He was not a gentleman; he was not a workman; he was not a servant.He was vilely dressed, in glossy black broadcloth.His frockcoat hung on him instead of fitting him.His waistcoat was too short and too tight over the chest.His trousers were a pair of shapeless black bags.His gloves were too large for him.His highly-polished boots creaked detestably whenever he moved.He had odiously watch ful eyes--eyes that looked skilled in peeping through key-holes.His large ears, set forward like the ears of a monkey, pleaded guilty to meanly listening behind other people's doors.His manner was quietly confidential when he spoke, impenetrably self-possessed when he was silent.A lurking air of secret service enveloped the fellow, like an atmosphere of his own, from head to foot.He looked all round the magnificent room without betraying either surprise or admiration.He closely investigated every person in it with one glance of his cunningly watchful eyes.Making his bow to Lady Janet, he silently showed her, as his introduction, the card that had summoned him.And then he stood at ease, self-revealed in his own sinister identity--a police officer in plain clothes.
Nobody spoke to him.Everybody shrank inwardly as if a reptile had crawled into the room.
He looked backward and forward, perfectly unembarrassed, between Julian and Horace.
"Is Mr.Julian Gray here?" he asked.
Julian led Grace to a seat.Her eyes were fixed on the man.She trembled--she whispered, "Who is he?" Julian spoke to the police officer without answering her.
"Wait there," he said, pointing to a chair in the most distant corner of the room."I will speak to you directly."The man advanced to the chair, marching to the discord of his creaking boots.He privately valued the carpet at so much a yard as he walked over it.He privately valued the chair at so much the dozen as he sat down on it.He was quite at his ease: it was no matter to him whether he waited and did nothing, or whether he pried into the private character of every one in the room, as long as he was paid for it.
Even Lady Janet's resolution to act for herself was not proof against the appearance of the policeman in plain clothes.She left it to her nephew to take the lead.Julian glanced at Mercy before he stirred further in the matter.He alone knew that the end rested now not with him but with her.
She felt his eye on her while her own eyes were looking at the man.She turned her head --hesitated--and suddenly approached Julian.Like Grace Roseberry, she was trembling.Like Grace Roseberry, she whispered, "Who is he?"Julian told her plainly who he was.
"Why is he here?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No!"
Horace left Lady Janet, and joined Mercy and Julian--impatient of the private colloquy between them.
"Am I in the way?" he inquired.
Julian drew back a little, understanding Horace perfectly.He looked round at Grace.Nearly the whole length of the spacious room divided them from the place in which she was sitting.She had never moved since he had placed her in a chair.The direst of all terrors was in possession of her--terror of the unknown.There was no fear of her interfering, and no fear of her hearing what they said so long as they were careful to speak in guarded tones.Julian set the example by lowering his voice.
"Ask Horace why the police officer is here?" he said to Mercy.
She put the question directly."Why is he here?"Horace looked across the room at Grace, and answered, "He is here to relieve us of that woman.""Do you mean that he will take her away?""Yes."
"Where will he take her to?"
"To the police station."
Mercy started, and looked at Julian.He was still watching the slightest changes in her face.She looked back again at Horace.
"To the police station!" she repeated."What for?""How can you ask the question?" said Horace, irritably."To be placed under restraint, of course.""Do you mean prison?"
"I mean an asylum."
Again Mercy turned to Julian.There was horror now, as well as surprise, in her face."Oh!" she said to him, "Horace is surely wrong? It can't be?"Julian left it to Horace to answer.Every facility in him seemed to be still absorbed in watching Mercy's face.She was compelled to address herself to Horace once more.
"What sort of asylum?" she asked."You don't surely mean a madhouse?""I do," he rejoined."The workhouse first, perhaps--and then the madhouse.What is there to surprise you in that? You yourself told her to her face she was mad.Good Heavens! how pale you are! What is the matter?"She turned to Julian for the third time.The terrible alternative that was offered to her had showed itself at last, without reserve or disguise.Restore the identity that you have stolen, or shut her up in a madhouse--it rests with you to choose! In that form the situation shaped itself in her mind.She chose on the instant.Before she opened her lips the higher nature in her spoke to Julian, in her eyes.The steady inner light that he had seen in them once already shone in them again, brighter and purer than before.The conscience that he had fortified, the soul that he had saved, looked at him and said, Doubt us no more!
"Send that man out of the house."
Those were her first words.She spoke (pointing to the police officer) in clear, ringing, resolute tones, audible in the remotest corner of the room.