“Why doesn’t he say how much of that profit
the government gets?” he demanded.
But the man only eyed him suspiciously.
Dan fell silent. He knew it was wrong, but he
had no gift of tongue. It was at that meeting
that for the first time he heard used the word “revolution.”
Old Anthony’s excursion to his daughter’s
house had not prospered. During the drive to
Cardew Way he sat forward on the edge of the seat
of his limousine, his mouth twitching with impatience
and anger, his stick tightly clutched in his hand.
Almost before the machine stopped he was out on the
pavement, scanning the house with hostile eyes.
The building was dark. Paul, the chauffeur,
watching curiously, for the household knew that Anthony
Cardew had sworn never to darken his daughter’s
door, saw his erect, militant figure enter the gate
and lose itself in the shadow of the house. There
followed a short interval of nothing in particular,
and then a tall man appeared in the rectangle of light
which was the open door.
Jim Doyle was astounded when he saw his visitor.
Astounded and alarmed. But he recovered himself
quickly, and smiled.
“This is something I never expected to see,”
he said, “Mr. Anthony Cardew on my doorstep.”
“I don’t give a damn what you expected
to see,” said Mr. Anthony Cardew. “I
want to see my daughter.”
“Your daughter? You have said for a good
many years that you have no daughter.”
“Stand aside, sir. I didn’t come
here to quibble.”
“But I love to quibble,” sneered Doyle.
“However, if you insist— I might
as well tell you, I haven’t the remotest intention
of letting you in.”
“I’ll ask you a question,” said
old Anthony. “Is it true that my daughter
has been hurt?”
“My wife is indisposed. I presume we are
speaking of the same person.”
“You infernal scoundrel,” shouted Anthony,
and raising his cane, brought it down with a crack
on Doyle’s head. The chauffeur was half-way
up the walk by that time, and broke into a run.
He saw Doyle, against the light, reel, recover and
raise his fist, but he did not bring it down.
“Stop that!” yelled the chauffeur, and
came on like a charging steer. When he reached
the steps old Anthony was hanging his stick over his
left forearm, and Doyle was inside the door, trying
to close it. This was difficult, however, because
Anthony had quietly put his foot over the sill.
“I am going to see my daughter, Paul,”
said Anthony Cardew. “Can you open the
door?”
“Open it!” Paul observed truculently.
“Watch me!”
He threw himself against the door, but it gave suddenly,
and sent him sprawling inside at Doyle’s feet.
He was up in an instant, squared to fight, but he
only met Jim Doyle’s mocking smile. Doyle
stood, arms folded, and watched Anthony Cardew enter
his house. Whatever he feared he covered with
the cynical mask that was his face.
