Comes a Stranger by E.R. Punshon Read Free Book Online Page A

and he shuddered slightly, with a kind of uneasy sensibility his somewhat heavy and slow appearance did not quite suggest.
    â€œThe excitement of the hunt must be much the same in both cases,” said Mr. Broast. “I daresay when Mr. Owen lay his hand upon the murderer’s shoulder, he feels much the same sort of triumph that we do when we run to earth say a complete set of Pickwick Papers in original paper covers, or, as I did last year, a copy of the quarto edition of Titus Andronicus that till then no one had even believed existed. A triumph, that, a triumph to equal any of Mr. Owen’s,” declared Mr. Broast with a kindling eye, a flushed cheek, at the memory of that ecstatic moment.
    â€œI don’t think we feel much triumph,” Bobby said slowly. “What one does feel is duty done and the knowledge that peaceful folk can sleep safely in their beds again.”
    â€œDoes that follow?” Mr. Broast asked. “Surely a murder is never committed without a cause, and surely a cause for murder seldom repeats itself?”
    Bobby shook his head.
    â€œMurder breeds murder,” he said. “There’s the sense of power for one thing. A murderer may begin to feel himself a kind of god with power in his hands of life and death over lesser mortals. Or again he continues to kill for security, to make himself safe. You remember Macbeth ? The start is just one murder—that of Duncan. But that one leads to many more—inevitably.”
    â€œSurely that hardly applies under modern conditions,” Mr. Broast argued. “My point is that it may be necessary once, but that necessity would hardly arise again. In Macbeth , the environment and circumstances were quite exceptional.”
    â€œThey always are, unique rather,” Bobby said.
    A faint giggle from behind heralded the fluttering approach of Miss Perkins.
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Briggs says Miss Kayne is asking for Mr. Nathaniel.”
    â€œTell her he’s gone,” Broast said abruptly, and Miss Perkins fled, evidently so scared by his sharp tone that she even forgot her customary giggle.
    â€œI’ll be off, too,” Sir William said. His large, flat face was a little pale, his hands shook slightly. “Don’t like this sort of talk,” he muttered. “Murder, hanging. Ugh.” One unsteady hand went to his throat and pulled at a collar he seemed to be finding too tight. “Sets you dreaming,” he complained. “I shall dream to-night. I shan’t sleep.”
    Muttering adieus, he hurried away, and Miss Perkins had by now sufficiently recovered from her recent fright to contribute once more her accustomed giggle as she let him out.
    â€œWell, if our friend doesn’t sleep, he won’t dream,” Broast remarked, looking after Sir William’s retreating form with a smile that was more than half malicious, Bobby thought. “He’s a very nervous type, very nervous,” the librarian continued. “Ought to have taken up something less exciting than book collecting.”
    â€œI suppose it is awfully interesting,” observed Bobby, though without much conviction in his tone.
    â€œIt leads you on, leads you on, just like you say murder does,” declared Mr. Broast and chuckled over a joke that he evidently thought excellent, but that Bobby considered in poor taste. Perhaps the librarian felt something of Bobby’s unexpressed disapproval, for he added: “But Winders was right—murder’s not a pleasant subject. Unnecessary to talk about it. We’ll forget it, shall we?” He paused to smile again, as though he found a secret amusement in this suggestion, and went on: “You must look at some of our treasures, Mr. Owen. All that section behind you for instance is devoted to my Incunabula—in the general sense of books printed before 1500. Really of course the word means books produced before printing