After his interview with Eve, Loder retired to the study and spent the
remaining hours of the day and the whole span of the evening in work. At
one o'clock, still feeling fresh in mind and body, he dismissed Greening
and passed into Chilcote's bedroom. The interview with Eve, though
widely different from the one he had anticipated, had left him
stimulated and alert. In the hours that followed it there had been an
added anxiety to put his mind into harness, an added gratification in
finding it answer to the rein.
A pleasant sense of retrospection settled upon him as he slowly
undressed; and a pleasant sense of interest touched him as, crossing to
the dressing-table, he caught sight of Chilcote's engagement-book--taken
with other things from the suit he had changed at dinner-time and
carefully laid aside by Renwick.
He picked it up and slowly turned the pages. It always held the
suggestion of a lottery--this dipping into another man's engagements and
drawing a prize or a blank. It was a sensation that even custom had not
dulled.
At first he turned the pages slowly, then by degrees his fingers
quickened. Beyond the fact that this present evening was free, he knew
nothing of his promised movements. The abruptness of Chilcote's arrival
at Clifford's Inn in the afternoon had left no time for superfluous
questions. He skimmed the writing with a touch of interested haste, then
all at once he paused and smiled.
“Big enough for a tombstone!” he said below his breath as his eyes
rested on a large blue cross. Then he smiled again and held the book to
the light.
“Dine 33 Cadogan Gardens, 8 o'c. Talk with L,” he read, still speaking
softly to himself.
He stood for a moment pondering on the entry, then once more his glance
reverted to the cross.
“Evidently meant it to be seen,” he mused; “but why the deuce isn't he
more explicit?” As he spoke, a look of comprehension suddenly crossed
his face and the puzzled frown between his eyebrows cleared away.
With a feeling of satisfaction he remembered Lakely's frequent and
pressing suggestion that he should dine with him at Cadogan Gardens and
discuss the political outlook.
Lakely must have written during his absence, and Chilcote, having marked
the engagement, felt no further responsibility. The invitation could
scarcely have been verbal, as Chilcote, he knew, had lain very low in
the five days of his return home.
So he argued, as he stood with the book still open in his hands, the
blue cross staring imperatively from the white paper. And from the
argument rose thoughts and suggestions that seethed in his mind long
after the lights had been switched off, long after the fire had died
down and he had been left wrapped in darkness in the great canopied bed.
And so it came about that he took his second false step. Once during
the press of the next morning's work it crossed his mind to verify his
convictions by a glance at the directory. But for once the strong wish
that evolves a thought conquered his caution. His work was absorbing;
the need of verification seemed very small. He let the suggestion pass.
At seven o'clock he dressed carefully. His mind was full of Lakely and
of the possibilities the night might hold; for more than once before,
the weight of the 'St. George's Gazette', with Lakely at its back, had
turned the political scales. To be marked by him as a coming man was at
any time a favorable portent; to be singled out by him at the present
juncture was momentous. A thrill of expectancy, almost of excitement,
passed through him as he surveyed his appearance preparatory to leaving
the house.
Passing down-stairs, he moved at once to the hall door; but almost as
his hand touched it he halted, attracted by a movement on the landing
above him. Turning, he saw Eve.
She was standing quite still, looking down upon him as she had looked
once before. As their eyes met, she changed her position hastily.
“You are going out?” she asked. And it struck Loder quickly that there
was a suggestion, a shadow of disappointment in the tone of her voice.
Moved by the impression, he responded with unusual promptness.
“Yes,” he said. “I'm dining out--dining with Lakely.”
She watched him intently while he spoke; then, as the meaning of his
words reached her, her whole face brightened.
“With Mr. Lakely?” she said. “Oh, I'm glad--very glad. It is
quite--quite another step.” She smiled with a warm, impulsive touch of
sympathy.
Loder, looking up at her, felt his senses stir. At sound of her words
his secret craving for success quickened to stronger life. The man whose
sole incentive lies within may go forward coldly and successfully; but
the man who grasps a double inspiration, who, even unconsciously, is
impelled by another force, has a stronger impetus for attack, a surer,
more vital hewing power. Still watching her, he answered instinctively--
“Yes,” he said, slowly, “a long step.” And, with a smile of farewell, he
turned, opened the door, and passed into the road.
The thrill of that one moment was still warm as he reached Cadogan
Gardens and mounted the steps of No. 33--so vitally warm that he
paused for an instant before pressing the electric bell. Then at last,
dominated by anticipation, he turned and raised his hand.
The action was abrupt, and it was only as his fingers pressed the bell
that a certain unexpectedness, a certain want of suitability in the
aspect of the house, struck him. The door was white, the handle and
knocker were of massive silver. The first seemed a disappointing index
of Lakely's private taste, the second a ridiculous temptation to needy
humanity. He looked again at the number of the house, but it stared back
at him convincingly. Then the door opened.
So keen was his sense of unfitness that, still trying to fuse his
impression of Lakely with the idea of silver door-fittings, he stepped
into the hall without the usual preliminary question. Suddenly realizing
the necessity, he turned to the servant; but the man forestalled him:
“Will you come to the white room, sir? And may I take your coat?”
The smooth certainty of the man's manner surprised him. It held another
savor of disappointment--seeming as little in keeping with the keen,
business-like Lakely as did the house. Still struggling with his
impression, he allowed himself to be relieved of his hat and coat and in
silence ushered up the shallow staircase.
As the last step was reached it came to him again to mention his host's
name; but simultaneously with the suggestion the servant stepped forward
with a quick, silent movement and threw open a door.
“Mr. Chilcote!” he announced, in a subdued, discreet voice.
Loder's first impression was of a room that seemed unusually luxurious,
soft, and shadowed. Then all impression of inanimate things left him
suddenly.
For the fraction of a second he stood in the door-way, while the room
seemed emptied of everything, except a figure that rose slowly from a
couch before the fire at sound of Chilcote's name; then, with a calmness
that to himself seemed incredible, he moved forward into the room.
He might, of course, have beaten a retreat and obviated many things;
but life is full of might-have-beens, and retreat never presents itself
agreeably to a strong man. His impulse was to face the difficulty, and
he acted on the impulse.
Lillian had risen slowly; and as he neared her she held out her hand.
“Jack!” she exclaimed, softly. “How sweet of you to remember!”
The voice and words came to him with great distinctness, and as they
came one uncertainty passed forever from his mind--the question as to
what relation she and Chilcote held to each other. With the realization
came the thought of Eve, and in the midst of his own difficulty his face
hardened.
Lillian ignored the coldness. Taking his hand, she smiled. “You're
unusually punctual,” she said. “But your hands are cold. Come closer to
the fire.”
Loder was not sensible that his hands were cold, but he suffered himself
to be drawn forward.
One end of the couch was in firelight, the other in shadow. By a
fortunate arrangement of chance Lillian selected the brighter end
for herself and offered the other to her guest. With a quick sense of
respite he accepted it. At least he could sit secure from detection
while he temporized with fate.
For a moment they sat silent, then Lillian stirred. “Won't you smoke?”
she asked.
Everything in the room seemed soft and enervating--the subdued glow of
the fire, the smell of roses that hung about the air, and, last of all,
Lillian's slow, soothing voice. With a sense of oppression he stiffened
his shoulders and sat straighter in his place.
“No,” he said, “I don't think I shall smoke.”
She moved nearer to him. “Dear Jack,” she said, pleadingly, “don't say
you're in a bad mood. Don't say you want to postpone again.” She looked
up at him and laughed a little in mock consternation.
Loder was at a loss.
Another silence followed, while Lillian waited; then she frowned
suddenly and rose from the couch. Like many indolent people, she
possessed a touch of obstinacy; and now that her triumph over Chilcote
was obtained, now that she had vindicated her right to command him, her
original purpose came uppermost again. Cold or interested, indifferent
or attentive, she intended to make use of him.
She moved to the fire and stood looking down into it.
“Jack,” she began, gently, “a really amazing thing has happened to me. I
do so want you to throw some light.”
Loder said nothing.
There was a fresh pause while she softly smoothed the silk embroidery
that edged her gown. Then once more she looked up at him.
“Did I ever tell you,” she began, “that I was once in a railway accident
on a funny little Italian railway, centuries before I met you?” She
laughed softly; and with a pretty air of confidence turned from the fire
and resumed her seat.
“Astrupp had caught a fever in Florence, and I was rushing away for fear
of the infection, when our stupid little train ran off the rails near
Pistoria and smashed itself up. Fortunately we were within half a mile
of a village, so we weren't quite bereft. The village was impossibly
like a toy village, and the accommodation what one would expect in
a Noah's Ark, but it was all absolutely picturesque. I put up at the
little inn with my maid and Ko Ko--Ko Ko was such a sweet dog--a white
poodle. I was tremendously keen on poodles that year.” She stopped and
looked thoughtfully towards the fire.
“But to come to the point of the story, Jack, the toy village had a boy
doll!” She laughed again. “He was an Englishman--and the first person
to come to my rescue on the night of the smash-up. He was staying at the
Noah's Ark inn; and after that first night I--he--we--Oh, Jack, haven't
you any imagination?” Her voice sounded petulant and sharp. The man who
is indifferent to the recital of an old love affair implies the worst
kind of listener. “I believe you aren't interested,” she added, in
another and more reproachful tone.
He leaned forward. “You're wrong there,” he said, slowly. “I'm deeply
interested.”
She glanced at him again. His tone reassured her, but his words left her
uncertain; Chilcote was rarely emphatic. With a touch of hesitation she
went on with her tale:
“As I told you, he was the first to find us--to find me, I should say,
for my stupid maid was having hysterics farther up the line, and Ko Ko
was lost. I remember the first thing I did was to send him in search of
Ko Ko--”
Notwithstanding his position, Loder found occasion to smile. “Did he
succeed?” he said, dryly.
“Succeed? Oh yes, he succeeded.” She also smiled involuntarily. “Poor
Ko Ko was stowed away under the luggage-van; and after quite a lot of
trouble he pulled him out. When it was all done the dog was quite unhurt
and livelier than ever, but the Englishman had his finger almost bitten
through. Ko Ko was a dear, but his teeth and his temper were both very
sharp!” She laughed once more in soft amusement.
Loder was silent for a second, then he too laughed--Chilcote's short,
sarcastic laugh. “And you tied up the wound, I suppose?”
She glanced up, half displeased. “We were both staying at the little
inn,” she said, as though no further explanation could be needed. Then
again her manner changed. She moved imperceptibly nearer and touched his
right hand. His left, which was farther away from her, was well in the
shadow of the cushions.
“Jack,” she said, caressingly, “it isn't to tell you this stupid old
story that I've brought you here; it's really to tell you a sort of
sequel.” She stroked his hand gently once or twice. “As I say, I
met this man and we--we had an affair. You understand? Then we
quarrelled--quarrelled quite badly--and I came away. I've remembered him
rather longer than I remember most people--he was one of those dogged
individuals who stick in one's mind. But he has stayed in mine for
another reason--” Again she looked up. “He has stayed because you helped
to keep him there. You know how I have sometimes put my hands over your
mouth and told you that your eyes reminded me of some one else? Well,
that some one else was my Englishman. But you mustn't be jealous; he
was a horrid, obstinate person, and you--well, you know what I think
of you--” She pressed his hand. “But to come to the end of the story, I
never saw this man since that long-ago time, until--until the night of
Blanche's party!” She spoke slowly, to give full effect to her words;
then she waited for his surprise.
But the result was not what she expected. He said nothing; and, with an
abrupt movement, he drew his hand from between hers.
“Aren't you surprised?” she asked at last, with a delicate note of
reproof.
He started slightly, as if recalled to the necessity of the moment.
“Surprised?” he said. “Why should I be surprised? One person more or
less at a big party isn't astonishing. Besides, you expect a man to turn
up sooner or later in his own country. Why should I be surprised?”
She lay back luxuriously. “Because, my dear boy,” she said, softly,
“it's a mystery! It's one of those fascinating mysteries that come once
in a lifetime.”
Loder made no movement. “You must explain,” he said, very quietly.
Lillian smiled. “That's just what I want to do. When I was in my tent on
the night of Blanche's party, a man came to be gazed for. He came just
like anybody else, and laid his hands upon the table. He had strong,
thin hands like--well, rather like yours But he wore two rings on the
third finger of his left hand--a heavy signet-ring and a plain gold
one.”
Loder moved his hand imperceptibly till the cushion covered it.
Lillian's words caused him no surprise, scarcely even any trepidation.
He felt now that he had expected them, even waited for them, all along.
“I asked him to, take off his rings,” she went on, “and just for a
second he hesitated--I could feel him hesitate; then he seemed to make
up his mind, for he drew them off. He drew them off, Jack, and guess
what I saw! Do guess!”
For the first time Loder involuntarily drew back into his corner of the
couch. “I never guess,” he said, brusquely.
“Then I'll tell you. His hands were the hands of my Englishman! The
rings covered the scar made by Ko Ko's teeth. I knew it instantly--the
second my eyes rested on it. It was the same scar that I had bound up
dozens of times--that I had seen healed before I left Santasalare.”
“And you? What did you do?” Loder felt it singularly difficult and
unpleasant to speak.
“Ah, that's the point. That's where I was stupid and made my mistake. I
should have spoken to him on the moment, but I didn't. You know how one
sometimes hesitates. Afterwards it was too late.”
“But you saw him afterwards--in the rooms?” Loder spoke unwillingly.
“No, I didn't--that's the other point. I didn't see him in the rooms,
and I haven't seen him since. Directly he was gone, I left the tent--I
pretended to be hungry and bored; but, though I went through every room,
he was nowhere to be found. Once--” she hesitated and laughed
again--“once I thought I had found him, but it was only you--you, as you
stood in that door-way with your mouth and chin hidden by Leonard
Kaine's head. Wasn't it a quaint mistake?”
There was an uncertain pause. Then Loder, feeling the need of speech,
broke the silence suddenly. “Where do I come in?” he asked abruptly.
“What am I wanted for?”
“To help to throw light on the mystery! I've seen Blanche's list of
people, and there wasn't a man I couldn't place--no outsider ever
squeezes through Blanche's door. I have questioned Bobby Blessington,
but he can't remember who came to the tent last. And Bobby was supposed
to have kept count!” She spoke in deep scorn; but almost immediately the
scorn faded and she smiled again. “Now that I've explain ed, Jack,” she
added, “what do you suggest?”
Then for the first time Loder knew what his presence in the room really
meant; and at best the knowledge was disconcerting. It is not every day
that a man is called upon to unearth himself.
“Suggest?” he repeated, blankly.
“Yes. I'd rather have your idea of the affair than anybody else's. You
are so dear and sarcastic and keen that you can't help getting straight
at the middle of a fact.”
When Lillian wanted anything she could be very sweet. She suddenly
dropped her half-petulant tone; she suddenly ceased to be a spoiled
child. With a perfectly graceful movement she drew quite close to Loder
and slid gently to her knees.
This is an attitude that few women can safely assume; it requires all
the attributes of youth, suppleness, and a certain buoyant ease. But
Lillian never acted without justification, and as she leaned towards
Loder her face lifted, her slight figure and pale hair softened by
the firelight, she made a picture that it would have been difficult to
criticise.
But the person who should have appreciated it stared steadily beyond it
to the fire. His mind was absorbed by one question--the question of how
he might reasonably leave the house before discovery became assured.
Lillian, attentively watchful of him, saw the uneasy look, and her own
face fell. But, as she looked, an inspiration came to her--a remembrance
of many interviews with Chilcote smoothed and facilitated by the timely
use of tobacco.
“Jack,” she said, softly, “before you say another word I insist on your
lighting a cigarette.” She leaned forward. resting against his knee.
At her words Loder's eyes left the fire. His attention was suddenly
needed for a new and more imminent difficulty. “Thanks!” he said,
quickly. “I have no wish to smoke.”
“It isn't a matter of what you wish but of what I say.” She smiled. She
knew that Chilcote with a cigarette between his lips was infinitely
more tractable than Chilcote sitting idle, and she had no intention of
ignoring the knowledge.
But Loder caught at her words. “Before you ordered me to smoke,” he
said, “you told me to give you some advice. Your first command must have
prior claim.” He grasped unhesitatingly at the less risky theme.
She looked up at him. “You're always nicer when you smoke,” she
persisted, caressingly. “Light a cigarette--and give me one.”
Loder's mouth became set. “No,” he said, “we'll stick to this advice
business. It interests me.”
“Yes--afterwards.”
“No, now. You want to find out why this Englishman from Italy was at
your sister's party, and why he disappeared?”
There are times when a malignant obstinacy seems to affect certain
people. The only answer Lillian made was to pass her hand over Loder's
waistcoat, and, feeling his cigarette-case, to draw it from the pocket.
He affected not to see it. “Do you think he recognized you in that
tent?” he insisted, desperately.
She held out the case. “Here are your cigarettes. You know we're always
more social when we smoke.”
In the short interval while she looked up into his face several ideas
passed through Loder's mind. He thought of standing up suddenly and
so regaining his advantage; he wondered quickly whether one hand could
possibly suffice for the taking out and lighting of two cigarettes. Then
all need for speculation was pushed suddenly aside.
Lillian, looking into his face, saw his fresh look of disturbance,
and from long experience again changed her tactics. Laying the
cigarette-case on the couch, she put one hand on his shoulder, the other
on his left arm. Hundreds of times this caressing touch had quieted
Chilcote.
“Dear old boy!” she said, soothingly, her hand moving slowly down his
arm.
In a flash of understanding the consequences of this position came to
him. Action was imperative, at whatever risk. With an abrupt gesture he
rose.
The movement was awkward. He got to his feet precipitately; Lillian drew
back, surprised and startled, catching involuntarily at his left hand to
steady her position.
Her fingers grasped at, then held his. He made no effort to release
them. With a dogged acknowledgment, he admitted himself worsted.
How long she stayed immovable, holding his hand, neither of them knew.
The process of a woman's instinct is so subtle, so obscure, that it
would be futile to apply to it the commonplace test of time. She kept
her hold tenaciously, as though his fingers possessed some peculiar
virtue; then at last she spoke.
“Rings, Jack?” she said, very slowly. And under the two short words a
whole world of incredulity and surmise made itself felt.
Loder laughed.
At the sound she dropped his hand and rose from her knees. What her
suspicions, what her instincts were she could not have clearly defined,
but her action was unhesitating. Without a moment's uncertainty she
turned to the fireplace, pressed the electric button, and flooded the
room with light.
There is no force so demoralizing as unexpected light. Loder took a step
backward, his hand hanging unguarded by his side; and Lillian, stepping
forward, caught it again before he could protest. Lifting it quickly,
she looked scrutinizingly at the two rings.
All women jump to conclusions, and it is extraordinary how seldom they
jump short. Seeing only what Lillian saw, knowing only what she knew,
no man would have staked a definite opinion; but the other sex takes a
different view. As she stood gazing at the rings her thoughts and her
conclusions sped through her mind like arrows--all aimed and all tending
towards one point. She remembered the day when she and Chilcote had
talked of doubles, her scepticism and his vehement defence of the idea;
his sudden interest in the book 'Other Men's Shoes', and his anathema
against life and its irksome round of duties. She remembered her own
first convinced recognition of the eyes that had looked at her in
the doorway of her sister's house; and, last of all, she remembered
Chilcote's unaccountable avoidance of the same subject of likenesses
when she had mentioned it yesterday driving through the Park--and
with it his unnecessarily curt repudiation of his former opinions. She
reviewed each item, then she raised her head slowly and looked at Loder.
He was prepared for the glance and met it steadily.
In the long moment that her eyes searched his face it was she and not he
who changed color. She was the first to speak. “You were the man whose
hands I saw in the tent,” she said. She made the statement in her
usual soft tones, but a slight tremor of excitement underran her voice.
Poodles, Persian kittens, even crystal gazing-balls, seemed very far
away in face of this tangible, fabulous, present interest. “You are not
Jack Chilcote,” she said, very slowly. “You are wearing his clothes, and
speaking in his voice but you are not Jack Chilcote.” Her tone quickened
with a touch of excitement. “You needn't keep silent and look at me,”
she said. “I know quite well what I am saying--though I don't understand
it, though I have no real proof--” She paused, momentarily disconcerted
by her companion's silent and steady gaze, and in the pause a curious
and unexpected thing occurred.
Loder laughed suddenly--a full, confident, reassured laugh. All the web
that the past half-hour had spun about him, all the intolerable sense of
an impending crash, lifted suddenly. He saw his way clearly--and it was
Lillian who had opened his eyes.
Still looking at her, he smiled--a smile of reliant determination,
such as Chilcote had never worn in his life. And with a calm gesture he
released his hand.
“The greatest charm of woman is her imagination,” he said, quietly.
“Without it there would be no color in life; we would come into and drop
out of it with the same uninteresting tone of drab reality.” He paused
and smiled again.
At his smile, Lillian involuntarily drew back, the color deepening in
her cheeks. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
He lifted his head. With each moment he felt more certain of himself.
“Because that is my attitude,” he said. “As a man I admire your
imagination, but as a man I fail to follow your reasoning.”
The words and the tone both stung her. “Do you realize the position?”
she asked, sharply. “Do you realize that, whatever your plans are, I can
spoil them?”
Loder still met her eyes. “I realize nothing of the sort,” he said.
“Then you admit that you are not Jack Chilcote?”
“I neither deny nor admit. My identity is obvious. I can get twenty men
to swear to it at any moment that you like. The fact that I haven't worn
rings till now will scarcely interest them.”
“But you do admit--to me, that you are not Jack?”
“I deny nothing--and admit nothing. I still offer my congratulations.”
“Upon what?”
“The same possession--your imagination.”
Lillian stamped her foot. Then, by a quick effort, she conquered
her temper. “Prove me to be wrong!” she said, with a fresh touch of
excitement. “Take off your rings and let me see your hand.”
With a deliberate gesture Loder put his hand behind his back. “I never
gratify childish curiosity,” he said, with another smile.
Again a flash of temper crossed her eyes. “Are you sure,” she said,
“that it's quite wise to talk like that?”
Loder laughed again. “Is that a threat?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then it's an empty one.”
“Why?”
Before replying he waited a moment, looking down at her.
“I conclude,” he began, quietly, “that your idea is to spread this wild,
improbable story--to ask people to believe that John Chilcote, whom they
see before them, is not John Chilcote, but somebody else. Now you'll
find that a harder task than you imagine. This is a sceptical world, and
people are absurdly fond of their own eyesight. We are all journalists
nowadays--we all want facts. The first thing you will be asked for is
your proof. And what does your proof consist of? The circumstance that
John Chilcote, who has always despised jewelry, has lately taken to
wearing rings! Your own statement, unattended by any witnesses, that
with those rings off his finger bears a scar belonging to another man!
No; on close examination I scarcely imagine that your case would hold.”
He stopped, fired by his own logic. The future might be Chilcote's
but the present was his; and this present--with its immeasurable
possibilities--had been rescued from catastrophe. “No,” he said, again.
“When you get your proof perhaps we'll have another talk; but till
then--”
“Till then?” She looked up quickly; but almost at once her question died
away.
The door had opened, and the servant who had admitted Loder stood in the
opening.
“Dinner is served!” he announced, in his deferential voice.