The Red Rat's Daughter Part 3

"My dear fellow," said Jimmy, b.u.t.toning up his coat and putting on his hat as he spoke, "my way is always your way. Are you going to walk or will you cab it?"

"Walk," Browne replied. "This is not the sort of weather to ride in hansoms. If you are ready, come along."

The two young men pa.s.sed out of the club and along Pall Mall together.

Turning up Waterloo Place, they proceeded in the direction of Piccadilly. The fog was thicker there than elsewhere, and every shop window was brilliantly illuminated in order to display the wares within.

"Oh, by the way, Browne, I've got something to show you," said Foote, as they pa.s.sed over the crossing of Charles Street. "It may interest you."

"What is it?" asked Browne. "A new cigarette or something more atrocious than usual in the way of ties?"

"Better than that," returned his companion, and as he spoke he led his friend towards a picture-shop, in the window of which were displayed a number of works of art. Occupying a prominent position in the centre was a large water-colour, and as Browne glanced at it his heart gave a leap in his breast. It was a view of Merok taken from the spot where he had rescued Katherine Petrovitch from death upwards of seven months before. It was a clever bit of work, and treated in an entirely unconventional fashion.

"It's not by any means bad, is it?" said Foote, after Browne had been looking at it in silence for more than a minute. "If I had the money---- But I say, old chap, what is the matter? You are as pale as if you had seen a ghost. Don't you feel well?"

"Perfectly well," his friend replied; "it's the fog."

He did not say that in the corner of the picture he had seen the artist's name, and that that name was the one he had cherished so fondly and for so long a time.

"Just excuse me for a moment, will you?" he said. "I should like to go into the shop and ask a question about that picture."

"All right," said Jimmy. "I'll wait here."

Browne accordingly disappeared inside, leaving Foote on the pavement.

As it happened, it was a shop he often visited, and in consequence he was well known to the a.s.sistants. When he made his business known to them, the picture was withdrawn from the window and placed before him.

"An excellent bit of work, as you can see for yourself, sir," said the shopman, as he pulled down the electric light and turned it upon the picture. "The young lady who painted it is fast making a name for herself. So far this is the first bit of her work we have had in London; but the Continental dealers a.s.sure me they find a ready market for it."

"I can quite believe it," said Browne. "It is an exceedingly pretty sketch. You may send it round to me."

"Very good, sir; thank you. Perhaps you will allow me to show you one or two others while you are here? We have several new works since you paid us a visit last."

"No, thank you," Browne replied. "I only came in to find out whether you could tell me the address of the young lady who painted this. She and I met in Norway some months ago."

"Indeed, sir, I had no idea when I spoke, that you were acquainted.

Perhaps you know that she is in London at the present moment. She honoured me by visiting my shop this morning."

"Indeed," said Browne. "In that case you might let me know where I can find her."

"I will do so at once," the man replied. "If you will excuse me for a moment I will have it written out for you."

He disappeared forthwith into an office at the end of the shop, leaving Browne staring at the picture as if he could not take his eyes off it.

So engaged was he with the thoughts it conjured up that he quite forgot the fact that he was standing in a shop in London with hansoms and 'buses rolling by outside. In spirit he was on the steep side of a Norwegian mountain, surrounded by fog and rain, endeavouring to discover from what direction a certain cry for help proceeded. Then the fog rolled away, and, looking up at him, he saw what he now knew to be the sweetest and most womanly face upon which he had ever gazed. He was still wrapped in this day-dream when the shopman returned, and roused him by placing on the counter before him an envelope upon which was written:--

Miss KATHERINE PETROVITCH.

43, _German Park Road, West._

"That is it, sir," said the man. "If it would be any convenience to you, sir, it will give me the greatest pleasure to write to the young lady, and to tell her that you have purchased her picture and would like her to call upon you."

"I must beg of you not to do anything of the kind," Browne replied, with the most impressive earnestness. "I must make it a condition of my purchase that you do not mention my name to her in any way."

The shopman looked a little crestfallen. "Very good, sir; since you do not wish it, of course I will be sure not to do so," he answered humbly. "I thought perhaps, having purchased an example of her work, and being such a well-known patron of art, you might be anxious to help the young lady."

"What do you mean by helping her?" inquired Browne. "Do you think she needs a.s.sistance?"

"Well, sir, between ourselves," returned the other, "I do not fancy she is very well off. She was in a great hurry, at any rate, to sell this picture."

Browne winced; it hurt him to think that the girl had perhaps been compelled to haggle with this man in order to obtain the mere necessaries of life. He, however, thanked the man for his courtesy, and bidding him send the picture to his residence as soon as possible, left the shop and joined Foote on the pavement outside.

"Well, I hope you have been long enough," remarked that gentleman in an injured tone, as they proceeded up the street together. "Have you purchased everything in the shop?"

"Don't be nasty, Jimmy," said Browne, with sudden joviality. "It doesn't suit you. You are the jolliest little fellow in the world when you are in a good temper; but when you are not--well, words fail me."

"Don't walk me off my legs, confound you!" said Jimmy snappishly. "The night is but young, and we're not performing pedestrians, whatever you may think."

Browne was not aware that he was walking faster than usual, but he slowed down on being remonstrated with. Then he commenced to whistle softly to himself.

"Now you are whistling," said Jimmy, "which is a thing, as you are well aware, that I detest in the street. What on earth is the matter with you to-night? Ten minutes ago you were as glum as they make 'em; nothing suited you. Then you went into that shop and bought that picture, and since you came out you seem bent on making a public exhibition of yourself."

"So I am," said Browne; and then, suddenly stopping in his walk, he rapped with the ferrule of his umbrella on the pavement. "I am going to give an exhibition, and a dashed good one, too. I'll take one of the galleries, and do it in a proper style. I'll have the critics there, and all the swells who buy; and if they don't do as I want, and declare it to be the very finest show of the year, I'll never buy one of their works again." Then, taking his friend's arm, he continued his walk, saying, "What you want, Jimmy, my boy, is a proper appreciation of art. There is nothing like it in the world, take my word for it.

Nothing! Nothing at all!"

"You've said that before," retorted his friend, "and you said it with sufficient emphasis to amuse the whole street. If you're going to give me an exposition of art in Regent Street on a foggy afternoon in March, I tell you flatly I'm going home. I am not a millionaire, and my character won't stand the strain. What's the matter with you, Browne?

You're as jolly as a sandboy now, and, for the life of me, I don't see how a chap can be happy in a fog like this and still retain his reason."

"Fog, my boy," continued Browne, still displaying the greatest good humour. "I give you my word, there's nothing like a fog in the world.

I adore it! I revel in it! Talk about your south of France and sunshine--what is it to London and a fog? A fog did me a very good turn once, and now I'm hanged if another isn't going to do it again.

You're a dear little chap, Jimmy, and I wouldn't wish for a better companion. But there's no use shutting your eyes to one fact, and that is you're not sympathetic. You want educating, and when I've a week or two to spare I'll do it. Now I'm going to leave you to think out what I've said. I've just remembered a most important engagement. Let me find a decent hansom and I'll be off."

"I thought you said just now this was not the weather for driving in hansoms? I thought you said you had nothing to do, and that you were going to employ yourself entertaining me? John Grantham Browne, I tell you what it is, you're going in that hansom to a lunatic asylum."

"Better than that, my boy," said Browne, with a laugh, as the cab drew up at the pavement and he sprang in. "Far better than that." Then, looking up through the trap in the roof at the driver, he added solemnly: "Cabby, drive me to 43, German Park Road, as fast as your horse can go."

"But, hold on," said Foote, holding up his umbrella to detain him.

"Before you do go, what about to-morrow? What train shall we catch?

And have you sent the wire to your skipper to have the yacht in readiness?"

"Bother to-morrow," answered Browne. "There is no to-morrow, there are no trains, there is no skipper, and most certainly there is no yacht.

I've forgotten them and everything else. Drive on, cabby. Bye-bye, Jimmy."

The cab disappeared in the fog, leaving Mr. Foote standing before the portico of the Criterion looking after it.

"My friend Browne is either mad or in love," said that astonished individual as the vehicle disappeared in the traffic. "I don't know which to think. He's quite unnerved me. I think I'll go in here and try a gla.s.s of dry sherry just to pull myself together. What an idiot I was not to find out who painted that picture! But that's just like me; I never think of things until too late."

When he had finished his sherry he lit a cigarette, and presently found himself making his way towards his rooms in Jermyn Street. As he walked he shook his head solemnly. "I don't like the look of things at all," he said. "I said a lunatic asylum just now; I should have mentioned a worse place--'St. George's, Hanover Square.' One thing, however, is quite certain. If I know anything of signs, Algiers will not have the pleasure of entertaining me."