By next morning the wind had brought rain with it. A south-west gale
drove against the dripping window-panes, and covered the sea with crests
of foam.
Jane, rather pale, wrote a neat letter to the Misses Kent, Hermione
Street, South Kensington, mentioning that she would be much obliged if
they would send her patterns of jumper wool by return. She hesitated,
and then underlined the last two words.
“I always think big shops do you better,” was Lady Heritage’s comment,
and Mr. Ember added, “Do you knit, Miss Renata? I thought you were the
only girl in England who didn’t”—to which Jane replied, “I want to
learn.”
It was after the letter had been posted that she found Henry’s second
message, “Hope to see you to-day, Friday.” She could have cried for pure
joy.
At intervals during the day, the thought occurred to her that Henry was
a solid comfort. She wasn’t in love with him, of course, but undoubtedly
he was a comfort. She had plenty of time to think, for she spent the
entire day by herself. Sir William had gone to town for three or four
days. Lady Heritage disappeared into the north wing at eleven o’clock,
and very shortly after, Mr. Ember followed her. Neither of them appeared
again until dinner-time. Jane went to sleep over a book and awoke
refreshed, and with a strong desire for exploration.
If only last night’s mysterious happenings had taken place anywhere but
in the hall. The dark corner from which Raymond had emerged and into
which Mr. Ember had vanished drew her like a magnet, but not until every
one was in bed and asleep would she dare to search for the hidden door.
“If I were just sitting here and reading,” she thought to herself,
“probably no one would come into the hall for hours; but if I were to
look for a secret passage, all the servants would begin to drift in and
out, and the entire neighbourhood would come and call.”
When the lights had been turned on, she wandered round, looking at the
Luttrell portraits. This, she thought, was safe enough, and if not the
rose, it was at least near it. Willoughby Luttrell’s picture hung
perhaps five feet from the ground and about half-way between the hall
door and the corner. Jane had always noticed it particularly because
Henry undoubtedly resembled this eighteenth century uncle.
Mr. Willoughby Luttrell had been painted in a Court suit of silver-grey
satin. He wore Mechlin ruffles and diamond shoe-buckles. He had the air
of being convinced that the Court of St. James could boast no brighter
ornament, but his face was the face of Henry March, and Henry’s grey
eyes looked down at Jane from beneath a Ramillies wig.
After an interval Jane stopped looking at Mr. Luttrell’s eyes, and
reflected that the click which she had heard the night before came from
a point nearer the corner. She did not dare go near enough to feel the
wall, and no amount of staring at the panelling disclosed any clue to
the secret.
Jane went back to her book.
By sunset the rain had ceased to fall, or, rather to be driven against
the land. The wind, lightened of its burden of moisture, kept coming
inland in great gusts, fresh and soft with the freshness and softness of
the spring. The entire sky was thickly covered with clouds which moved
continually across its face, swept on by the currents of the upper air,
but these clouds were very high up. Any one coming out of an enclosed
place into the windy night would have received an impression of
extraordinary freedom, movement, and space.
Henry March received such an impression as he turned a pivoting stone
block and came out of the small sheltering cave behind the seat on the
headland above Luttrell Marches. At the first buffet of the gale he took
off his cap, and stuffed it down into the pocket of the light ulster
which he wore, and stood bareheaded, looking out to sea. His eyes showed
him blackness and confused motion, and his ears were filled with the
strange singing sound of the wind and the endless crash and recoil of
the waves against a shingly beach.
He stood quite still for a time and then turned his wrist and glanced at
the luminous dial of the watch upon it, after which he passed again
behind the stone seat and was about to re-enter the blacker shadows when
a tall figure emerged.
“Have you been here long?” said a voice.
“No, I’ve only just come. How are you, Tony?”
“All right. I didn’t think you’d be down here again so soon. It was
touch and go whether I could get here.”
“Piggy’s orders,” said Henry. “Look here, Tony, don’t let’s go inside.
It’s a topping night, and that passage I’ve just come along smells like
a triple extract of vaults—perfectly beastly. I don’t suppose our friend
Ember is addicted to being out late. He doesn’t strike me as that sort
of bird somehow.”
“All right,” said Anthony Luttrell. He sat down on the stone seat as he
spoke, and Henry followed his example.
“Piggy sent you down, did he? What for?”
Henry was silent. It seemed like quite a long time before he said:
“Tony, who knows about the passages beside you and me?”
“No one,” said Anthony shortly.
“Uncle James told me when he thought the Boche had done you in. He said
then that no one knew except he and I. He drew out a plan of all the
passages and made me learn it by heart. When I could draw it with my
eyes shut, we burnt every scrap of paper I had touched. I’ve been into
the passages exactly three times—once that same week to test my
knowledge, again the other day, and to-night. I’ll swear no one saw me
go in or come out, and I’ll swear I’ve never breathed a word to a soul.”
“Are you rehearsing your autobiography?” inquired Anthony Luttrell, with
more than a hint of sarcasm.
“No, I’m not. I want to know who else knows about the passages.”
“And I have told you.”
“Tony, it is no good. I had my suspicions the other night, but to-night
I’ve got proof. The passages have been made use of. Unfortunately
there’s no doubt about it at all. I want to know whether you have any
idea—hang it all, Tony, you must see what I’m driving at! Wait a minute;
don’t go through the roof until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say. You
see, I know that Uncle James gave you the plan when you were only
sixteen, because he thought he was dying then, and I’ve come down here
to ask you whether any one might have seen you coming and going as a
boy, or whether ... Tony, _did_ you ever tell any one?”
“I thought you said that it was Piggy’s orders that brought you down
here.”
“Yes, it was,” said Henry.
“Am I to gather then that Piggy has suggested these damned impertinent
questions?” Mr. Luttrell’s tone was easy to a degree.
Henry, on the verge of losing his temper, rose abruptly to his feet,
walked half a dozen paces with his hands shoved well down in his
pockets, and then walked back again.
“Tony, what on earth’s the good of quarrelling?”
Anthony Luttrell was leaning back, his head against the back of the
stone seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He appeared to
be watching the race of clouds between the horizon and the zenith. He
said something, and the wind took his words away.
Henry sat down again.
“Look here, Tony,” he said, “you’ve not answered my question. Did you
ever tell any one? Damn it all, Tony, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have
to!... Did you ever tell Raymond?”
A great gust swept the headland, another and more violent one followed
it, battered against the cliff, and then dropped suddenly into what,
after the tumult, seemed like a silence.
“Piggy speaking, or you?” said Anthony Luttrell quite lightly.
“Both,” said Henry.
“You sound heated, Henry. Now I should have thought that that would have
been my rôle. Instead, I merely repeat to you, and you in your turn, of
course, repeat to Piggy that I have told no one about the passages, and,
after you have admired my moderation, perhaps we might change the
subject.”
“I’m afraid it can’t be done,” said Henry. “Tony, do you mind sitting up
and looking at this?”
As he spoke he placed “this” on the seat between them and turned a light
upon it, holding the torch close down on to the seat so that the beam
did not travel beyond its edge. Mr. Luttrell turned lazily and saw a
small handkerchief of very fine linen with an embroidered “R” in the
corner. He continued to look at it, and Henry continued to hold the
torch so that the light fell upon the initial. Then quite suddenly
Anthony Luttrell reached sideways and switched off the light. His hand
dropped to the handkerchief and covered it.
“No, I don’t want it,” said Henry, “but I thought you ought to know that
I found it in the passage behind us, just where one stoops to shift the
stone.”
“It’s one I found and dropped,” said Anthony, putting it into his
pocket.
Henry said nothing at all.
A somewhat prolonged silence was broken by Luttrell. “I’m chucking my
job here,” he said. “I’ve written to Sir Julian. Here’s the letter for
you to give him.” He pushed it along the seat as he spoke, and Henry
picked it up reluctantly. “I’ve asked to be replaced with as little
delay as possible. You might urge that point on him, if you don’t mind.
I want it made perfectly clear that under no circumstances will I stay
on more than three days. I will, in fact, see the whole department
damned first.”
He spoke without the slightest heat, in the rather cold, drawling manner
which Henry had known as a danger-signal from the days when he was a
small boy, and Anthony a big one and his idol.
“Are you giving any reason?”
“No, there’s no reason to give.”
“Piggy,” said Henry thoughtfully, “will want one. It’s all very well for
you, Tony, to write him a letter and say you’re going to chuck your job
without giving a reason. I’ve got to stand up at the other side of his
table and stick out a cross-examination on the probable nature of the
reasons which you haven’t given. You’re putting me in an impossible
position.”
“It’s that damned conscience of yours, I suppose! I cannot tell a lie,
and all that sort of thing.”
“Not to Piggy about this.”
“All right,” said Anthony, getting to his feet, “tell him the truth. Why
should I care? I suppose, in common with everybody else, he is perfectly
well aware that I once made a fool of myself about Lady Heritage. Well,
I thought I could stick being down here and seeing her, but I can’t. It
just comes to that. I can’t stick it.”
“Does she know you’re here?”
“No, she doesn’t. She sees me in an overall and a mask. She has been
pleased to commend my skill. This afternoon she leaned over my shoulder
to watch what I was doing. Well, I came away and wrote to Piggy. I can’t
stand it, and you can tell him so with the utmost circumstance.”
Henry was leaning forward, chin in hand. He looked past Anthony at the
black moving water.
“Why don’t you see Raymond?” he said. “No, Tony, you’ve just got to
listen to me. What you’ve been saying is true as far as it goes, but it
doesn’t go very far. You wouldn’t chuck your job just for that. You
know, and I know that you’re chucking it because you are afraid that
Raymond is involved. If you know it, and I know it, don’t you think
Piggy will know it too? That’s why I say, see Raymond. If she’s let
herself get mixed up with this show, it’s because she’s had a rotten
time and wants to hit back. She said as much to me—oh, not à propos of
this, of course; we were just talking.”
“I heard her,” said Anthony Luttrell. He paused, and added with a
distinct sneer, “You displayed an admirable discretion.”
“Thank you, Tony. Now what’s the good of you clearing out? If you do,
Piggy will send some one else down here, and if Raymond has got mixed up
with any of Ember’s devilry, she’ll get caught out. For the Lord’s sake,
Tony, see her, let her know you’re alive! I believe she’d chuck the
whole thing and go to the ends of the earth with you. Nobody would press
the matter. We should catch Ember out, and you and Raymond could go
abroad for a bit. I don’t see any other way out of it.”
“You seem to me to be assuming a good deal, Henry,” said Anthony
Luttrell.
“I’m not assuming anything”—Henry’s tone was very blunt. “I know three
things.”
“Yes?”
“One”—Henry ticked his facts off on the fingers of his left hand: “the
passages are being used. Two: they’ve been wired for electric light.
Three: Raymond has been through them, and quite lately. Those three
facts, taken in conjunction with a deposition stating that something of
a highly dangerous and anti-social nature is being manufactured on these
premises, and under cover of the Government experiments—well, Tony, I
don’t suppose you want me to dot the ‘i’s’ and cross the ‘t’s.’”
“It never occurred to you that my father might have had the place wired,
I suppose?”
“He didn’t,” said Henry. “It’s no good, Tony. You can’t bluff me, and I
hate your trying to. There’s only one way out of this. You’ve got to see
Raymond.”
Anthony made an impatient movement.
“You assume too much,” he said, “but I’ll put that on one side. From the
cold, official standpoint, where does my interview with Lady Heritage
come in? Wouldn’t it rather complicate matters? You appear to assume
that there is a conspiracy, and then to suggest that I should warn one
of the conspirators.”
“No, I do not. I ask you to let Raymond know that you are alive, nothing
more. In my view nothing more is necessary. She’ll naturally think you
are here to see her, and you can let her think so. As to the cold,
official standpoint, the last thing that the department would want is a
scandal about a woman in Raymond’s position. Piggy would say what I
say—for the Lord’s sake get her out of it and let us have a free hand.
She’s an appalling complication.”
“Women always are,” said Anthony Luttrell in his bitter drawl.
He moved a pace or two away, and then turned back again. “You’re not a
bad sort in spite of the conscience, Henry,” he said. “From your
standpoint, what you’ve just said is sense—good, plain common sense—in
fact, exactly the thing which one has no use for in certain moods.”
“Scrap the moods, Tony,” said Henry, in an expressionless voice.
Anthony laughed, rather harshly.
“My good Henry,” he said—there was affection as well as mockery in his
tone—“does one ask for one’s temperament? Look here, I haven’t seen
Raymond because I haven’t dared—I don’t know what I might do or say if I
did see her. Now that is the plain, unvarnished truth. When I was in
Petrograd I once hid for three days in a cellar with a temperamental
Russian lady. There was nothing to do except to talk, and we talked
endlessly. She told me a lot of home truths—said my nature was like a
glacier, cold and slow, and that once I had got going I had to go on,
even if I ground all my own dearest hopes to powder in doing so.”
“In other words, if you’ve got a grouch, you’re a devil to keep it,”
said Henry. “It’s quite true; you always were. But, look here, Tony, why
all this to my address? Why not get it off your chest to Raymond, and if
you _will_ deal in geological parallels, well—she’s rather in the
volcano line, or used to be, and I don’t mind betting she’ll blow your
glacier to smithereens?” Henry looked at his watch.
“I must go,” he said. “Think it over, Tony, and same place, to-morrow,
same time.”
He turned, without waiting for an answer, and walked into the darkness
of the cave.