The Black Tortoise

"I am off to America on Friday next."

"What! off to America?"

"Yes; I'm not joking."

"Are you really serious? Fancy, going to America this time of the year, at the end of November! It must be very important business which takes you there! Can't you send some one else? You know Clara won't consider her firstborn properly baptized if you don't stand godfather to him. That ceremony is to take place next Sunday."

"Unfortunately it is important business-very important business-that only I can undertake. I am awfully sorry to disappoint your wife, but I must go."

This conversation took place in Monk's sitting-room. It was my usual habit, on leaving my office at seven o'clock, to go up to Monk's rooms and have a chat with him, and sometimes persuade him to come home with me.

I ought perhaps here to inform my readers that, some years before this story begins, I had returned to my native country after having spent several years abroad, where I had made a small competency as an engineer. When I again saw Monk, the friend of my boyhood, I found he had, strange to say, adopted the profession of private detective. As far as I could understand, he carried on this business just as much out of love for his work as for a means of earning his living, and had already won himself a reputation by his shrewdness, honesty, and disinterestedness.

Monk's sudden announcement took my breath away; he had never for a moment said a word about going to America before.

"Is it a new case you have on hand?" I asked.

"No; it is not a new case."

I looked doubtingly at him; this was not the Monk I was accustomed to see standing quietly before me with the handsome, open countenance, and the intelligent grey eyes looking fearlessly into mine.

He was now pacing restlessly up and down the floor. All at once he stopped in front of me.

"Can you stay with me this evening?"

"Yes; with pleasure," I replied. "Clara has gone to the theatre with a friend. I am therefore free, and it was my intention to propose to you that we should spend the evening together."

"That's right; let us have supper at once, for I have something to tell you, and until I have done so I shall have no peace."

Monk rang; and soon after we sat down to supper. My host ate scarcely anything; indeed, he hardly attended to his duties as host, and could not conceal his impatience to hasten the end of the meal.

It was quite apparent that something unusual was the matter, so I got through my supper as quickly as possible without interchanging many words.

When we returned again to the sitting-room, Monk placed me in one of his comfortable chairs, and set before me some whiskey and water and cigars. He himself lit a cigar, but soon threw it half-smoked into the fire.

"You said you wanted to speak to me about something, Monk."

"Yes; if you have patience to listen to me."

"Of course I have!"

A faint smile lit up Monk's dark countenance.

"I have put your patience to a severe test over and over again with my lectures on detective science, logic, deductions, and the like; but what I have in mind this evening is nothing of that sort. Do you feel inclined to hear a story about myself, the story of how it was I came to be the kind of man I am, and to lead the life I do?"

"My dear fellow," I answered, "I am more than ready to listen to you. Any one can see that sometime or another something has happened to you which has thrown a shadow over your existence; but, as you can understand, one does not ask one's friends about that sort of thing. One generally waits until one is approached."

"You are right, and I ought to have told you all about it long ago; especially as, for my part, I have nothing whatever to conceal. Yes, a man is wrong to shut himself up in himself more than is necessary; and in my case I am afraid I have been foolish, and doubly stupid, not to have called to my aid a clever friend's assistance. I have stared myself blind with trying to find a way out of the dark. It is, however, wrong of me to call the affair my affair, since I no longer play any part in it; but, in any case, it concerns some one who was as dear to me as my own life. Are you prepared to listen to me? If so, you shall get to know as much of my history as I know of it myself."

"Go on, Monk; go on! If an honest man and an intelligent woman can help you in any way, you have them at your disposal in Clara and myself."

I stretched out my hand to him; Monk seized it and shook it heartily. All doubt and restlessness on his side had vanished. In giving the account of his story, I only wish that I could have given it in his own clear language and striking words. To detail it in full is of course impossible; but I will do the best I can, and if the narrative should become tedious, or wanting in clearness, it is my fault, and not Monk's.