Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (135 page)

"Oh,
I didn't see it anywhere," replied Mr. Atkinson. "I wanted some name,
and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?"

"It's a strange coincidence, but it
happens to be mine."

He gave a long, low whistle.

"And the dates?"

"I can only answer for one of them, and
that's correct." "It's a rum go!" he said.

But
he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning's work. I took the sketch from
my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face
altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.

"And
it was only the day before yesterday," he said, "that I told Maria
there were no such things as ghosts!"

Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew
what he meant.

"You probably heard my name," I
said.

"And
you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at
Clacton-on-Sea last July?"

I
had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were
both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was
right.

'Come
inside
and
have
some
supper,"
said
Mr.
Atkinson.

His
wife
is
a
cheerful
little
woman,
with
the
flaky
red
cheeks
of
the country-bred.
Her
husband
introduced
me
as
a
friend
of
his
who
was an
artist.
The
result
was
unfortunate,
for
after
the
sardines
and
watercress
had
been
removed,
she
brought
out
a
Doré
Bible,
and
I
had
to sit
and
express
my
admiration
for
nearly
half
an
hour.

I
went
outside,
and
found
Atkinson
sitting
on
the
gravestone smoking.

We
resumed
the
conversation
at
the
point
we
had
left
off. "You
must
excuse
my
asking,"
I
said,
"but
do
you
know
of
anything
you've
done
for
which
you
could
be
put
on
trial?" He
shook
his
head.

"I'm
not
a
bankrupt,
the
business
is
prosperous
enough.
Three
years ago
I
gave
turkeys
to
some
of
the
guardians
at
Christmas,
but
that's all
I
can
think
of.
And
they
were
small
ones,
too,"
he
added
as
an afterthought.

He
got
up,
fetched
a
can
from
the
porch,
and
began
to
water
the flowers.
"Twice
a
day
regular
in
the
hot
weather,"
he
said,
"and
then the
heat
sometimes
gets
the
better
of
the
delicate
ones.
And
ferns, good
Lord!
They
could
never
stand
it.
Where
do
you
live?"

I
told
him
my
address.
It
would
take
an
hour's
quick
walk
to
get back
home.

"It's
like
this,"
he
said.
"We'll
look
at
the
matter
straight.
If
you go
back
home
to-night,
you
take
your
chance
of
accidents.
A
cart
may run
over
you,
and
there's
always
banana
skins
and
orange
peel,
to
say nothing
of
fallen
ladders."

He
spoke
of
the
improbable
with
an
intense
seriousness
that
would have
been
laughable
six
hours
before.
But
I
did
not
laugh.

"The
best
thing
we
can
do,"
he
continued,
"is
for
you
to
stay
here till
twelve
o'clock.
We'll
go
upstairs
and
smoke;
it
may
be
cooler inside."

To
my
surprise
I
agreed.

We
are
sitting
now
in
a
long,
low
room
beneath
the
eaves.
Atkinson has
sent
his
wife
to
bed.
He
himself
is
busy
sharpening
some
tools
at a
little
oilstone,
smoking
one
of
my
cigars
the
while.

The
air
seems
charged
with
thunder.
I
am
writing
this
at
a
shaky table
before
the
open
window.
The
leg
is
cracked,
and
Atkinson,
who seems
a
handy
man
with
his
tools,
is
going
to
mend
it
as
soon
as
he has
finished
putting
an
edge
on
his
chisel.