfully, “do you know where I was on Sunday, you sir?”

“Beg pardon, my lord,” said Mr Hurkle, undulating. “You are not on my list, and I have no client making inquiries about you.”

“That’s a blessing,” said Tom, “for them and for you.”

“Pray go on, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship. “Lord Diphoos, I must beg that you do not interrupt.”

To address her son as “Lord Diphoos” was in her ladyship’s estimation crushing, but Tom did not seem crushed.