“Is—is he showing any signs of life?” he said uncertainly.
Athalia looked away.
“I—I think so,” she whispered.
* * * * *
Upon being approached, Sir Charles Grist could see no reason at all why
his secretary’s leave should not commence at five on Sunday afternoon
instead of at twelve o’clock on Sunday night.
It was therefore eight-thirty o’clock of a pleasant August evening when
the old grey two-seater slid through the streets of Newhaven and down to
the idle quay.
Two other cars were waiting to go aboard. One was a green cabriolet with
red wire wheels.
Fairfax knew it at once—and stopped in his tracks.
It was an Hispano-Suiza, the property of a nobleman—that, in fact, of
the Most Honourable the Marquess of Beringhampton.
For a moment or two Punch stared at the equipage. Then he took out his
case and lighted a cigarette.
“They’re off at last,” he said. “After seven weeks at the gate, at last
they’re off. . . . If I wasn’t a blinkin’ fool, I should turn round and
drive straight back. As it is . . .” He shifted uneasily. “_Damn_ it
all, why shouldn’t I have a run? Why shouldn’t I have it out before he
comes—get there and have it out? An’ tell her he’s coming an’ then push
gracefully off? I’ve nothing to lose, and I’ld like her to know how much
I really cared.” He sat up suddenly. “By George, I will. When she knows
he’s really off, perhaps she won’t——” He stopped short there, took off
his hat and carefully wiped his face. Then he put on his hat, adjusted
it carefully, thrust his cigarette between his lips, and folded his
arms. “The art of Life,” he announced, “is to keep one’s bullet head. If
I go, it’s simply because I’ve got nothing to lose.”