Kenyon spoke very quietly but with a conviction, and,
indeed, a certain solemnity, which impressed his companion.
“No,” said Chayne, gently, “I shall
not forget John Lattery.” But his question
was still unanswered, and by nature he was tenacious.
His eyes were still upon Kenyon’s face and he
added: “What then?”
“Only this,” said Kenyon. “Gabriel
Strood was my John Lattery,” and moving round
the table he dropped his hand upon Chayne’s shoulder.
“You will ask me no more questions,” he
said, with a smile.
“I beg your pardon,” said Chayne.
He had his answer. He knew now that there was
something to conceal, that there was a definite reason
why Gabriel Strood disappeared.
“Good-night,” he said; and as he left
the room he saw Kenyon sink down into his arm-chair.
There seemed something sad and very lonely in the
attitude of the older man. Once more Michel Revailloud’s
warning rose up within his mind.
“When it is all over, and you go home, take
care that there is a lighted lamp in the room and
the room not empty. Have some one to share your
memories when life is nothing but memories.”
At every turn the simple philosophy of Michel Revailloud
seemed to obtain an instance and a confirmation.
Was that to be his own fate too? Just for a moment
he was daunted. He closed the door noiselessly,
and going down the stairs let himself out into the
street. The night was clear above his head.
How was it above the Downs of Dorsetshire, he wondered.
He walked along the street very slowly. Garratt
Skinner was Gabriel Strood. There was clearly
a dark reason for the metamorphosis. It remained
for Chayne to discover that reason. But he did
not ponder any more upon that problem to-night.
He was merely thinking as he walked along the street
that Michel Revailloud was a very wise man.
AS BETWEEN GENTLEMEN
“Between gentlemen,” said Wallie Hine.
“Yes, between gentlemen.”
He was quoting from a letter which he held in his
hand, as he sat at the breakfast table, and, in his
agitation, he had quoted aloud. Garratt Skinner
looked up from his plate and said:
“Can I help you, Wallie?”
Hine flushed red and stammered out: “No,
thank you. I must run up to town this morning—that’s
all.”
“Sylvia will drive you into Weymouth in the
dog-cart after breakfast,” said Garratt Skinner,
and he made no further reference to the journey.
But he glared at the handwriting of the letter, and
then with some perplexity at Walter Hine. “You
will be back this evening, I suppose?”
“Rather,” said Walter Hine, with a smile
across the table at Sylvia; but his agitation got
the better of his gallantry, and as she drove him into
Weymouth, he spoke as piteously as a child appealing
for protection. “I don’t want to
go one little bit, Miss Sylvia. But between gentlemen.
Yes, I mustn’t forget that. Between gentlemen.”
He clung to the phrase, finding some comfort in its
reiteration.
