Jane took down the telephone directory, opened it, and began to run her
finger along the column of “M’s.” As she did so, she wondered why the
light in public call offices is so arranged as to strike the top of the
occupant’s head, and never by any chance to illumine the directory.
“Marbot”—“Marbottle”—“March, The Rev. Aloysius”—“March, George William
Adolphus”—“March, Mrs. de Luttrelle.”
Jane made a mark opposite the number.
When Rosa Mortimer married Henry Luttrell March, she thought, and often
said, how much nicer the Luttrell would look if it were written de
Luttrelle. If her husband had died six months earlier than he actually
did, the name in this improved form would most certainly have been
inflicted upon an infant Henry. As it was, the child was baptized and
registered as Henry Luttrell, and ten years later took up the struggle
over the name where his father had left it. Eventually, a compromise was
effected, Mrs. March flaunting her de Luttrelle, and Henry tending to
suppress his Luttrell under an initial. His mother never ceased to
bemoan his stubbornness.
“Any one would think that Henry was not proud of his family, and he may
say what he likes, but there were de Luttrelles for hundreds of years
before any one ever heard of a Luttrell. And Luttrell Marches is bound
to come to him, or practically bound to, because, whatever Henry may
say, I am quite sure that Tony will never turn up again.”
The very sound of the aggrieved voice was in Jane’s ears as she unhung
the receiver and gave the number. She supposed that Henry still lived
with his mother, and that Mrs. March would still keep an indignant
bridge table waiting whilst she discoursed upon Henry—his faults, his
foibles, his ailments, and his prospects of inheriting Luttrell Marches.
At that moment Henry, appropriately enough, was gazing at a photograph
of Jane. It must not be imagined that this was a habit of his. Three
years ago was three years ago, and Jane had receded into the distance
with a great many other pleasant things. But to-night he had been
looking through some old snapshots, and all of a sudden there was that
three-years-old Cornish holiday, and Jane. Henry sat frowning at the
photograph.
Jane—why was one fond of Jane? He wondered where she was. It was only
last week that some one had mentioned old Carruthers, and had seemed
surprised that Henry did not know how long he had been dead.
The telephone bell rang, and Henry jumped up with relief.
“Hullo!” said a voice—and “Hullo!” said Henry.
“Is that Captain March?”
“Speaking,” said Henry.
“It’s Jane Smith,” said the voice, and Henry very nearly dropped the
receiver. There was a pause, and then Jane said:
“I want to come and see you on business. Can you spare the time?”
“Er—my mother’s out,” said Henry, and he heard her say, “Thank
goodness,” with much sincerity. The next moment she was apologising.
“Oh, I say, Henry, that sounded awfully rude, but I really do want to
see you about something very important. No, you can’t come and see me.
I’m one of the great unemployed, and I’m not living anywhere at present.
No, I won’t meet you at a restaurant either. Just tell me your nearest
Tube Station, and I’ll come along. All right then; I won’t be more than
ten minutes.”
Henry turned away, feeling a little dazed. Being a methodical young man,
he proceeded to put away the photographs with which the table was
littered. A little snapshot of Jane he kept to the last, and ended by
not putting it away at all. After he had looked at it for some time, he
put it on the mantelpiece behind the clock. The hands pointed to nine
o’clock precisely. Then he looked at himself in the glass that was over
the mantel, and straightened his tie.
Henry’s mother naturally considered him the most beautiful of created
beings. Without going quite as far as this, Henry certainly approved of
his own looks. Having approved of himself, he proceeded to move the
clock back half an inch, and to alter the position of the twisted
candlesticks on either side of it. Then he poked the fire. Then he began
to walk up and down the room. And then the bell rang.
Henry went out into the hall and opened the door of the flat, and there
on the threshold stood Jane in a shabby blue serge coat and skirt, with
an old black felt hat. Not pretty, not smart—just Jane. She walked in
and gave him her hand.
“Hullo, Henry!” she said. Then she laughed. “Or, do I call you Captain
March?”
“You call me Henry,” said Henry, and he shut the door.
“I expect you’d like to come into the drawing-room”—this came hurriedly
after a moment’s pause. He moved across the hall, switched on the light,
and stood aside for her to pass. Jane looked in and saw more pink
cushions and pink lamp-shades than she would have believed it possible
to get into one small room. There were also a great many pink roses, and
the air was heavy with scent.
“I’m sure that’s not where you see people on business,” said Jane, and
Henry led the way into the dining-room.
“This is my room,” he said, and Jane sat down on a straight, high-backed
chair and leaned her elbows on the table.
“Now, Henry,” she said, “I’ve come here to tell you a story, and I want
you to sit down and listen to it; and please forget that you are you,
and that I am I. Just listen.”
Henry sat down obediently. It was so good to see Jane again that, if she
liked to sit there and talk till midnight, he had no objection.
“Now attend,” said Jane, and she began her story.
“Once upon a time there were twin sisters, and they were called Renata
and Jane Carruthers. They had a cousin James—you remember him—my darling
Jimmy? Jimmy wanted to marry Renata, but she refused him and married
John Smith, my father, and when I was five years old she and my father
both died, and Jimmy adopted me. Now we come to the other twin. Her name
was Jane, and she ran away to America with a sort of anarchist Irishman
named Molloy. She died young, and she left one daughter, whom she called
Renata Jane. I, by the bye, am Jane Renata. The twin sisters were so
much alike that no one ever knew them apart. Jimmy had photographs of
them, and even he could never tell me which was my mother and which was
my Aunt Jane. Now, Henry, listen to this. My Cousin Renata is in London,
and it seems that she and I are just as much alike as our mothers were.
In fact, it’s because Renata’s young man took me for Renata this
afternoon that I am here, asking your advice, at the present moment.”
Henry smiled a somewhat puzzled smile. “Have you asked my advice?” he
said; but Jane did not smile. Instead, she leaned forward a little.
“Are you still at Scotland Yard, Henry?”
He nodded.
“Criminal Investigation Department?”
He nodded again.
“Then listen. Renata is in what her young man calls ‘a position of
deadly peril.’ In more ordinary language, she’s in a nasty hole. Do you
know anything about Cornelius Molloy? That’s the Anarchist Uncle,
Renata’s father, you know.”
“There aren’t any anarchists nowadays,” said Henry meditatively.
“I was brought up on anarchists, and I don’t see that it matters what
you call them,” said Jane. “‘A’ for Anarchist, ‘B’ for Bolshevik, and so
on. The point is, do you know anything about Molloy?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Henry admitted.
“Nothing good?”
“We don’t hear much that’s good about people—officially, you know.”
“Well, Arnold Todhunter says that Renata is supposed to have overheard
something—something that her father’s associates think so important that
they’re keeping her under lock and key, and seriously contemplating
putting her out of the way altogether.”
“Did she overhear anything?” asked Henry, just as Jane had done.
“No one knows except Renata, and she won’t tell. Molloy goes back to the
States to-morrow. They won’t let him take Renata with him, and Arnold
Todhunter wants to marry her and carry her off to Bolivia, where he’s
got an engineering job.”
“That appears to be a good scheme,” said Henry.
“Yes, but you see they’ll never let her go so long as they are not sure
how much she knows. Arnold says she was walking in her sleep, and
blundered in on about twenty-five of them, all talking the most deadly
secrets. And they don’t know when she woke or what she heard.
And”—Jane’s eyes began to dance a little—“Arnold has a perfectly
splendid idea. He takes Renata to Bolivia, and I take Renata’s place.
Nobody knows she has gone, so nobody looks for her.”
“What nonsense,” said Henry; then—“What’s this Todhunter like?”
“A mug,” said Jane briefly. She paused, and then went on in a different
voice:
“Henry, who is at Luttrell Marches now? Did your Cousin Tony ever turn
up?”
Henry stared at her.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because,” said Jane, with perfect simplicity, “Renata is to be sent
down to Luttrell Marches to-morrow, and somebody there—somebody,
Henry—will decide whether she is to be eliminated or not.”
Henry sat perfectly silent. He stared at Jane, and she stared at him. It
seemed as if the silence in the room were growing heavier and heavier,
like water that gathers behind some unseen dam. All of a sudden Henry
sprang to his feet.
“Is this a hoax?” he asked, in tones of such anger that Jane hardly
recognised them.
Jane got up too. The hand that she rested upon the table was not quite
steady.
“Henry, how dare you?” and her voice shook a little too.
Henry swung round.
“No, no—I beg your pardon, Jane, for the Lord’s sake don’t look at me
like that. It’s, it’s—well, it’s pretty staggering to have you come here
and say....” He paused. “What was it you wanted to know?”
“I asked you who is living at Luttrell Marches.”
Henry was silent. He walked to the end of the room and back. Jane’s eyes
followed him. Where had this sudden wave of emotion come from? It seemed
to be eddying about them, filling the confined space. Jane made herself
look away from Henry, forced herself to notice the room, the furniture,
the pictures—anything that was commonplace and ordinary. This was
decidedly Henry’s room and not his mother’s, from the worn leather
chairs and plain oak table to the neutral coloured walls with their
half-dozen Meissonier engravings. Not a flower, not a trifle of any
sort, and one wall all books from ceiling to floor. Exactly opposite to
Jane there was a fine print of “The Generals in the Snow.” The lowering,
thunderous sky, heavy with snow and black with the omens of Napoleon’s
fall, dominated the picture, the room. Jane looked at it, and looked
away with a shiver, and as she did so, Henry was speaking:
“Jane, I don’t want to answer that question for a minute or two. I want
to think. I want a little time to turn things over in my mind. Look
here, come round to the fire and sit down comfortably. Let’s talk about
something else for a bit. I want all your news, for one thing. Tell me
what you’ve been doing with yourself.”
Jane came slowly to the fireside. After all, it was pleasant just to put
everything on one side, and be comfortable. Henry’s chair was very
comfortable, and the day seemed to have lasted for weeks, and weeks, and
weeks. She put out her hands to the fire, and then, because she noticed
that they were still trembling a little, she folded them in her lap.
Henry leaned against the mantelpiece and looked down at her.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Well, that summer at Upwater—you know we were lodging with the woman
who had the post office—Jimmy and I stayed on after all the other
visitors were gone. I expect it was rather irregular, but I used to help
her. You see her son didn’t get back until eighteen months after the
armistice, and she wasn’t really up to the work. In the end, you may say
I ran that post office. I did it very well, too. It was something to do,
especially after Jimmy died.”
“Yes, I heard. I wondered where you were.”
“I stayed on until the son came home, and then I couldn’t. He was awful,
and she thought him quite perfect, poor old soul. I came to London and
got a job in an office, and a month ago I lost it. The firm was cutting
down expenses, like everybody else. And then—well, I looked for another
job, and couldn’t find one, and this morning my landlady locked the door
in my face and kept my box. And that, Henry, is why I am thinking
seriously of changing places with my Cousin Renata, who, at least, has a
roof over her head and enough to eat.”
“Jane,” said Henry furiously, “you don’t mean to say—so that’s why
you’re looking such a white rag!”
Jane was horrified to find that her eyes had filled with tears. She
laughed, but the laugh was not a very convincing one.
“I did have a cup of coffee and two penny buns,” she began; and then
Henry was fetching sandwiches from the sideboard and pressing a cup of
hot chocolate into her not unwilling hands.
“They leave this awful stuff over a spirit lamp for my mother, and she
always has sandwiches when she comes in. It’s better than nothing,” he
added in tones of wrath.
“It’s not awful,” protested Jane; but Henry was not mollified.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you so hard up? Didn’t Mr.
Carruthers provide for you?”
Jane’s colour rose.
“He hadn’t much, and what he had was an annuity. You know what Jimmy
was, and how he forgot things. I am really quite sure that he had
forgotten about its being an annuity, and that he thought that I should
be quite comfortable.”
Henry swallowed his opinion of Mr. Carruthers.
“Was he your only relation?”
“Well,” said Jane, who was beginning to feel better, “you can’t really
count Cousin Louisa; she was only Jimmy’s half-sister, and that makes
her a sort of third half-cousin of my mother’s. Besides, she always
simply loathed me.”
“And you’ve no other relations at all?”
“Only the Anarchist Uncle,” said Jane brightly. She gave him her cup and
plate. “Your mother has simply lovely sandwiches, Henry. Thank you ever
so much for them, but what will she do when she comes home and finds I
have eaten them all?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.” Henry’s tone was very short. “Look here, Jane,
you must let—er, er, I mean, won’t you let....” He stuck, and Jane
looked at him very kindly.
“Nothing doing, Henry,” she said, “but it’s frightfully nice of you, all
the same.”
There was a silence. When Jane thought it had lasted long enough, she
said:
“So, you see, it all comes back again to Renata. Have you done your
thinking, Henry?”
“Yes,” said Henry. He drew a chair to the table and sat down half turned
to the fire—half turned to Jane. Sometimes he looked at her, but oftener
his gaze dwelt intently on the rise and fall of the flames.
“What makes you think that your cousin is to be taken to Luttrell
Marches? Did these people tell her so?”
“No,” said Jane—“of course not. As far as I can make out from Arnold
Todhunter, Renata is locked in her room, but there’s another key and she
can get in and out. She can move about inside the flat, but she can’t
get out of it. Well, one night she crept out and listened, though you
would have thought she had had enough of listening, and she heard them
say that, as soon as her father was out of the way, they would send her
to Luttrell Marches and let ‘Number One’ decide whether she was to be
‘eliminated.’ Since then she’s been nearly off her head with terror,
poor kid. Now, Henry, it’s your turn. What about Luttrell Marches?”
Henry’s face seemed to have grown rigid. “It’s impossible,” he said in a
low voice.
The clock above them struck ten, and he waited till the last stroke had
died away.
“I don’t know quite what to say to you, but whatever I say is
confidential. You’ve heard my mother talk of the Luttrells, and you may
or may not know that my uncle died a year ago. You have also probably
heard that his son, my Cousin Anthony, disappeared into the blue in
1915.”
“Then Luttrell Marches belongs to you?” For the life of her, Jane could
not keep a little consternation out of her voice.
“No. If Tony had been missing for seven years, I could apply for leave
to presume his death, but there’s another year to run. My mother—every
one—supposes that I am only waiting until the time is up. As a matter of
fact—Jane, I’m telling you what I haven’t told my mother—Anthony
Luttrell is alive.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you. And you must please forget what I have told
you—unless——”
“Unless?”
“Unless you have to remember it,” said Henry in an odd voice. “For the
rest, Luttrell Marches was let during my uncle’s lifetime to Sir William
Carr-Magnus. You know who I mean?”
“_The_ Sir William Carr-Magnus?” said Jane, and Henry nodded.
Jane felt absolutely dazed. Sir William Carr-Magnus, the great chemist,
great philanthropist, and Government expert!
“He is engaged,” said Henry, “on a series of most important
investigations and experiments which he is conducting on behalf of the
Government. The extreme seclusion of Luttrell Marches, and the lonely
country all round are, of course, exactly what is required under the
circumstances.”
Quite suddenly Jane began to laugh.
“It’s all mad,” she said, “but I’ve quite made up my mind. Renata shall
elope, and I will go to Luttrell Marches. It will be better than the
workhouse anyhow. You know, Henry, seriously, I have a lot of
qualifications for being a sleuth. Jimmy taught me simply heaps of
languages, I’ve got eyes like gimlets, and I can do lip-reading.”
“What?”
“Yes, I can. Jimmy had a perfectly deaf housekeeper, and it worried him
to hear us shouting at each other, so I had her taught, and learned
myself for fun.”
Henry crossed to the bookcase and came back with a photograph album in
his hand. Taking a loose card from between the pages, he put it down in
front of Jane, saying:
“There you may as well make your host’s acquaintance.”
Jane looked long at the face which was sufficiently well known to the
public. The massive head, the great brow with eyes set very deep beneath
shaggy tufts of hair, the rather hard mouth—all these were already
familiar to her, and yet she looked long. After a few moments’
hesitation, Henry put a second photograph upon the top of the first, and
this time Jane caught her breath. It was the picture of a woman in
evening dress. The neck and shoulders were like those of a statue,
beautiful and, as it were, rigid. But it was the beauty of the face that
took Jane’s breath away—that and a certain look in the eyes. The word
hungry came into her mind and stayed there. A woman with proud lips and
hungry eyes, and the most beautiful face in the world.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Raymond Carr-Magnus. She is Lady Heritage, and a widow now—Sir
William’s only child. He gave her a boy’s name and a boy’s
education—brought her up to take his place, and found himself with a
lovely woman on his hands. This was done from Amory’s portrait of her in
1915—the year of her marriage. She was at one time engaged to my Cousin
Anthony. If you do go to Luttrell Marches, you will see her, for she
makes her home with Sir William.”
Henry’s voice was perfectly expressionless. The short sentences followed
one another with a little pause after each. Jane looked sideways, and
said very quick and low:
“Were you very fond of her, Henry?”
And when she had said it, her heart beat and her hands gripped one
another.
Henry took the photograph from her lap.
“I said she was engaged to Tony.”
“Yes, Henry, but were you fond of her?”
“Confound you, Jane. Yes, I was.”
“Well, I don’t wonder.”
Jane rose to her feet.
“I must be going,” she said. “I have an assignation with Arnold
Todhunter, who is going to take me up a fire-escape and substitute me
for Renata.”
Henry took out a pocket-book.
“Will you give me Molloy’s address, please?” And when she had given it:
“You know, my good girl, there’s nothing on earth to prevent my having
that flat raided and your cousin’s deposition taken.”
“No, of course not,” said Jane—“only then nobody will go down to
Luttrell Marches and find out what’s going on there.”
She looked straight at Henry as she spoke.
“I’m going, whatever you say, and whatever you do, and I only came to
you because——”
“Because——”
“Well, it seemed so sort of lonesome going off into situations of deadly
peril with no one taking the very slightest interest.”
Jane’s voice shook absurdly on the last word. And in an instant Henry
had his arm round her and was saying, “Jane—Jane—you shan’t go, you
shan’t.”
Jane stepped back. Her eyes blazed. “And why?” she said.
She tried to say it icily, but she could not steady her voice. Henry’s
arm felt solid and comfortable.
“Because I’m damned if I’ll let you,” said Henry very loud, and upon
that the door opened and there entered Mrs. de Luttrelle March, larger,
pinker, and more horrified than Jane had ever seen her. She, for her
part, beheld Henry, his arms about a shabby girl, and her horror reached
its climax when she recognised the girl as “that dreadfully designing
Jane Smith.”
“Henry,” she gasped—“oh, Henry!”
Jane released herself with a jerk, and Mrs. de Luttrelle March sat down
in the nearest chair and burst into a flood of tears. Her purple satin
opera cloak fell away, disclosing a peach-coloured garment that clung to
her plump contours and seemed calculated rather for purposes of
revelation than concealment. Large tears rolled down her powdered
cheeks, and she sought in vain for a handkerchief.
“Henry—I didn’t think it of you—at least not here, not under my very
roof. And if you were going to break my heart like your father, it would
have been kinder to do it ten years ago, because then I should have
known what to expect, and anyhow, I should probably have been dead by
now.”
She sniffed and made a desperate gesture.
“Oh, Henry, I can’t find it! Haven’t you got one, or don’t you care
whether my heart’s broken? And I haven’t even got a handkerchief to cry
with.”
Henry produced a handkerchief and gave it to her without attempting to
speak. Years of experience had taught him that to stay his mother’s
first flood of words was an impossibility.
Jane felt rather sick. Mrs. March was so very large and pink, and the
whole affair so very undignified, that her one overmastering desire was
to get away. She heard Henry’s “This is Miss Smith, Mother. She came to
see me on business”; and then Mrs. March’s wail, “Your father always
called it business too, and I didn’t think—no, I didn’t think you’d
bring a girl in here when my back was turned.”
Jane stood up very straight, but Henry had taken her hand again.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a very low voice. “She—she had a rotten
time when she was young”; then, in a tone that cut through Mrs. March’s
sobs as an east wind cuts the rain, he said:
“My dear mother, you are making some extra-ordinary mistake. The last
time that I saw Miss Smith was three years ago. I then asked her to
marry me, and she refused. I would go on asking her every day from now
to kingdom come if I thought that it was the slightest good. As it
isn’t, I am only anxious to be of use to her in any possible way. She
came here to-night to ask my advice on an official matter.”
Mrs. March fixed her very large blue eyes upon her son. They were
swimming with tears, but behind the tears there was something which
suddenly went to Jane’s heart—something bewildered and hurt, and rather
ungrown-up.
“You always were a good boy, Henry,” said Mrs. March, and Henry’s
instant rigid embarrassment had the effect of cheering Jane. She came
forward and took the limp white hand that still clutched a borrowed
handkerchief.
“I’m sure he’ll always be a good son to you, and I wouldn’t take him
away from you for the world. He’s just a very kind friend. Good-night,
Mrs. March.”
She went out without looking back, but Henry followed her into the hall.
“You’re not really going to plunge into this foolish affair?” he said as
they stood for a moment by the door. It was Jane who opened it.
“Yes, I am, Henry. You can’t stop me, and you know it.”
Jane’s eyes looked straight into his, and Henry did know.
“Very well, then. Read the agony column in _The Times_. If I want you to
have a message, it will be there, signed with the day of the week on
which it appears. You understand? If the message is in _The Times_ of
Wednesday, it will be signed, ‘Wednesday.’ And if there are directions
in the message, you will obey them implicitly.”
“How _thrilling_,” said Jane.
“Is it?”
Henry looked very tired.
“I don’t know if I’ve done right, but I can’t tell you any more just
now. By the way, Molloy’s flat will be watched, and I shall know whether
you go to Luttrell Marches or not. Good-bye, Jane.”
“Good-bye, Henry.”
Henry watched the lift disappear.