Well, I have told you the man’s story.  I am not his judge.  Whether his act was the supreme amende, the supreme act of courage or the supreme act of cowardice, it is not for me to say.  I heard nothing of the matter for many weeks, for they took me off to a nursing home and kept me in the deathly stillness of a sepulchre.  When I resumed my life in Wellingsford I found smiling faces to welcome me.  My first public action was to give away Phyllis Gedge in marriage to Randall Holmes—­Randall Holmes in the decent kit of an officer and a gentleman.  He made this proposition to me on the first evening of my return.  “The bride’s father,” said I, somewhat ironically, “is surely the proper person.”

“The bride’s father,” said he, “is miles away, and, like a wise and hoary villain, is likely to remain there.”

This was news.  “Gedge has left Wellingsford?” I cried.  “How did that come about?”

He stuck his hands on his hips and looked down on me pityingly.

“I’m afraid, sir,” said he, “you’ll never do adequate justice to my intelligence and my capacity for affairs.”

Then he laughed and I guessed what had occurred.  My young friend must have paid a stiff price; but Phyllis and peace were worth it; and I have said that Randall is a young man of fortune.

“My dear boy,” said I, “if you have exorcised this devil of a father-in-law of yours out of Wellingsford, I’ll do any mortal thing you ask.”

I was almost ecstatic.  For think what it meant to those whom I held dear.  The man’s evil menace was removed from the midst of us.  The man’s evil voice was silenced.  The tragic secrets of the canal would be kept.  I looked up at my young friend.  There was a grim humour around the corners of his mouth and in his eyes the quiet masterfulness of those who have looked scornfully at death.  I realised that he had reached a splendid manhood.  I realised that Gedge had realised it too; woe be to him if he played Randall false.  I stuck out my hand.

“Any mortal thing,” I repeated.

He regarded me steadily.  “Anything?  Do you really mean it?”

“You dashed young idiot,” I cried, “do you think I’m in the habit of talking through my hat?”

“Well,” said he, “will you look after Phyllis when I’m gone?”

“Gone?  Gone where?  Eternity?”

“No, no!  I’ve only a fortnight’s leave.  Then I’m off.  Wherever they send me.  Secret Service.  You know.  It’s no use planking Phyllis in a dug-out of her own”—­shades of Oxford and the Albemarle Review!—­“she’d die of loneliness.  And she’d die of culture in the mater’s highbrow establishment.  Whereas, if you would take her in—­give her a shake-down here—­she wouldn’t give much trouble—­”

He stammered as even the most audacious young warrior must do when making so astounding a proposal.  But I bade him not be an ass, but send her along when he had to finish with her; with the result that for some months my pretty little Phyllis has been an inmate of my house.  Marigold keeps a sort of non-commissioned parent’s eye on her.  To him she seems to be still the child whom he fed solicitously but unemotionally with Mrs. Marigold’s cakes at tea parties years ago.  She gives me a daughter’s dainty affection.  Thank God for it!