"The instant he entered the room it was plain that all was lost...."'I cannot find it,' said he, 'and I must have it. Where is it?... Where is my bench?... Time presses; and I must finish those shoes.'"They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them."'Come, come!' said he, in a whimpering miserable way: 'let me get to work. Give me my work.'"...Carton was the first to speak:"'The last chance is gone: it was not much....'"Charles Dickens: "A Tale of Two Cities."
"The instant he entered the room it was plain that all was lost....
"'I cannot find it,' said he, 'and I must have it. Where is it?... Where is my bench?... Time presses; and I must finish those shoes.'
"They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
"'Come, come!' said he, in a whimpering miserable way: 'let me get to work. Give me my work.'
"...Carton was the first to speak:
"'The last chance is gone: it was not much....'"
Charles Dickens: "A Tale of Two Cities."
As I helped the Seraph out of the house and into a taxi, I was trying to string together a few words of sympathy and encouragement. Then I looked at his face, and decided to save my breath. Physically and mentally he was too hard hit to profit by any consolation I could offer. As a clumsy symbol of good intention I held out my hand, and had it gripped and retained till we reached Adelphi Terrace.
"Never mind me," he said, in a slow, sing-song voice, hesitating like a man speaking an unfamiliar language. "It's you and Joyce we've got to consider."
"Don't worry your head, Seraph," I said. "We'll find a way out. You've got to be quiet and get well."
"But what are you going to do?"
"I've no idea," I answered blankly.
The Seraph sighed and lifted his feet wearily on to the seat opposite.
"You played that last hand well, Toby. I'm afraid you'll have to go on playing without any support from me. I'm dummy, I'm only good for two possible tricks."
I waited to see the hand exposed.
"I can't find Mavis," he went on. "You see that?"
"I do."
"You must ask Joyce to tell you. She spoke a few words this morning, and she's getting stronger. If she refuses ... but she won't if you ask her."
"If she does?"
"You must go on bluffing Nigel. He doesn't know who's in the flat, and old Roden doesn't know either. They'd have searched three days ago, they'd have arrested us to-day on suspicion if they hadn't been afraid of making fools of themselves. Keep bluffing, Toby. The keener you are to get the search over and done with, the more they'll be afraid of a mare's nest." The words trailed off in a sigh. "If there's anything I can do I'll do it, but I'm afraid you'll find me pretty useless."
"You're going quietly to bed for forty-eight hours," I told him.
He raised no protest, and I heard him murmur, "Saturday night. Sunday night. Monday night. It'll be all over then, one way or the other."
On reaching the flat I carried him upstairs, ordered some soup, and smoked a cigarette in the hall. Maybury-Reynardson was completing his evening inspection, and when he came out I asked for the bulletin.
"It's in the right direction," he told me, "butvery, very slow. The mind's working back to normal whenever she wakes, and she's been talking a little. I'm afraid you must go on being patient."
"Could she answer a question?"
"You mustn't ask any."
"I'm afraid it's absolutely necessary."
"What d'you want to know?"
"The police will search this flat on Monday if we don't find out before then where Miss Rawnsley was taken to when she disappeared."
Maybury-Reynardson shook his head.
"You mustn't think of bothering her with questions of that kind. If you did, I don't suppose she could help you."
"But you said the mind was normal?"
"Working back to normal. Everything's there, but she can't put it in order. The memory larder is full, but her hands are too weak to lift things down from the shelves."
"It's a matter of life and death," I urged.
"If it was a matter of eternal salvation I doubt if she could help you. Do you dream? Well, could you piece together the fragments of all you dreamt last night? You might have done so a moment after waking, little pieces may come back to you when some one suggests the right train of thought. That's Miss Davenant's condition. To change the parallel, her eyes can see, but they see 'through a glass darkly.'"
I thought the matter over while he was examining and prescribing for the Seraph.
"We're in a tight corner, Seraph," I said when he had gone. "I don't see any other way out, I'm going to take the responsibility of disobeying him."
He offered no suggestion, and I walked to the door of Joyce's room and put my fingers to thehandle. Then I came back and made him open his eyes and listen to me.
"I'll take the blame," I said; "but will you see if you can make her understand? She's known you longer."
It was not the true reason. When I reached the door I was smitten with the fear that she would not recognise me, and my nerve failed.
We explained our intentions to a reluctant nurse; I fidgeted outside in the hall and heard the Seraph walk up to the bedside and ask Joyce how she was.
"I'm better, thanks," she answered. "Let me see, do I know you?" There was a weak laugh. "I should like to be friends with you, you've got such nice eyes."
The Seraph took her hand and asked if she knew any one named Mavis Rawnsley.
"Oh, yes, I know her. Her father's the Prime Minister. Mavis, yes, I know her."
"Do you know where she is?"
"Mavis Rawnsley? She was at the theatre last night. What theatre was it? She was in the stalls, and I was in a box. Who else was there? Were you? She was with her mother. Where is she now? Yes, I know Miss Rawnsley well."
"Do you know where she is now?"
"I expect she's at the theatre."
She closed her eyes, and the Seraph came back to the door, shaking his head. I tiptoed into the room, looked round the screen and watched Joyce smiling in her sleep. As I looked, her eyes opened and met mine.
"Why, I know you!" she exclaimed. "You're my husband. You took me to the theatre last night, when we saw Mavis Rawnsley. We were in a box, and she was in the stalls. Some one wanted toknow where Mavis was. Tell them we saw her at the theatre, will you?"
She held out her hand to me; I bent down, kissed her forehead, and crept out of the room. The Seraph was lying on the bed we had made up for him in my room. I helped him to undress, and retired to the library with a cigar—to forget Joyce and plan the bluffing of Nigel.
My first act was to get into communication with Paddy Culling on the telephone.
"Will you do me another favour?" I began. "Well, it's this. I want you to get hold of Nigel and take him to lunch or dine to-morrow—Sunday—at the Club. Let me know which, and the time. When you've finished eating, lead him away to a quiet corner—the North Smoking Room or the Strangers' Card Room. Hold him in conversation till I come. I shall drop in accidentally, and start pulling his leg. You can help, but do it in moderation; we mustn't make him savage—only uncomfortable. You understand? Right."
Then I went to bed.
On Sunday morning I started out in the direction of Chester Square, and made two discoveries on the way. The first was that our house was being unceasingly watched by a tall Yorkshireman in plain clothes and regulation boots; the second, that the Yorkshireman was in his turn being intermittently watched by Nigel Rawnsley. His opinion of the Criminal Investigation Department must have been as low—if not as kindly—as my own. On two more occasions that day I found him engaged on a flying visit of inspection—to keep Scotland Yard up to the Rawnsley mark and answer the eternal question that Juvenal propounded and Michael Roden amended for his own benefit and mine at Henley.
Elsie received me with anxious enquiries after her sister. I gave a full report, propounded my plan of campaign, and was rewarded by being shown the extensive and beautiful contents of her wardrobe. I should never have believed one woman could accumulate so many clothes; there seemed a dress for every day and evening of the year, and she could have worn a fresh hat each hour without repeating herself. My own rule is to have one suit I can wear in a bad light, and four that I cannot. With hats the practice is even simpler; I flaunt a new one until it is stolen, and then wear the changeling until a substitute of even greater seediness has been supplied. My instincts are conservative, and my hats more symbolical than decorative; for me they typify the great, sad law that every change is a change for the worse.
My only complaint against Elsie was that her wardrobe contained too much of what university authorities would call the "subfuse" element. The most conspicuous garments I could find were a white coat and skirt, white stockings and shoes, black hat and veil, and heliotrope dust coat. I am no judge whether they looked well in combination, but I challenge the purblind to say they were inconspicuous. To my eyes thetout ensemblewas so striking that I laid them on a chair and gazed in wondering admiration until it was time to call up Gartside and warn him that I stood in need of luncheon.
Carlton House Terrace had a depressing, derelict appearance that foreboded the departure of its lord. All the favourite pictures and ornaments seemed to have been stowed away in preparation for India, neat piles of books were distributed about the library floor, and every scrap of paper seemed to have beentidied into a drawer. We sat down a pleasant party of three, and I made the acquaintance of Gartside's cousin and aide-de-camp, Lord Raymond Sturling. An agreeable fellow he seemed, who put himself and his services entirely at my disposal in the event of my deciding to come for a part or all of the way. I could only avail myself of his offer to the extent of sending him to see if Mountjoy's villa at Rimini was still in the market, and if so what his figure was for giving me immediate possession.
Gartside himself was as hospitable as ever in offering me every available inch on the yacht for the accommodation of myself and any friends I might care to bring with me. I ran through the list and found myself wondering if Maybury-Reynardson could be persuaded to come. I had hardly known him long enough to call him a friend, but he had gone out of his way to oblige me in coming to attend Joyce, and on general principles I think most big London practitioners are the better for a few days at sea at the close of the London season.
I called round in Cavendish Square for a cup of tea, and told him he was pulled down and in need of a change.
"Look at the good it did my brother," I said. "Just to Marseilles and back. Or if you'll come to Genoa and overland to Rimini, I shall be very glad to put you up for as long as you can stay. It's Gartside's own yacht, and I'm authorised by him to invite whom I please. He's a capital host, and you'll be done to a turn. The only fault I have to find with his arrangements is that he carries no doctor, and I'm sufficiently middle-aged to be fussy on a point like that. Anybody taken ill, you know, anybody coming on board ill, and it would be devilish awkward. I shall insist on a doctor. He'll beGartside's guest, but I shall pay his fees, of course, and he can name his own figure. What do you think of the idea? We shall be to all intents and purposes a bachelor party."
When Maybury-Reynardson's name was first mentioned to me on the evening of Joyce's flight, the Seraph had justly described him as a "sportsman." Under the grave official mask I could see a twinkling eye and a flickering smile.
"It depends on one case of nervous breakdown that I've got on hand at present," he said. "If my patient's well enough...."
"She's got to be," I said.
"When do you sail?"
"Friday."
"You can't make it later?"
"Absolutely impossible."
"This is Sunday. I'll tell you when we're a little nearer the day."
"She must be moved on Thursday afternoon."
"Must? Must?" he repeated with a smile. "Whose patient is she?"
"Whose wife's she going to be?" I asked in my turn.
"I suppose it'll be pretty hot," he said. "First week in August. I must get some thin clothes."
"Include them in the fee," I suggested.
"Damn the fee!" he answered, as we walked to the door.
Paddy Culling had arranged to give Nigel his dinner at eight. I had comfortable time to dress and dine at Adelphi Terrace, and nine-thirty found me wandering round the Club in search of company.
"Praise heaven for the sight of a friendly face!" I exclaimed as I stumbled across Paddy and Nigel in the North Smoking Room.
"Where was ut ye dined?" asked Paddy, as I pulled up a chair and rang for cigars. To a practised ear his brogue was an eloquent war signal.
"In the sick-house," I told him, "Adelphi Terrace."
"Is ut catching?" he inquired. "It's not for my own self I'm asking, but Nigel here. I owe ut to empire and postherity to see he runs no risks."
I reassured him on the score of posterity.
"He's just knocked up and over-tired," I said, "and I'm keeping him in bed till Wednesday or Thursday."
"Then he'll not be walking ye into the Lake District to find Miss Mavis for the present," Paddy observed with an eye on Nigel.
"He'll be walking nowhere till Wednesday at earliest," I said with great determination.
Paddy cut a cigar, and assumed an air of dissatisfaction.
"I'd have ye remember the days of grace," he grumbled.
I shrugged my shoulders without answering.
"Where's me pound of flesh?" he demanded. "Manin' no disrispec' to Miss Mavis," he added apologetically to Nigel.
"I'm afraid I can't help you to find her," I said.
"Can the Seraph?"
"I don't suppose so. In any case he can do nothing for the present."
Paddy returned to his cigar and we smoked in silence till Nigel picked up the threads where they had been dropped.
"You say Aintree's ill," he began cautiously. "If I were disposed to regard the time of illness as so manydies non, would he be in a position to find my sister by the end of the week?"
"Frankly, I see no likelihood."
"It's an extra five days."
"What good can they do? Or five weeks for that matter?"
"You should know best."
"I have no more idea where your sister is than you have, and no better means of finding out."
"And Aintree?"
"In speaking for myself, I spoke for him. If he knew or had any means of finding out he'd tell me."
Paddy flicked the ash off his cigar and entered the firing line.
"When the days of grace have expired, ye'll have yer contract unfulfilled?"
"And we shall be prepared to face the consequences."
"Och, yer be damned! Is the Seraph?"
"He can't help himself." I had sowed sufficient good seed and saw no profit in staying longer. "I shall see you both to-morrow at noon?"
"Not me," said Paddy. "I've searched the place once."
"You, Nigel?"
"If I think fit," he answered loftily.
"I only ask, because you mustn't worry the Seraph. You can search his rooms, but you mustn't try to cross-question him. He's not equal to it."
"I think you'd be wise to accept the extension of time."
"My dear man, what's the good? If we can't find your sister, we can't. Saturday's no better than Monday. As Monday was the original time, you'd better stick to it and get your search over."
"If Aintree's ill...."
"Humbug! Nigel," I said. "If you believe we'reharbouring a criminal, it's your duty to verify your belief. If you think you can teach Scotland Yard its business, bring your detectives and prove your superior wisdom. Bring 'em to-morrow; bring 'em to-night if you like, and as many as you can get. The more there are," I said, turning at the door to fire a last shot, "the more voices will be raised in thanksgiving for Nigel Rawnsley."
The following morning I just mentioned to the Seraph that we need expect no search-party that day, and then went on to complete certain other arrangements. Raymond Sturling called in on the Tuesday morning to report his success in the negotiations for Mountjoy's villa at Rimini. I rang up my solicitor and told him to conclude all formalities, and on the Wednesday afternoon dropped in at Carlton House Terrace, and mentioned that Maybury-Reynardson had cleared up odds and ends of work and felt justified in accepting my vicarious invitation to accompany the Governor of Bombay as far as Genoa. On Thursday I called at Chester Square.
Elsie's car was standing at the door when I arrived, and she had paid me the compliment of putting on all the clothes I had most admired on the previous Sunday. Very slim and pretty she looked in the white coat and skirt, and when she smiled I could almost have said it was Joyce. The face was older, of course, but that difference was masked when she dropped the black veil; the slight figure and fine golden hair might have belonged to either sister.
I complimented her on her appearance, and suggested driving round to Adelphi Terrace. The Seraph was still rather weak and in need of attention, and though I had two nurses in the flat to look after Joyce, they would not be there for ever.As we crossed Trafalgar Square into the Strand I recommended Elsie to raise her veil.
"Just as I thought," I murmured as we entered Adelphi Terrace. My plain-clothes Yorkshireman was watching the house from the opposite side of the road; Nigel was watching my plain-clothes Yorkshireman from the corner of the Terrace.
"Bow to him," I said to Elsie. "He may not deign to recognise you, but he can't help seeing you. Quite good! Now then, remember that sprained ankle!"
With a footman on one side and myself on the other, she was half carried out of the car, across the pavement and into the house. The ankle grew miraculously better when she forgot herself, and started to run upstairs; I date its recovery from the moment when we passed out of my Yorkshire friend's field of vision.
I said good-bye to the Seraph while Elsie was in Joyce's room. I never waste vain tears over the past, but when I saw him for the last time, weak, suffering and heart-broken—two large blue eyes gazing at me out of a white immobile face—I half regretted we had ever met, and heartily wished our parting had been different. Ill as he was, I could have taken him; but it would have been an added risk, and above all, he refused to come. As at our first meeting in Morocco, he was setting out solitary and unfriended—to forget....
Despite our dress-rehearsal the previous day, an hour had passed before Joyce appeared in the white coat and skirt, black hat and heliotrope dust-coat. She greeted me with a weak, pathetic little smile, bent over the Seraph's bed and kissed him, and then suffered me to carry her downstairs. As in bringing Elsie into the house, the footman and Itook each an arm, across the pavement into the car. My Yorkshire friend watched us with interest, and I could not find it in my heart to grudge him the pleasure. He must have found little enough padding to fill out the spaces in his daily report. And all that his present scrutiny told him was that a woman's veil was up when she entered a house, and down when she left it.
We drove north-west out of London, to the rendezvous fixed by Raymond Sturling on the outskirts of Hendon. Maybury-Reynardson awaited us, and directed operations while we shifted Joyce into a car with a couch already prepared. Her luggage had been brought from Chester Square in the morning and was piled on the roof and at the back.
"Amariage de convenance," Sturling remarked with a smile, as he saw me inspecting the labels.
"Lady Raymond Sturling. S.Y.Ariel, Southampton," was the name and destination I found written.
"It may save trouble," he added apologetically. "I thought you wouldn't mind."
His foresight was justified. We drove slowly down to Southampton and arrived an hour before sunset, Joyce in one car with Maybury-Reynardson, Sturling with me in the other. I had anticipated that all ports and railway termini would be watched for a woman of Joyce's age and figure, and we were not allowed to board the tender without a challenge.
"My wife," Sturling explained brusquely. "Yes, be as quick as you can, please. I want to get her on board as soon as possible. Sturling—aide-de-camp to Lord Gartside, to Bombay by his own yacht. There she is, theAriel, sailing to-morrow. These gentlemen? Mr. Merivale and Dr. Maybury-Reynardson. Friends of Lord Gartside. That all?"
"All in order, my lord."
"Right away."
As the tender steamed out I turned to mark the graceful lines of theAriel. She was a clean, pretty boat at all times, and when I thought of the service she was doing two of her passengers, I could have kissed every plank of her white decks. Her mainmast flew the burgee of the R.Y.S., and the White Ensign fluttered at her stern; I remember the official reports had announced that the new governor would proceed direct to Bombay, calling only at Suez to coal. The Turkish flag flying at the foremast showed that Gartside was taking no steps to correct a popular delusion.
"Lady Raymond Sturling's" nurses arrived by an early train on Friday morning, followed at noon by Gartside in a special. We sailed at three. Paddy Culling sent wireless messages at four, four-thirty and five: "Sursum corda" was the first; "Keep your tails up" the second; and "Haste to the Wedding" completed the series.
I was not comfortable until we had passed out of territorial waters. Any one nurse may leave her patient and walk abroad in search of air and exercise: the second must not quit the house till the first has returned. I remembered that too late, when our two friends were already on board; and until I heard the anchor weighed, I was wondering if the same thought had stirred the sluggish imagination of the plain-clothes Yorkshireman. Whatever his suspicions, it appears that he did not succeed in making them real to Nigel. If he had there would have been no undignified raid on Adelphi Terrace next morning, and the feelings of one rising young statesman need not have been ruffled.
While Maybury-Reynardson was paying Joycehis nightly visit, I paced the deck with Gartside, silently and in grateful enjoyment of a cigar. As the light at the Needles dwindled and vanished, we became as reflective as befitted one man who was leaving England for several years, and another who had left her for ever. It was not till we had tramped a dozen times up and down that he broke his long silence.
"How did you find Sylvia?" he asked in a tone that showed how his thoughts had been occupied.
I told him the story as she herself had heard it, adding as much of the earlier history as was necessary to convince him.
"Perhaps I'm not leaving so much behind after all," was his comment. "Good luck to the Seraph! He's a nice boy."
"He'll need all the luck he can get," I answered. "You'll get oil and water to mingle quicker than you'll bring those two together. Tell me how it's to be done, Gartside, and you'll put the coping-stone on all your labours."
In the darkness I heard him sigh.
"I can't help you. I'm not a diplomatist, I'm just a lumpy, good-tempered ox. Sylvia saw that, bless her! Poor Paddy!" he added softly. "He's as fond of her as we any of us were."
I mentioned the trinity of wireless messages.
"That's like Paddy," he said with a laugh. "Well, he's right. You're the only one that's come out on top, and good wishes to you for the future!"
We shook hands and strolled in the direction of our cabins.
"You don't want thanks," I said, "but if you do you know where to come for them."
"Oh well!" I heard him laugh, but there was no laughter in his eyes when the light of the chart-roomlamp fell on his face. "If I can't get what I want, there's some satisfaction in helping a friend to get whathewants."
"I'll have that copied out and hung on my shaving-glass," I said. "I shall want that text during the next few months."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to bring Sylvia and the Seraph together," I answered in the same tone I had told Joyce I was going to break the Militant Suffrage movement.
"And how are you going to do that?"
"God knows!" I replied with a woeful shake of the head.
"I can see you flying before the laughter like ... tremulous leaves before the wind, and the laughter will pursue you to Paris, where they'll make little songs about you on the boulevards, and the Riviera, where they'll sell your photographs on picture postcards. I can see you fleeing across the Atlantic to ... the immensity of America, and there the Yellow Press, pea-green with frenzy, will pile column of ridicule upon column of invective. Oh, ... do you think it isn't worth while to endure six months' hard labour to amuse the world so profoundly?"W.S. Maugham: "Jack Straw."
"I can see you flying before the laughter like ... tremulous leaves before the wind, and the laughter will pursue you to Paris, where they'll make little songs about you on the boulevards, and the Riviera, where they'll sell your photographs on picture postcards. I can see you fleeing across the Atlantic to ... the immensity of America, and there the Yellow Press, pea-green with frenzy, will pile column of ridicule upon column of invective. Oh, ... do you think it isn't worth while to endure six months' hard labour to amuse the world so profoundly?"
W.S. Maugham: "Jack Straw."
The appropriate milieu for Individualism is a desert island inhabited by the Individualist.
Another or others may have expressed the same sentiment in earlier and better language: I have become attached to my own form by use and habit. The words rise automatically to my lips whenever I think of the Davenant women; of Elsie and her obstinate, ill-advised marriage, her efforts to regain freedom, the desperate stroke that gave her divorce in exchange for reputation, her gallant unyielding attempt to win that reputation back.... Or maybe I find myself thinking of Joyce and her loyal long devotion to a cause that lost her friends and money, gained her hatred and contempt, and threatened her ultimately with illness, imprisonment and—well, I prefer not to dwell on the risks she was calling down on her foolish young head.
It was a courageous, forlorn-hope individualism—the kind that sets your blood tingling and perhaps raises an obstinate lump in your throat—but it was wasteful, sadly wasteful. I remember the night Elsie joined us at Rimini. I met her at the station, escorted her to the Villa Monreale, led her to Joyce's bedroom, watched them meet and kiss.... "Gods of my fathers," I murmured, "what have you won, the pair of you, for all your courage and endurance?"
The individualism showed its most impracticable angularity when you tried to force it into a cooperative, well-disciplined scheme like our escape from England. Sometimes I marvel that we ever got away at all; You could count on Gartside and Sturling, Maybury-Reynardson and the nurses, Culling and the Seraph; they were not individualists. It was no small achievement to make Joyce and Elsie answer to the word of command. Do I libel poor Joyce in saying she would have proved more troublesome had her head ached less savagely and her whole body been less weak? I think not. Elsie certainly showed me that the moment my grip slackened she was bound by her very nature to take the bit between her teeth and bolt to the cliff-edge of disaster.
I blame her no more than I blame a dipsomaniac; I bear her no ill-will for causing the one miscarriage in my plans. I am not piqued or chagrined—only sorrowful. Had she obeyed orders, we might have seen her spared the final humiliation, the last stultification of her campaign to win a reputation.
When I called Gartside to witness my intention of moving heaven and earth to bring Sylvia and the Seraph into communication, I did not mention that I had already taken the first step. We sailed on Friday at three, and at three-thirty Culling wasto post a letter I had written to Sylvia. I have no natural eloquence or powers of persuasion, but I did go down on my knees, so to say, and implore her again not to let two lives be ruined if she had it in her power to avert catastrophe. Only a little sacrifice of pride was demanded, but she must unbend further than at their last meeting if she was to overcome the Seraph's curious bent of self-depreciation.
Then I frankly worked on her feelings and described the Seraph's condition when we left Adelphi Terrace. His nerves had broken down during the anxious days before her disappearance; and the strain of finding her, the disappointment of her reception after the event, and the day by day worry of having Joyce in the house and never knowing when to expect a search-warrant or an arrest, had proved far too great a burden for his overwrought, sensitive, highly-strung nature.
I said it was no more than common humanity for her to see how he was getting on, and made no bones of telling her how bad I thought him. Elsie was due to slip out of Adelphi Terrace on the Friday evening, catch the nine o'clock boat train to Calais, run direct to the villa at Rimini and make all ready for our arrival. I make no secret of the fact that when I wrote to Sylvia I was not at all relishing the idea of the Seraph lying there with no one but the housekeeper and her husband to look after him.
Perhaps Elsie too did not care for that prospect, perhaps she speaks no more than the truth in saying he grew gradually worse after our departure, perhaps her pent-up individualism was seeking a riotous, undisciplined outlet. Nine o'clock came and went without bringing her a step nearer the Continental boat train. At ten she was still sitting by hisbedside, at twelve she had to watch and listen as he began to grow light-headed. Not until eight on the Saturday morning did she steal away to her sister's deserted room and lie down for a few hours' sleep. By that time she had called in her own doctor, veronal had been administered, and the Seraph had sunk into a heavy trance-like slumber.
He was still sleeping at noon when Sylvia arrived in obedience to my letter. Her coming was characteristic. As soon as she had decided to swallow her own pride, she summoned witnesses to be spectators of what she was doing. Sylvia could never be furtive or other than frank and courageous; she told her mother that she was going immediately to Adelphi Terrace and going alone.
Opposition was inevitable, but she disregarded it. Lady Roden forbade her going, reminding her—I have no doubt—of Rutlandshire Morningtons, common respectability, and the Seraph's entire unworthiness. I can picture Sylvia standing with one foot impatiently tapping the floor, otherwise unmoved, unangered, calm and intensely resolute. The homily ended—as is the way of most sermons—when her mother had marshalled all arguments, reviewed, dismissed, assembled and reinspected them a second and third time. Then Sylvia put on her hat, called at a florist's on the way, and presented herself at Adelphi Terrace.
The Seraph's man opened the bedroom door and came back to report that the patient was still sleeping.
"I've brought him some flowers," she said. "I suppose it's no good waiting? You can't say how soon he's likely to wake up?"
Something in her tone suggested that she would like to wait, and the man showed her into the library, provided her with papers, and withdrew to answer a second ring at the front door bell.
Sylvia was still wandering round the room, glancing at the pictures and reading the titles of the books, when her attention was attracted by the sound of men's voices raised in altercation. Some one appeared to be forcing an entry which the butler was loyally trying to oppose.
"Here's the warrant," said a voice, "properly signed, all in order. If you interfere with these officers in the discharge of their duty, you do so at your own risk."
Sylvia listened with astonishment that changed quickly to alarm. The voice was that of Nigel Rawnsley, speaking as one having authority.
"One of you stay here," he went on, "and see that nobody leaves the flat. The other come with me. Take the library first."
The door opened, and for an amazed moment Nigel stood staring at the library's sole occupant.
"Sylvia!" he exclaimed. "What on earth brings you here?"
His tone so resembled her mother's that all Sylvia's latent opposition and obstinacy were called into play.
"Have you any objection to my being here?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It was rather a surprise."
"As I don't always warn you beforehand, I'm afraid a good many things I do must come as a surprise to you."
"And to yourself?"
"You must explain that."
"Surely no explanation is needed?"
"No explanation is wanted. We can start level, and I needn't bother to explain my presence here."
Nigel hastened to welcome a seeming ally.
"I imagine Aintree could supply that," he said.
She drew herself suddenly erect in a pose that demanded his right to use such words. The vindictiveness of his tone and the jealousy of his expression warned her that the Seraph lay in formidable peril.
"I want to find what Aintree and his friends have done to my sister, and I suppose you have a little account to settle with him in respect of an uncomfortable few days you lately spent at Maidenhead."
"Do you imagine he had any hand in that?" she asked contemptuously.
"He knew where to look for you," was the significant answer, "and he found that out from the woman he's been hiding in these rooms. As it's too much trouble for him to find out where my sister is, I've called to gain that information from the lady herself."
"What are you going to do?"
"Search the flat."
"And if she isn't here?"
"Shewas."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, I admit I didn't see her. It may have been any one. But there's a very strong probability, and I'm going on that."
"And if there's no one here now?"
"She must have got away."
"Yes, I think I could have worked that out for myself."
"What d'you mean?"
"What are you going to do if you find no one?"
"If there's no woman now, the woman who got away was Miss Davenant. If Aintree has been harbouring Miss Davenant...." He paused delicately.
"Well?"
"I'm afraid he'll have some difficulty in persuading a judge not to sentence him to a considerable term of imprisonment."
"You'll have him arrested?"
"That is one of the regrettable but necessary preliminaries.Ishan't do anything."
"Except rub your hands?" she taunted.
"Not even that," he answered with supercilious patience. Then, seeing no profit in pursuing his conversation with Sylvia, he raised his voice to summon the detectives into the library. "We'll take this room first," he told her, "and then leave you undisturbed."
The detectives did not answer his summons immediately and he turned to fetch them from the hall. As he did so Sylvia saw him start with surprise. Two paces behind them, an unseen auditor of their conversation, stood Elsie Wylton. With a slight bow to Sylvia she entered the library and in the Seraph's interests requested Nigel to carry out his search as quickly and silently as possible.
"He's sleeping now," she said, "but he's been awake most of the night, so please don't disturb him. If you'll search the other rooms, I'll stay here and talk to Miss Roden."
Nigel retired with a nicely blended expression of amazement, humiliation and menace. As the ring of his footsteps grew gradually fainter, Elsie turned to Sylvia with outstretched hands.
"I'm so glad you've come," she began. "I was afraid...."
"How long has he been ill?" interrupted Sylvia in a voice of stern authority.
"It's some time now...."
"And how long have you been here?"
There was an unmistakable challenge in her tone.Elsie's thoughts had been so much concerned with the Seraph, her mind was so braced in readiness to meet Nigel's attack, that for the moment her own share in the quarrel with Sylvia was forgotten. The library door stood open; outside in the hall the amateur detective was directing operations.
"Some time," she answered with studied vagueness.
The simmering suspicions of eight ambiguous weeks were brought to boiling point in Sylvia's mind.
"How long?" she repeated.
Elsie leaned forward, a finger to her lips; before she could speak, the hall was filled with the creak of heavy boots and Nigel appeared in the doorway.
"She's not here," he announced.
"Who were you looking for?" Elsie inquired, masking her impatience at his untimely return.
"Your sister."
"Oh, I could have told you that."
"Shewashere."
"Was she? What a pity you didn't come sooner! Why, Mr. Merivale invited you on Sunday, he told me. When he met you at your Club. I'm afraid you and the—er—gentleman outside have had your journey in vain."
Nigel's face flushed at the taunt and a certain uncomfortable prospect of polite criticism from the Criminal Investigation Department he had undertaken to educate.
"Not altogether," he said.
"No?"
"We've found Aintree."
"Ah; yes. I wanted to get him away to the sea, but he's not fit to move yet."
"He may have to."
"Not yet."
"A warrant for his arrest won't wait for him to get well—and away."
Nigel had never learned to disguise his feelings, and the threatening tone of his voice left no doubt in Elsie's mind that he was rapidly becoming desperate and would double his stakes to retrieve his earlier losings.
"So you're arresting him?" she said.
"He has obligingly piled up so much evidence against himself," he answered with a lift of the eyebrows.
"The same kind of evidence that led you to search these rooms for my sister?"
Nigel stood rigidly on his dignity.
"That will be forthcoming at the proper time and place."
"Unlike my sister," she rejoined in a mischievous undertone.
"Possibly she may be forthcoming when Aintree has been arrested."
A provoking smile came to disturb the last remnants of gravity on Elsie's face, lending dimples to her cheeks and laughter to her eyes.
"Possibly he won't be arrested," she remarked.
"You will prevent it?"
"I leave that to you."
"It's a matter for the police. I have no part or lot in it."
Elsie laughed unrestrainedly at his stiff dignity.
"You'll move heaven and earth to spare yourself a second humiliation like the present," she told him with a wise shake of the head. "It's ridiculous enough to search a man's rooms for a woman who isn't there, but you can't—you really can't arrest a man for harbouring a woman when there's no shredof evidence to show she was ever under the same roof."
Her mockery deepened the flush on Nigel's thin skin to an angry spot of red on either cheek.
"You forget that several of us visited this place the day after Miss Roden disappeared," he answered.
Elsie looked him steadily in the eyes.
"I have every reason to remember it."
"Your sister was here then."
"You saw her?"
"I heard her."
"You heardawoman."
"It was your sister or yourself."
"Or one of a million others."
Nigel thumped out his points on the top of a revolving bookcase.
"I had the house watched. No woman entered or left till yesterday. Barring two nurses, and they're accounted for. You or your sister must have left here yesterday."
"And not come back?"
"No."
"Well, that makes it much easier, doesn't it? If one went out and never came back, and you find the other here the following day, it looks ... I mean to say, a perfectly impartial outsider might think, that it was my sister who got away and I who remained behind."
"Exactly. And it's on the same simple reasoning that Aintree will be arrested."
Nigel crooked his umbrella over his arm and slowly drew on his gloves. It was a moment of exquisite, manifest triumph. Elsie stood disarmed and helpless; Sylvia was too proud to ask terms of such a conqueror.
"All the same, what a pity you didn't come beforethe bird was flown!" Elsie suggested with the sole idea of gaining time.
"It's something to have found Aintree at home," Nigel returned.
"And you're going to arrest him for harbouring my sister?" Elsie walked into the hall and stood with her fingers on the handle of the door. Her heart was beating so fast that she felt sure she must be betraying emotion in her face. There was only one way of saving the Seraph, and she had resolved to take it. That it involved the immediate and irrevocable sacrifice of her reputation did not disturb her: she was filled with pity and doubt—pity for Sylvia, and doubt whether Nigel would accept her sacrifice. "I suppose—you're quite certain—he wasn't harbouring—me?"
Nigel's unimaginative mind hardly weighed the possibility.
"There's no warrant against you."
"Fortunately not."
"Then why should he harbour you?"
Elsie waited till her lips and voice were under control. Then she turned away from Sylvia and faced him with the steadiness of desperation.
"It's a very wicked world, Mr. Rawnsley."
There was a moment's silence: then Sylvia leapt to her feet with cheeks aflame.
"D'you mean you were here the whole time?"
"Some one was. Ask Mr. Rawnsley."
"Were you?"
"D'you think it likely?"
"How should I know?"
Elsie hardened her heart to play the unwelcome rôle to its bitter end.
"You know my character, you've not had time to forget my divorce or the way I thrust myself underthe noses of respectable people. Have I got much more bloom to lose?"
"It's not true! The Seraph ... hewouldn't!"
"You used to see us about together."
"There's nothing in that!"
"Enough to make you cut him at Henley." Each fresh word fell like a lash across Sylvia's cheeks, but as long as Nigel dawdled irresolutely at the door it was impossible to end the torture.
"Willyou say whether you were here the whole time?" she demanded of Elsie.
"'Course she wasn't," Nigel struck in. "There are convenances even in this kind of life. Merivale was here the whole time."
"Washe?" Elsie asked. Every new question seemed to suck her deeper down.
"I have his word and the evidence of my own eyes."
"You know he was actually living here? Not merely dropping in from time to time? It's important, my reputation seems to hang on it. If I was the woman Lord Gartside found, and Mr. Merivale didn't happen to be living here to chaperon us, the Seraph couldn't have been harbouring my sister, but it's good-bye to the remains of my good name. And if Mr. Merivalewashere, I couldn't have been living here too, and the Seraph may have harboured one criminal or fifty. Which was it? I don't like to guess. Mr. Rawnsley, just tell me confidentially what you believe yourself."
Nigel bowed stiffly and prepared to leave the room.
"As the conduct of the case is not in my hands," he answered loftily, "my opinion is of no moment."
Elsie held the door open for him, shaking her head and smiling mischievously to herself.
"So there's nothing for it but a general arrest? Well,che sera sera: I suppose it'll be all over in a week or two, and then we shall be let out in time to see the fun. It'll be worth it. I wish women were admitted to your Club, it 'ud be so amusing to hear your friends chaffing you about your great mare's nest. 'Well, Rawnsley, what's this I hear about your giving up politics and going to Scotland Yard?' Men are such cats, aren't they? Every one would start teasing you at the House, the thing 'ud get into the papers, they'd hear of it in your constituency. Can you picture yourself addressing a big meeting and being heckled? A woman getting up and asking how you crushed the great militant movement and brought all the ringleaders to book? One or two people would laugh gently, and the laughter would spread and grow louder as every one joined in. They'd laugh at you in private houses and clubs, and the House of Commons. They'd laugh at you in the streets. Funny men with red noses and comic little hats would come on at the music halls and imitate you. They'd laugh and laugh till their sides ached and the tears streamed down their cheeks, and you'd try to live it down and find you couldn't, and in the end you'd have to leave England and live abroad, until they'd found something else to laugh at. You're going? Not arresting us now? Oh, of course, you haven't got the proper warrant. Well, I expect we shall be here when you come back. Good-bye, and good luck to you in your new career!"
The door closed heavily behind his indignant back, and Elsie turned a little wearily to Sylvia, bracing herself for an explanation that would be as hard as her recent battle. The mockery had died out of her voice and the laughter out of her eyes.
"Shall I go and see if the Seraph's awake yet?"she temporised, "or would you prefer to leave a message?"
Sylvia tried to speak, but no words would come—only a dry, choking sob of utter misery and disillusionment. With hasty steps she crossed to the door and fumbled blindly for the handle.
"Miss Roden! Sylvia!"
"Don'tcall me that!"
"I'm sorry. Miss Roden, I've got something to say to you!"
"I don't want to hear it, I only want to get away!"
"You must listen, your whole life's at stake—and the Seraph's, too."
The mention of his name brought her to a momentary standstill.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"You must shut that door."
"I won't."
Elsie wrung her hands in desperation. Outside on the landing, three paces from where they were standing, Nigel Rawnsley had paused to light a cigarette.
"It's about—the woman who was here," she whispered as he began to descend the stairs.
"Was it you?"
Elsie shook her head.
"No, say it! say it! Yes or no."
The sound of Nigel's descending footsteps had abruptly ceased at the angle of the stairs.
"For God's sake come back inside here a minute!" Elsie implored her.
"I won't, it's no good; I shouldn't believe you whatever you said. If you weren't here, why did you say you were? And if you were—— Oh, let me go, let me go!"
With a smothered sob she broke away from Elsie's restraining hand and rushed precipitously down the stairs. Nigel tried to walk level with her, but she passed him and hurried out into the street. Elsie closed the door and walked with a heavy heart into the library. On a table by the window reposed the bouquet of flowers that Sylvia had brought—lilies, late roses and carnations, all white as the Seraph loved them. Taking them in her hand, she tiptoed out of the room and across the hall to the Seraph's door. He was still sleeping, but awoke in the early afternoon and inquired whether any one had called.
"The search-party," Elsie told him, forcing a smile.
"Who was there?"
"Young Mr. Rawnsley and two detectives."
"Was that all?"
The pathetic eagerness of his tone cut her to the quick.
"Wasn't it enough?" she asked indifferently.
The Seraph shielded his eyes from the light with one hand.
"I don't know. Sometimes I used to think I knew when other people—some people—were near me. I fancied—when I was asleep—I suppose it must have been a dream—I don't know—I fancied there was some one else quite close."
He turned restlessly on the bed and caught Elsie's fingers in a bloodless, wasted hand.
"How did you keep the search-party out?" he inquired.
"I didn't. They came in, and looked into every room. For some unaccountable reason," she added ironically, "Joyce was nowhere to be found."
"Were they surprised to see you here?"
"A little. I told them you were seedy and I'd called to inquire."
The Seraph lay silent till he had gathered sufficient strength to go on talking.
"I suppose they really thought you'd been here the whole time?"
"Oh no!"
"But how else...."
"I don't know," Elsie interrupted quickly. "You must askthemwho the woman was Mr. Rawnsley heard the first time he was here. They couldn't say it was me without suggesting that you and I were both compromised."
She sprinkled some scent on a handkerchief and bathed his forehead.
"Do you think you can get some more sleep, Seraph? I want to get you well as soon as possible, and then I must take you abroad. London in August isn't good for little boys."
"Where shall we go?"
"I must join Toby and Joyce at Rimini."
The Seraph sighed and closed his eyes.
"I can't go there yet. They'll be—frightfully happy—wrapped up in each other—all that sort of thing. I don't want to see them yet."
Elsie dropped no hint of the time that must elapse before Joyce was strong again or "frightfully happy."
"Where shall it be then?" she asked.
The Seraph pressed her fingers to his lips.
"You go there, Elsie. I must travel alone. I shall go to the East. I shan't come back for some time. If ever."
The effort of talking and the trend of the conversation had made him restless. Elsie smoothed his pillow, and rose to leave the room.
As he watched her walk to the door, his eyes fell for the first time on the bouquet of roses and lilies.
"Who brought those?" he inquired.
"I found them in the library," she answered.
"Is there no name?"
For a moment she pretended to look for a card, then shook her head without speaking. As she saw him lying in bed, she wondered if he would ever know the price at which his freedom from arrest had been purchased. Of her own sacrifice she thought little; it was but generous payment of a long outstanding debt. All her imagination was concentrated on Sylvia—her sanguine, happy arrival, the morning's long agony, her hopeless, agonised departure.
"And no message?" the Seraph persisted with a mixture of eagerness and disappointment.
"No."
"I wonder who they can be from."
"One of your numerous admirers, I suppose," Elsie answered carelessly. Then she opened the door, walked wearily to her own room, and tried—unsuccessfully—to cry.