Wallace at Bay by Alexander Wilson Page B

an associate of the anarchists. Directly he thought of that, however, Carter dismissed it from his mind. If he had been in any way aconfederate of Modjeska’s, the latter would not have needed Carter to take him to Shirland Road. Hawthorne, if indeed it were he, had apparently had no difficulty in finding his way there. Possibly he was of a curious turn of mind, and having read or heard of the tragic affair in Shirland Road, had gone, like so many hundreds of other people, to gaze at the house. That was a likely solution of Carter’s little problem; yet he was not satisfied.
    On his return to the Canute Hotel he found most of the guests present. The lounge was uncomfortably packed. He walked in, and immediately there was a hush. All eyes were turned on him, their expressions being distinctly unfriendly. Miss Veronica Simpson sat bolt upright in the centre of the room – apparently she had been holding forth. She gave the impression of being president or chairman of a meeting; the meeting, Carter thought with great amusement, having been called to condemn him. He caught sight of the journals which had roused the indignation and ire of the spinster, lying in a heap on the floor. Deliberately he went towards them, bent down, and picked them up. He was about to leave the lounge when a grey-haired, wrinkled old man, apparently unable to control his feelings, sprang up from his chair; walked up to Carter, and glared at him.
    ‘Sir,’ he stormed, ‘we are all respectable people here, with a proper sense of duty and reverence to our country and the king. Your doctrines are obnoxious to us.’
    ‘So are yours to me,’ retorted Carter icily, ‘but I’m not ramming them down your throat, am I? I don’t care what you think. Why should you bother what I think?’
    ‘Because it is shameful that a man with a good old English name, and one who looks English, too, should think as you do. Why don’t you go elsewhere, where you can find others of yourown breed and relieve us of the disgrace of harbouring a man of Bolshevik ideas in our midst?’
    ‘Because I choose to stay here, where I have as much right as you.’
    He turned on his heel, and walked out, followed by murmurs of opprobrium. He was passing the office, when the proprietor stepped out, his ruddy, good-humoured face now stern and a trifle perplexed.
    ‘Look here, Mr Carter,’ he remarked, ‘I don’t want to appear officious, but people have been complaining. I’m an old soldier, and loyal and patriotic I hope, but I don’t interfere with the sentiments of others, if they’re kept in bounds. You’ve got a grouse, and it’s turned you Bolshie. Well, be Bolshie if it pleases you, but keep your thoughts to yourself, and don’t offend others, if you don’t mind. Otherwise I’ll have to ask you to find a room elsewhere.’
    ‘All right,’ growled Carter. ‘I won’t say anything that’s likely to offend your milksops, if they will not attempt to preach to me.’
    He went on up to his room; threw himself on to the bed. ‘Lord!’ he murmured. ‘What a little blue-eyed angel I have become!’
    He did not go down to tea, a report he was writing taking a considerable time, but appeared for dinner. He was greeted with stony stares, but nobody addressed him. One woman, whom he passed closely, drew her skirts close to her figure as though afraid he might touch and contaminate them. Modjeska was sitting at his table again; there was still no sign of Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne. The Pole had sensed the antagonism against Carter in the atmosphere, and had responded to it, deeming it best, no doubt, to seem in accord with the other guests. He eyed his table companion coldly, but when he knew he was unobserved, a friendly smile appeared fleetingly on hislips. Carter made no attempt to speak to him, not even asking if he had found the friend he had gone to seek. It occurred to the Englishman that Modjeska had deliberately placed himself at his table in order