It must be admitted that when Lady Garnett insinuated, for the
benefit of her half-incredulous inward counsellor, that Charles
Sylvester, in spite of his almost aggressive panoply of
self-assurance, had been smitten by the fever of jealousy, she fully
sustained her reputation for perspicacity. Her conclusions were
seldom wrong, and, indeed, the barrister, although he had
professional motives for endeavouring to cloak himself with
something of the wisdom of the serpent, was characterized far more
by the somewhat stolid innocence of that proverbially moral, but
less interesting creature, the dove; and it was an easy task for a
keen observer, such as her ladyship undoubtedly was, to read him
line upon line, like the most clearly printed of books. As in the
case of a book, what one read was not always intelligible, and it
might even on occasion be necessary to read between the obvious
lines; but in this particular instance the page contained no
cryptogram, and the astute old lady had read it without her
spectacles.
Charles was jealous; he had not insulted himself by admitting it
even for an instant, but he was jealous; and his jealousy was more
than the roving fever of all lovers, in that it had a definite,
tangible object.
It would have been contrary to his nature to allow either his love
or the ensuing passion to interfere in any way with his professional
duties or instincts; he was a lawyer, and an embryo Member of
Parliament first, a man afterwards; and it was not until late in the
afternoon of the day which followed his last recorded interview with
Lady Garnett and her niece that he dismissed from his brain the
complexities of "Brown and another _versus_ Johnson," and drew from an
orderly mental pigeon-hole the bundle of papers bearing the neat
endorsement, "_Re_ Miss Masters." When, to the ecstatic joy of his
clerk, he had withdrawn himself from his chambers in Paper
Buildings, and was walking briskly along the dusty Embankment in the
direction of his club, he found himself, by a sequence which was
natural, though he would have been the last to own it, already
thinking of Rainham, and wondering, with a trace of dignified
self-reproach, whether he had not been guilty of some remissness in
the performance of his duty towards society, in the matter of that
reprehensible individual and his aberrations from the paths of
virtue. He did not stop to question himself too strictly as to the
connection between his matrimonial aspirations and Rainham's
peccadilloes; but he was able to assure himself that the assertion
of his principles demanded a closer investigation, a more crucial
analysis of certain ambiguous episodes.
"Supposing," he argued, "supposing Rainham had given signs of a
desire to marry my sister, or my cousin, or any other girl in whom I
was interested, or, in short, whom I knew, it would obviously have
been my duty, before giving my consent or approval, to find out all
about his relations with that girl, that person whom I saw with him
in the park--ah, yes! Kitty, that was her name. And, in a way, don't
I owe far more to society in general than I do to any of my immediate
friends in particular? Well, then I ought to know more about
Kitty, so as to be prepared in case--that is, for emergencies....
Why, for all I know, I may have been suspecting Rainham all this
time quite unjustly. I'm sure I hope so." Here he shook his head
sorrowfully. "But I'm afraid there's not much chance of that. The
question remains, how am I to find out anything? It's no good asking
Rainham; that goes without saying. It would be equally useless to
try Lightmark: they're as thick as thieves, and he's not the sort of
man to be pumped very easily. And yet, if Rainham's friends are out
of the question, what's to be done? He hasn't got any enemies--that
sort of man never has, except himself. How can I get hold of the
girl? I suppose some people would set a detective to watch Rainham,
and so on; but that's not to be thought of, in this case." He
stopped close to Cleopatra's Needle, and frowned abstractedly over
the stone parapet, absently following the struggles of a boy who was
laboriously working a great, empty lighter across the wide,
smoke-coloured river at a narrow angle with the shore. An idea
suggested itself in flattering colours for a moment: he might pay a
visit to the little restaurant or club in Turk Street, the shady
place with a foreign name which he had forgotten. At the expense of
a little tact, he might very probably succeed in inducing some of
the careless, disreputable young artists who formed the
frequentation of the place to talk about Rainham's amours. It even
occurred to him that at a late hour Kitty herself might be seen
there, dancing a can-can with Rainham, or singing songs with a
riotous chorus. But in spite of this prospect, the notion was not
sufficiently attractive. He had not enjoyed his introduction to the
eccentric fraternity, on the occasion when he had been fired by
Lightmark's early enthusiasm about the place to request to take him
there to dine. He had felt, almost as much as the men to whom he was
introduced, that he had no business there, that he was an outsider;
he had even been snubbed. "And, after all," he said impatiently,
resuming his homeward direction, "though I've got enough evidence to
damn him twice over in the eyes of any man in the world, I suppose
it wouldn't be enough to convince a woman, if she believed in him. I
must get hold of Kitty--it's the only way to arrive at a certainty."
After much deliberation to the same effect, he determined, somewhat
reluctantly, that there was nothing for it but to endeavour to
enlist the sympathies of one of Rainham's more intimate friends. He
had recurred by this time to the unstable hypothesis that he was
acting primarily in Rainham's interest, that his real motive was to
arrive at the truth on the chance that it might be favourable to his
unadmitted rival. It only remained for him to select out of the
limited material at his disposal the man whom he should invite to
enter upon this alliance. And when he reached the gloomy library of
the eminently respectable club, where he was accustomed, before
dining, to study the evening papers and to write his letters, the
choice had been made; and after one or two abortive efforts, he
composed to his satisfaction a diplomatic epistle, which he
addressed to Oswyn (with whom he enjoyed a nodding acquaintance) at
the restaurant in Turk Street.
Late in the afternoon of the next day Sylvester sat alone and
expectant before a pile of temporarily neglected papers, telling
himself that Rainham ought to be very grateful for these strenuous
efforts in the interests of his injured reputation. He was beginning
to wonder nervously whether Oswyn would fail him, when he heard a
knock at the outer door, followed by an unfamiliar step, and the
clerk announced that a gentleman wished to see him by appointment on
private business. The barrister rose from his seat with a portentous
display of polite, awkward cordiality, and motioned his guest into a
chair.
"It's extremely good of you to take the trouble to come," he said
tentatively.
"That depends upon what you want of me," answered Oswyn shrewdly.
"You said in your note that it was on a matter of vital importance
to a friend of mine. I haven't so many friends that I can afford to
shirk a little trouble in a matter which vitally concerns one of
them. May I ask, in the first place, who is the friend?"
Sylvester picked up the open brief which lay before him on the
table, and folded it scrupulously.
"Philip Rainham," he answered, and then shot a quick glance at
Oswyn.
"Rainham?" echoed the other with an air suggestive at once of
surprise and relief, as if, perhaps, he had been expecting to hear
another name. "You are right, he is a friend," he added simply.
"What can I do for him?"
"Well, the fact is, I'm afraid he's got into difficulties--a scrape,
an imbroglio, with a woman!"
The painter lifted his expressive eyebrows incredulously.
"Since I last saw him--three days ago?"
"Oh, dear, no; the thing's been going on, I should say, for quite a
long time--more than a year to my knowledge."
Oswyn reflected for a moment, gazing at Sylvester with some
suspicion.
"I don't think it troubles him much," he said brusquely. "Is it any
business of mine--or of yours? Has he spoken to you about it?"
Sylvester uttered a hasty negative.
"Oh, no! He is not the sort of man who would. But other people talk.
You see, I'm afraid there's some sort of black-mail going on, and he
oughtn't to submit to it. His friends oughtn't to allow it. If--if
one could see the woman and frighten her a little----"
"Is that what you wanted me for?" asked Oswyn impatiently. "If so,
allow me----"
The other hastened to reassure him.
"Oh, no, not at all. But I thought you might be able to tell me
where the person is to be found, her address, or something about
her. I understand that she was a model; you probably know her...."
The painter shrugged his shoulders.
"Who is she? What is her name?"
"Kitty--that's all I know."
"Kitty? Kitty Crichton, I suppose."
A light dawned on him; the name opened a door to many forgotten
trivial incidents. He did not speak again for a minute, and when he
broke the silence there was a harder tone in his voice, and he rose
from his chair at the same time.
"I don't see how this can concern me, or you, either. You must
pardon me if I say that I dislike meddling, and people who meddle."
Sylvester blushed hotly.
"You don't suppose I want to do him anything but good," he said
diplomatically, trying to convince himself that he was not damaging
the reputation for perfect candour which he hoped that he enjoyed.
"It's not a pleasant task, but there are circumstances in which one
has to sacrifice one's scruples--one's feelings."
Oswyn glanced at him again, with some contempt in the lines of his
worn face.
"Excuse me if I refrain from sounding your motives."
Then he paused, fingering his soft felt hat. Suddenly his face was
illumined by a remarkably grim smile, and it became evident to the
man who was watching him so anxiously that there had occurred some
change in his mental perspective.
"I don't quite understand why you brought me into this," he added,
the smile still hovering very lightly on his lips. "However, under
the circumstances, I think I can't do much harm by putting you in
the way of finding Mrs. Crichton. Let me recommend you to inquire
for her at the office of the _Outcry_, the newspaper--she used to work
for it, I believe--in Took's Court. They will know her address
there. Took's Court--it's only a few minutes' walk from here.
Thanks, I can find my way out...."
"I suppose that was rather a stupid thing to do," he said
regretfully, as he stopped in the doorway below to light a
cigarette, "though not such a _bêtise_ as his, _mon dieu_!... But I
couldn't resist the temptation. Now, I wonder if he's clever enough
to find out the truth?"