“DARING ROBBERY IN WELL-KNOWN CITY FIRM.“A most daring outrage was carried out last night at the office of Messrs. Smith and Co., the well-known financial and insurance brokers. At a late hour this morning, some time after work was commenced, the night watchman was discovered bound and securely gagged in a room at the top of the premises. Further investigation revealed that the safe had been opened—evidently by a master hand—and the contents rifled. The extent of the loss is at present unknown, but the police are believed to possess several clues.”
“DARING ROBBERY IN WELL-KNOWN CITY FIRM.
“A most daring outrage was carried out last night at the office of Messrs. Smith and Co., the well-known financial and insurance brokers. At a late hour this morning, some time after work was commenced, the night watchman was discovered bound and securely gagged in a room at the top of the premises. Further investigation revealed that the safe had been opened—evidently by a master hand—and the contents rifled. The extent of the loss is at present unknown, but the police are believed to possess several clues.”
And at the same time that Mr. Johnson was staring with a glassy stare at this astounding piece of news, a tall, spare man with lazy blue eyes, stretched out comfortably in the corner of a first-class carriage, was also perusing it.
“Several clues,” he murmured. “I wonder! But it was a very creditable job, though I say it myself.”
Which seemed a strange soliloquy for a well-dressed man in a first-class carriage. And what might have seemed almost stranger, had there been any way of knowing such a recondite fact, was that in one of the mail bags reposing in the back of the train, a mysterious transformation had taken place. For a letter which had originally contained two documents and had been addressed to J. Perrison, Esq., now contained three and was consigned to Miss Sybil Daventry. Which merely goes to show how careful one should be over posting letters.
“Good evening, Mr. Perrison. All well, and taking nourishment, so to speak?”
Archie Longworth lounged into the hall, almost colliding with the other man.
“You look pensive,” he continued, staring at him blandly. “Agitato, fortissimo.Has aught occurred to disturb your masterly composure?”
But Mr. Perrison was in no mood for fooling: a message he had just received over the telephone had very considerably disturbed his composure.
“Let me have a look at that paper,” he snapped, making a grab at it.
“Tush! Tush!” murmured Archie. “Manners, laddie, manners! You’ve forgotten that little word.”
And then at the far end of the hall he saw the girl, and caught his breath. For the last two days he had almost forgotten her in the stress of other things; now the bitterness of what had to come rose suddenly in his throat and choked him.
“There is the paper. Run away and play in a corner.”
Then he went forward to meet her with his usual lazy smile.
“What’s happened?” she cried, a little breathlessly.
“Heaps of things,” he said, gently. “Heaps of things. The principal one being that a very worthless sinner loves a very beautiful girl—as he never believed it could be given to man to love.” His voice broke and faltered: then he went on steadily. “And the next one—which is really even more important—is that the very beautiful girl will receive a letter in a long envelope by to-night’s mail. The address will be typed, the postmark Strand. I do not want the beautiful girl to open it except in my presence. You understand?”
“I understand,” she whispered, and her eyes were shining.
“Have you seen this?” Perrison’s voice—shaking with rage—made Longworth swing round.
“Seen what, dear lad?” he murmured, taking the paper. “Robbery in City—is that what you mean? Dear, dear—what dastardly outrages do go unpunished these days! Messrs. Smith and Co. Really! Watchman bound and gagged. Safe rifled. Work of a master hand. Still, though I quite understand your horror as a law-abiding citizen at such a thing, why this thusness? I mean—altruism is wonderful, laddie; but it seems to me that it’s jolly old Smith and Co. who are up the pole.”
He burbled on genially, serenely unconscious of the furious face of the other man.
“I’m trying to think where I’ve met you before, Mr. Longworth,” snarled Perrison.
“Never, surely,” murmured the other. “Those classic features, I feel sure, would have been indelibly printed on my mind. Perhaps in some mission, Mr. Perrison—some evangelical revival meeting. Who knows? And there, if I mistake not, is the mail.”
He glanced at the girl, and she was staring at him wonderingly. Just for one moment did he show her what she wanted to know—just for one moment did she give him back the answer which was to him the sweetest and at the same time the most bitter in the world. Then he crossed the hall and picked up the letters.
“A business one for you, Miss Daventry,” he murmured, mildly. “Better open it at once, and get our business expert’s advice. Mr. Perrison is a wonderful fellah for advice.”
With trembling fingers she opened the envelope, and, as he saw the contents, Perrison, with a snarl of ungovernable fury, made as if to snatch them out of her hand. The next moment he felt as if his arm was broken, and the blue eyes boring into his brain were no longer lazy.
“You forgot yourself, Mr. Perrison,” said Archie Longworth, gently. “Don’t do that again.”
“But I don’t understand,” cried the girl, bewildered. “What are these papers?”
“May I see?” Longworth held out his hand, and she gave them to him at once.
“They’re stolen.” Perrison’s face was livid. “Give them to me, curse you.”
“Control yourself, you horrible blighter,” said Longworth, icily. “This,” he continued, calmly, “would appear to be a receipt from Messrs. Gross and Sons for the return of a pearl-necklace—sent out to Mr. Daventry on approval.”
“But you said he’d bought it and pawned it.” She turned furiously on Perrison.
“So he did,” snarled that gentleman. “That’s a forgery.”
“Is it?” said Longworth. “That strikes me as being Johnson’s signature. Firm’s official paper. And—er—he has the necklace, I—er—assume.”
“Yes—he has the necklace. Stolen last night by—by——” His eyes were fixed venomously on Longworth.
“Go on,” murmured the other. “You’re being most entertaining.”
But a sudden change had come over Perrison’s face—a dawning recognition. “By God!” he muttered, “you’re—you’re——”
“Yes. I’m—who? It’ll come in time, laddie—if you give it a chance. And in the meantime we might examine these other papers. Now, this appears to my inexperienced eye to be a transaction entered into on the one part by Messrs. Smith and Co. and on the other by William Daventry. And it concerns filthy lucre. Dear, dear. Twenty-five per cent. per month. Three hundred per cent. Positive usury, Mr. Perrison. Don’t you agree with me? A rapacious bloodsucker is Mr. Smith.”
But the other man was not listening: full recollection had come to him, and with a cold look of triumph he put his hands into his pockets and laughed.
“Very pretty,” he remarked. “Very pretty indeed. And how, in your vernacular, do you propose to get away with the swag, Mr. Flash Pete? I rather think the police—whom I propose to call up on the ’phone in one minute—will be delighted to see such an old and elusive friend.”
He glanced at the girl, and laughed again at the look on her face.
“What’s he mean, Archie?” she cried, wildly. “What’s he mean?”
“I mean,” Perrison sneered, “that Mr. Archie Longworth is what is generally described as a swell crook with a reputation in certain unsavoury circles extending over two or three continents. And the police, whom I propose to ring up, will welcome him as a long-lost child.”
He walked towards the telephone, and with a little gasp of fear the girl turned to Archie.
“Say it’s not true, dear—say it’s not true.”
For a moment he looked at her with a whimsical smile; then he sat down on the high fender round the open fire.
“I think, Mr. Perrison,” he murmured, gently, “that if I were you I would not be too precipitate over ringing up the police. The engaging warrior who sent this letter to Miss Daventry put in yet one more enclosure.”
Perrison turned round: then he stood very still.
“A most peculiar document,” continued the man by the fire, in the same gentle voice, “which proves very conclusively that amongst their other activities Messrs. Smith and Co. are not only the receivers of stolen goods, but are mixed up with illicit diamond buying.”
In dead silence the two men stared at one another; then Longworth spoke again.
“I shall keep these three documents, Mr. Perrison, as a safeguard for your future good behaviour. Mr. Daventry can pay a certain fair sum or not as he likes—that is his business: and I shall make a point of explaining exactly to him who and what you are—and Smith—and Gross. But should you be disposed to make any trouble over the necklace—or should the idea get abroad that Flash Pete was responsible for the burglary last night—it will be most unfortunate for you—most. This document would interest Scotland Yard immensely.”
Perrison’s face had grown more and more livid as he listened, and when the quiet voice ceased, unmindful of the girl standing by, he began to curse foully and hideously. The next moment he cowered back, as two iron hands gripped his shoulders and shook him till his teeth rattled.
“Stop, you filthy swine,” snarled Longworth, “or I’ll break every bone in your body. Quite a number of men are blackguards, Perrison—but you’re a particularly creeping and repugnant specimen. Now—get out—and do it quickly. The nine-thirty will do you nicely. And don’t forget what I’ve just said: because, as there’s a God above, I mean it.”
“I’ll be even with you for this some day, Flash Pete,” said the other venomously over his shoulder. “And then——”
“And then,” said Longworth, contemptuously, “we will resume this discussion. Just now—get out.”
“Yes: it is quite true.” She had known it was—and yet, womanlike, she had clung to the hope that there was some mistake—some explanation. And now, alone with the man she had grown to love, the faint hope died. With his lazy smile, he stared down at her—a smile so full of sorrow and pain that she could not bear to see it.
“I’m Flash Pete—with an unsavoury reputation, as our friend so kindly told you, in three continents. It was I who broke open the safe at Smith’s last night, I who got the receipt from Gross. You see, I spotted the whole trick from the beginning; as I said, I had inside information. And Perrison is Smith and Co.; moreover he’s very largely Gross as well—and half a dozen other rotten things in addition. The whole thing was worked with one end in view right from the beginning: the girl your brother originally bought the pearls for was in it; it was she who suggested the pawning. Bill told me that the night before last.” He sighed and paced two or three times up and down the dim-lit conservatory. And after a while he stopped in front of her again, and his blue eyes were very tender.
“Just a common sneak-thief—just a common worthless sinner. And he’s very, very glad that he has been privileged to help the most beautiful girl in all the world. Don’t cry, my dear, don’t cry: there’s nothing about that sinner’s that’s worth a single tear of yours. You must forget his wild presumption in falling in love with that beautiful girl: his only excuse is that he couldn’t help it. And maybe, in the days to come, the girl will think kindly every now and then of a man known to some as Archie Longworth—known to others as Flash Pete—known to himself as—well, we won’t bother about that.”
He bent quickly and raised her hand to his lips; then he was gone almost before she had realised it. And if he heard her little gasping cry—“Archie, my man, come back—I love you so!” he gave no sign.
For in his own peculiar code a very worthless sinner must remain a very worthless sinner to the end—and he must run the course alone.
“Whata queer little place, Jimmy!” The girl glanced round the tiny restaurant with frank interest, and the man looked up from the menu he was studying with a grin.
“Don’t let François hear you say that, or you’ll be asked to leave.” The head-waiter was already bearing down on them, his face wreathed in an expansive smile of welcome. “To him it is the only restaurant in London.”
“Ah, m’sieur! it is long days since you were here.” The little Frenchman rubbed his hands together delightedly. “And mam’selle—it is your first visit to Les Coquelins, n’est-ce-pas?”
“But not the last, I hope, François,” said the girl with a gentle smile.
“Ah, mais non!” Outraged horror at such an impossible idea shone all over the head-waiter’s face. “My guests, mam’selle, they come here once to see what it is like—and they return because they know what it is like.”
Jimmy Lethbridge laughed.
“There you are, Molly,” he cried. “Now you know what’s expected of you. Nothing less than once a week—eh, François?”
“Mais oui, m’sieur. There are some who come every night.” He produced his pencil and stood waiting. “A few oysters,” he murmured. “They are good ce soir: real Whitstables. And a bird, M’sieur Lethbridge—with an omelette aux fines herbes——”
“Sounds excellent, François,” laughed the man. “Anyway, I know that once you have decided—argument is futile.”
“It is my work,” answered the waiter, shrugging his shoulders. “And a bottle of Corton—with the chill just off. Toute de suite.”
François bustled away, and the girl looked across the table with a faintly amused smile in her big grey eyes.
“He fits the place, Jimmy. You must bring me here again.”
“Just as often as you like, Molly,” answered the man quietly, and after a moment the girl turned away. “You know,” he went on steadily, “how much sooner I’d bring you to a spot like this, than go to the Ritz or one of those big places. Only I was afraid it might bore you. I love it: it’s so much more intimate.”
“Why should you think it would bore me?” she asked, drawing off her gloves and resting her hands on the table in front of her. They were beautiful hands, ringless save for one plain signet ring on the little finger of her left hand. And, almost against his will, the man found himself staring at it as he answered:
“Because I can’t trust myself, dear; I can’t trust myself to amuse you,” he answered slowly. “I can’t trust myself not to make love to you—and it’s so much easier here than in the middle of a crowd whom one knows.”
The girl sighed a little sadly.
“Oh, Jimmy, I wish I could! You’ve been such an absolute dear. Give me a little longer, old man, and then—perhaps——”
“My dear,” said the man hoarsely, “I don’t want to hurry you. I’m willing to wait years for you—years. At least”—he smiled whimsically—“I’m not a little bit willing to wait years—really. But if it’s that or nothing—then, believe me, I’m more than willing.”
“I’ve argued it out with myself, Jimmy.” And now she was staring at the signet ring on her finger. “And when I’ve finished the argument, I know that I’m not a bit further on. You can’t argue over things like that. I’ve told myself times out of number that it isn’t fair to you——”
He started to speak, but she stopped him with a smile.
“No, dear man, it is not fair to you—whatever you like to say. It isn’t fair to you even though you may agree to go on waiting. No one has a right to ask another person to wait indefinitely, though I’m thinking that is exactly what I’ve been doing. Which is rather like a woman,” and once again she smiled half sadly.
“But I’m willing to wait, dear,” he repeated gently. “And then I’m willing to take just as much as you care to give. I won’t worry you, Molly; I won’t ask you for anything you don’t feel like granting me. You see, I know now that Peter must always come first. I had hoped that you’d forget him; I still hope, dear, that in time you will——”
She shook her head, and the man bit his lip.
“Well, even if you don’t, Molly,” he went on steadily, “is it fair to yourself to go on when you know it’s hopeless? There can be no doubt now that he’s dead; you know it yourself—you’ve taken off your engagement ring—and is it fair to—you? Don’t worry about me for the moment—but what is the use? Isn’t it better to face facts?”
The girl gave a little laugh that was half a sob.
“Of course it is, Jimmy. Much better. I always tell myself that in my arguments.” Then she looked at him steadily across the table. “You’d be content, Jimmy—would you?—with friendship at first.”
“Yes,” he answered quietly. “I would be content with friendship.”
“And you wouldn’t bother me—ah, no! forgive me, I know you wouldn’t. Because, Jimmy, I don’t want there to be any mistake. People think I’ve got over it because I go about; in some ways I have. But I seem to have lost something—some part of me. I don’t think I shall ever be able tolovea man again. I like you, Jimmy—like you most frightfully—but I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to love you in the way I loved Peter.”
“I know that,” muttered the man. “And I’ll risk it.”
“You dear!” said the girl—and her eyes were shining. “That’s where the unfairness comes in. You’re worth the very best—and I can’t promise to give it to you.”
“You are the very best, whatever you give me,” answered the man quietly. “I’d sooner have anything from you than everything from another woman. Oh, my dear!” he burst out, “I didn’t mean to worry you to-night—though I knew this damned restaurant would be dangerous—but can’t you say yes? I swear you’ll never regret it, dear—and I—I’ll be quite content to know that you care just a bit.”
For a while the girl was silent; then with a faint smile she looked at him across the table.
“All right, Jimmy,” she said.
“You mean you will, Molly?” he cried, a little breathlessly.
And the girl nodded.
“Yes, old man,” she answered steadily. “I mean I will.”
· · · · ·
It was two hours later when Molly Daventry went slowly upstairs to her room and shut the door. Jimmy Lethbridge had just gone; she had just kissed him. And the echo of his last whispered words—“My dear! my very dear girl!”—was still sounding in her ears.
For a while she stood by the fireplace smiling a little sadly. Then she crossed the room and switched on a special light. It was so placed that it shone directly on the photograph of an officer in the full dress of the 9th Hussars. And at length she knelt down in front of the table on which the photograph stood, so that the light fell on her own face also—glinting through the red-gold of her hair, glistening in the mistiness of her eyes. For maybe five minutes she knelt there, till it seemed to her as if a smile twitched round the lips of the officer—a human smile, an understanding smile.
“Oh, Peter!” she whispered, “he was your pal. Forgive me, my love—forgive me. He’s been such a dear.”
And once again the photograph seemed to smile at her tenderly.
“It’s only you, Peter, till Journey’s End—but I must give him the next best, mustn’t I? It’s only fair, isn’t it?—and you hated unfairness. But, dear God! it’s hard.”
Slowly she stretched out her left hand, so that the signet ring touched the big silver frame.
“Your ring, Peter,” she whispered, “your dear ring.”
And with a sudden little choking gasp she raised it to her lips.
It was in a side-street close to High Street, Kensington, that it happened—the unbelievable thing. Fate decided to give Jimmy two months of happiness; cynically allowed him to come within a fortnight of his wedding, and then——
For a few seconds he couldn’t believe his eyes; he stood staring like a man bereft of his senses. There on the opposite side of the road, playing a barrel-organ, was Peter himself—Peter, who had been reported “Missing, believed killed,” three years before. Peter, whom a sergeant had categorically said he had seen killed with his own eyes. And there he was playing a barrel-organ in the streets of London.
Like a man partially dazed Jimmy Lethbridge went over towards him. As he approached the player smiled genially, and touched his cap with his free hand. Then after a while the smile faded, and he stared at Jimmy suspiciously.
“My God, Peter!” Lethbridge heard himself say, “what are you doing this for?”
And as he spoke he saw a girl approaching—a girl who placed herself aggressively beside Peter.
“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded the player. “And who the hell are you calling Peter?”
“But,” stammered Jimmy, “don’t you know me, old man?”
“No!” returned the other truculently. “And I don’t want to, neither.”
“A ruddy torf, ’e is, Bill,” chimed in the girl.
“Good God!” muttered Lethbridge, even then failing to understand the situation. “You playing a barrel-organ!”
“Look here, ’op it, guv’nor.” Peter spoke with dangerous calmness. “I don’t want no blinking scenes ’ere. The police ain’t too friendly as it is, and this is my best pitch.”
“But why didn’t you let your pals know you were back, old man?” said Jimmy feebly. “Your governor, and all of us?”
“See ’ere, mister,” the girl stepped forward, “ ’e ain’t got no pals—only me. Ain’t that so, Billy?” she turned to the man, who nodded.
“I looks after him, I do, d’yer see?” went on the girl. “And I don’t want no one coming butting their ugly heads in. It worries ’im, it does.”
“But do you mean to say——” began Jimmy dazedly, and then he broke off. At last he understood, something if not all. In some miraculous way Peter had not been killed; Peter was there in front of him—but a new Peter; a Peter whose memory of the past had completely gone, whose mind was as blank as a clean-washed slate.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asked quietly.
“Never you mind,” said the girl sharply. “He ain’t nothing to you. I looks after ’im, I do.”
Not for a second did Jimmy hesitate, though deep down inside him there came a voice that whispered—“Don’t be a fool! Pretend it’s a mistake. Clear off! Molly will never know.” And if for a moment his hands clenched with the strength of the sudden hideous temptation, his voice was calm and quiet as he spoke.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He looked at her gently. “He is something to me—my greatest friend, whom I thought was dead.”
And now Peter was staring at him fixedly, forgetting even to turn the handle of the machine.
“I don’t remember yer, guv’nor,” he said, and Jimmy flinched at the appalling accent. “I’ve kind o’ lost my memory, yer see, and Lizzie ’ere looks after me.”
“I know she does,” continued Jimmy quietly. “Thank you, Lizzie, thank you a thousand times. But I want you both to come to this house to-night.” He scribbled the address of his rooms on a slip of paper. “We must think what is best to be done. You see, Lizzie, it’s not quite fair to him, is it? I want to get a good doctor to see him.”
“I’m quite ’appy as I am, sir,” said Peter. “I don’t want no doctors messing about with me.”
“Yer’d better go, Bill.” The girl turned to him. “The gentleman seems kind. But”—she swung round on Jimmy fiercely—“you ain’t going to take ’im away from me, guv’nor? ’E’s mine, yer see—mine——”
“I want you to come with him to-night, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge gravely. “I’m not going to try and take him away from you. I promise that. But will you promise to come? It’s for his sake I ask you to bring him.”
For a while she looked at him half fearfully; then she glanced at Peter, who had apparently lost interest in the matter. And at last she muttered under her breath: “Orl right—I’ll bring him. But ’e’s mine—mine. An’ don’t yer go forgetting it.”
And Jimmy, walking slowly into the main street, carried with him the remembrance of a small determined face with the look on it of a mother fighting for her young. That and Peter; poor dazed memory-lost Peter—his greatest pal.
At first, as he turned towards Piccadilly, he grasped nothing save the one stupendous fact that Peter was not dead. Then, as he walked on, gradually the realisation of what it meant to him personally came to his mind. And with that realisation there returned with redoubled force the insidious tempting voice that had first whispered: “Molly will never know.” She would never know—could never know—unless he told her. And Peter was happy; he’d said so. And the girl was happy—Lizzie. And perhaps—in fact most likely—Peter would never recover his memory. So what was the use? Why say anything about it? Why not say it was a mistake when they came that evening? And Jimmy put his hand to his forehead and found it was wet with sweat.
After all, if Peter didn’t recover, it would only mean fearful unhappiness for everyone. He wouldn’t know Molly, and it would break her heart, and the girl’s, and—but, of course,hedidn’t count. It was the others he was thinking of—not himself.
He turned into the Park opposite the Albert Hall, and passers-by eyed him strangely, though he was supremely unaware of the fact. But when all the demons of hell are fighting inside a man, his face is apt to look grey and haggard. And as he walked slowly towards Hyde Park Corner, Jimmy Lethbridge went through his Gethsemane. They thronged him; pressing in on him from all sides, and he cursed the devils out loud. But still they came back, again and again, and the worst and most devilish of them all was the insidious temptation that by keeping silent he would be doing the greatest good for the greatest number. Everyone was happy now—why run the risk of altering things?
And then, because it is not good that man should be tempted till he breaks, the Fate that had led him to Peter, led him gently out of the Grim Garden into Peace once more. He gave a short hard laugh which was almost a sob, and turning into Knightsbridge he hailed a taxi. It was as it drew up at the door of Molly’s house that he laughed again—a laugh that had lost its hardness. And the driver thought his fare’s “Thank you” was addressed to him. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the first time Jimmy had prayed for ten years.
“Why, Jimmy, old man—you’re early, I’m not dressed yet.” Molly met him in the hall, and he smiled at her gravely.
“Do you mind, dear,” he said, “if I cry off to-night? I’ve got a very important engagement—even more important than taking you out to dinner, if possible.”
The smile grew whimsical, and he put both his hands on her shoulders.
“It concerns my wedding present for you,” he added.
“From the bridegroom to the bride?” she laughed.
“Something like that,” he said, turning away abruptly.
“Of course, dear,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a bit of a head. Though what present you can be getting at this time of day, I can’t think.”
“You mustn’t try to,” said Jimmy. “It’s a surprise, Molly—a surprise. Pray God you like it, and that it will be a success!”
He spoke low under his breath, and the girl looked at him curiously.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she cried. “Has something happened?”
Jimmy Lethbridge pulled himself together; he didn’t want her to suspect anything yet.
“Good heavens, no!” he laughed. “What should have? But I want to borrow something from you, Molly dear, and I don’t want you to ask any questions. I want you to lend me that photograph of Peter that you’ve got—the one in full dress.”
And now she was staring at him wonderingly.
“Jimmy,” she said breathlessly, “does it concern the present?”
“Yes; it concerns the present.”
“You’re going to have a picture of him painted for me?”
“Something like that,” he answered quietly.
“Oh, you dear!” she whispered, “you dear! I’ve been thinking about it for months. I’ll get it for you.”
She went upstairs, and the man stood still in the hall staring after her. And he was still standing motionless as she came down again, the precious frame clasped in her hands.
“You’ll take care of it, Jimmy?” she said, and he nodded.
Then for a moment she laid her hand on his arm.
“I don’t think, old man,” she said quietly, “that you’ll have to wait very long with friendship only.”
The next moment she was alone with the slam of the front-door echoing in her ears. It was like Fate to reserve its most deadly arrow for the end.
“You say he has completely lost his memory?”
Mainwaring, one of the most brilliant of London’s younger surgeons, leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his host.
“Well, he didn’t know me, and I was his greatest friend,” said Lethbridge.
The two men were in Jimmy’s rooms, waiting for the arrival of Peter and the girl.
“He looked at me without a trace of recognition,” continued Lethbridge. “And he’s developed a typical lower-class Cockney accent.”
“Interesting, very,” murmured the surgeon, getting up and examining the photograph on the table. “This is new, isn’t it, old boy; I’ve never seen it before?”
“I borrowed it this afternoon,” said Jimmy briefly.
“From his people, I suppose? Do they know?”
“No one knows at present, Mainwaring—except you and me. That photograph I got this afternoon from Miss Daventry.”
Something in his tone made the surgeon swing round.
“You mean your fiancée?” he said slowly.
“Yes—my fiancée. You see, she was—she was engaged to Peter. And she thinks he’s dead. That is the only reason she got engaged to me.”
For a moment there was silence, while Mainwaring stared at the other. A look of wonder had come into the doctor’s eyes—wonder mixed with a dawning admiration.
“But, my God! old man,” he muttered at length, “if the operation is successful——”
“Can you think of a better wedding present to give a girl than the man she loves?” said Jimmy slowly, and the doctor turned away. There are times when it is not good to look on another man’s face.
“And if it isn’t successful?” he said quietly.
“God knows, Bill. I haven’t got as far as that—yet.”
And it was at that moment that there came a ring at the front-door bell. There was a brief altercation; then Jimmy’s man appeared.
“Two—er—persons say you told them——” he began, when Lethbridge cut him short.
“Show them in at once,” he said briefly, and his man went out again.
“You’ve got to remember, Bill,” said Jimmy as they waited, “that Peter Staunton is literally, at the moment, a low-class Cockney.”
Mainwaring nodded, and drew back a little as Peter and the girl came into the room. He wanted to leave the talking to Jimmy, while he watched.
“Good evening, Lizzie,” Lethbridge smiled at the girl reassuringly. “I’m glad you came.”
“Who’s that cove?” demanded the girl suspiciously, staring at Mainwaring.
“A doctor,” said Jimmy. “I want him to have a look at Peter later on.”
“His name ain’t Peter,” muttered the girl sullenly. “It’s Bill.”
“Well, at Bill, then. Don’t be frightened, Lizzie; come farther into the room. I want you to see a photograph I’ve got here.”
Like a dog who wonders whether it is safe to go to a stranger, she advanced slowly, one step at a time; while Peter, twirling his cap awkwardly in his hands, kept beside her. Once or twice he glanced uneasily round the room, but otherwise his eyes were fixed on Lizzie as a child looks at its mother when it’s scared.
“My God, Jimmy!” whispered the doctor, “there’s going to be as big a sufferer as you if we’re successful.”
And he was looking as he spoke at the girl, who, with a sudden instinctive feeling of protection, had put out her hand and taken Peter’s.
Like a pair of frightened children they crept on until they came to the photograph; then they stopped in front of it. And the two men came a little closer. It was the girl who spoke first, in a low voice of wondering awe:
“Gawd! it’s you, Bill—that there bloke in the frame. You were a blinking orficer.”
With a look of pathetic pride on her face, she stared first at the photograph and then at the man beside her. “An orficer! Bill—an orficer! What was ’is regiment, mister?” The girl swung round on Jimmy. “Was ’e in the Guards?”
“No, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge. “Not the Guards. He was in the cavalry. The 9th Hussars,” and the man, who was holding the frame foolishly in his hands, suddenly looked up. “The Devil’s Own, Peter,” went on Lethbridge quietly. “C Squadron of the Devil’s Own.”
But the look had faded; Peter’s face was blank again.
“I don’t remember, guv’nor,” he muttered. “And it’s making me ’ead ache—this.”
With a little cry the girl caught his arm, and faced Lethbridge fiercely.
“Wot’s the good of all this?” she cried. “All this muckin’ abaht? Why the ’ell can’t you leave ’im alone, guv’nor? ’E’s going to ’ave one of ’is ’eads now—’e nearly goes mad, ’e does, when ’e gets ’em.”
“I think, Lizzie, that perhaps I can cure those heads of his.”
It was Mainwaring speaking, and the girl, still holding Peter’s arm protectingly, looked from Lethbridge to the doctor.
“And I want to examine him, in another room where the light is a little better. Just quite alone, where he won’t be distracted.”
But instantly the girl was up in arms.
“You’re taking ’im away from me—that’s wot yer doing. And I won’t ’ave it. Yer don’t want to go, Bill, do yer? Yer don’t want to leave yer Liz?”
And Jimmy Lethbridge bit his lip; Mainwaring had been right.
“I’m not going to take him away, Lizzie,” said the doctor gently. “I promise you that. You shall see him the very instant I’ve made my examination. But if you’re there, you see, you’ll distract his attention.”
She took a step forward, staring at the doctor as if she would read his very soul. And in the infinite pathos of the scene, Jimmy Lethbridge for the moment forgot his own suffering. Lizzie—the little slum girl—fighting for her man against something she couldn’t understand; wondering if she should trust these two strangers. Caught in a net that frightened her; fearful that they were going to harm Bill. And at the bottom of everything the wild, inarticulate terror that she was going to lose him.
“You swear it?” she muttered. “I can see ’im after yer’ve looked at ’im.”
“I swear it,” said Mainwaring gravely.
She gave a little sob. “Orl right, I believe yer on the level. You go with ’im, Bill. Perhaps ’e’ll do yer ’ead good.”
“ ’E’s queer sometimes at night,” said Lizzie, as the door closed behind Mainwaring. “Seems all dazed like.”
“Is he?” said Jimmy. “How did you find him, Lizzie?”
“ ’E was wandering round—didn’t know nuthing about ’imself,” she answered. “And I took ’im in—and looked after ’im, I did. Saved and pinched a bit, ’ere and there—and then we’ve the barrel-organ. And we’ve been so ’appy, mister—so ’appy. Course ’e’s a bit queer, and ’e don’t remember nuthing—but ’e’s orl right if ’e don’t get ’is ’eadaches. And when ’e does, I gets rid of them. I jest puts ’is ’ead on me lap and strokes ’is forehead—and they goes after a while. Sometimes ’e goes to sleep when I’m doing it—and I stops there till ’e wakes again with the ’ead gone. Yer see, I understands ’im. ’E’s ’appy with me.”
She was staring at the photograph—a pathetic little figure in her tawdry finery—and for a moment Jimmy couldn’t speak. It had to be done; he had to do it—but it felt rather like killing a wounded bird with a sledge-hammer—except that it wouldn’t be so quick.
“He’s a great brain surgeon, Lizzie—the gentleman with Bill,” he said at length, and the girl turned round and watched him gravely. “And he thinks that an operation might cure him and give him back his memory.”
“So that ’e’d know ’e was an orficer?” whispered the girl.
“So that he’d know he was an officer,” said Jimmy. “So that he’d remember all his past life. You see, Lizzie, your Bill is really Sir Peter Staunton—whom we all thought had been killed in the war.”
“Sir Peter Staunton!” she repeated dazedly. “Gawd!”
“He was engaged, Lizzie,” he went on quietly, and he heard her breath come quick—“engaged to that lady.” He pointed to a picture of Sybil on the mantelpiece.
“No one wouldn’t look at me with ’er about,” said the girl thoughtfully.
“She loved him very dearly, Lizzie—even as he loved her. I don’t think I’ve ever known two people who loved one another quite so much. And——” for a moment Jimmy faltered, then he went on steadily: “I ought to know in this case, because I’m engaged to her now.”
And because the Cockney brain is quick, she saw—and understood.
“So if yer doctor friend succeeds,” she said, “she’ll give yer the chuck?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” answered Jimmy gravely, “she’ll give me the chuck.”
“And yer love ’er? Orl right, old sport. I can see it in yer face. Strikes me”—and she gave a little laugh that was sadder than any tears—“strikes me you ’anded out the dirty end of the stick to both of us when you come round that street to-day.”
“Strikes me I did, Lizzie,” he agreed. “But, you see, I’ve told you this because I want you to understand that we’re both of us in it—we’ve both of us got to play the game.”
“Play the game!” she muttered. “Wot d’yer want me to do?”
“The doctor doesn’t want him excited, Lizzie,” explained Lethbridge. “But he wants him to stop here to-night, so that he can operate to-morrow. Will you tell him that you want him to stop here?—and stay here with him if you like.”
“And to-morrer she’ll tike ’im.” The girl was staring at Sybil’s photograph. “ ’E won’t look at me—when ’e knows. Gawd! why did yer find ’im—why did yer find ’im? We was ’appy, I tells yer—’appy!”
She was crying now—crying as a child cries, weakly and pitifully, and Lethbridge stood watching her in silence.
“Poor kid!” he said at length. “Poor little kid!”
“I don’t want yer pity,” she flared up. “I want my man.” And then, as she saw Jimmy looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece, in an instant she was beside him. “Sorry, old sport,” she whispered impulsively. “Reckon you’ve backed a ruddy loser yourself. I’ll do it. Shake ’ands. I guess I knew all along that Bill wasn’t really my style. And I’ve ’ad my year.”
“You’re lucky, Lizzie,” said Jimmy gravely, still holding her hand. “Very, very lucky.”
“I’ve ’ad my year,” she went on, and for a moment her thoughts seemed far away. “A ’ole year—and——” she pulled herself together and started patting her hair.
“And what, Lizzie?” said Jimmy quietly.
“Never you mind, mister,” she answered. “That’s my blooming business.”
And then the door opened and Mainwaring came in.
“Does Lizzie agree?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, Bill—she agrees,” said Jimmy. “What do you think of him?”
“As far as I can see there is every hope that an operation will be completely successful. There is evidently pressure on the right side of the skull which can be removed. I’ll operate early to-morrow morning. Keep him quiet to-night—and make him sleep, Lizzie, if you can.”
“What d’yer think, mister?” she said scornfully. “Ain’t I done it fer a year?”
Without another word she left the room, and the two men stood staring at one another.
“Will she play the game, Jimmy!” Mainwaring was lighting a cigarette.
“Yes—she’ll play the game,” answered Lethbridge slowly. “She’ll play the game—poor little kid!”
“What terms are they on—those two?” The doctor looked at him curiously.
“I think,” said Lethbridge even more slowly, “that that is a question we had better not inquire into too closely.”
It was successful—brilliantly successful—the operation. Lizzie made it so; at any rate she helped considerably. It was she who held his hand as he went under the anæsthetic; it was she who cheered him up in the morning, when he awoke dazed and frightened in a strange room. And then she slipped away and disappeared from the house. It was only later that Lethbridge found a scrawled pencil note, strangely smudged, on his desk:
“Let me no wot appens.—Lizzie.”
He didn’t know her address, so he couldn’t write and tell her that her Bill had come to consciousness again, completely recovered except for one thing. There was another blank in his mind now—the last three years. One of his first questions had been to ask how the fight had gone, and whether we’d broken through properly.
And then for a day or two Lizzie was forgotten; he had to make his own renunciation.
Molly came, a little surprised at his unusual invitation, and he left the door open so that she could see Peter in bed from one part of his sitting-room.
“Where have you buried yourself, Jimmy?” she cried. “I’ve been——” And then her face grew deathly white as she looked into the bedroom. Her lips moved, though no sound came from them; her hands were clenching and unclenching.
“But I’m mad,” he heard her whisper at length, “quite mad. I’m seeing things, Jimmy—seeing things. Why—dear God! it’s Peter!”
She took a step or two forward, and Peter saw her.
“Molly,” he cried weakly, “Molly, my darling——”
And Jimmy Lethbridge saw her walk forward slowly and uncertainly to the man who had come back. With a shaking little cry of pure joy she fell on her knees beside the bed, and Peter put a trembling hand on her hair. Then Jimmy shut the door, and stared blankly in front of him.
It was Lizzie who roused him—Lizzie coming shyly into the room from the hall.
“I seed her come in,” she whispered. “She looked orl right. ’Ow is ’e?”
“He’s got his memory back, Lizzie,” he said gently. “But he’s forgotten the last three years.”
“Forgotten me, as ’e?” Her lips quivered.
“Yes, Lizzie. Forgotten everything—barrel-organ and all. He thinks he’s on sick leave from the war.”
“And she’s wiv ’im now, is she?”
“Yes—she’s with him, Lizzie.”
She took a deep breath—then she walked to the glass and arranged her hat—a dreadful hat with feathers in it.
“Well, I reckons I’d better be going. I don’t want to see ’im. It would break me ’eart. And I said good-bye to ’im that last night before the operation. So long, mister. I’ve ’ad me year—she can’t tike that away from me.”
And then she was gone. He watched her from the window walking along the pavement, with the feathers nodding at every step. Once she stopped and looked back—and the feathers seemed to wilt and die. Then she went on again—and this time she didn’t stop. She’d “ ’ad ’er year,” had Lizzie; maybe the remembrance of it helped her gallant little soul when she returned the barrel-organ—the useless barrel-organ.
“So this was your present, Jimmy.” Molly was speaking just behind him, and her eyes were very bright.
“Yes, Molly,” he smiled. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t understand what’s happened,” she said slowly. “I don’t understand anything except the one big fact that Peter has come back.”
“Isn’t that enough?” he asked gently. “Isn’t that enough, my dear? Peter’s come back—funny old Peter. The rest will keep.”
And then he took her left hand and drew off the engagement ring he had given her.
“Not on that finger now—Molly; though I’d like you to keep it now if you will.”
For a while she stared at him wonderingly.
“Jimmy, but you’re big!” she whispered at length. “I’m so sorry!” She turned away as Peter’s voice, weak and tremulous, came from the other room.
“Come in with me, old man,” she said. “Come in and talk to him.”
But Jimmy shook his head.
“He doesn’t want me, dear; I’m just—just going out for a bit——”
Abruptly he left the room—they didn’t want him: any more than they wanted Lizzie.
Only she had had her year.
“Mydear Cynthia, you haven’t seen our Hermit yet. He’s quite the show exhibit of the place.”
Lady Cynthia Stockdale yawned and lit a cigarette. Hermits belonged undoubtedly to the class of things in which she wasnotinterested; the word conjured up a mental picture of a dirty individual of great piety, clothed in a sack. And Lady Cynthia loathed dirt and detested piety.
“A hermit, Ada!” she remarked, lazily. “I thought the brand was extinct. Does he feed ravens and things?”
It is to be regretted that theological knowledge was not her strong point, but Ada Laverton, her hostess, did not smile. From beneath some marvellously long eyelashes she was watching the lovely girl lying back in the deck-chair opposite, who was vainly trying to blow smoke rings. A sudden wild idea had come into her brain—so wild as to be almost laughable. But from time immemorial wild ideas anent their girl friends have entered the brains of young married women, especially the lucky ones who have hooked the right man. And Ada Laverton had undoubtedly done that. She alternately bullied, cajoled, and made love to her husband John, in a way that eminently suited that cheerful and easygoing gentleman. He adored her quite openly and ridiculously, and she returned the compliment just as ridiculously, even if not quite so openly.
Moreover, Cynthia Stockdale was her best friend. Before her marriage they had been inseparable, and perhaps there was no one living who understood Cynthia as she did. To the world at large Cynthia was merely a much photographed and capricious beauty. Worthy mothers of daughters, who saw her reproduced weekly in the society papers, sighed inwardly with envy, and commented on the decadence of the aristocracy: the daughters tore out the pictures in a vain endeavour to copy her frocks. But it wasn’t the frocks that made Cynthia Stockdale: it was she who made the frocks. Put her in things selected haphazard from a jumble sale—put her in remnants discarded by the people who got it up, and she would still have seemed the best-dressed woman in the room. It was a gift she had—not acquired, but natural.
Lady Cynthia was twenty-five, and looked four years younger. Since the war she had been engaged twice—once to a man in the Blues, and once to a young and ambitious member of Parliament. Neither had lasted long, and on the second occasion people had said unkind things. They had called her heartless and capricious, and she had scorned to contradict them. It mattered nothing to her what people said: if they didn’t like her they could go away and have nothing to do with her. And since in her case it wasn’t a pose, but the literal truth, people did not go away. Only to Ada Laverton did she give her real confidence: only to Ada Laverton did she show the real soul that lay below the surface.
“I’m trying,” she had said, lying in that same chair a year previously, “I’m trying to find the real thing. I needn’t marry if I don’t want to; I haven’t got to marry for a home and a roof. And it’s got to be the right man. Of course I may make a mistake—a mistake which I shan’t find out till it’s too late. But surely when one has found it out before it’s too late, it’s better to acknowledge it at once. It’s no good making a second worse one by going through with it. I thought Arthur was all right”—Arthur was the member of Parliament—“I’m awfully fond of Arthur still. But I’m not the right wife for him. We jarred on one another in a hundred little ways. And he hasn’t got a sense of humour. I shall never forget the shock I got when I first realised that. He seemed to think that a sense of humour consisted of laughing at humorous things, of seeing a jest as well as anyone else. He didn’t seem to understand me when I told him that the real sense of humour is often closer to tears than laughter. Besides”—she had added inconsequently—“he had a dreadful trick of whistling down my neck when we danced. No woman can be expected to marry a permanent draught. And as for poor old Bill—well Bill’s an angel. I still adore Bill. He is, I think, the most supremely handsome being I’ve ever seen in my life—especially when he’s got his full dress on. But, my dear, I blame myself over Bill. I ought to have known it before I got engaged to him; as a matter of fact I did know it. Bill is, without exception, the biggest fool in London. I thought his face might atone for his lack of brains; I thought that perhaps if I took him in hand he might do something in the House of Lords—his old father can’t live much longer—but I gave it up. He is simply incapable of any coherent thought at all. He can’t spell; he can’t add, and once when I asked him if he liked Rachmaninoff, he thought it was the man who had built the Pyramids.”
This and much more came back to Ada Laverton as she turned over in her mind the sudden wild idea that had come to her. Above all things she wanted to see Cynthia married; she was so utterly happy herself that she longed for her friend to share it too. She knew, as no one else did, what a wonderful wife and pal Cynthia would make to the right man. But it must be the right man; it must be the real thing. And like a blinding flash had come the thought of the Hermit—the Hermit who had come into the neighbourhood six months previously, and taken the little farm standing in the hollow overlooking the sea. For, as she frequently told John, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was tied to a silly old idiot of a husband, she’d have married the Hermit herself.
“No, he doesn’t feed ravens,” she remarked at length. “Only puppies. He breeds Cairns and Aberdeens. We’ll stroll up and see him after tea.”
“A hermit breeding dogs!” Cynthia sat up lazily. “My dear, you intrigue me.”
“Oh! he’s not a bad young man,” said Ada Laverton, indifferently. “Quite passable looking, D.S.O. and M.C. and that sort of thing. Been all over the world, and is really quite interesting when you can get him to talk.”
“What sort of age?” asked her friend.
“Thirty to thirty-five. You shall see him. But you’re not to go and turn his head; he’s very peaceful and happy as he is.”
Lady Cynthia smiled.
“I don’t think hermits are much in my line. A man’s job is to be up and doing; not to bury himself alive and breed dogs.”
“You tell him so,” said her hostess. “It will do him good.”
An excited rush of puppies—fat, bouncing, lolloping puppies; a stern order: “Heel, you young blighters, heel!” in a pleasant, cheerful voice; a laughing greeting from Ada Laverton, and Lady Cynthia Stockdale found herself shaking hands with the Hermit. She shook hands as a man shakes hands, with a firm, steady grasp, and she looked the person she was greeting straight in the eyes. To her that first handshake meant, more often than not, the final estimate of a stranger’s character; it always meant the first. And her first estimate of Desmond Brooke was good. She saw a man of clear skin and clear eye. He wore no hat, and his brown hair, curling a little at the temples, was slightly flecked with grey. His face was bronzed and a faint smile hovered in the corners of the eyes that met hers fair and square. His shirt was open at the neck; the sleeves were rolled up, showing a pair of muscular brown arms. He was clean-shaven, and his teeth were very white and regular. So much, in detail, she noticed during that first half-second; then she turned her attention to the puppies.
“What toppers!” she remarked. “What absolute toppers!”
She picked a fat, struggling mixture of legs and ecstatically slobbering tongue out of the mêlée at her feet, and the Hermit watched her gravely. It struck him that in the course of a fairly crowded life he had never seen a more lovely picture than the one made by this tall slender girl with the wriggling puppy in her arms. And another thing struck him also, though he said nothing. Possibly it was accidental, but the puppy she had picked up, and which was now making frantic endeavours to lick her face, was out and away the best of the litter. Almost angrily he told himself that itwasan accident, and yet he could not quite banish the thought that it was an accident which would happen every time. Thoroughbred picks thoroughbred; instinctively the girl would pick the best. His mouth set a little, giving him a look of sternness, and at that moment their eyes met over the puppy’s head.
“Is he for sale?” asked the girl.
Undoubtedly he was for sale; Desmond Brooke, though he was in no need of money, did not believe in running anything save on business lines. But now something that he did not stop to analyse made him hesitate. He felt a sudden inconsequent distaste against selling the puppy to her.
“You’ve picked the best, I see,” he said quietly.
“Of course,” she answered, with the faintest trace of hauteur. Insensibly she felt that this man was hostile to her.
“I am afraid that that one is not for sale,” he continued. “You can have any of the others if you like.”
Abruptly she restored the puppy to its mother.
“Having chosen the best, Mr. Brooke,” she said, looking him straight in the face, “I don’t care about taking anything second-rate.”
For a second or two they stared at one another. Ada Laverton had wandered away and was talking shop to the gardener; the Hermit and Lady Cynthia were alone.
“You surprise me,” said the Hermit, calmly.
“That is gratuitously rude,” answered the girl quietly. “It is also extremely impertinent. And lastly it shows that you are a very bad judge of character.”
The man bowed.
“I sincerely hope that your ‘lastly’ is true. Am I to understand, then, that you do not care to buy one of the other puppies?”
And suddenly the girl laughed half-angrily.
“What do you mean by daring to say such a thing to me? Why, you haven’t known me for more than two minutes.”
“That is not strictly true, Lady Cynthia. Anyone who is capable of reading and takes in the illustrated papers can claim your acquaintance weekly.”
“I see,” she answered. “You disapprove of my poor features being reproduced.”
“Personally not at all,” he replied. “I know enough of the world, and am sufficiently broadminded, I trust, to realise how completely unimportant the matter is. Lady Cynthia Stockdale at Ascot, at Goodwood, in her motor-car, out of her motor-car, by the fire, by the gas stove, in her boudoir, out of her boudoir, in the garden, not in the garden—and always in a different frock every time. It doesn’t matter to me, but there are some people who haven’t got enough money to pay for the doctor’s bill when their wives are dying. And it’s such a comfort to them to see you by the fire. To know that half the money you paid for your frock would save the life of the woman they love.”
“You’re talking like a ranting tub-thumper,” she cried, furiously. “How dare you say such things to me? And, anyway, does breeding dogs in the wilderness help them with their doctors’ bills?”
“Touché,” said the man, with a faint smile. “Perhaps I haven’t expressed myself very clearly. You can’t pay the bills, Lady Cynthia—I can’t. There are too many thousands to pay. But it’s the bitter contrast that hits them, and it’s all so petty.” For a while he paused, seeming to seek for his words. “Come with me, Lady Cynthia, and I’ll show you something.”
Almost violently he swung round on his heel and strode off towards the house. For a moment she hesitated, then she followed him slowly. Anger and indignation were seething in her mind; the monstrous impertinence of this complete stranger was almost bewildering. She found him standing in his smoking-room unlocking a drawer in a big writing-desk.
“Well,” she said uncompromisingly from the doorway.
“I have something to show you,” he remarked quietly. “But before I show it to you, I want to tell you a very short story. Three years ago I was in the back of beyond in Brazil. I’d got a bad dose of fever, and the gassing I got in France wasn’t helping matters. It was touch and go whether I pulled through or not. And one day one of the fellows got a two-month-oldTatler. In thatTatlerwas a picture—a picture of the loveliest girl I have ever seen. I tore it out, and I propped it up at the foot of my bed. I think I worshipped it; I certainly fell in love with it. There is the picture.”
He handed it to her, and she looked at it in silence. It was of herself, and after a moment or two she raised her eyes to his.
“Go on,” she said gently.
“A few months ago I came back to England. I found a seething cauldron of discontent; men out of work—strikes—talk of revolution. And this was the country for which a million of our best had died. I also found—week after week—my picture girl displayed in every paper, as if no such thing as trouble existed. She, in her motor-car, cared for none of these things.”
“That is unjust,” said the girl, and her voice was low.
“I knew it was unjust,” answered the man, “but I couldn’t help it. And if I couldn’t help it—I who loved her—what of these others? It seemed symbolical to me.”
“Nero fiddling,” said the girl, with a faint smile. “You’re rather a strange person, Mr. Brooke. Am I to understand that you’re in love with me?”
“You are not. I’m in love with the you of that picture.”
“I see. You have set up an image. And supposing that image is a true one.”
“Need we discuss that?” said the man, with faint sarcasm.
The girl shrugged her shoulders.
“The supposition is at least as possible as that you are doing any vast amount of good for the seething cauldron of discontent, I think you called it, by breeding Aberdeens in the country. I’m afraid you’re a crank, Mr. Brooke, and not a very consistent one at that. And a crank is to my mind synonymous with a bore.”
The man replaced the picture in his desk.
“Then perhaps we had better join Mrs. Laverton,” he remarked. “I apologise for having wearied you.”
In silence they went out into the garden, to find Ada Laverton wandering aimlessly round looking for them.
“Where have you two been?” she demanded, as she saw them approaching.
“Mr. Brooke has been showing me a relic of his past,” said Lady Cynthia. “Most interesting and touching. Are you ready to go, Ada?”
Mrs. Laverton gave a quick glance at their two faces, and wondered what had happened. Not much, surely, in so short a time—and yet with Cynthia you never could tell. The Hermit’s face, usually so inscrutable, showed traces of suppressed feeling; Cynthia’s was rather too expressionless.
“Are you coming to the ball to-morrow night, Hermit?” she asked.
“I didn’t know there was one on, Mrs. Laverton,” he answered.
“The cricket ball, my good man,” she exclaimed. “It’s been advertised for the last month.”