From the Past by Frank Howell Evans

Author:Frank Howell Evans
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2015-05-08T22:00:00+00:00

At dinner time calm seemed to have returned to the Witheridge house. All guests were present and the conversations were calm and pleasant. After the meal Poiret stood on the lawn, smoking an excellent cigar and admiring the vastness of the sky. He was joined by Mr. Sturgeon, the solicitor.

“You know, Poiret, sometimes I wonder if there is a star for every person on earth and every time one dies, a star disappears,” he said.

“Poiret he prefers to think that every time someone he dies the new star it appears,” said the little man.

“That’s a much more pleasant thought. Strange how a few words tell everything about a man. You’re a good man, Mr. Poiret.”

“But does that mean you are the bad man, Monsieur?” asked the detective.

“A very bad man!” said Sturgeon.

“Do you mean the maid, this morning?” asked Poiret, turning to him.

“Sometimes,” said the other man, “these girls give me trouble, you know, and my wife has to rescue me.”

“Monsieur!” said the detective, anger beaming from his eyes. “How dare you blame the poor maid for your unspeakable behavior?”

“Calm down, Poiret!” Sturgeon said. “She’s gotten more out of me than my wife has these past two years. They are my weakness, Poiret, a pretty, but expensive weakness.”

Poiret frowned.

“Have I told you about my time in London?” the other man continued, with a soft voice, “That’s where it started. I was studying law at the time and living in lodgings. The place I stayed at was frequented by theatre folk. You know the sort, flitting from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever, transients in abode, transients in mind and above all heart.”

“Have you been on the stage, Monsieur?” The solicitor gave him a curious look. “The description it is so vivid as if it was your own experience.”

“That stuff doesn’t interest me, Poiret. My sister was an actress.”

“Your sister, Monsieur?”

“Yes! She ran away from home when she was seventeen. Something about not getting along with my mother and something about getting caught up with some actor. It was a God-awful mess, Poiret.”

“And your sister, Monsieur,” asked the little man, “what happened to her?”

“She went to London. Every so often she would send me a letter, then suddenly the letters stopped. I was two years older than her. I decided that I would find her and bring her home. That’s how I ended up in London.”

“And did you find her, Monsieur?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I think I did, but I’m not sure,” said the solicitor, turning to the little man.

“How can you not be sure, Monsieur?” asked Poiret, a little irritated. “You have found her or you have not.”

“You be the judge, Poiret! All I know is that one evening after dark, as usual I was prowling among the crumbling lodging houses, ringing their bells. At the thirteenth, in Frith Street, I rested my suitcase on the step and wiped the sweat from my forehead. The bell sounded faint and far away. The housekeeper came to the door. She looked

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