"I'm sorry I'm going away so early in the morning," concluded the little gentleman. "I'd give back Jong ten per cent. of his money to see his face when he enters the studio."
Everybody laughed; but after the little gentleman was gone, the subject cropped up again.
"If I wake sufficiently early," remarked one, "I shall find an excuse to look in myself at eight o'clock. Jong's face will certainly be worth seeing."
"Rather rough both on him and Sir George," observed another.
"Oh, he hasn't really done anything of the kind," chimed in old Deleglise in his rich, sweet voice. "He made that all up. It's just his fun; he's full of humour."
"I am inclined to think that would be his idea of a joke," asserted the first speaker.
Old Deleglise would not hear of it; but a week or two later I noticed an addition to old Deleglise's studio furniture in the shape of a handsome old carved cabinet twelve feet high.
"He really had done it," explained old Deleglise, speaking in a whisper, though only he and I were present. "Of course, it was only his fun; but it might have been misunderstood. I thought it better to put the thing straight. I shall get the money back from him when he returns. A most amusing little man!"
Old Deleglise possessed a house in Gower Street which fell vacant.
One of his guests, a writer of poetical drama, was a man who three months after he had earned a thousand pounds never had a penny with which to bless himself. They are dying out, these careless, good-natured, conscienceless Bohemians; but quarter of a century ago they still lingered in Alsatian London. Turned out of his lodgings by a Philistine landlord, his sole possession in the wide world, two acts of a drama, for which he had already been paid, the problem of his future, though it troubled him but little, became acute to his friends. Old Deleglise, treating the matter as a joke, pretending not to know who was the landlord, suggested he should apply to the agents for position as caretaker. Some furniture was found for him, and the empty house in Gower Street became his shelter. The immediate present thus provided for, kindly old Deleglise worried himself a good deal concerning what would become of his friend when the house was let.
There appeared to be no need for worry. Weeks, months went by.
Applications were received by the agents in fair number, view cards signed by the dozen; but prospective tenants were never seen again.
One Sunday evening our poet, warmed by old Deleglise's Burgundy, forgetful whose recommendation had secured him the lowly but timely appointment, himself revealed the secret.
"Most convenient place I've got," so he told old Deleglise. "Whole house to myself. I wander about; it just suits me."
"I'm glad to hear that," murmured old Deleglise.
"Come and see me, and I'll cook you a chop," continued the other.
"I've had the kitchen range brought up into the back drawing-room; saves going up and down stairs."
"The devil you have!" growled old Deleglise. "What do you think the owner of the house will say?"
"Haven't the least idea who the poor old duffer is myself. They've put me in as caretaker--an excellent arrangement: avoids all argument about rent."
"Afraid it will soon come to an end, that excellent arrangement;" remarked old Deleglise, drily.
"Why? Why should it?"
"A house in Gower Street oughtn't to remain vacant long."
"This one will."
"You might tell me," asked old Deleglise, with a grim smile; "how do you manage it? What happens when people come to look over the house--don't you let them in?"
"I tried that at first," explained the poet, "but they would go on knocking, and boys and policemen passing would stop and help them. It got to be a nuisance; so now I have them in, and get the thing over.
I show them the room where the murder was committed. If it's a nervous-looking party, I let them off with a brief summary. If that doesn't do, I go into details and show them the blood-spots on the floor. It's an interesting story of the gruesome order. Come round one morning and I'll tell it to you. I'm rather proud of it. With the blinds down and a clock in the next room that ticks loudly, it goes well."
Yet this was a man who, were the merest acquaintance to call upon him and ask for his assistance, would at once take him by the arm and lead him upstairs. All notes and cheques that came into his hands he changed at once into gold. Into some attic half filled with lumber he would fling it by the handful; then, locking the door, leave it there.
On their hands and knees he and his friends, when they wanted any, would grovel for it, poking into corners, hunting under boxes, groping among broken furniture, feeling between cracks and crevices. Nothing gave him greater delight than an expedition of this nature to what he termed his gold-field; it had for him, as he would explain, all the excitements of mining without the inconvenience and the distance. He never knew how much was there. For a certain period a pocketful could be picked up in five minutes. Then he would entertain a dozen men at one of the best restaurants in London, tip cabmen and waiters with half-sovereigns, shower half-crowns as he walked through the streets, lend or give to anybody for the asking. Later, half-an-hour's dusty search would be rewarded with a single coin. It made no difference to him; he would dine in Soho for eighteenpence, smoke shag, and run into debt.
