12 Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV (23 page)

    "D'you think I'm an attractive man?"

    Father Murchison jumped. Such a question coming from such a man astounded him.

    "Bless me!" he ejaculated. "What makes you ask? Do you mean attractive to the opposite sex?"

    "That's what I don't know," said the Professor gloomily, and staring again into the fire. "That's what I don't know."

    The Father grew more astonished.

    "Don't know!" he exclaimed.

    And he laid down his pipe.

    "Let's say - d'you think I'm attractive, that there's anything about me which might draw a - a human being, or an animal, irresistibly to me?"

    "Whether you desired it or not?"

    "Exactly - or - no, let us say definitely - if I did not desire it."

    Father Murchison pursed up his rather full, cherubic lips, and little wrinkles appeared about the corners of his blue eyes.

    "There might be, of course," he said, after a pause. "Human nature is weak, engagingly weak, Guildea. And you're inclined to flout it. I could understand a certain class of lady - the lion-hunting, the intellectual lady, seeking you. Your reputation, your great name -"

    "Yes, yes," Guildea interrupted, rather irritably - "I know all that, I know."

    He twisted his long hands together, bending the palms outwards till his thin, pointed fingers cracked. His forehead was wrinkled in a frown.

    "I imagine," he said - he stopped and coughed drily, almost shrilly - "I imagine it would be very disagreeable to be liked, to be run after - that is the usual expression, isn't it - by anything one objected to."

    And now he half turned in his chair, crossed his legs one over the other, and looked at his guest with an unusual, almost piercing interrogation.

    "Anything?" said the Father.

    "Well- well, anyone. I imagine nothing could be more unpleasant."

    "I don't," he said, "I don't. That's just it. That's the curious part of it, that I -"

    He broke off deliberately, got up and stretched.

    "I'll have a pipe, too," he said.

    He went over to the mantelpiece, got his pipe, filled it and lighted it. As he held the match to the tobacco, bending forward with an enquiring expression, his eyes fell upon the green baize that covered Napoleon's cage. He threw the match into the grate, and puffed at the pipe as he walked forward to the cage. When he reached it he put out his hand, took hold of the baize and began to pull it away. Then suddenly he pushed it back over the cage.

    "No," he said, as if to himself, "no."

    He returned rather hastily to the fire and threw himself once more into his armchair.

    "You're wondering," he said to Father Murchison. "So am I. I don't know at all what to make of it. I'll just tell you the facts and you must tell me what you think of them. The night before last, after a day of hard work - but no harder than usual - I went to the front door to get a breath of fresh air. You know I often do that."

    "Yes, I found you on the doorstep when I first came here."

    "Just so. I didn't put on hat or coat. I just stood on the step as I was. My mind, I remember, was still full of my work. It was rather a dark night, not very dark. The hour was about eleven, or a quarter past. I was staring at the Park, and presently I found that my eyes were directed towards somebody who was sitting, back to me, on one of the benches. I saw the person - if it was a person - through the railings.

    "If it was a person!" said the Father. "What do you mean by that?"

    "Wait a minute. I say that because it was too dark for me to know. I merely saw some blackish object on the bench, rising into view above the level of the back of the seat. I couldn't say it was man, woman or child. But something there was, and I found that I was looking at it."

    "Some poor creature without a home, I suppose," said the Father.

    "I said that to myself. Still, I was taken with an extraordinary interest about this object, so great an interest that I got my hat and crossed the road to go into the Park. As you know, there's an entrance almost opposite to my house. Well, Murchison, I crossed the road, passed through the gate in the railings, went up to the seat, and found that there was - nothing on it."

    "Were you looking at it as you walked?"

    "Part of the time. But I removed my eyes from it just as I passed through the gate, because there was a row going on a little way off, and I turned for an instant in that direction. When I saw that the seat was vacant I was seized by a most absurd sensation of disappointment, almost of anger. I stopped and looked about me to see if anything was moving away, but I could see nothing. It was a cold night and misty, and there were few people about. Feeling, as I say, foolishly and unnaturally disappointed, I retraced my steps to this house. When I got here I discovered that during my short absence I had left the hall door open - half open."

    "Rather imprudent in London."

    "Yes. I had no idea, of course, that I had done so, till I got back. However, I was only away three minutes or so."

    "Yes."

    "It was not likely that anybody had gone in."

    "I suppose not."

    "Was it?"

    "Why do you ask me that, Guildea?"

    "Well, well!"

    "Besides, if anybody had gone in, on your return you'd have caught him, surely."

    Guildea coughed again. The Father, surprised, could not fail to recognise that he was nervous and that his nervousness was affecting him physically.

    "I must have caught cold that night," he said, as if he had read his friend's thought and hastened to contradict it. Then he went on:

    "I entered the hall, or passage, rather."

    He paused again. His uneasiness was becoming very apparent.

    "And you did catch somebody?" said the Father.

    Guildea cleared his throat.

    "That's just it," he said, "now we come to it. I'm not imaginative, as you know."

    "You certainly are not."

    "No, but hardly had I stepped into the passage before I felt certain that somebody had got into the house during my absence. I felt convinced of it, and not only that. I also felt convinced that the intruder was the very person I had dimly seen sitting upon the seat in the Park. What d'you say to that?"

    "I begin to think you are imaginative."

    "H'm! It seemed to me that the person - the occupant of the seat - and I, had simultaneously formed the project of interviewing each other, had simultaneously set out to put that project into execution. I became so certain of this that I walked hastily upstairs into this room, expecting to find the visitor awaiting me. But there was no one. I then came down again and went into the dining-room. No one. I was actually astonished. Isn't that odd?"

    "Very," said the Father, quite gravely.

    The Professor's chill and gloomy manner, and uncomfortable, constrained appearance kept away the humour that might well have lurked round the steps of such a discourse.

    "I went upstairs again," he continued, "sat down and thought the matter over. I resolved to forget it, and took up a book. I might perhaps have been able to read, but suddenly I thought I noticed -"

    He stopped abruptly. Father Murchison observed that he was staring towards the green baize that covered the parrot's cage.

    "But that's nothing," he said. "Enough that I couldn't read, I resolved to explore the house. You know how small it is, how easily one can go all over it. I went into every room without exception. To the servants, who were having supper, I made some excuse. They were surprised at my advent, no doubt."

    "And Pitting?"

    "Oh, he got up politely when I came in, stood while I was there, but never said a word. I muttered 'don't disturb yourselves,' or something of the sort, and came out. Murchison, I found nobody new in the house - yet I return to this room entirely convinced that somebody had entered while I was in the Park."

    "And gone out again before you came back?"

    "No, had stayed, and was still in the house."

    "But, my dear Guildea," began the Father, now in great astonishment. "Surely -"

    "I know what you want to say - what I should want to say in your place. Now, do wait. I am also convinced that this visitor has not left the house and is at this moment in it."

    He spoke with evident sincerity, with extreme gravity. Father Murchison looked him full in the face, and met his quick, keen eyes.

    "No," he said, as if in reply to an uttered question: "I'm perfectly sane, I assure you. The whole matter seems almost as incredible to me as it must to you. But, as you know, I never quarrel with facts, however strange. I merely try to examine into them thoroughly. I have already consulted a doctor and been pronounced in perfect bodily health."

    He paused, as if expecting the Father to say something.

    "Go on, Guildea," he said, "you haven't finished."

    "No. I felt that night positive that somebody had entered the house, and remained in it, and my conviction grew. I went to bed as usual, and, contrary to my expectation, slept as well as I generally do. Yet directly I woke up yesterday morning I knew that my household had been increased by one."

    "May I interrupt you for one moment? How did you know it?"

    "By my mental sensation. I can only say that I was perfectly conscious of a new presence within my house, close to me."

    "How very strange," said the Father. "And you feel absolutely certain that you are not overworked? Your brain does not feel tired? Your head is quite clear?"

    "Quite. I was never better. When I came down to breakfast that morning I looked sharply into Pitting's face. He was as coldly placid and inexpressive as usual. It was evident to me that his mind was in no way distressed. After breakfast I sat down to work, all the time ceaselessly conscious of the fact of this intruder upon my privacy. Nevertheless, I laboured for several hours, waiting for any developments that might occur to clear away the mysterious obscurity of this event. I lunched. About half-past two I was obliged to go out to attend a lecture. I therefore took my coat and hat, opened my door, and stepped on to the pavement. I was instantly aware that I was no longer intruded upon, and this although I was now in the street, surrounded by people. Consequently, I felt certain that the thing in my house must be thinking of me, perhaps even spying upon me."

    "Wait a moment," interrupted the Father. "What was your sensation? Was it one of fear?"

    "Oh, dear no. I was entirely puzzled - as I am now - and keenly interested, but not in any way alarmed. I delivered my lecture with my usual ease and returned home in the evening. On entering the house again I was perfectly conscious that the intruder was still there. Last night I dined alone and spent the hours after dinner in reading a scientific work in which I was deeply interested. While I read, however, I never for one moment lost the knowledge that some mind - very attentive to me - was within hail of mine. I will say more than this - the sensation constantly increased, and, by the time I got up to go to bed, I had come to a very strange conclusion."

    "What? What was it?"

    "That whoever - or whatever - had entered my house during my short absence in the Park was more than interested in me."

    "More than interested in you?"

    "Was fond, or was becoming fond, of me."

    "Oh!" exclaimed the Father. "Now I understand why you asked me just now whether I thought there was anything about you that might draw a human being or an animal irresistibly to you."

    "Precisely. Since I came to this conclusion, Murchison, I will confess that my feeling of strong curiosity has become tinged with another feeling."

    "Of fear?"

    "No, of dislike, or irritation. No - not fear, not fear."

    As Guildea repeated unnecessarily this asseveration he looked again towards the parrot's cage.

    "What is there to be afraid of in such a matter?" he added. "I am not a child to tremble before bogies."

    In saying the last words he raised his voice sharply; then he walked quickly to the cage, and, with an abrupt movement, pulled the baize covering from it. Napoleon was disclosed, apparently dozing upon his perch with his head held slightly on one side. As the light reached him, he moved, ruffled the feathers about his neck, blinked his eyes, and began slowly to sidle to and fro, thrusting his head forward and drawing it back with an air of complacent, though rather unmeaning, energy. Guildea stood by the cage, looking at him closely, and indeed with an attention that was so intense as to be remarkable, almost unnatural.

    "How absurd these birds are!" he said at length, coming back to the fire.

    "You have no more to tell me?" asked the Father.

    "No. I am still aware of the presence of something in my house. I am still conscious of its close attention to me. I am still irritated, seriously annoyed - I confess it - by that attention."

    "You say you are aware of the presence of something at this moment?"

    "At this moment - yes."

    "Do you mean in this room, with us, now?"

    "I should say so - at any rate, quite near us."

    Again he glanced quickly, almost suspiciously, towards the cage of the parrot. The bird was sitting still on its perch now. Its head was bent down and cocked sideways, and it appeared to be listening attentively to something.

    "That bird will have the intonations of my voice more correctly than ever by to-morrow morning," said the Father, watching Guildea closely with his mild blue eyes. "And it has always imitated me very cleverly."