That evening, when Sir Hugh Maine came back to his rooms in Jermyn
Street after dining out, he found a large man sprawling in one of his
saddle-back chairs, puffing vigorously at a pipe that looked worn with
long and faithful service. The man took the pipe out of his mouth and
sprang up.
"Hullo, Maine!" he cried. "D'you recognise the tobacco and me?"
Hugh grasped his hand warmly. "Rather," he said. "Neither is changed. At
least--h'm--I think you both seem a bit stronger even than usual. Who
would have thought of seeing you, Manning? I did not know you were in
Europe."
"I came from Asia. I thought I should like to hear Melba before the end
of the season. And it was getting sultry out there. So here I am."
"And were those your only reasons?"
"Give me a brandy-and-soda," said the other.
Maine did as he was bid, lit a cigar, and sat down, stretching out his
long legs. The other man took a pull at his glass, and spoke again.
"I am very fond of music," he said; "and Melba sings very well."
"Ah!"
"Look here, Maine," Manning broke out suddenly, "you are right--I had
another reason. Kipling says that those who have heard the East
a-calling never heed any other voice. He's wrong though. The West has
been calling me, or, at least, a voice in the West, and I have resisted
it for a deuce of a time. But at last it became imperative."
"A woman's voice, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what is its _timbre_, if you care to."
"I will. You're an old friend, and I can talk to you. But you tell me
one thing first: Is a man really a fool to marry a woman with a past?"
"You are going to?"
"I have tried not to. I have been trying not to for three years. Listen!
When I was travelling in Japan I met her. She was with an American
called Glinn."
"What?"
"You knew him?"
"No! It's all right. I was surprised, because at the moment I was
thinking of that very name."
"Oh! Well, she passed as Mrs Glinn; but, somehow, it got out that she
was something else. The usual story, you know. People fought shy of
her; but I don't think she cared much. Glinn was devoted to her, and she
loved him, and was as true to him as any wife could have been. Then the
tragedy came."
"What was it?"
"Glinn died suddenly in Tokio, of typhoid. She nursed him to the end.
And when the end came her situation was awful, so lonely and deserted.
There wasn't a woman in the hotel who would be her friend; so I tried to
come to the rescue, arranged her affairs, saw about the funeral, and did
what I could. She was well off; Glinn left her nearly all his money. He
would have married her, only he had a wife alive somewhere."
"And you fell in love with her, of course?"
"That was the sort of thing. If you knew her you would not wonder at it.
She was not a bad woman. Glinn had been the only one. She loved him too
much; that was all. She came to Europe, and lived in Paris for a time,
keeping the name of Mrs Glinn. I used to see her sometimes, but I never
said anything. You see, there was her past. In fact, I have been
fighting against her for three years. I went to India to get cured; but
it was no good. And now, here I am."
"And she is in Paris?"
"No, in London at present; but I didn't know her address till to-day. I
think she had her doubts of me, and meant to give me the slip."
"How did you find it out?"
"Quite by chance. I was walking in Mill Street, Knightsbridge, and saw
her pass in a victoria."
Maine got up suddenly, and went over to the spirit-stand. "In Mill
Street?" he said.
"Yes. The carriage stopped at No. 100. She went in. A footman came out
and carried in her rug. _Ergo_, she lives there."
"How hot it is!" said Maine in a hard voice. He threw up one of the
windows and leaned out. He felt as if he were choking. A little way down
the street a half-tipsy guardsman was reeling along, singing his own
private version of "Tommy Atkins." He narrowly avoided a lamp-post by an
abrupt lurch which took him into the gutter. Maine heard some one laugh.
It was himself.
"Well, old chap," said Manning, who had come up behind him, "what would
you advise me to do? I'm in a fix. I'm in love with Eve--that's her
name; I can't live without her happily, and yet I hate to marry a woman
with a--well, you know how it is."
Maine drew himself back into the room and faced round. "Does she love
you?" he asked; and there was a curious change in his manner towards his
friend.
"I don't know that she does," Manning said, rather uncomfortably. "But
that would come right. She would marry me, naturally."
"Why?"
"Well, I mean the position. Lady Herbert Manning could go where Mrs
Glinn could not, and all that sort of thing."
"The only question is whether you can bring yourself to ask her?"
"My dear chap, you don't put it too pleasantly."
"It's the fact, though."