“No,” she murmured, “I know that. You would never forgive. You are as hard as the rocks. All the time since I have known you, I have tried to soften you ever so little, just because I was fool enough to like you, fool enough to believe that it was just suffering which had made you what you are. That belongs to the past. When I think of you now, my heart is like a stone, because I know that there is no love in you, nor any of those other things for which a woman craves. I should be very sorry indeed, Jocelyn Thew, for any woman who ever cared for you, and for her own sake I pray very much that there is no one at the present moment who does.”
A light breeze was blowing over the place. They were standing a little apart, in the shadow of a tree, and the hum of conversation and laughter, the noisy appeals of the vendors of flowers and other trifles, the strident voices from a distant stage, the far-off strains of swaying music, seemed blended together in an insistent and not inharmonious chorus. Jocelyn Thew stood as though listening to them for a moment. His eyes were following a tall figure in white, walking, a little listlessly by her brother’s side. When he spoke, his tone was unusually soft.
“I always told you what you seem to have discovered, Nora,” he said. “I always told you that behind the driving force of my life was much hate but no love, nor any capacity for love. That may not have been my fault. If we were in another place,” he went on, “I somehow feel that I might tell you what I have never told anybody else — the real story that lay behind the things you know of, things the memory of which was brought back to me only last night. Even now that may come, but for the present, Nora, remember. What you know of me that lies behind that curtain, must never pass your lips.”
“I promise,” she murmured. “Here comes Mr. Crawshay.”
Jocelyn Thew raised his hat, smiled at Nora and strolled away. He smiled also a little to himself, but not so pleasantly. The man from whom Crawshay had just parted, and with whom he had been in close conversation, was the man who had been bidding against him for Box A at the Alhambra that night.
.
CHAPTER XXVI
From six o’clock until half an hour before the time fixed for the commencement of the performance, a steady crowd of people elbowed and pushed their way that night into the cheaper parts of the Alhambra Music-hall. Soon afterwards, the earliest arrivals presented themselves at the front of the house. Brightman and Crawshay arrived together, and made their way at once to the manager’s office, the former noticing, with a little glint of recognition which amounted to scarcely more than a droop of the eyes, two or three sturdy looking men who had the appearance of being a little unused to their evening clothes, and who were loitering about in the vestibule.
The manager greeted his two visitors without enthusiasm. He was a small, worried-looking man, with pale face, hooked nose and shiny black hair. He had recently changed his name from Jonas to Joyce, without materially affecting the impression which he made upon the stranger.
“This is Mr. Crawshay,” Brightman began, “who has charge from the Government point of view, of the little matter you and I know about.”
The manager shook hands limply.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Crawshay,” he said, “but a little disturbed at the cause. I must say that I hope you will find your impressions ill-founded. I don’t like things of this sort happening in my house.”
“Might happen anywhere,” Mr. Brightman declared, with an attempt at cheerfulness. “By-the-by, Mr. Joyce, I hope you got my note?”
The manager nodded.
“Yes,” he assented, “I’ve made all the arrangements you wished, and the box has not been entered except by the cleaner.”
“Mr. Thew himself, then, has made no attempt to visit it?” Crawshay enquired.
“Not to my knowledge,” was the brusque reply.
The two men took their leave, strolled along the vestibule, glanced at the closed door of the box and made their way down into the stalls.
“Our friend must be exceedingly confident,” Brightman remarked musingly.
“Or else we are on the wrong tack,” Crawshay put in.
“As to that we shall see! I don’t like to seem over-sanguine,” Brightman went on, “but my impression is that he is rather up against it.”
“All I can say is that he is taking it very coolly, then!”
“To all appearance, yes. But whereas it is quite true that he has made no attempt to get at the box, Joyce didn’t tell us — as a matter of fact, I don’t suppose he knows — that three times Jocelyn Thew has visited the theatre under some pretext or other, and spotted my men about. From half-an-hour after his bid at the fete, that box has been as inaccessible to him as though it had been walled up.”
They took their seats in the stalls, which were now rapidly filling. About five minutes later, Jocelyn Thew arrived alone. The box opener brought him from the vestibule, and an amateur programme seller accepted his sovereign — both, in view of the many rumours floating about the place, regarding him with much curiosity. Without any appearance of hurry he entered the much-discussed box, divested himself of his coat and hat, and stood for a moment in full view, looking around the house. His eyes rested for a moment upon the figures of the two men below, and a very grim smile parted his lips. He stepped a little into the background and remained for some time out of sight. Brightman’s interest became intense.
“From this moment he is our man,” he whispered. “All the same, I should have liked to have seen where he has hidden the papers. I went round the box myself without finding a thing.”
Jocelyn Thew had hung up his coat and hat upon one of the pegs, and for a few seconds remained as though listening. Then he turned the key of the door, and, taking the heavy curtain up in his hand, searched it for a few moments until he arrived at a certain spot in one of the bottom folds. With a penknife which he drew from his pocket, he cut through some improvised stitches, thrust his hand into the opening and drew out a small packet, which he buttoned up in his pocket. In less than a minute he had let the curtain fall again and unlocked the door. Almost immediately afterwards there was a knock.
“Come in,” he invited.
Katharine and her brother entered, the former in a gown of black net designed by the greatest of French modistes, and Richard in active service uniform.
“We are abominably early, of course,” Katharine declared, as they shook hands, “but I love to see the people arrive, and as it is Dick’s last evening he couldn’t bear the thought of losing a minute of it.”
Jocelyn Thew busied himself in establishing his guests comfortably. He himself remained standing behind Katharine’s chair, a little in the background.
“We are going to have a great performance to-night,” he observed. “Exactly what time does your train go, Richard?”
“Ten o’clock from Charing Cross.”
Jocelyn Thew thrust his hand into his pocket, and Richard, rising to his feet, stepped back into the shadows of the box. Something passed between them. Katharine turned her head and clutched nervously at the programme which lay before her. She was looking towards them, and her face was as pale as death. Her host stepped forward at once and smiled pleasantly down at her.