“Yes,” he said on the doorstep of ‘The Coffee House,’ “I look on this as the plumb centre of the universe. Others may claim the North Pole, Rome, Montmartre—I claim the Coffee House, oldest Club in the world, and I suppose, by plumbing standards, the worst. Shall we wash, or postpone it to a more joyful opportunity? Agreed. Let’s sit down here, then, and await the apostle of plumbing. I take him for a hustler. Pity we can’t arrange a match between him and the Marquess. I’d back the old boy.”
“Here he is,” said Hubert.
The American looked very big coming into the low hall of the oldest Club in the world.
“Sir Lawrence Mont,” he said; “Ah! Captain! General Sir Conway Cherrell? Proud to meet you, General. And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”
He listened to Sir Lawrence’s recital with a deepening gravity. “Isn’t that too bad? I can’t take this sitting. I’m going right along now to see the Bolivian Minister. And, Captain, I’ve kept the address of your boy Manuel, I’ll cable our Consul at La Paz to get a statement from him right away, confirming your story. Who ever heard of such darned foolishness? Forgive me, gentlemen, but I’ll have no peace till I’ve set the wires going.” And with a circular movement of his head he was gone. The three Englishmen sat down again.
“Old Shropshire must look to his heels,” Sir Lawrence said.
“So that’s Hallorsen,” said the General. “Fine-looking chap.”
Hubert said nothing. He was moved.
CHAPTER 17
Uneasy and silent, the two girls drove towards St. Augustine’s-inthe-Meads.
“I don’t know which I’m most sorry for,” said Dinny, suddenly: “I never thought about insanity before. People either make a joke of it or hide it away. But it seems to me more pitiful than anything in the world; especially when it’s partial like this.”
Jean turned on her a surprised look—Dinny with the mask of humour off was new.
“Which way now?”
“Up here; we have to cross the Euston Road. Personally, I don’t believe Aunt May can put us up. She’s sure to have people learning to slum. Well, if she can’t, we’ll telephone to Fleur. I wish I’d thought of that before.”
Her prediction was verified—the Vicarage was full, her aunt out, her uncle at home.
“While we’re here, we’d better find out whether Uncle Hilary will do you in,” whispered Dinny.
Hilary was spending the first free hour of three days in his shirt sleeves, carving the model of a Viking ship. For the production of obsolete ships in miniature was the favourite recreation now of one who had no longer leisure or muscle for mountain climbing. The fact that they took more time to complete than anything else, and that he had perhaps less time than anybody else to give to their completion, had not yet weighed with him. After shaking hands with Jean, he excused himself for proceeding with his job.
“Uncle Hilary,” began Dinny, abruptly, “Jean is going to marry Hubert, and they want it to be by special licence; so we’ve come to ask if you would marry them.”
Hilary halted his gouging instrument, narrowed his eyes till they were just shrewd slits, and said:
“Afraid of changing your minds?”
“Not at all,” said Jean.
Hilary regarded her attentively. In three words and one look she had made it clear to him that she was a young woman of character.
“I’ve met your father,” he said, “he always takes plenty of time.”
“Dad is perfectly docile about this.”
“That’s true,” said Dinny; “I’ve seen him.”
“And YOUR father, my dear?”
“He WILL be.”
“If he is,” said Hilary, again gouging at the stern of his ship, “I’ll do it. No point in delay if you really know your minds.” He turned to Jean. “You ought to be good at mountains; the season’s over, or I’d recommend that to you for your honeymoon. But why not a trawler in the North Sea?”
“Uncle Hilary,” said Dinny, “refused a Deanship. He is noted for his asceticism.”
“The hat ropes did it, Dinny, and let me tell you that the grapes have been sour ever since. I cannot think why I declined a life of some ease with time to model all the ships in the world, the run of the newspapers, and the charms of an increasing stomach. Your Aunt never ceases to throw them in my teeth. When I think of what Uncle Cuffs did with his dignity, and how he looked when he came to the end, I see my wasted life roll out behind me, and visions of falling down when they take me out of the shafts. How strenuous is your father, Miss Tasburgh?”
“Oh, he just marks time,” said Jean; “but that’s the country.”
“Not entirely! To mark time and to think you’re not—there never was a more universal title than ‘The Man who was.’”
“Unless,” said Dinny, “it’s ‘The Man who never was’. Oh! Uncle, Captain Ferse suddenly turned up today at Diana’s.”
Hilary’s face became very grave.
“Ferse! That’s either most terrible, or most merciful. Does your Uncle Adrian know?”
“Yes; I fetched him. He’s there now with Captain Ferse. Diana wasn’t in.”
“Did you see Ferse?”
“I went in and had a talk with him,” said Jean; “he seemed perfectly sane except that he locked me in.”
Hilary continued to stand very still.
“We’ll say good-bye now, Uncle; we’re going to Michael’s.”
“Good-bye; and thank you very much, Mr. Cherrell.”
“Yes,” said Hilary, absently, “we must hope for the best.”
The two girls, mounting the car, set out for Westminster.
“He evidently expects the worst,” said Jean.
“Not difficult, when both alternatives are so horrible.”
“Thank you!”
“No, no!” murmured Dinny: “I wasn’t thinking of you.” And she thought how remarkably Jean could keep to a track when she was on it!
Outside Michael’s house in Westminster they encountered Adrian, who had telephoned to Hilary and been informed of their changed destination. Having ascertained that Fleur could put the girls up, he left them; but Dinny, smitten by the look on his face, ran after him. He was walking towards the river, and she joined him at the corner of the Square.
“Would you rather be alone, Uncle?”
“I’m glad of YOU, Dinny. Come along.”
They went at a good pace westward along the Embankment, Dinny slipping her hand within his arm. She did not talk, however, leaving him to begin if he wished.
“You know I’ve been down to that Home several times,” he said, presently, “to see how things were with Ferse, and make sure they were treating him properly. It serves me right for not having been these last months. But I always dreaded it. I’ve been talking to them now on the ‘phone. They wanted to come up, but I’ve told them not to. What good can it do? They admit he’s been quite normal for the last two weeks. In such cases it seems they wait a month at least before reporting. Ferse himself says he’s been normal for three months.”
“What sort of place is it?”
“A largish country house—only about ten patients; each has his own rooms and his own attendant. It’s as good a place, I suppose, as you could find. But it always gave me the horrors with its spikey wall round the grounds and general air of something hidden away. Either I’m over-sensitive, Dinny, or this particular affliction does seem to me too dreadful.”
Dinny squeezed his arm. “So it does to me. How did he get away?”
“He’d been so normal that they weren’t at all on their guard—he seems to have said he was going to lie down, and slipped out during lunch time. He must have noticed that some tradesman came at a certain time every day, for he slid out when the lodge-keeper was taking in parcels; he walked to the station and took the first train. It’s only twenty miles. He’ll have been in town before they found out he was gone. I’m going down there tomorrow.”