She snatched a paper from the nearest boy, but it contained only the
news we had just read on the club tape.
Judith seemed more upset at the news of Sir Charles' condition, I
thought, than about the "Houghton Siege," as the papers called it. She
said she must go at once to Lady Thorold, and, hailing a passing taxi,
left us.
As I looked at the pictures of Houghton Park, in that paper we had
bought, I could not help wondering what the Rutland people must be
saying.
Only a month or two ago, the sudden flight of the Thorolds from
Houghton, and the events that had followed, had brought that exclusive
county notoriety, which I knew it hated.
Then there had been the mystery of old Taylor's death in the house in
Belgrave Street, and quite recently the mystery of the mummified
remains, both of which events had again brought Rutland indirectly into
the limelight of publicity, the Thorolds and myself being Rutland
people.
Now, to cap everything, came this "Siege of Houghton Park," to which the
newspapers, one and all, accorded the place of honour in their columns.
It was the "story of the day." This final ignominy would give Rutland's
smug respectability its deathblow. Never again, would its county
families be able to rear their proud heads and look contemptuously down
upon the families of other counties and mentally ejaculate--"We thank
thee, O Lord, that we are not as these publicans." Henceforth, proud
and exclusive Rutland would bear the brand of Cain, or what "the county"
deemed just as bad--the brand of Public Notoriety. Yes, there is
amazing snobbishness, even yet, in our rural districts. Yet there is
also still some sterling British broad-mindedness--the old English
gentleman, happily, still survives.
Faulkner had asked me to go to a theatre with him. He knew, he said, he
could not ask Vera, with her father so ill, but Violet de Coudron would
be there. He would try to get a fourth, as he had a box. There was no
good in moping, he ended, sensibly enough.
I returned to King Street to dress, intending to telephone first, to the
hospital, to inquire for Sir Charles. On the table, in my sitting-room,
a telegram awaited me. Somehow I guessed it must be from Vera in her
distress, and hurriedly tore it open--
"Father sinking fast," it ran, "and beseeching for you to come to him.
Come at once. Most urgent--Vera."
I rang for my man. The telegram had been awaiting me about
half-an-hour, he said.
Telling him to telephone to the hospital, to say I was on my way, and
also to Faulkner, to tell him I couldn't go to the theatre, I hurried
down the stairs, dashed out into the street, and hailed the first taxi I
met.
Was the actual truth at last to be revealed?