The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕

under Nikola’s

hypnotic influence I now feel certain; but at the time I seemed to be

acting on my own initiative, and Nikola to be only playing the part

of the deus ex machina.

 

At last I began to weary of my walk, so, hailing a hansom, I

directed the driver to convey me back to my hotel. As I passed

through the hall the clock over the billiard-room door struck six,

and on hearing it I became aware that in one other particular I had

fulfilled Nikola’s orders. After dinner I went into the smoking-room,

and, seating myself in an easy chair before the fire, lit a cigar.

Before I had half smoked it I was fast asleep, dreaming that I was

once more in Australia and tossing on a bed of sickness in the Mail

Change at Markapurlie. A more vivid dream it would be impossible to

imagine. I saw myself, pale and haggard, lying upon the bed,

unconscious of what was passing around me. I saw Bartrand and Gibbs

standing looking down at me. Then the former came closer, and bent

over me. Next moment he had taken a paper from the pocket of my

shirt, and carried it with him into the adjoining bar. A few minutes

Later he returned with it and replaced it in the pocket. As he did so

he turned to the landlord, who stood watching him from the doorway,

and said—“You’re sure he’s delirious, that he’s not shamming?”

 

“Shamming? Poor beggar,” answered Gibbs, who after all was not

such a bad fellow at heart. “Take a good look at him and see for

yourself. I hope I may never be as near gone as he is now.”

 

“So much the better,” said Bartrand with a sneer, as he stepped

away from the bed. “We’ll save him the trouble of making us his

legatees.”

 

“You don’t mean to steal the poor beggar’s secret, surely?”

replied Gibbs. “I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought that.”

 

“More fool you then,” said Bartrand. “Of course I’m not going to

steal it, only to borrow it. Such chances don’t come twice in

a lifetime. But are you sure of your facts? Are you certain the old

fellow said there was gold enough there to make both of them

millionaires half-a-dozen times over?”

 

“As certain as I’m sitting here,” answered Gibbs.

 

“Very good; then I’m off tonight for the Boolga Ranges. In ten

days I’ll have the matter settled, and by the time that dog there

gets on to his feet again we’ll both be on the high road to

fortune.”

 

“And I’m only to have a quarter of what you get? It’s not fair,

Bartrand.”

 

Bartrand stepped up to him with that nasty, bullying look on his

face that I knew so well of old.

 

“Look here, my friend,” he said, “You know Richard Bartrand, don’t

you? And you also know what I can tell about you. I offer you a

fourth of the mine for your information, but I don’t give it to you

for the reason that I’m afraid of you, for I’m not. Remember I know

enough of your doings in this grog shanty to hang you a dozen times

over; and, by the Lord Harry, if you make yourself a nuisance to me

I’ll put those on your track who’ll set you swinging. Stand fast by

me and I’ll treat you fair and square, but get up to any hanky-panky

and I’ll put such a stopper on your mouth that you’ll never be able

to open it again.”

 

Gibbs leaned against the door with a face like lead. It was

evident that however much he hated Bartrand he feared him a good deal

more. A prettier pair of rogues it would have been difficult to find

in a long day’s march.

 

“You needn’t be afraid, Mr. Bartrand,” he said at last, but this

time in no certain voice. “I’ll not split on yon as long as you treat

me fairly. You’ve been a good friend to me in the past, and I know

you mean me well though you speak so plain.”

 

“I know the sort of man with whom I have to deal, you see,”

returned Bartrand with another nasty sneer. “Now I must get my horse

and be off. I’ve a lot to do if I want to get away tonight.”

 

He went out into the verandah and unhitched his reins from the

nails on which they were hanging.

 

“Let me have word directly that carrion in there comes to himself

again,” he said, as he got into the saddle. “And be sure you never

breathe a word to him that I’ve been over. I’ll let you know all that

goes on as soon as we’ve got our claim fixed up. In the meantime,

mum’s the word. Good-bye.”

 

Gibbs bade him good-bye, and when he had watched him canter off

across the plain returned to the room where I lay. Evidently his

conscience was reproving him, for he stood by my bed for some minutes

looking down at me in silence. Then he heaved a little sigh and said

under his breath, “You miserable beggar, how little you know what is

happening, but I’m bothered if I don’t think after all that you’re a

dashed sight happier than I am. I’m beginning to wish I’d not given

you away to that devil. The remembrance of it will haunt me all my

life long.”

 

I woke up with his last speech ringing in my ears, and for a

moment could scarcely believe my own eyes. I had imagined myself back

in the bush, and to wake up in the smoking room of a London hotel was

a surprise for which I was not prepared. The clock over the door was

just striking eleven as I rose to my feet and went out into the hall.

Taking my coat down from a peg I put it on, and then, donning my hat

and turning up my collar, went out into the street. Snow was still

falling, and the night was bitterly cold. As I walked I thought again

of the dream from which I had just wakened. It seemed more like a

vision intended for my guidance than the mere imagining of an

over-excited brain. How much would I not have given to know if it was

only imagination, or whether I had been permitted to see a

representation of what had really happened? This question, however, I

could not of course answer.

 

On reaching the Strand I hailed a hansom and bade the driver

convey me with all speed to 28, Great Gunter Street, Soho.

 

“Twenty-three, Great Gunter Street?” repeated the man, staring at

me in surprise. “You don’t surely mean that, sir?”

 

“I do,” I answered. “If you don’t like the job I can easily find

another man.”

 

“Oh, I’ll take you there, never fear, sir,” replied the man; “but

I didn’t know perhaps whether you was aware what sort of a crib it

is. It’s not the shop gentlemen goes to as a general rule at night

time, except maybe they’re after a dog as has been stole, or the

like.”

 

“So it’s that sort of place is it?” I answered.

 

“Well, I don’t know that it matters. I’m able to take care of

myself.”

 

As I said this I got into the vehicle, and in half a minute we

were driving down the Strand in the direction of Soho. In something

under a quarter of an hour we had left Leicester Square behind us,

crossed Shaftesbury Avenue, and turned into Great Gunter Street. It

proved to be exactly what the driver had insinuated, neither a

respectable nor a savoury neighbourhood; and when I saw it and its

inhabitants I ceased to wonder at his hesitation. When he had

proceeded half-way down the street he pulled his horse up before the

entrance to what looked like a dark alley leading into a court.

Realising that this must be my destination I opened the apron and

sprang out.

 

“Number 23 is somewhere hereabouts, sir,” said the driver, who

seemed to derive a certain amount of satisfaction from his ignorance

of the locality. “I don’t doubt but what one of these boys will be

able to tell you exactly.”

 

I paid him his fare and sixpence over for his civility, and then

turned to question a filthy little gutter urchin, who, with bare feet

and chattering teeth, was standing beside me.

 

“Where is 23, my lad?” I inquired. “Can you take me to it?”

 

“Twenty-three, sir?” said the boy. “That’s where Crooked Billy

lives, sir. You come along with me and I’ll show you the way.”

 

“Go ahead then,” I answered, and the boy thereupon bolted into the

darkness of the alley before which we had been standing. I followed

him as quickly as I could, but it was a matter of some difficulty,

for the court was as black as the Pit of Tophet, and seemed to twist

and turn in every conceivable direction. A more unprepossessing place

it would have been difficult to find. Half-way down I heard the boy

cry out ‘Hold up, mother!’ and before I could stop I found myself

in collision with a woman who, besides being unsteady on her legs,

reeked abominably of gin. Disengaging myself, to the accompaniment of

her curses, I sped after my leader, and a moment later emerged into

the open court itself. The snow had ceased, and the three-quarter

moon, sailing along through swift flying clouds, showed me the

surrounding houses. In one or two windows, lights were burning,

revealing sights which almost made my flesh creep with loathing. In

one I could see a woman sewing as if for her very life by the light

of a solitary candle stuck in a bottle, while two little children lay

asleep, half-clad, on a heap of straw and rags in the corner. On my

right I had a glimpse of another room, where the dead body of a man

was stretched upon a mattress on the floor, with two old hags seated

at a table beside it, drinking gin from a black bottle, turn and turn

about. The wind whistled mournfully among the roof tops; the snow had

been trodden into a disgusting slush everywhere, save close against

the walls, where it still showed white as silver; while the

reflection of the moon gleamed in the icy puddles golden as a spade

guinea.

 

“This is number 23,” said my conductor, pointing to the door

before which he stood.

 

I rewarded him, and then turned my attention to the door

indicated.

 

Having rapped with my knuckles upon the panel, I waited for it to

be opened to me. But those inside were in no hurry, and for this

reason some minutes elapsed before I heard anyone moving about; then

there came the sound of shuffling feet, and next moment the door was

opened an inch or two, and a female voice inquired with an

oath—which I will omit—what was wanted and who was wanting it.

 

To the first query I replied by asking if Levi Solomon lived

there, and, if he did, whether I could see him. The second I shirked

altogether. In answer I was informed that Levi Solomon did reside

there, and that if I was the gentleman who had called to see him

about a hansom cab I was to come in at once.

 

The door was opened to me, and I immediately stepped into the

grimiest, most evil-smelling passage it has ever been my ill luck to

set foot in. The walls were soiled and stained almost beyond

recognition; the floor was littered with orange peel, paper, cabbage

leaves, and garbage of