Anthony Luttrell caught a slow local train at Withstead—the sort of
train that serves little country places all over England. It dawdled
slowly from station to station, sometimes taking what appeared to be an
unnecessary rest at a signal box as well. It finally reached Maxton ten
minutes late, thereby missing the London express and leaving Anthony
Luttrell with a two hours’ wait.
Waiting just at present was about as congenial an occupation as being
racked. He walked up and down with a dragging, restless step, and tried
unsuccessfully to shut off his torturing thoughts behind a safety
curtain. The time dragged intolerably. Presently he left the platform
and went up on to the bridge which ran from one side of the station to
the other. Here he began his pacing again, stopping every now and then
to watch a train come in or a train go out. From the bridge one could
see all the platforms.
When an express rushed through, the whole structure shook and clouds of
white steam blotted out everything. It was when the steam was clearing
away, and the roar of the receding train was dying down, that Anthony
noticed another local running in to the Withstead platform. He bent over
the rail and watched the passengers get out—just a handful. There was a
young woman with two children, two farmers, three or four nondescript
women, and a big man with a suit-case. Anthony looked at the big man and
went on looking at him. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar. The
man came along the platform and began to mount the steps that led up to
the bridge. Half-way up he put down his suit-case, took off his hat for
a moment as if to cool himself, and stood there looking up. Then he
replaced his hat, shifted the suit-case to the other hand, and came up
the rest of the steps. He seemed hot.
He passed Anthony and went down the steps on to the London platform.
Anthony followed him.
When the big man stood still and looked up, eight years were suddenly
wiped out. Memory is a queer thing, and plays queer tricks. What
Anthony’s memory did was to set him down in the year 1912, in the
gallery of a hall in Chicago. There was a packed and rather vociferous
audience. There was a big man on the platform, a big man who seemed hot.
His speech was, in fact, of a sufficiently inflammatory nature to make
any one feel hot. It breathed fire and fury. Its rolling eloquence must
have involved a good deal of physical exertion. Suddenly, after a
period, the speaker stopped and looked up at the gallery for applause.
It came like a veritable cyclone. The meeting was subsequently broken up
by the police.
Anthony remembered that the speaker’s name was Molloy. If Mr. Molloy had
come from Withstead, it occurred to Anthony that his destination would
probably be of interest.
The London train was due in ten minutes. When it came in, Molloy got
into a third-class carriage, and Anthony followed his example.
It was at seven-thirty on Sunday morning that Mrs. March’s cook, who was
sweeping the hall, was given what she afterwards described as a turn by
the arrival of an odd-looking man who would give no name and insisted on
seeing her master.
“Awful he looked with that ’orrid scar and his ’air that wild, and not
giving me a chance to shut the door in his face, for he pushes in the
moment I got it open—that’s what give me the worst turn of all—and walks
into the dining-room as bold as brass, and says, ‘I want to see Captain
March—and be quick, please.’”
When Henry came into the dining-room he shut the door behind him very
quickly and looked as if he also had had a turn.
“Good Lord, Tony, what’s happened?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Anthony, with nonchalance.
“Then in Heaven’s name, why are you here?”
“I’m through, that’s all. You can’t say I didn’t give notice.”
“It’s not a question of what I say, it’s what Piggy’ll say.”
“Oh, I’ve got a sop for Piggy. I’ve been doing the faithful sleuth. I’ve
trailed a man from Withstead to a highly genteel boarding-house in South
Kensington; and as I last saw the gentleman addressing an I. W. W.
meeting in Chicago, I imagine Piggy might be interested.”
“Who was it?” said Henry quickly.
“Molloy.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good man. You’re in luck. Molloy, under the interesting _alias_ of
Bernier, has just been selling the Government Formula ‘A.’ He was
trailed over here with the swag and then lost sight of. For a dead cert
he’s been to Luttrell Marches by the back way and seen Ember.”
Anthony turned away.
“There’s the devil to pay down there,” he said.... “No, no, the girl’s
all right.... This is something I ought to have told you when you were
down. I ought to have told you the whole thing. I couldn’t bring myself
to.”
“Sit down, Tony. What is it?”
“No, I can’t sit.” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out.
His hands made restless movements. He spoke, keeping his back to Henry:
“You didn’t go through all the passages?”
“No, I was going to to-night.”
“I ought to have told you. The big place under the terrace, you
know—they’ve turned it into a laboratory. Molloy may have been working
there, for all I know; he had the name of an expert chemist.”
“Yes, go on.”
“You’d have found it yourself to-night, but I couldn’t let you go
blundering in unwarned. Ember might be there—any one might be there.
It’s damnable, Henry, but I believe she’s up to her neck in it.”
Henry was silent. There seemed to be nothing to say. He also believed
that Raymond Heritage was up to her neck in whatever secret enterprise
was being developed at Luttrell Marches. He remembered the passion in
her voice when she said, “I should like to smash it all,” and he
remembered how she had sung, “Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
re-mould it nearer to the heart’s desire?” Whatever the thing was, he
believed she was in it up to her neck. So he was silent, and Anthony was
grateful for his silence.
The silence was broken by a tapping, and a rustling, and the turning of
a handle. The door opened very abruptly, and Mrs. de Luttrelle March
made a precipitous entrance. She wore a pink silk _négligé_ and a
boudoir cap embroidered in forget-me-nots, also an expression of extreme
terror—the cook’s description of their early visitor having prepared her
to find Henry’s corpse stretched upon the hearth-rug. When a living and
annoyed Henry confronted her, she clung to his arm and gazed round-eyed
at the long, thin man who had swung round at her entrance. Uncertainty
succeeded fear. Henry was saying, “Do go back to your room, Mother,” but
it is doubtful whether she heard him.
Gradually her grasp of his arm relaxed. She walked slowly across the
room, and stared with horrified amazement at Anthony.
He looked over her head at Henry, shrugged his shoulders just
perceptibly, and made as if to turn back to the window again. Either
that shrug, or the faintly sarcastic lift of the eyebrows that
accompanied it, brought a sort of broken gasp to Mrs. March’s lips. She
put out her hand, touched his coat sleeve with her finger-tips, and
said:
“Anthony—it’s Anthony—oh, Henry, it’s Anthony!”
She backed a little at each repetition of the name, looked wildly round,
and sinking on to the nearest chair, burst into tears.
“Henry—oh, please somebody speak,” she sobbed.
“It’s all right, Aunt Rosa. I’m not a ghost,” said Anthony in his driest
voice.
Henry experienced a cold dread of what his mother would say next. She
had talked so much and thought so incessantly of Luttrell Marches.
Latterly she had been so sure of Henry’s ownership, and so proud of it.
What would she say now—as she dropped her hands from her face and gazed
with streaming eyes at Anthony, who regarded her quizzically?
“Tony, you’re so dreadfully changed. That fearful scar—oh, my dear,
where have you been all this time? We thought you were dead. I don’t
know how I recognised you. And you were _such_ a pretty little boy, my
dear. I used to be jealous because you had longer eyelashes than Henry,
but you haven’t now.”
“Haven’t I?” said Anthony, with perfect gravity. He took his aunt’s
plump white hand and gave it a squeeze and a pat. “It’s very nice of you
to welcome me, Aunt Rosa. The scar isn’t as bad as it looks, and Henry’s
going to lend me a razor and some clothes.”
It was later, when Anthony could be heard splashing in the bathroom,
that Mrs. March beckoned Henry into her room, flung her arms round his
neck, and burst into tears all over again.
“My poor boy,” she sobbed, “it’s so hard on you—about Luttrell Marches,
I mean—do you mind dreadfully?”
“Not an atom. Besides, I knew Tony was alive; I always told you he would
turn up.”
“I couldn’t think of any one but him at first,” said Mrs. March,
sniffing gently. “Then afterwards it came over me Henry won’t have the
place—and I couldn’t help crying because, of course, one does get to
count on a thing, with every one saying to me as they did, ‘_Of course_
your son comes into Luttrell Marches, such a beautiful place,’—and so it
is, and I did think it was yours, and what I felt about it was, if I
feel badly about it, what must Henry feel? You see, don’t you?”
Henry endeavoured to disengage himself.
“Yes, Mother, but you needn’t worry—you really needn’t. Look here, you
dress and don’t cry any more. I’ve got to telephone.”
Mrs. March clasped her hands about his arm.
“Henry, wait, just a minute,” she said. “That Miss Smith—you’re not
still thinking about her, are you?”
Henry laughed.
“I am,” he said.
“Well——” said Mrs. March. She fidgeted with Henry’s coat sleeve, bridled
a little, and looked down at her mauve satin slippers. “Well—you know,
my dear boy, I didn’t want to be _unkind_, but I simply couldn’t picture
her at Luttrell Marches—as its mistress, I mean—and I’m sure you did
think me unkind about it; but now that it’s all different—Tony coming
back like this does make a difference, of course, and what I was going
to say about it is this. If you really do care for her and it would make
up to you for the disappointment, I wouldn’t hold out about it, not if
you really wanted it, my dear, and really cared for her, only of course
you’d have to be quite sure, because once you’re married you’re married,
and there’s no way out of it except divorce, and, whether it’s the
fashion now or not, I always have said and always will say, that it’s
not respectable, it really isn’t, and it’s not a thing we’ve ever had in
our family—not on either side,” added Mrs. March thoughtfully, after a
slight pause for breath.
“I really do care for her, and I really am sure,” said Henry. He kissed
his mother affectionately, and once more attempted to detach himself
from her hold.
Mrs. March let go with one hand in order to dab her eyes with a scrap of
pink-and-white chiffon. Then she looked up at her son fondly.
“Your eyelashes are _much_ the longest,” she said.
Henry made an abrupt departure.
“Piggy’ll see you as soon as you can get there,” he told Anthony five
minutes later—“at his house. I’m off to Luttrell Marches. I was going
down anyhow to-night, but, things being as they are, I think I’ll get a
move on. Piggy’s sending some one to the address you gave, to keep an
eye on Molloy. He doesn’t want him arrested yet, as he’s in hopes that
Belcovitch will roll up—that’s the other man concerned in the actual
sale of the formula. He went to Vienna, but was in Paris yesterday. Good
Lord, Tony, I’m glad you’ve got rid of that beastly beard!”