HARRY ASKS A QUESTION
Harry was leaving next morning with the two women, being unable to
induce Lady Oxted to stop another day, and in consequence he sat up late
that night after they had gone to bed, looking over the details of the
expense of putting in the electric light. The cheapest plan, it
appeared, would be to utilize the power supplied by the fall of water
from the lake, for this would save the cost of engines to drive the
dynamos. In this case it would be necessary to build the house for them
over the sluice; but this, so wrote the engineer, would not interfere
with the landscape, for the roof would only just be seen above the belt
of trees. Or, if Lord Vail did not mind a little extra expense, a
tasteful erection might be made, which, instead of diminishing, would
positively add to the beauty of the view from the house. Then followed a
horrific sketch of Gothic style.
Harry's thoughts were disposed to go wandering that night, and he gave
but a veiled and fugitive attention to the figures. The lake suggested
other things to him brighter than all the thirty-two-power lamps of this
electric light. The latter, it appeared, could be in the house by
September, but the other was in the house now. In any case there should
be no horrors, ornamental or otherwise, over the sluice; and he turned
to the second estimate, which included engines, with a great
determination to think of nothing else.
The scene of this distracted vigil was his uncle's sitting room, where
all the papers were to hand. Mr. Francis had sat up with him for half an
hour or so, but Harry had then persuaded him to go to bed, for all the
evening he had appeared somewhat tired and worried. Then from the next
door there came, for some half hour, the faint sounds of brushings and
splashings, that private orchestra of bedtime, and after that the house
was still.
Harry settled down again to his work, and before long his mind was made
up. He would have, he saw, to screw and pinch a little, but on no
account should anything, Gothic or not, spoil the lower end of the lake;
then pouring himself out some whisky and soda, he took a last cigarette.
The table where he worked was fully occupied, but orderly. A row of
reference books--Bradshaw, The Peerage, Whitaker's Almanac, and
others--stood in a green morocco case to the left of the inkstand; to
the right, in a silver frame, a large photograph of himself. Among other
books, he was amused to see a Zadkiel's Almanac, and he drew it from its
place and turned idly over a leaf or two. There was a cross in red ink
opposite the date of January 3d, on which day, so said this
irresponsible seer, a discovery of gold would be made. Harry thought
vaguely for a moment of South Africa and the Klondike, then suddenly
gave a little gasp of surprise. That had been the day on which he had
found the Luck.
The coincidence was strange, but stranger was the fact that his uncle,
who had so often remonstrated with him on his half-laughing,
half-serious notice of the coincidences which had followed its
discovery, should have a Zadkiel at all; strangest that he should have
noted this date. Then suddenly a wave of superstitious fear came over
him, and he shut Zadkiel hastily up, for fear of seeing other dates
marked. Two minutes later he was already laughing at himself, though he
did not reopen Zadkiel, and as he took his candle to go to bed his eye
fell on a red morocco "Where is it?" which lay on the table. He knew
that there was some address he wanted to verify, but it was a few
minutes before he had turned to G. There was the name "Dr. Godfrey, 32
Wimpole Street," and on each side of it minute inverted commas. He
looked at it in some astonishment, for he would have been ready to swear
that his uncle had told him 32 Half Moon Street.
He went straight to his room, however, without wasting conjecture or
surmise over this, undressed and blew out his candle. Outside, a great
moon was swung high in heaven, no leaf trembled on the trees, but
through the summer night the songs of many nightingales bubbled
liquidly.
A few nights afterward he and Geoffrey were sitting alone in the house
in Cavendish Square. Harry had been full of figures, wondering what was
the least sum on which this London house could be made decently
habitable. One room wanted a fresh paper, distemper was essential to
another, most required fresh carpets, and stamped leather was
imperatively indicated for the hall. Geoffrey listened with quiet
amusement, for Harry was talking with such pellucid transparency that it
was difficult not to smile. Then the question of electric light at Vail
was touched upon, and suddenly he stopped, rose, and beat the ashes of
his pipe out into the grate.
"By the way, Geoff," he said, "supposing you looked out the name of a
man whom you did not know, and had only once heard of, in a 'Where is
it?' belonging to a friend, and found the name in inverted commas, what
inference, if any, would you draw? No, it is not a riddle; purely a
matter of curiosity."
Geoffrey yawned.
"Even Sherlock Holmes would not infer there," he said; "and even his
friend Watson could not fail in such a perfectly certain conclusion."
"What conclusion?"
"Wait a moment; let us be an obtuse detective. Is the person from whom
you have heard the name the same as the person to whom the 'Where is
it?' belongs? Lord, I give points to Watson!"
"It happens that it is so. Does that influence your conclusion?"
"It only makes it even surer; no, it can't do that, but it leaves it as
sure as it was. Of course, the name in the 'Where is it?' is not the
man's real name; not the name he goes by, anyhow."
"So it seemed possible to me."
"Then you were wrong. There is no question of possibility. It is dealing
with absolute certainties. Now satisfy my curiosity. I have not much,
but I have some."
"Bit by bit," said Harry. "Have you ever heard of a Dr. Godfrey, heart
specialist, I take it, who lives at 32 Wimpole Street?"
"Never. But Wimpole Street is just round the corner. I imagine he will
have a plate on his door. I thought your heart was in a parlous state."
"Oh, don't be funny," said Harry, "but come along."
Geoffrey got up.
"Shall I have to hold your hand?" he asked.
"No; I am not going to consult him. Indeed, there is no mystery about
the whole matter. Simply Dr. Godfrey is my uncle's doctor, and he
consulted him the other day about his heart. I happened to look out the
doctor's address in his 'Where is it?' and found the name in inverted
commas. Oh! by the way, there is a red book by you. Look out 32 Half
Moon Street. Does Dr. Godfrey live there?"
Geoffrey turned up the street.
"Certainly not," he said. "But why?"
"Nothing," said Harry, unwilling to mention the different address.
"Come, Geoff."
They were there in less than a couple of minutes: Harry had not even put
on a hat for the traversing of so few paving stones. An incandescent gas
lamp stood just opposite the door, and both number and plate were
plainly visible. On the plate in large square capitals was "Dr. G.
Armytage."
They read it in silence, and turned home again. Geoffrey had pursed up
his lips for a whistle, but refrained.
"We spell it Armytage, and pronounce it Godfrey," he said at length.
"Sometimes we even spell it Godfrey. Or perhaps G. stands for Godfrey.
Not that it makes any difference."
Harry laughed, but he was both puzzled and a little troubled. Then the
remembrance of the evening when he had seen the strange and distasteful
man--Dr. Armytage it must now be supposed--driving away from the house,
came to his mind. How excellent and kindly on that occasion had been the
reasons for which his uncle had desired that the visit should remain
unknown to Harry! And after that lesson, should not the pupil give him
credit for some motive, unguessable even as that had been, but equally
thoughtful? He had given him a wrong name and a wrong address; in his
own reference book that same wrong name, but with inverted commas,
appeared. Harry, being human and of discreet years, did not relish
being misled in this manner, but he told himself there might be
admirable reason for it, which he could not conjecture. He had intended,
it is true, to see Dr. Godfrey privately, so as to get his first-hand
opinion on his uncle's condition; but he was not at all sure that he
would ring Dr. Armytage's door-bell.
* * * * *
Lady Oxted, a few days after this, fell a victim to influenza, and after
a decent interval, Geoffrey, who for the remainder of the summer had let
his own rooms in Orchard Street and lived with Harry, called on the
parts of both to ask how she was, was admitted, and taken upstairs to
her sitting room. Her voice was very hoarse, a temperature thermometer
lay on the table by her, and he felt himself a very foolhardy young man.
"It is no use your being afraid of it," said that lady to him by way of
greeting, "because on the one hand the certain way to get it is to be
afraid of it, and on the other you have to stop and talk to me. I have
seen no one all day; not even Bob, as I don't want fresh cases in the
house, and of course I haven't allowed Evie near me. Oh, I am reeking of
infection: make up your mind to that."
"But I don't matter," said Geoffrey.
"Not the least scrap. Really, it is too provoking getting it again. I
believe every doctor in Wimpole Street has seen me through at least one
attack. I shall begin on Cavendish Square soon. Now talk."
The thought of Dr. Armytage and the strange confusion of names and
addresses had often been present in Geoffrey's mind since he and Harry
had made that short and inconclusive expedition to number 32 Wimpole
Street, and here, perhaps, was an opportunity for adding a brick to that
vague structure that was in outline only in his mind.
"Have you tried Dr. Godfrey?" he asked.
"I never heard of him. Otherwise I should have tried him. Where does he
live?"
"It is not quite certain," said Geoffrey; "personally I believe at 32
Wimpole Street."
"Is this supposed to be bright and engaging conversation?" asked Lady
Oxted, "which will interest the depressed influenza patient?"
"It may interest you in time," said Geoffrey. "To continue, have you
ever heard of a Dr. G. Armytage, heart specialist, of 32 Wimpole
Street?"
The effect of this was instantaneous. Lady Oxted sat up on her sofa, and
her shawl whisked the temperature thermometer to the ground, smashing
the ball.
"Yes, of course I have," she said; "so have you, I imagine. Or perhaps
you were not born. How detestably young, young men are!"
"They get over it," said Geoffrey.
"Yes, and become middle-aged, which is worse. Now tell me all you know,
categorically, about Dr. Armytage."
"I don't know that there is one for certain," said Geoffrey. "True, his
plate is on the door. I don't know if I have a right to tell you. In any
case, really, I know nothing."
Lady Oxted made an impatient gesture.
"It concerns Francis Vail, of course," she said.
Geoffrey stared.
"How did you know that?" he asked.
"I will tell you when you have finished your story," she said, "which, I
may remind you, you have not yet begun."
Harry had told his friend about his chance encounter at the lodge gates
with the doctor, and Geoffrey could pass on the story complete; Mr.
Francis's silence about his visit there; his excellent reason for
silence; the false name given to Harry, and, so he thought, the false
address; the false name in his reference book with the Wimpole Street
address; and finally their visit to the door. Lady Oxted heard him with
gathering interest, it would appear, and long before the end she was off
her sofa and walking up and down the room.
"And now for your story," said he. "How did you know that it concerned
Mr. Francis?"
Lady Oxted sat down again.
"G. Armytage is Godfrey Armytage," she said, "a side point only. You
have told your tale very clearly, Geoffrey. But there is one weak point
in the evidence."
"Evidence? What evidence?" asked Geoffrey.
"Yes; evidence is the wrong word--chain of circumstance, if you will.
The weak point is that there is no certain proof of the identity of Dr.
Godfrey with Dr. Armytage. It is certain to you and me, I grant you, but
still-- Did Harry say what this man he met driving to the station was
like?"
"'Not a canny man' were his words," said Geoffrey; "'dark, clean-shaven,
forty, and distasteful.'"
"That is on all fours," said Lady Oxted.
"You haven't answered my question," Geoffrey reminded her.
"No--I will. Did you ever hear of the Harmsworth case--the death of
Harold Harmsworth?"
"Yes. Harry told me about it."
"All? The evidence of the doctors?"
"No, not that."
"Harold Harmsworth was shot, you will remember. At the coroner's inquest
the whole question naturally turned on the distance from his head at
which the gun which killed him was fired. This, you will easily
understand, was of the utmost importance, for if the muzzle of the gun
was not more than, say, a yard or four feet off, it was certainly
possible that he had shot himself accidentally. But imagine the gun to
have been ten feet off, it becomes certain that some gun not his own
shot him. Now, his head was shattered; it looked to the ordinary mind as
if the injury must have been done by shot that had already begun to
spread--I can not speak technically. But the doctor who maintained that
the shot might easily have been fired within the shorter distances--who
was responsible, in fact, for the case not going beyond the coroner--was
Dr. Godfrey Armytage."
Geoffrey was silent a moment.
"Well, it is all natural enough," he said at length, "Mr. Francis, on
your own showing, has probably known the man for a long time; it is
natural also that he did not wish to tell Harry his real name, for it
was connected with that dreadful tragedy. It is also natural, if Dr.
Armytage is an eminent man, that he should wish to consult a doctor he
knew about his condition. Why not?"
"For this reason," said Lady Oxted: "Dr. Armytage is not a heart
specialist any more than you or I. He is a surgeon, and not a very
reputable one. I needn't go into details. But it would be as sensible to
go to him, if you suffered from the heart, as to go to a cabinetmaker."
Geoffrey frowned.
"What does it all mean?" he asked sharply.
"I have no idea at all," said Lady Oxted. "Probably it means nothing.
Things seldom do. In any case, say nothing to Harry."
Tea came in at this moment, and they talked of other matters till the
man had left the room. Then:
"One thing more," said Lady Oxted, "and the last. I hardly like to say
to you that I suspect nothing and nobody, because that sounds as if
there was possibly something to suspect. There is nothing. But this is a
curious circumstance, and it has interested me."
Geoffrey walked back to Cavendish Square, feeling vaguely sombre and
depressed. A tepid drizzle of rain was falling, making the pavement
slippery; the air was hot and thundery, suggestive of expectancy and
unrest, and this accentuated his mood. He had no clew of any kind as to
what these secret dealings could possibly mean, and nothing that his
ingenuity could suggest was even a faintly satisfactory solution.
Every moment the sky seemed to be pressing more heavily on to the earth,
and it was as if the very tightness of the air prevented the breaking of
the storm. By the time he had reached Cavendish Square a faint, thick
twilight showed overhead, the drizzle of rain had ceased, and only a few
large drops fell sparingly. He let himself in with his latchkey, and
found himself immediately face to face with Harry, who was just coming
out. And at the sight of him he suddenly felt that his vague fear was
going to be at once realized, for in his eyes sat a miserable despair.
"Harry! Harry! what is the matter?" he cried.
Harry did not look at him.
"Nothing," he said. "Where have you been?"
"Sitting with Lady Oxted."
"Then perhaps she will see me. She is better, I suppose. Tell me,
Geoff," and he fidgeted with the door handle, "did you see Miss
Aylwin?"
"No. Lady Oxted does not allow her to come to her room, for fear of her
getting the influenza."
"Thanks. I shall be back for dinner, I expect. But don't wait," and he
opened the door.
Geoffrey laid his hand on his arm.
"You are not going to do anything foolish, Harry?" he asked, in a sudden
vague spasm of alarm.
"No, you idiot! Let me go."
"Is there nothing I can do?" he asked.
"Nothing, thanks."
Geoffrey went into the smoking room and sat down in a bewilderment of
distress and anxiety. What could possibly have happened? he asked
himself. If anything had gone wrong at Vail, if Mr. Francis, to imagine
the worst, had even died suddenly, surely Harry would have told him.
Then why did he wish to see Lady Oxted, but apparently not wish to see
Miss Aylwin? For the moment he thought there might be a light here: it
was conceivable that he had proposed to her and been refused. But when,
where? For Geoffrey had left him not two hours ago in his accustomed
good spirits. Again, if he had ever felt certain of anything, it was
that, unless the girl was the most infernal and finished flirt ever made
for the undoing of man, the attraction between the two was deep and
mutual. And no girl had ever seemed to him less like a flirt than Evie.
Even if this was so, why should Harry at once wish to go to Lady Oxted?
These things had no answer; there was nothing to do but wait, wait
drearily, and listen to the hiss of the faster-falling rain.
Harry drove to Grosvenor Square through the blinking lightning, and was
shown up. Like Geoffrey, Lady Oxted was appalled at that drawn and
haggard face; like Geoffrey, too, the question whether Evie had refused
him suggested itself to her, but was instantly rejected.
"My dear boy, what is the matter?" she cried. "Have you bad news from
Vail?"
Harry took a letter from his pocket, and folded it down so as to leave
some ten lines of large, legible hand for her to read.
"Will you read that?" he said, giving it her.
She took it from him, and he sat down in the window.
"... must prepare yourself," it ran, "for a great shock. I saw with such
pleasure your intimacy with Miss Aylwin, and I know--I am afraid I
know--what you hoped. Harry, dear boy, you must not allow yourself any
fond feelings there. She is already engaged, so I heard this morning,
from a friend near Santa Margarita, to a young Italian marchese. So make
a great effort, and cut her out of your life with a brave and
unfaltering hand. She has treated you ..." and the exposed page ended.
Lady Oxted read it through, and tossed it back to Harry.
"There is not a word of truth in it," she said; "though it is true
enough that a certain Italian marchese, not very young, fell in love
with her last winter, and was refused. I suppose your correspondent has
got hold of some muddled version of that."
Harry was white to the lips, but a gleam had returned to his eye.
"Are you sure?" he asked tremulously. "Are you quite sure? I trust very
deeply the person who wrote this letter."
"I don't pretend not to guess whom it is from," said Lady Oxted, "but I
am quite sure. If you don't believe me, ask Evie herself. Indeed," she
added, looking suddenly at him, "I think that would be a most excellent
plan, Harry."
Harry got up. There was no mistaking this, and Lady Oxted had not meant
that there should be. Only last night she had told her husband that the
two had been philandering quite long enough, and announced her intention
of pushing Harry over the edge as quickly as possible. Her opportunity
had not delayed its coming, and she meant to use it.
"Where is she?" asked Harry, almost in a whisper; "perhaps, perhaps----"
"She has just come in," said Lady Oxted, feeling a violent desire to
take Harry by the scruff of the neck and hurl him into Evie's presence;
"she is in the drawing-room."
"Alone?" asked Harry.
"I don't know. Go and see."
Harry hesitated no longer, but left the room. Lady Oxted heard his step
first of all slow on the stairs, then gradually quickening, and it would
seem that he took the last six steps in a jump.
Evie was alone when he entered, seated at the far end of the room--ten
miles away, it seemed to him. He felt his head swim, his knees were
unloosed, his mouth was dry, and his heart hammered creakily in his
throat. Then he raised his eyes again, and met her glance. And at that
his courage coursed back like wine in his veins; she flooded and
overflowed his heart; he was lost in an amazement of love, a man again.
In two steps he covered those ten miles.
"You told me to aim at being the King of England," he said. "I have
aimed far higher, and I have come to you for the crown."
Then no word was said at all about the Italian marchese, no longer
young.