"Couldn't say, sir, I'm sure. All I knows is it went one day, and the
other day we asked for it back from Mr. Egerton when the man came about
the bottles, and he said--Mr. Egerton said, that is--as he was sorry
he'd lost it picking up wood, or so Mabel said, and it was Mabel as went
round for it."
Stephen was feeling cooler and cooler. It was all amazingly easy.
He said, "That's right, Cook; I remember now. I gave it to Mr. Egerton
myself one evening; he was going out to get wood." Then, with a tone of
cheerful finality as one who puts an end to a tedious conversation with
an inferior, "Well, I'm sure we're much obliged to you, Inspector, for
bringing it back. Where--"
"If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to keep it a little longer. Those are
my orders, sir--there's a little matter we're clearing up just now--"
"Just so. Certainly, Inspector. As long as you like."
"Thank you, sir. And as I take it, sir, none of your household has seen
anything of this article since you lent it to Mr. Egerton?"
"As far as I know, no one--I certainly haven't seen it myself. In fact,
I was looking for it only the other day."
The Inspector thought obviously for a moment, and obviously decided to
say no more. "Well, that's all, sir, and thank you."
Stephen bowed him affably out of the door. "Of course, if it's anything
_important_, I should look in and see Mr. Egerton--he's only next door."
"No, sir, it's of no consequence. I'll be off now."
The man departed, with many smiles, and "sirs," and "Thank you's," and
Stephen watched him round the corner.
Then he went into the garden, full of a curious relief, almost of
exultation. He could delight at last in the sun and the boats and the
happy, irresponsible people. He, too, could look at the beloved river
without any urgent anxiety of what it might carry into his view. The
worst was over; the doubts were done with. Emily was found, and there
was an end to it. And he had diddled the policeman. How cleverly, how
gloriously he had diddled the policeman. Perfect frankness and easiness
and calm--a gracious manner and a good lie--they had worked perfectly.
He had never hoped for anything so easy. Almost without intention,
certainly without plan, as if inspired he had uttered those tremendous
lies about John. And, of course, he could hardly have said anything
else. Cook had given John away already; one must be consistent. Poor old
John! He must see John--talk to him--warn him--no, diddle him. He could
manage John all right.
He went down the steps into his tiny dinghy--a minute, fragile,
flat-bottomed affair, just large enough and strong enough for a single
man. It flitted lightly on the surface like one of those
cumbrous-looking waterflies which move suddenly on the quiet surface of
ponds with a startling velocity. He called it _The Water Beetle_.
With a few strokes Stephen shot out into the lovely sun, and drifted a
little, faintly stirring the oars as they rested flatly on the golden
water with a movement which was almost a caress. It was very delightful
out there, very soothing and warm. It was inspiring, too. Stephen
thought suddenly of the long poem. He must have a go at that--now that
things were better, now that his mind was easier.
Then he saw John walk down to the end of his garden, smoking comfortably
the unique and wonderful Sunday morning pipe. He rowed back immediately
to the wall, framing smooth explanatory phrases in his head. John, he
saw, was gazing with a strained look through his glasses at a muddle of
wreckage drifting down from the Island.
"You needn't worry, John," he said; "it's all over--it's--it's
_found_.... Come down the steps."
John came down and squatted at the foot of the steps, saying nothing.
Stephen tied up the boat, but did not get out of it.
"A man's been here this morning--a policeman--with the sack ... he
wanted to know if we knew anything about it.... Cook saw him first, and
let out that it was ours--said we'd lent it to you--silly fool ... about
three weeks back ... when I saw him it was too late to say anything
else...." He stopped and looked up. Surely John was going to say
something.
John looked steadily at him and said nothing.
"She said Mabel went round and asked you for it, and you said--what
_did_ you say, John?"
John looked out across the river and thought. Then he said in a far-away
voice:
"I said I'd taken it out to pick up wood--and lost it. Overboard ... I
had to say something."
"Hell!" Stephen hoped that this exclamation had an authentic note of
perplexity and distress. He was conscious of neither, only of a singular
clearness and contentment.
"Well, what are we going to do now?"
There was no answer.
"Margery's very bad this morning," he went on, with seeming irrelevance.
"We're very worried. The doctor ..."
John interrupted suddenly, "What _can_ we do? What will the police do
next? Will they come and see me?" He had a sudden appalling vision of
himself in a stammering, degrading interview with a detective.
"No, John, they won't bother you.... I'm the man they'll bother....
There'll be an inquest, of course.... And I'm afraid you'll have to give
evidence, John ... say what you said before, you know ... say you lost
it ... about three weeks ago ... that's what I said ... somebody must
have picked it up.... I'm awfully sorry, John--but it will be all
right...." Then, doubtfully, "Of course, John ... if you'd rather ...
I'll go at once and tell them the whole thing.... I hate the idea of
you ... but there's Margery.... The doctor said ... I don't know what
would happen...."
John was roused at last. "Of course not, Stephen ... you're not to think
of it ... it'll be all right, as you say.... Only ... only ..." with a
strange fierceness, "I wish to God it had never happened." And he looked
at Stephen very straight and stern, almost comically stern.
"So do I," said Stephen, with a heavy sigh. For the first time since the
policeman left he had the old sense of guiltiness and gloom.
"There's one thing, Stephen ..." John hesitated and stammered a little.
"I've heard some awful rumours about ... about that girl ... immoral and
so on ... they're not true, are they?... anyhow, don't let's encourage
them, Stephen ... it's not necessary ... and I don't like it...." He
stopped, and was aware that he was blushing.
It was a lame presentation of what he had intended as a firm
unanswerable ultimatum: "If you want me to help you, you must drop all
this." But Stephen somehow always intimidated him.
Stephen thought, "The damned old prig!" He said, "What _do_ you mean,
John? You don't imagine I ... these servants, I suppose ... but I quite
agree.... I must go and see Margery now. So long, John ... and thank you
so much."
John went up into his garden and into his house and sat for a long time
in a leather chair thinking and wondering. Stephen walked briskly in and
whispered to the nurse. Mrs. Byrne was asleep.
He sat down at the sunny table in the study window, and drew out again
the long poem. It was a good idea--a very good idea. He read through
what he had written; uneven, yes, but there was good stuff in it. A
little polishing up wanted, a little correction. All that bit in the
middle.... He scratched out "white" and scribbled over it "pale." Yes,
that was better. The next part, about the snow, was rather wordy--wanted
condensing; there were six lines, and four at least were very good--but
one of them must go--perhaps two. He sharpened a pencil, looking out at
the river.