often waiting for the cleaner to finish her work, opened like a lid and here he had documents and, in a steel box, books that might not have come to light even if the police had been aware of the flat at the time of his arrest, an had made their usual search.
Ingle was a man of wide political activities. No party man in the sense that he found a party to match his own views; rather, he was one of those violent and compelling thinkers who are unconsciously the nucleus of a movement. His grudge against the world was a sincere one. He saw injustice in the simplest consequences of cause and effect. His opinions had not made him a thief; they had merely justified him in his disregard for the law and his obligation to society.
Imprisonment had made him neither better nor worse, had merely confirmed him in certain theories. Inconsistently, he loathed his prison associates, men who had been unsupported by his high motives in their felonies. The company of them was contamination. He hated the chaplain; and only one inmate of that terrible place touched what in him still remained tender. That was the old, blind horse who had his stable in the prison, and whose sight seemed to have been destroyed by Providence that he might not witness the degradation of the superior mammals that tramped the exercise ring, or went trudging and shuffling up the hill and through the gates.
He was the one man in the prison who was thankful when the cell door closed on him and the key turned in the lock.
The foulness of these old lags, their talk, their boasts, the horrible things that may not be written about…he could not think back without feeling physically sick. In truth he would not have stretched out his hand if, by so doing, he could have opened those cell doors and released to the world the social sweepings whom it was his professed mission to salve.
His work finished, he lit a cigarette, fitted it carefully into an amber holder and, adjusting the cushions, lay down on the settee and smoked and thought till the telephone bell roused him and he got up.
The voice that spoke to him was quite unfamiliar. ‘Is that Mr Ingle?’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly.
‘Will you make a sacrifice of your principles?’ was the astonishing request, and the man smiled sourly.
‘What I have left, yes. What do you wish?’
It might be an old friend in need of money, in which case the conversation would be short. For Arthur Ingle had no foolish ideas about charity.
‘Could you meet me tonight on the sidewalk immediately opposite Horse Guards Parade?’
‘In the park, you mean?’ asked Ingle, astonished. ‘Who are you? I’ll tell you before you go any further that I’m not inclined to go out of my way to meet strangers. I’m a pretty tired man tonight.’
‘My name is - ’ a pause - ‘Harlow.’
Involuntarily, Ingle uttered an exclamation.
‘Stratford Harlow?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Yes, Stratford Harlow.’
There was a long pause before Arthur Ingle spoke. ‘It’s rather an extraordinary request, but I realise that it isn’t an idle one. How do I know you’re Harlow?’
‘Call me up in ten minutes at my house and ask for me,’ said the voice. ‘Will you come?’
Again Mr Ingle hesitated. ‘Yes, I’ll come,’ he said. ‘At what time?’
‘At ten o’clock exactly. I won’t keep you hanging about this cold night. You can get into my car and we’ll drive somewhere.’
Ingle hung up the telephone a little bewildered. He was a cautious man and after ten minutes had expired he put through the number he discovered in the phone directory, and the same voice answered him. ‘Are you satisfied?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there - ten o’clock,’ he said.
He had two hours to wait. The charwoman did not arrive till nine. He gave her instructions, made arrangements for the following day; and went back to the dining-room to think out the extraordinary request which Stratford Harlow had made of him. And the more he thought, the less
Ingle was a man of wide political activities. No party man in the sense that he found a party to match his own views; rather, he was one of those violent and compelling thinkers who are unconsciously the nucleus of a movement. His grudge against the world was a sincere one. He saw injustice in the simplest consequences of cause and effect. His opinions had not made him a thief; they had merely justified him in his disregard for the law and his obligation to society.
Imprisonment had made him neither better nor worse, had merely confirmed him in certain theories. Inconsistently, he loathed his prison associates, men who had been unsupported by his high motives in their felonies. The company of them was contamination. He hated the chaplain; and only one inmate of that terrible place touched what in him still remained tender. That was the old, blind horse who had his stable in the prison, and whose sight seemed to have been destroyed by Providence that he might not witness the degradation of the superior mammals that tramped the exercise ring, or went trudging and shuffling up the hill and through the gates.
He was the one man in the prison who was thankful when the cell door closed on him and the key turned in the lock.
The foulness of these old lags, their talk, their boasts, the horrible things that may not be written about…he could not think back without feeling physically sick. In truth he would not have stretched out his hand if, by so doing, he could have opened those cell doors and released to the world the social sweepings whom it was his professed mission to salve.
His work finished, he lit a cigarette, fitted it carefully into an amber holder and, adjusting the cushions, lay down on the settee and smoked and thought till the telephone bell roused him and he got up.
The voice that spoke to him was quite unfamiliar. ‘Is that Mr Ingle?’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly.
‘Will you make a sacrifice of your principles?’ was the astonishing request, and the man smiled sourly.
‘What I have left, yes. What do you wish?’
It might be an old friend in need of money, in which case the conversation would be short. For Arthur Ingle had no foolish ideas about charity.
‘Could you meet me tonight on the sidewalk immediately opposite Horse Guards Parade?’
‘In the park, you mean?’ asked Ingle, astonished. ‘Who are you? I’ll tell you before you go any further that I’m not inclined to go out of my way to meet strangers. I’m a pretty tired man tonight.’
‘My name is - ’ a pause - ‘Harlow.’
Involuntarily, Ingle uttered an exclamation.
‘Stratford Harlow?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Yes, Stratford Harlow.’
There was a long pause before Arthur Ingle spoke. ‘It’s rather an extraordinary request, but I realise that it isn’t an idle one. How do I know you’re Harlow?’
‘Call me up in ten minutes at my house and ask for me,’ said the voice. ‘Will you come?’
Again Mr Ingle hesitated. ‘Yes, I’ll come,’ he said. ‘At what time?’
‘At ten o’clock exactly. I won’t keep you hanging about this cold night. You can get into my car and we’ll drive somewhere.’
Ingle hung up the telephone a little bewildered. He was a cautious man and after ten minutes had expired he put through the number he discovered in the phone directory, and the same voice answered him. ‘Are you satisfied?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there - ten o’clock,’ he said.
He had two hours to wait. The charwoman did not arrive till nine. He gave her instructions, made arrangements for the following day; and went back to the dining-room to think out the extraordinary request which Stratford Harlow had made of him. And the more he thought, the less
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