“You will not forget,” he whispered, “that we are likely be the centre of observation to-night. I see that our friends Brightman and Crawshay are already amongst the audience.”
Katharine picked up her program and affected to examine it. “If only to-night were over!” she murmured.
“It is strange that you should feel like that,” he observed, drawing his chair up to the front of the box and leaning towards her in conversational fashion. “Now to me half the evils of life lie in anticipation. When the time of danger actually arrives, those evils seem to take to themselves wings and fly away. Take the case of a great actress on her first night, an emotional and temperamental woman, besieged by fears until the curtain rises, and then carried away by her genius even unto the heights. Our curtain has risen, Miss Beverley. All we can do is to pray that the gods may look our way.”
She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. It was obvious that he was not exaggerating. His granite-like face had never seemed more immovable. His tone was perfectly steady, his manner the manner of one looking forward to a pleasant evening. Yet he knew quite well what she, too, guessed — that his enemies were closing in around him, that the box itself was surrounded, that notwithstanding all his ingenuity and all his resource, a crisis had come which seemed insuperable. She was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of the pity of it. All the admiration she had ever felt for his strange insouciance, his almost bravado-like coolness, his mastery over events, seemed suddenly to resolve itself into more definite and more clearly-comprehended emotion. It was the great pity of it all which suddenly appealed to her. She leaned a little forward.
“You have called this our last evening,” she whispered. “Tell me one thing, won’t you? Tell me why it must be?”
The softness in her eyes was unmistakable, and his own face for a moment relaxed wonderfully. Again there was that gleam almost of tenderness in his deep-blue eyes. Nevertheless, he shook his head.
“Whether I succeed or whether I fail,” he said simply, “to-night ends our associations. Don’t you understand,” he went on, “that if I pass from the shadow of this danger, there is another more imminent, more certain?”
He hesitated for a single moment, and his voice, which had grown softer, became suddenly almost musical. Katharine, who was listening intently, realised like a flash that for the first moment the mask had fallen away.
“I have lived for many years with that other danger,” he went on. “It has lain like a shadow always in front of my path. Perhaps that is why I have become what I am, why I have never dared to hope for the other things which are dear to every one.”
Her hand suddenly gripped his. They sat there for a moment in a strange, disturbing silence. Then the orchestra ceased, the curtain was rung up, the performance, which was in the nature of a music-hall show, with frequent turns and changes, commenced. Popular favourites from every department of the theatrical world, each in turn claimed attention and applause. Katharine watched it all with an interest always strained, a gaiety somewhat hysterical; Jocelyn Thew with the measured pleasure of a critic; Richard with uproarious, if sometimes a little unreal merriment. The time slipped by apparently unnoticed. Suddenly Richard glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up.
“I must go,” he declared. “I had no idea that it was so late.” Katharine’s fingers clutched the program which lay crumpled up in her hand. She looked at her brother with almost frightened eyes. Their host, too, had risen to his feet, and down-stairs in the stalls two men had slipped out of their places. Jocelyn Thew threw back his head with a little familiar gesture. The light of battle was in his eyes.
“Richard is right,” he observed. “It is twenty minutes to ten.”
“My servant will meet me down there with my kit and get me a seat,” the young man said. “I shall have plenty of time, but I think I had better make a start.”
Katharine came into the back of the box and threw her arms around her brother’s neck. He stooped and kissed her on the lips and forehead.
“Cheer up, Katharine,” he begged. “There is nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing whatever,” Jocelyn Thew echoed. “The most serious contingency that I can see at present is that you may have to find your way home alone.”
“The number of the car is twenty,” Beverley said, handing a ticket to his sister. “I’ll send you a wire from Folkestone.”
Jocelyn Thew suddenly held out his hand. His eyes were still flashing with the light of anticipated battle, but there was something else in his face reminiscent of that momentary softening.
“Mine, I fear,” he murmured, “may be but a wireless message, but I hope that you will get it.”
They departed, and Katharine, drawing her chair into the back of the box, faced many anxious moments of solitude. The two men made their way in leisurely fashion along the vestibule and turned upstairs towards the refreshment room. Half-way up, however, Jocelyn Thew laid his hand upon his companion’s arm.
“Dick,” he said, “I think if I were you I wouldn’t have another. You’ve only just time to catch your train, as it is.”
“Must have a farewell glass, old fellow,” the young man protested.
His companion was firm, however, and Beverley turned reluctantly away. They walked arm in arm down the broad entrance lounge towards the glass doors. It seemed to have become suddenly evident that Jocelyn Thew’s words were not without point. Richard stumbled once and walked with marked unsteadiness. Just before they reached the doors, Brightman, with a tall, stalwart-looking friend, slipped past them on the right. Another man fell almost into line upon the left, and jostled the young officer as he did so. The latter glanced at both of them a little truculently.
“Say, don’t push me!” he exclaimed threateningly. “You keep clear.”
Neither of the men took any notice. The nearer one, in fact, closed in and almost prevented Beverley’s further progress. Brightman leaned across.
“I am sorry, Captain Beverley,” he said, “but we wish to ask you a question. Will you step into the box office with us?”
“I’m damned if I will!” the young man answered. “I have a matter of ten minutes to catch my train at Charing Cross, and I’m not going to break my leave for you blighters.”
Crawshay, who had been lingering in the background, drew a little nearer.
“Forgive my intervention, Captain Beverley,” he said, “but the matter will be explained to the military authorities if by chance you should miss your train. I am afraid that we must insist upon your acceding to our request.”
Then followed a few seconds’ most wonderful pandemonium. Jocelyn Thew’s efforts seemed of the slightest, yet Mr. Brightman lay on his back upon the floor, and his stalwart companion, although he himself was not ignorant of Oriental arts, lay on his side for a moment, helpless. Richard, if not so subtle, was equally successful. His great fist shot out, and the man whose hand would have gripped his arm went staggering back, caught his foot in the edge of the carpet, and fell over upon the tesselated pavement. There were two swing doors, and Richard, with a spring, went for the right-hand one. The commissionaire guarding the other rushed to help his companion bar the exit. The two plainclothes policemen, whose recovery was instantaneous, scrambled to their feet and dashed after him, followed by Crawshay. Jocelyn Thew, scarcely accelerating his walk, strolled through the left-hand door, crossed the pavement of the Strand and vanished.
Fortune was both kind and unkind to Richard in those next few breathless minutes. An old football player, his bent head and iron shoulder were sufficient for the commissionaires, and, plunging directly Across the pavement and the street, he leapt into a taxi which was crawling along in the direction of Charing Cross.