CHAPTER III. THE ALDERMAN GOES HOME

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      Sonia had barely returned to her hotel when she saw a ghost.

      The Golden Lion was an old coaching inn, and, although large and rambling, had been modernised only to a limited extent. Instead of a lounge, there was an entrance hall, with uneven oaken floor, which led directly to the private bar.

      Sonia sank down on the first deep leather chair, and was opening her cigarette case, when she recognised, a few yards away, the spectre of the Waxworks.

      He had not materialised too well. In the dim gallery, he had been a tall romantic figure. Here, he was revealed as a typical Club man, with a hard, clean-shaven face and black varnished hair. It is true that his profile had the classical outline of a head on an old coin; but it was a depreciated currency.

      "Who is that?" she whispered, as the waiter came forward with a lighted match.

      "Sir Julian Gough," was the low reply.

      "Of course. Isn't his wife tall, with very fair hair?"

      "No, miss." The waiter's voice sank lower. "That would be Mrs. Nile. The doctor's wife. That's the doctor—the tall gentleman with the white scarf."

      Sonia forgot her exhaustion as she studied the communal life of the bar. Dr. Nile was a big middle-aged man, with rather a worried face and a charming voice. Sonia decided that, probably, he was not clever, but scored over rival brains by his bedside manner.

      "I wonder if he knows what I've seen to-night," she thought.

      On the surface, the men did not appear to be hostile. They exchanged casual remarks, and seemed chiefly interested in the contents of their glasses. Sonia decided that it was a dull drinking scene, as she listened sleepily to the burr of voices and the clink of glasses. The air was hazed with skeins of floating smoke and it was very warm.

      She was beginning to nod over her cigarette, when she was aroused by a shout of laughter. A big burly man, accompanied by two ladies, had just rolled into the bar. Although he was not in the least like Henry the Eighth, she recognised Alderman Cuttle by Mrs. Ames' description. He was florid and ginger, with a deep organ voice and a boisterous laugh.

      "Well, ma. How's my old sweetheart tonight?" he roared, as he kissed the stout elderly proprietress on the cheek.

      "Not leaving home for you," she replied, pushing him away with a laugh. "Brought the beauty chorus along?"

      "Just these two girls, ma. Miss Yates has been working late and can do with a gin and it. And Nurse Davis works all the time. Eh, nurse?"

      As he spoke he winked at the nurse. She was a mature girl of about forty-five, plump, with a heart-shaped face and a small mouth, curved like a bow. She wore very becoming uniform.

      As for the other "girl," Miss Yates, Sonia could not imagine her meagre painted cheeks with a youthful bloom. She looked hard, ruthless and artificial. Her sharp light eyes were accentuated by green shading powder, and her nails were enamelled ox-blood. Her best points were her light red hair and her wand-like figure.

      She wore what is vaguely described as a "Continental Mode" of black and white, which would not have been out of place in Bond Street.

      As she watched her thin-lipped scarlet mouth, and listened to her peacock scream laugh, Sonia remembered the stupid shapeless wife at home.

      "Poor Mrs. Cuttle," she thought. "That woman's cruel and greedy as Mother Ganges."

      With the alderman's entrance, fresh life flowed into the stagnant bar. There was no doubt that the man possessed that indefinite quality known as personality. His remarks were ordinary, but his geniality was unforced. He seemed to revel in noise, much in the spirit of a boy with a firework.

      His popularity, too, was amazing. The women clustered round him like bees on a sunflower; but the men, also, plainly regarded him as a good sport. It was obvious that he had both sympathy and tact. Although he regarded the limelight as his special property he could efface himself. Sonia noticed that he, alone, listened to Dr. Nile's longwinded story about an anonymous patient without a trace of boredom.

      He fascinated her, so that she could not remove her gaze from him; but, while the amorous alderman flirted as much with the plain elderly barmaid as with the others, he showed no interest in herself.

      Sir Julian had already remarked that she was an attractive girl, for he repeatedly tried to catch her eye with the object of putting her into general circulation. But the alderman cast her one penetrating glance from small almond-shaped hazel eyes. It was impersonal, but appraising—and it might have reminded Mrs. Ames of the scrutiny of the poisoners in the Hall of Horrors.

      "Thinks me too young," thought Sonia. "How revolting."

      As she pressed out her cigarette, the landlady looked across at her young guest.

      "Did you have a nice walk?" she asked professionally.

      "Yes, thanks," replied Sonia. "I discovered your Waxwork Gallery."

      As she spoke, she had an instinctive sense of withdrawals and recoils, as though she had thrown a stone into a slimy pool, and disturbed hidden forms of pond life.

      "That's rather a low part of the town," said the landlady. "I'm ashamed to say I've never been in the Gallery myself."

      "Neither have I," declared Sir Julian.

      "Oh, you should drop in, Gough," remarked the alderman. "I do, myself, from time to time. Just to keep old Mother Ames on her toes. Civic property, you know...Ever been there, Nile?"

      "Once, only," replied the doctor. "Ames called me in to see that poor chap the other day. He wanted to know if he was dead."

      Sir Julian burst into a shout of laughter.

      "That's a good one," he said. "They wanted to make sure he was dead, so they called in the doctor. No hope for him after that."

      Sonia saw the sudden gleam in the doctor's sleepy brown eyes. She noticed, too, that Cuttle did not join in the amusement, which was short-lived.

      "What did the poor fellow really die of, doctor?" he asked.

      "A fit. He was in a shocking state. Liver shot to bits, and so on."

      "I know that. But what caused the fit?"

      "Ah, you have me there, Cuttle. Personally, I'd say it was the Waxworks."

      "How?"

      "Probably they frightened him to death."

      "Rot," scoffed Sir Julian.

      "No, sober fact," declared the doctor. "You've no idea how uncanny these big deserted buildings can be at night. There are all sorts of queer noises...When I was a student, I once spent a night in a haunted house."

      "See anything?" asked the alderman.

      "No, for a reason which will appeal to your sense of humour, Gough. I cleared out just before the show was due to start. I wasn't a fool, and I realised by then that—after a time—one could imagine anything."

      "Now, that's interesting, doctor." The alderman put down his glass and caught Miss Yates' eye. "Time to go Miss Yates."

      The red-haired woman got down from her stool and adjusted her hat.

      "Now, don't you two hold any business conferences on the way home," advised the barmaid archly.

      "No," chimed in the landlady. "You must behave, now you're our future mayor. You'll have to break your engagement with the lady."

      "Lady?"