Beaumaroy Home from the Wars

Beaumaroy Home from the Wars

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I suppose you remain confident that the Sergeant has no suspicions as regards that particular aspect of the matter? Of course there might be an accident, but with him and Mrs. The old man harked back. Looking down on him, Beaumaroy allowed a smile to appear on his lips—a queer smile, which seemed to be compounded of affection, pity, and amusement.

Wiles—to lay the table, I suppose. Wiles entered as he spoke. She was a colourless, negative kind of a woman, fair, fat, flabby, and forty or thereabouts. Beaumaroy appeared to consider himself absolved from any preparations, for he returned to the big chair and, sinking into it, lit another cigarette. Wiles laid the table, and presently Sergeant Hooper appeared with a bottle of golden-tinted wine. It amused his active brain, besides as he had said to Mr.

Saffron exercising his active body, though certainly in a rather grotesque and bizarre fashion. The attraction of it went deeper than that.

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And, finally, there was the lure of unexplored possibilities—not only material and external, but psychological; not only touching what others might do or what might happen to them, but raising also speculation as to what he might do, or what might happen to him at his own hands; for example, how far he would flout authority, defy the usual, and deny the accepted. The love of rebellion, of making foolish the wisdom of the wise, of hampering the orderly and inexorable treatment of people just as, according to the best modern lights, they ought to be treated—this lawless love was strong in Beaumaroy.

Not as a principle; it was the stronger for being an instinct, a wayward instinct that might carry him—he scarce knew where. The pair sat down to a homely beefsteak; but the golden-tinted wine gurgled into their glasses. But, before they fell to, there was a little incident. A sudden, but fierce, anger seized old Mr. Beaumaroy sprang to his feet with a muttered exclamation: I forgot to give it to Hooper. I always lock it up when I go out. Saffron drank his glass of wine. Irechester was a man of considerable attainments and an active, though not very persevering, intellect.

He was widely read both in professional and general literature, but had shrunk from the arduous path of specialism. And he shrank even more from the drudgery of his calling. He had private means, inherited in middle life; his wife had a respectable portion; there was, then, nothing in his circumstances to thwart his tastes and tendencies. He had soon come to see in the late Dr. Evans a means of relief rather than a threat of rivalry; even more easily he slipped into the same way of regarding Mary Arkroyd, helped thereto by a lingering feeling that, after all and in spite of all, when it came to really serious cases, a woman could not, at best, play more than second fiddle.

So, as has been seen, he patronized and encouraged Mary; he told himself that, when she had thoroughly proved her capacity—within the limits which he ascribed to it—to take her into partnership would not be a bad arrangement. True, he could pretty well choose his patients now; but as senior partner he would be able to do it completely. It was wellnigh inconceivable that, for example, the Naylors—great friends—should ever leave him; but he would like to be quite secure of the pick of new patients, some of whom might, through ignorance or whim, call in Mary.

There was old Saffron, for instance. It was because of cases of that kind that he contemplated offering partnership to Mary; he would both be sure of keeping them and able to devote himself to them. But his wife laughed at Mary—or at that development of the feminist movement which had produced her and so many other more startling phenomena. The doctor was fond of his wife—a sprightly, would-be fashionable, still very pretty woman. But her laughter, and the opinion it represented, were to him the merest crackling of thorns under a pot.

The fine afternoon had come—a few days before Christmas—and he sat, side by side with Mr. Naylor, both warmly wrapped in coats and rugs, watching the lawn tennis at Old Place. Doctor Mary and Beaumaroy were playing together, the latter accustoming himself to a finger short in gripping his racquet, against Cynthia and Captain Alec. The Captain could not cover the court yet in his old fashion, but his height and reach made him formidable at the net, and Cynthia was very active.

Ten days of Inkston air had made a vast difference to Cynthia. And something else was helping. It required no common loyalty to lost causes and ruined ideals—it is surely not harsh to indicate Captain Cranster by these terms? Who can be surprised at it? Moreover, he was modest and simple, and no fool within the bounds of his experience.

Their minds were not running on parallel lines. Irechester smiled; his lips shut close and tight, his smile was quick but narrow. I just put it on record, Naylor. I never like talking too much about my cases. Well, I thought it advisable to see Saffron alone. Saffron was reluctant, this man here openly against it.

Next time I shall insist. Naylor glanced at him, smiling. Beaumaroy was speaking rather urgently, and making gestures with his hands; it seemed as though he were appealing to his companion in some difficulty or perplexity. The scene was ended by Gertie Naylor calling these laggards in to tea, to which meal the rest of the company had already betaken itself. The General believed in war; he pressed the biological argument, did not flinch when Mr. In fact, quite the reverse. Naylor looked apprehensively at the General: No, he took it quite quietly.

Naylor looked affectionately at his son and turned to Beaumaroy. And this question did draw from the General, if not an explosion, at least a rather contemptuous smile: Beaumaroy had earned no right to express opinions! But express one he did, and with his habitual air of candour.

Can you see human life treated as dirt—absolutely as cheap as dirt—for three years, and come out thinking it worth anything? Can you fight for your own hand, right or wrong? Can you do that for three years in war, and then hesitate to fight for your own hand, right or wrong, in peace? Who really cares for right or wrong, anyhow? A pause ensued—rather an uncomfortable pause. Beaumaroy took him up smartly.

But what about when our blood got up? Would we, in our hearts, rather have been right and got a licking, or wrong and given one? I knew that we were right, and I knew that we should win. I only meant to answer your question about the effect the whole thing has had on myself. All the same, I fancy Mr. Beaumaroy does himself less than justice. The discussion ended in laughter, and the talk turned to lighter matters, but, as Mary Arkroyd drove Cynthia home across the heath, her thoughts returned to it. The two men—the two soldiers—seemed to have given an authentic account of what their experience had done to them.

Both, as she saw the case, had been moved to pity, horror, and indignation that such things should be done, or should have to be done, in the world. After that point came the divergence. Where the one had found ideals and incentives, the other found despair—a despair that issued in excuses and denied high standards. And yet—for her mind travelled back to her earlier talk by the tennis-court—Beaumaroy had a conscience, had feelings. He was fond of old Mr. Saffron; he felt a responsibility for him—felt it, indeed, keenly. Or was he, under all that seeming openness, a consummate hypocrite? Did he value Mr.

Saffron only as a milch cow—the doting giver of a large salary? Was his only desire to humour him, keep him in good health and temper, and use him to his own profit? A puzzling man—but, at all events, cutting a poor figure beside Alec Naylor, about whom there could circle no clouds of doubt. Can we go again soon, Mary? Mary glanced round at her. Cynthia laughed and blushed. Beaumaroy at all, do you? Three days later, on Christmas Eve, one whom Jeanne, who caught sight of him in the hall, described as being all there was possible of ugliness, delivered with a request for an immediate answer the following note for Mary Arkroyd: Saffron is unwell, and I have insisted with him that he must see a doctor.

So much he has yielded—after a fight! But nothing will induce him to see Dr. On this point I tried to reason with him, but in vain. He is obstinate and resolved. I am afraid that I am putting you in a difficult and disagreeable position, but it seems to me that I have no alternative but to ask you to call on him professionally.

I hope that Dr. Irechester will not be hurt by a whim which is, no doubt, itself merely a symptom of disordered nerves, for Dr. Irechester has been most attentive, and very successful hitherto in dealing with the dear old gentleman. But my first duty is to Mr. If it will ease matters at all, pray hold yourself at liberty to show this note to Dr. May I beg you to be kind enough to call at your earliest convenience, though it is, alas, a rough evening to ask you to come out? Saffron has sent for me—professionally. There was no use in expounding professional etiquette to Cynthia.

Mary had to decide the point for herself—and quickly; the old man might be seriously ill. Suddenly she recollected that he had also seemed to hint that they were more alarming than Irechester appeared to appreciate; she had not taken much notice of that hint at the time, but now it recurred to her very distinctly. Beaumaroy had written a letter that could be shown to Irechester! Was that dishonesty, or only a pardonable diplomacy?

Is the messenger walking? I shall be there almost as soon as he is. She seemed to have no alternative, just as Beaumaroy had none. Yet while she put on her mackintosh—it was very wet and misty—got out her car, and lit her lamps, her face was still fretful and her mind disturbed. Perhaps that too was pardonable diplomacy, and no reference to it could be expected in a letter which she was at liberty to show to Dr.

She wondered, uncomfortably, how Irechester would take it. It seemed to her to wear a triumphant impish look, but this vanished as he advanced to meet her, relieved her of the neat black handbag which she always carried with her on her visits, and suggested gravely that she should at once go upstairs and see her patient. Let me show you the way.

Saffron lay in bed, propped up by pillows. His silver hair strayed from under a nightcap; he wore a light blue bedroom jacket; its colour matched that of his restless eyes; his arms were under the clothes from the elbows down. He was rather flushed, but did not look seriously ill, and greeted Doctor Mary with dignified composure.

The phrase sounded rather an odd one to Mary, but Beaumaroy accepted the assurance with a nod. He went out to give it to the Sergeant, and, when he came back, found her seated in the big chair by the fire. But I suppose you know that there is valvular disease—quite definite? Beaumaroy was standing on the far side of the table, his finger-tips resting lightly on it. He looked across at Mary with eyes candidly inquiring. He fusses a bit about his affairs. Has he any relations? There are, I believe, some cousins, distant cousins, whom he hates. In fact, a lonely old bachelor, Dr.

Mary gave a little laugh and became less professional. He uses funny stately phrases. He said I might speak quite openly to you, as you were closely attached to his person! He does talk like that sometimes. How clever of you to guess! He says it to me six times a week. Please sit down again, Dr. I want you to consider yourself as Mr.

The wind swished outside; save for that, the little room seemed very still. The professional character of the interview did not save it, for Mary Arkroyd, from a sudden and rather unwelcome sense of intimacy—of an intimacy thrust upon her, though not so much by her companion as by circumstances. You ask—very properly—whether he has relations. Am I misinterpreting what was in your mind? As he spoke, he offered her a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece. She took one and lit it at the top of the lamp-chimney; then she sat down again in the big chair; she had not accepted his earlier invitation to resume her seat.

In normal conditions his relations should at least be warned of the position. Any suggestion that they have any sort of claim on him raises strong resentment in him. Saffron, having this liking for me, this confidence in me, living here with me alone—except for servants; being, as one might say, exposed to my influence; suppose he took it into his head to make a will in my favour, to leave me all his money. Suppose that happened, how should I stand in your opinion, Dr. But wait a moment still. Mary sat silent for a moment or two.

Beaumaroy knelt down by the fire, rearranged the logs of wood which were smouldering there, and put on a couple more. It was he, of course, who insisted on it, but I can see a clever lawyer using that against me too. You mean that people would impute——? Mary Arkroyd had her limitations—of experience, of knowledge, of intuition. But she did not lack courage. It is that, so far as I see, Mr. Saffron is of perfectly sound understanding, and capable of making a valid will. The favour, then, of my opinion as your friend, as well as my view as Mr.

Beaumaroy did not rise from his knees, but turned his face towards her; the logs had blazed up, and his eyes looked curiously bright in the glare—themselves, as it were, afire. Beaumaroy appeared to consider. But I feel that way about it. Beaumaroy, your position is very difficult. But—would you take the money for yourself? Old men take fancies, as you said yourself. You said so—at Old Place.

Captain Naylor said something different. Am I to give it up? Wise on all subjects under heaven! If you must go on talking, talk seriously. Laughing again—his eyes had now a schoolboy merriment in them—Mary rose from the big chair. They stood face to face. At this event, of which she was acutely conscious and at which she was intensely irritated, she drew herself up, with an attempt to return to her strictly professional manner. It was impudent, yet gay, dexterous, and elusive enough to avoid reproof.

With no more than a little shake of her head and a light, yet embarrassed laugh, Mary moved towards the door, her way lying between the table and an old oak sideboard, which stood against the wall. Some plates, knives, and other articles of the table lay strewn, none too tidily, about it.

Beaumaroy followed her, smiling complacently, his hands in his pockets. Suddenly Mary came to a stop and pointed with her finger at the sideboard, turning her face towards her companion. That was for a second only; then his face resumed its amused and nonchalant expression. The article in question lay among some half-dozen ordinary knives and forks.

It was of a kind quite familiar to Doctor Mary from her hospital experience—a fork on one side, a knife-blade on the other—an implement made for people who could command the use of only one hand. The account was plausible, and entirely the same might now be said of his face and manner. But Mary had seen the dart of his hand and the sudden alertness in his eyes. Her own rested on him for a moment with inquiry—for the first time with a hint of distrust. Beaumaroy followed her with a queer smile on his lips; he shrugged his shoulders once, very slightly.

A constraint had fallen on Mary. She allowed herself to be escorted to the car and helped into it in silence. Saffron just as Mary and Beaumaroy came out of the hall door. He stood by his bicycle, drawing just a little aside to let them pass, but not far enough to prevent the light from the passage showing up his ill-favoured countenance. And a thousand thanks.

She started the car. Beaumaroy walked back to the hall door. Mary glanced behind her once, and saw him standing by it, again framed by the light behind him, as she had seen him on her arrival. But, this time, within the four corners of the same frame was included the forbidding visage of Sergeant Hooper. Beaumaroy returned to the fire in the parlour; Hooper, leaving his bicycle in the passage, followed him into the room and put the medicine bottle on the table.

Smiling at him, Beaumaroy pointed at the combination knife-and-fork. Suppose you went and forgot it, sir! Beaumaroy shook his head in self-condemnation and a humorous dismay. I went and forgot it, Sergeant. And I think—I rather think—that Doctor Mary smells a rat—though she is, at present, far from guessing the colour of the animal! The words sounded scornful; they were spoken for the Sergeant as well as for himself. He was looking amused and kindly, even rather tenderly amused; as though liking and pity were the emotions which most actively survived his first private conversation with Doctor Mary—in spite of that mishap of the combination knife-and-fork.

Christmas Day, , was a merry feast, and nowhere merrier than at Old Place. There was a house-party and, for dinner on the day itself, a local contingent as well: Miss Wall, the Irechesters, Mr. Penrose, and Doctor Mary. Beaumaroy also had been invited by Mrs. Naylor; she considered him an interesting man and felt pity for the obvious tedium of his situation; but he had not felt able to leave his old friend. She was asked over to spend three days and went, accompanied by Jeanne, who by this time was crying much less; crying was no longer the cue; her mistress, and not merely stern Doctor Mary, had plainly shown her that.

Gertie Naylor had invited Cynthia to help her in entertaining the subalterns, though Gertie was really quite equal to that task herself; there were only three of them, and if a pretty girl is not equal to three subalterns—well, what are we coming to in England? And, as it turned out, Miss Gertie had to deal with them all—sometimes collectively, sometimes one by one—practically unassisted. Cynthia was otherwise engaged.

Gertie complained neither of the cause nor of its consequence. Naylor unkindly put it. If Cynthia had been as calculating as she was guileless, she could not have done better for herself. Her heart responded; she found herself becoming happy at a rate which made her positively ashamed. No wonder tactful Jeanne discovered that the cue was changed! Fastidious old Naylor regarded his wife with the affection of habit and with a little disdain for the ordinariness of her virtues—not to say of the mind which they adorned.

His daughter was to him a precious toy, on which he tried jokes, played tricks, and lavished gifts, for the joy of seeing the prettiness of her reactions to his treatment. It never occurred to him to think that his toy might be broken; fond as he was, his feeling for her lacked the apprehensiveness of the deepest love.

But he idolized his son, and in this case neither without fear nor without understanding. For four years now he had feared for him bitterly: That terror, endured under a cool and almost off-hand demeanour, was past; but he feared for his son still. Of all who went to the war as Crusaders, none had the temperament more ardently than Alec. As he went, so—obviously—he had come back, not disillusioned, nay, with all his illusions, or delusions, about this wicked world and its possibilities, about the people who dwell in it and their lamentable limitations, stronger in his mind than ever.

How could he get through life without being too sore hurt and wounded, without being cut to the very quick by his inevitable discoveries? Old Naylor did not see how it was to be done, or even hoped for; but the right kind of wife was unquestionably the best chance. He had cast a speculative eye on Cynthia Walford—Irechester had caught him at it—but, as he observed her more, she did not altogether satisfy him.

Alec needed someone more stable, stronger, someone in a sense protective; somebody more like Mary Arkroyd; that idea passed through his thoughts; if only Mary would take the trouble to dress herself, remember that she was—or might be made—an attractive young woman; and—yes, throw her mortar and pestle out of the window—without, however, discarding with them the sturdy, sane, balanced qualities of mind which enabled her to handle them with such admirable competence. But he soon had to put this idea from him. Since by all the laws of average, when millions of men are wearing a uniform, there must be some rogues in it.

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Their honour was his; for their misdeeds he must in his own person make reparation. The father might analyse; with Alec it was all impulse—the impulse to soothe, to obliterate, to atone. The girl had been sore hurt; with the acuteness of sympathy he divined that she felt herself in a way soiled and stained by contact with unworthiness and by a too easy acceptance of it.

All that must be swept out of her heart, out of her very memory, if it could be. Doctor Mary saw what was happening, and with a little pang to which she would not have liked to own.

Mary longed to say that Cynthia was a very ordinary child. Like to talk to him, indeed! Well, the guilelessness of heroes! In the net result, however, her mental image of Alec lost something of its heroic proportions. But professionally the distinction must not be pushed too far, she was not built in water-tight compartments Tower Cottage remained obstinately in the centre of her thoughts; and, connected with it, there arose a puzzle over Dr.

But though Irechester was quite friendly when they met at Old Place before dinner, and talked freely to her during a rather prolonged period of waiting Captain Alec and Cynthia, Gertie and two subalterns were very late, having apparently forgotten dinner in more refined delights , he made no reference to the letters, nor to Tower Cottage or its inmates. Mary herself was too shy to break the ice, but wondered at his silence, and the more because the matter evidently had not gone out of his mind.

For, after dinner, when the port had gone round once and the proper healths been honoured, he said across the table to Mr. Have you got any story about it? He was a small, neat old fellow, with white whiskers of the antique cut, a thin voice, and a dry cackling laugh.

The thin voice was penetrating. At the promise of a story silence fell on the company, and Mr. A seafaring man had suddenly appeared, out of space, as it were, at Inkston, and taken the cottage. He carried with him a strong smell of rum and tobacco, and gave it to be understood that his name was Captain Duggle. He was no beauty, and his behaviour was worse than his looks. To that quiet village, in those quiet strait-laced times, he was a horror and a portent. He not only drank prodigiously—that, being in character and also a source of local profit, might have passed with mild censure—but he swore and blasphemed horribly, spurning the parson, mocking at Revelation, even at the Deity Himself.

The Devil was his friend, he said. A most terrible fellow, this Captain Duggle. Captain Duggle lived all by himself—well, what God-fearing Christian, male or female, would be found to live with him? What he did with himself nobody knew, but evil legends gathered about him. Terrified wayfarers, passing the cottage by night, took oath that they had heard more than one voice! Penrose, with an air of gratification, continued his narrative.

Penrose paused, sipped port wine, and resumed. By bribes and threats he got two men to work for him. One was the uncle of my informant. But though he built that Tower, and inside it dug his grave, he never lay there, being, as things turned out, carried off by the Devil. Oh, yes, there was no doubt! He went home one night—a Saturday—very drunk, as usual. On the Sunday night a belated wayfarer—possibly also drunk—heard wild shrieks and saw a strange red glow through the window of the Tower—now, by the way, boarded up.

Anyhow Captain Duggle was never seen again by mortal eyes—at Inkston, at all events. After a time the landlord of the cottage screwed up his courage to resume possession—the Captain had only a lease of it, though he built the Tower at his own charges, and, I believe, without any permission, the landlord being much too frightened to interfere with him. He found everything in a sad mess there, while in the Tower itself every blessed stick had been burnt up.

So the story looks pretty plausible. Was he drowned at sea, or did he take his life, or did he rot to death in some filthy hole? Gertie shivered, and one of the subalterns gulped down his port. Perhaps you do, Irechester? Irechester sat four places from Mary. Before he replied to the question he cast a glance at her, smiling rather mockingly. I shall ask Mr.

A pause followed this pointed remark, on which nobody seemed disposed to comment. Naylor ended the session by rising from her chair. But Mary Arkroyd was disquieted, worried as to how she stood with Irechester, vaguely but insistently worried over the whole Tower Cottage business. Well, the first point she could soon settle—or try to settle, anyhow.

With the directness which marked her action when once her mind was made up, she waylaid Irechester as he came into the drawing-room; her resolute approach sufficed to detach Naylor from him; he found himself isolated for the moment from everybody except Mary. I—I rather expected an answer. Indeed he passed by her and joined a group that had gathered on the hearthrug, leaving her alone. So she stood for a moment, oppressed by a growing uneasiness. Irechester said nothing, but surely meant something of import? He mocked her, but not idly or out of wantonness.

He seemed almost to warn her. What could there be to warn her about? Alec Naylor broke in on her uneasy meditation. No; the winter of his discontent—a bitter winter—was due to the conviction, which had been growing in his mind for some time, that he was only in half the secret, and that not the more profitable half. He knew that the old blighter had to be humoured in certain small ways—as, for example, in regard to the combination knife-and-fork—and the reason for it. But, first, he did not know what happened inside the Tower; he had never seen the inside of it; the door was always locked; he was never invited to accompany his masters when they repaired thither by day, and he was not on the premises by night.

He had handled it once, just before the pair set out for London one Wednesday. Beaumaroy, a careless man sometimes, in spite of the cunning which Dr. Irechester attributed to him, had left it on the parlour table while he helped Mr. Saffron on with his coat in the passage, and the Sergeant had swiftly and surreptitiously lifted it up. It was very light—obviously empty, or, at all events, holding only feather-weight contents.

He had never got near it when it came back from town; then it always went straight into the Tower and had the key turned on it forthwith. What was the heavy thing in it? What became of that thing after it was taken into the Tower? To whose use or profit did it, or was it to, ensure? Because it was plain, even to the meanest capacity, that the contents of the bag had a value in the eyes of the two men who went to London for them, and who shepherded them from London to the custody of the Tower. These thoughts filled and racked his brain as he sat drinking rum and water in the bar of the Green Man on Christmas evening; a solitary man, mixing little with the people of the village, he sat apart at a small table in the corner, musing within himself, yet idly watching the company—villagers, a few friends from London and elsewhere, some soldiers and their ladies.

Besides these, a tall slim man stood leaning against the bar, at the far end of it, talking to Bill Smithers, the landlord, and sipping a whisky-and-soda between pulls at his cigar. He wore a neat dark overcoat, brown shoes, and a bowler hat rather on one side; his appearance was, in fact, genteel, though his air was a trifle raffish. In age he seemed about forty. The Sergeant had never seen him before, and therefore favoured him with a glance of special attention.

Then he finished his whisky-and-soda, spoke a word to Bill Smithers, and lounged across the room to where the Sergeant sat. The Sergeant eyed him with apparent disfavour—as, indeed, he did everybody who approached him—but a nod of his head accorded the desired permission. Smithers came across with a bottle of brandy and glasses. The Sergeant, in turn, drained his glass, maintaining, however, his aloofness of demeanour. A little story of what two gentlemen do in London on Wednesdays, and of what they carry home in a brown leather bag? Would that interest you? Oh, that stuff in the brown leather bag!

Sergeant Hooper stretched out his hand towards the bottle. The Sergeant was excited. The stranger seemed to be touching on a subject which always excited the Sergeant—to the point of hands trembling, twitching, and itching. What do they want to do it for? Who, in short, is going to get off with it? The whole conversation, carried on in low tones, had passed under cover of noisy mirth, snatches of song, banter, and giggling; nobody paid heed to the two men talking in a corner.

Yet the stranger lowered his voice to a whisper, as he added: Sergeant Hooper drank, smoked, and pondered. The stranger showed the edge of a roll of notes, protruding it from his breast-pocket. The Sergeant nodded—he understood that part.

But there was much that he did not understand. Well, what of it? And meanwhile our friend B——! The knowledge which he possessed—that half of the secret—and which his companion did not, might be very material to a solution of the problem; the Sergeant did not mean to share it prematurely, or without necessity, or for nothing. But surely it had a bearing on the case?

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Dull-witted as he was, the Sergeant seemed to catch a glimmer of light, and mentally groped towards it. I shall walk over. The Sergeant had one more question to ask. The Sergeant whistled softly, rose, and led the way to the door. The gentlemanly stranger paused at the bar to pay for the brandy, and after bidding the landlord a civil good evening, with the compliments of the season, followed the Sergeant into the village street. The Sergeant spat on the road; they resumed their way, pursuing the road across the heath. It was fine, but overclouded and decidedly dark. Every now and then Bennett—to call the stranger by what was almost confessedly a nom de guerre —flashed a powerful electric torch on the roadway.

In another seven or eight minutes there loomed up, on the left hand, the dim outline of Mr. No lights showed from the cottage, nor, of course, from the Tower; its only window had been, as Mr. Penrose said, boarded up. The wind—there was generally a wind on the heath—stirred the fir trees and the bushes into a soft movement and a faint murmur of sound.

A very acute and alert ear might perhaps have caught another sound—footfalls on the road, a good long way behind them. The two spies, or scouts, did not hear them; their attention was elsewhere. But look to be ready to douse your glim. He took out his torch, and guided by its light which, however, he took care not to throw towards the cottage windows he advanced to the garden gate, the Sergeant following, and took a survey of the premises. It was remarkable that, as the light of the torch beamed out, the faint sound of footfalls on the road behind died away.

I can see from here. For four or five minutes the stranger made his examination. Then he turned off his torch. A strayed reveller on Christmas night might be too well remembered. The Sergeant saw the gleam of his torch once or twice, receding at quite a surprising pace into the distance. Feeling the wad of notes in his pocket—perhaps to make sure that the whole episode had not been a dream—the Sergeant turned back towards Inkston. After a couple of minutes, a tall figure emerged from the shelter of a high and thick gorse bush just opposite Tower Cottage, on the other side of the road. But he felt that, for the moment at least, his brain was less agile than his feet.

He had been suddenly wrenched out of one set of thoughts into another profoundly different. Even his modesty could not blind him to this fact. He was in the seventh heaven of romance, and his heaven was higher than that which most men reach; it was built on loftier foundations. Then came the flash of the torch; the high spirits born of one experience sought an outlet in another. And, just for fun, he did it, taking to the heath beside the road, twisting his long body in and out amongst gorse, heather, and bracken, very noiselessly, with wonderful dexterity.

The light of the lamp was continuous now; the stranger was making his examination. There was very little to go upon there. Why should not one friend give another an address? Beaumaroy should surely know of that? It might be nothing; but, on the other hand, it might have a meaning.

But the men had gone, had obviously parted for the night. Beaumaroy could be told to-morrow; now he himself could go back to his visions—and so homeward, in happiness, to his bed. Having reached this sensible conclusion, he was about to turn away from the garden gate which he now stood facing, when he heard the house door softly open and as softly shut.

The next instant the light of another torch flashed out, and this time not in the distance, but full in his own face. Alec Naylor was suddenly struck with the element of humour in the situation. He had been playing detective; apparently he was now the suspected! With your opportunities I should be better employed on Christmas evening. He turned and led the way into Tower Cottage.

Somehow this invitation to enter was the last thing that Captain Alec had expected. Beaumaroy led the way into the parlour, Captain Alec following. He went off like a lamb, poor old boy. Besides, their backs were towards me. One looked tall and thin, the other short and stumpy.

But I should never be able to swear to either. There are stories about this old den, you know—ancient traditions. Do you know him? Lives in High Street, near the Irechesters. So he entertained you with that old yarn, did he? And that same old yarn probably accounts for the nocturnal examination which you saw going on. It was a little excitement for you, to reward you for your politeness to Miss Walford! Alec flushed, but answered frankly: Captain Alec ended on his old note: After I came out of hospital they gave me sick leave—and constantly renewed it; and when the armistice came they gave me my discharge.

They put it down to my wound, of course, but—well, I gathered the impression that I was considered no great loss. Captain Alec did not smile. Beaumaroy did not appear to notice his disapproving gravity. I had sold up my business in Spain—I was there six or seven years, just as Captain—Captain——? So I took on this job, which came to me quite accidentally. I went into a Piccadilly bar one evening, and found my old man there, rather excited and declaiming a good deal of rot; seemed to have the war a bit on his brain.

They started in to guy him, and I think one or two meant to hustle him, and perhaps take his money off him. I took his part, and there was a bit of a shindy. In the end I saw him home to his lodgings—he had a room in London for the night—and—to cut a long story short—we palled up, and he asked me to come and live with him. Perhaps I may be forgiven for impliedly comparing myself to Don Quixote, since that gentleman, besides his other characteristics, is generally agreed to have been mad.

Kicked out of the Service, and done time. That was what General Punnit had said! Alec Naylor grew impatient. Alec lowered his voice—for a moment anyhow—but the central article of his creed was assailed, and he grew vehement. Allow for failures in individuals, and you produce failure all round.

I would have strict justice, but no mercy—not a shadow of it! Is it hard-hearted to refuse to let a slacker cost good men their lives? Alec stared at him for a moment in puzzle, but the next instant his attention was diverted. Another voice besides his was raised; the sound of it came through the ceiling from the room above; the words were not audible; the volubility of the utterance in itself went far to prevent them from being distinguishable; but the high, vibrant, metallic tones rang through the house.

It was a rush of noise—sharp grating noise—without a meaning. The effect was weird, very uncomfortable. Alec Naylor knit his brows, and once gave a little shiver, as he listened. Beaumaroy sat quite still, the expression in his eyes unaltered—or, if it altered at all, it grew softer, as though with pity or affection. And, anyhow, his medical adviser tells me there is no reason to suppose that my old friend is not compos mentis. As he spoke, the noise from above suddenly ceased.

Since neither of the men in the parlour spoke, there ensued a minute of what seemed intense silence; it was such a change. Then came a still small sound—a creaking of wood—from overhead. After a—a performance of that kind he generally comes and tells me about it. Alec Naylor got up from the big chair, but it was not to take his departure.

Beaumaroy raised his brows. But if he comes down—well, you can stay and see him. It is that you are personally responsible for the universe—apparently just because you wear a uniform. No other sound had come from above or from the stairs, but the door now opened suddenly, and Mr. Saffron stood on the threshold. He wore slippers, a pair of checked trousers, and his bedroom jacket of pale blue; in addition, the grey shawl, which he wore on his walks, was again swathed closely round him.

Only his right arm was free from it; in his hand was a silver bedroom candlestick. From his pale face and under his snowy hair his blue eyes gleamed brightly. As Alec first caught sight of him, he was smiling happily, and he called out triumphantly: That went well, Hector! He grew grave, closed the door carefully, and advanced to the table, on which he set down the candlestick. After a momentary look at Alec, he turned his gaze inquiringly towards Beaumaroy.

Saffron bowed his head in acquiescence; he showed no sign of anger. Distinguished Service Order; Duffshire Fusiliers. The Captain was in uniform and, during his talk with Beaumaroy, had not thought of taking off his cap. Thus he came to the salute instinctively. The old man bowed with reserved dignity; in spite of his queer get-up he bore himself well; the tall handsome Captain did not seem to efface or outclass him. My business with you, Hector, will wait. I have finished my work, and can rest with a clear conscience.

Give me a glass of my own wine; I see a bottle on the sideboard. He came round the table and sat down in the big chair. The Captain obeyed the gesture, but his huge frame looked awkward on the low seat; he felt aware of it, then aware of the cap on his head; he snatched it off hastily and twiddled it between his fingers.

Saffron, high up in the great chair, sitting erect, seemed now actually to dominate the scene—Beaumaroy standing by, with an arm on the back of the chair, holding a tall glass, full of the golden wine, ready to Mr. Alec Naylor was embarrassed; he sat in silence. But Beaumaroy seemed quite at his ease. He began with a statement which was, in its literal form, no falsehood; but that was about all that could be said for it on the score of veracity. Do you remember seeing our blue Air Force uniform when we were in town last week? I remember that you expressed approval of it.

In any case the topic was very successful. Saffron embraced it with eagerness; with much animation he discussed the merits, whether practical or decorative, of various uniforms—field-grey, khaki, horizon-blue, Air Force blue, and a dozen others worn by various armies, corps, and services. Alec was something of an enthusiast in this line too; he soon forgot his embarrassment, and joined in the conversation freely, though with a due respect to the obvious thoroughness of Mr.

Watching the pair with an amused smile, Beaumaroy contented himself with putting in, here and there, what may be called a conjunctive observation—just enough to give the topic a new start. After a quarter of an hour of this pleasant conversation, for such all three seemed to find it, Mr. Saffron finished his wine, handed the glass to Beaumaroy, and took a cordial leave of Alec Naylor. Beaumaroy handed him his candle again, and held the door open for him as he went out. Alec Naylor clapped his cap back on his head.

What about it now? Alec eyed him with a puzzled, baffled suspicion. A designer at the War Office, perhaps. He knew that Alec Naylor did not believe a word of what he was saying, or suggesting; but yet Alec could not pass his guard, nor wing a shaft between the joints of his harness. If he got into difficulties through heedlessness, at least he made a good shot at getting out of them again by his dexterity. Only, of course, suspicion remains suspicion, even though it be, for the moment, baffled.

And it could not be denied that suspicions were piling up—Captain Alec; Irechester; even, on one little point, Doctor Mary! And possibly those two fellows outside—one of them short and stumpy—had their suspicions too, though these might be directed to another point. He gave one of his little shrugs as he followed the silent Captain to the garden gate. Even Captain Alec was not superior to the foibles which beset humanity. If it had been his conception of duty which impelled him to take a high line with Beaumaroy, there was now in his feelings, although he did not realize the fact, an alloy of less precious metal.

He had demanded an ordeal, a test—that he should see Mr. Saffron and judge for himself. The test had been accepted; he had been worsted in it. His suspicions were not laid to rest—far from it; but they were left unjustified and unconfirmed. He had nothing to go upon, nothing to show. He had been baffled, and, moreover, bantered and almost openly ridiculed. Beaumaroy had been too many for him, in fact, the subtle rogue!

This conception of the case coloured his looks and pointed his words when Tower Cottage and its occupants were referred to, and most markedly when he spoke of them to Cynthia Walford; for in talking to her he naturally allowed himself greater freedom than he did with others; talking to her had become like talking to himself, so completely did she give him back what he bestowed on her, and re-echo to his mind its own voice.

Such perfect sympathy induces a free outpouring of inner thoughts, and reinforces the opinions of which it so unreservedly approves. In the light of her experience of men, so limited and so sharply contrasted, she made a simple classification of them; they were Cransters or Alecs; and each class acted after its kind. Plainly Beaumaroy was not an Alec; therefore he was a Cranster; and Cranster-like actions were to be expected from him, of such special description as his circumstances and temptations might dictate.

His worshippers can sometimes make a divinity look foolish. Her own interview with Beaumaroy at the Cottage had left her puzzled, distrustful—and attracted. She suspected him vaguely of wanting to use her for some purpose of his own; in spite of the swift plausibility of his explanation, she was nearly certain that he had lied to her about the combination knife-and-fork. Yet his account of his own position in regard to Mr. Saffron had sounded remarkably candid, and the more so because he made no pretensions to an exalted attitude.

It had been left to her to define the standard of sensitive honour; his had been rather that of safety—or, at the best, that of what the world would think, or even of what the hated cousins might attempt to prove. But there again she was distrustful, both of him and of her own judgment. He might be—it seemed likely—one of those men who conceal the good as well as the bad in themselves, one of the morally shy men. He had said at Old Place, the first time that she met him, that the war had destroyed all his scruples. That might be true; but it was hardly the remark of a man naturally unscrupulous.

She met him one day at Old Place about a week after Christmas. The Captain was not there; he was at her own house, with Cynthia. With the rest of the family Beaumaroy was at his best; gaily respectful to Mrs. Naylor, merry with Gertie, exchanging cut and thrust with old Mr. Naylor, easy and cordial towards herself. Certainly an attractive human being and a charming companion, pre-eminently natural. Not as a pattern, a failure, or a problem, but just as a fact—a psychological fact. On the other hand, it gives such free play.

But Mary was equal to him. Yes, Alec has said a few things; and the young lady gives it us too. I charge you with secret knowledge. Or are you puffed up by having superseded Irechester? Her eyes grew suddenly alert. After all, no medical man can study everything! Do you follow me? Saffron recited his poem—or whatever it was—in bed. Books from that period are often spoiled by imperfections that did not exist in the original. Imperfections could be in the form of blurred text, photographs, or missing pages. It is highly unlikely that this would occur with one of our books.

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