272

XXXI--A Strange Confession 282

XXXII--The Confession (_continued_) 291

XXXIII--What Rhoda Had to Say 301

XXXIV--The End of It All 310

THE SILENT HOUSE

CHAPTER I

THE TENANT OF THE SILENT HOUSE

Lucian Denzil was a briefless barrister, who so far departed from the
traditions of his brethren of the long robe as not to dwell within the
purlieus of the Temple. For certain private reasons, not unconnected
with economy, he occupied rooms in Geneva Square, Pimlico; and, for the
purposes of his profession, repaired daily, from ten to four, to
Serjeant's Inn, where he shared an office with a friend equally
briefless and poor.

This state of things sounds hardly enviable, but Lucian, being young and
independent to the extent of L300 a year, was not dissatisfied with his
position. As his age was only twenty-five, there was ample time, he
thought, to succeed in his profession; and, pending that desirable
consummation, he cultivated the muses on a little oatmeal, after the
fashion of his kind. There have been lives less happily circumstanced.

Geneva Square was a kind of backwater of the great river of town life
which swept past its entrance with speed and clamour without disturbing
the peace within. One long, narrow street led from a roaring
thoroughfare into a silent quadrangle of tall grey houses, occupied by
lodging-house keepers, city clerks and two or three artists, who
represented the Bohemian element of the place. In the centre there was
an oasis of green lawn, surrounded by rusty iron railings the height of
a man, dotted with elms of considerable age, and streaked with narrow
paths of yellow gravel.

The surrounding houses represented an eminently respectable appearance,
with their immaculately clean steps, white-curtained windows, and neat
boxes of flowers. The windows glittered like diamonds, the door-knobs
and plates shone with a yellow lustre, and there were no sticks, or
straws, or waste paper lying about to mar the tidy look of the square.

With one exception, Geneva Square was a pattern of all that was
desirable in the way of cleanliness and order. One might hope to find
such a haven in some somnolent cathedral town, but scarcely in the
grimy, smoky, restless metropolis of London.

The exception to the notable spotlessness of the neighborhood was No.
13, a house in the centre of the side opposite to the entrance.