"Puckston… so! I should 'a' realized, the night before, he was powder packed into a cartridge. He exploded. Ricky Fleet was a first-rate athlete and as strong-built as you'd find; but against that man he hadn't the chance of a celluloid cat in hell. He collapsed in the pieces of smashed looking-glass. And that's all."
There was long silence, extending almost to discomfort. All of them, except Lady Brayle at the window, looked everywhere except at each other. Finally Ruth, smoothing her skirt over her knees and looking steadily down at it, managed to speak.
"There is one thing." Her face was flushed. "Jenny, dear!"
"Yes, dear?" answered Jenny, without looking at her.
"I was in the prison that night You know what I mean. I made a suggestion to Martin."
"Ruth darling," said Jenny sincerely, "I don't mind. At least—"
"I don't mean that kind of suggestion!"
Martin felt like dropping through the floor. Jenny was so surprised she almost looked round.
"About Ricky's — unbalanced state of mind," said Ruth tensely. "I apologize. It was horrible of me. I honestly thought there might be something — well odd about your side of the family."
Lady Brayle, outraged, turned round majestically. Jenny, with an exclamation of pleasure, put her hand across towards Ruth.
"And that's the only reason you went there?" Jenny did not stop for an answer, which was just as well. "Ruth, everybody thinks that very same thing when your parents are estranged, and everything seems mixed up, and you have a grandmother as reserved and reticent as mine!"
"Ruth," Stannard said softly.
All through H.M.'s recital his strong personality had been repressed, buckled in, to the steady gleam of attention in his eyes. Now, sitting on the arm of the sofa, his husky chuckle seemed to dominate the room. He put his hand under Ruth's chin and tilted it up so that he could look at her eyes.
"What has been," he smiled, "is no longer. What is," he smiled again, "shall continue."
"Always," said Ruth. Her look left no doubt of that
"By God," Stannard said suddenly, looking up radiantly and lifting his fist, "I can conquer the world!"
He checked himself. His' hand dropped, and he looked whimsically at H.M.
"Sir Henry," he said, "it seems an "extraordinary thing that only a fortnight ago, in this room, I said I mustn't keep late hours. What is it now? Close on four." He glanced towards Martin and Jenny. "Exactly when, my dear fellow, are you getting married?"
"Tomorrow," Martin answered, "at Westminister registry office. We take the afternoon plane for Paris."
"My new car," chuckled Stannard, "is downstairs. Just as it was a fortnight ago. There's no petrol for long distances. But suppose the four of us drive out to Virginia Water and see the sun come up?"
There was almost a scramble to get up. Much attention from Jenny and Ruth was bestowed on H.M, who endured this with a stuffed and stoical look; like a world-weary Curtius Merrivale. Then it was broken.
"Captain Drake," said Lady Brayle, getting up from her chair beside the window and adjusting her shoulders.
Dead silence.
Martin instantly left the group and went over towards the window so that he could look her in the eye. "Yes, Lady Brayle?"
"With regard to your proposed marriage with my granddaughter."
"Yes."
They looked at each other for a full minute, which can be a very long space if you time it The reason was that Lady Brayle could not speak. She was shaken; emotion tore her, but the lips would not move. Her large, rather flabby hands were folded in front of her. Her shoulders were back. Her eyes wandered in search of determination. Then came firm resolve, and clearly she spoke.
"The Gloucesters, I am informed, are a very honourable regiment." There was a short silence.
"Very," agreed Martin. He reflected for a moment. "But in my opinion the Brigade of Guards, particularly the Grenadier Guards, must always rank highest of all."
Then, startlingly, tears came into the woman's eyes.
"Thank you, Captain Drake."
"Not at all, Lady Brayle."
They did not even shake hands. They understood.
And so, as the clock of St. Jude's rang out the hour of four, and white dawn showed faintly behind Kensington, the policeman was on his way back through Moreston Square. The car which had been standing at the kerb was gone. But the windows of Miss Callice's flat were still lighted.
A rumbling voice floated down clearly from those open windows.
"So they framed him, Sophie," the voice said. "And the only reason they framed him was because he killed one of 'em in a duel outside the War Office. But they indicted that fine character on a charge of promotin' fake companies to get Aztec gold out of Mexico, and three times they chucked him into the can. I tell you, Sophie, it was a cry in' scandal against the law!"
The policeman looked up at those windows thoughtfully. But, after all, duels outside the War Office are comparatively rare. And it was Miss Ruth Callice's flat. The policeman smiled and sauntered on.