  Ronald and Billy had spoken but little, as they sped to the railway station, earlier on that afternoon. “Rummy go,” volunteered Ronald, launching the tentative comment into the somewhat oppressive silence. Billy made no rejoinder. “Why did you insist on coming with me?” asked Ronald. “I’m not coming with you,” replied Billy laconically. “Where then, Billy? Why so tragic? Are you going to leap from London Bridge? Don’t do it Billy-boy! You never had a chance. You were merely a nice kid. I’m the chap Billy’s explosion, when it came, was so violent, so choice, and so unlike Billy, that Ronald relapsed into wondering silence. But once in the train, locked into an empty first-class smoker, Billy turned a white face to his friend. “Ronnie,” he said, “I am going straight to Sir Deryck Brand. He is the only man I know, with a head on his shoulders.” “Thank you,” said Ronnie. “I suppose I dandle mine on my knee. But why this urgent need of a man with his head so uniquely placed?” “Because,” said Billy, “that telegram is a lie.” “Nonsense, Billy! The wish is father to the thought! Oh, shame on you, Billy! Poor old Ingleby!” “It is a lie,” repeated Billy, doggedly. “But look,” objected Ronald, unfolding “Veritas be hanged!” said Billy. “It’s a lie; and we’ve got to find out what damned rascal has sent it.” “But what possible reason have you to throw doubt on it?” inquired Ronald, gravely. “Oh, confound you!” burst out Billy at last; “I picked up the pieces!” A very nervous white-faced young man sat in the green leather armchair in Dr. Brand’s consulting-room. He had shown the telegram, and jerked out a few incoherent sentences; after which Sir Deryck, by means of carefully chosen questions, had arrived at the main facts. He now sat at his table considering them. Then, turning in his revolving-chair, he looked steadily at Billy. “Cathcart,” he said, quietly, “what reason have you for being so certain of Lord Ingleby’s Billy moistened his lips. “Oh, confound it!” he said. “I picked up the pieces!” “I see,” said Sir Deryck; and looked away. “I have never told a soul,” said Billy. “It is not a pretty story. But I can give you details, if you like.” “I think you had better give me details,” said Sir Deryck, gravely. So, with white lips, Billy gave them. The doctor rose, buttoning his coat. Then he poured out a glass of water and handed it to Billy. “Come,” he said. “Fortunately I know a very cute detective from our own London force who happens just now to be in Cairo. We must go to Scotland Yard for his address, and a code. In fact we had better work it through them. You have done the right thing, Billy; and done it promptly; but we have no time to lose.” Twenty-four hours later, the doctor called “I could only come between trains,” he explained to Lady Ingleby, “so you must forgive the short notice, and the peremptory tone of my telegram. I could not risk missing you. I have something of great importance to communicate.” The doctor waited a moment, hardly knowing how to proceed. He had seen Myra Ingleby under many varying conditions. He knew her well; and she was a woman so invariably true to herself, that he expected to be able to foresee exactly how she would act under any given combination of circumstances. In this undreamed of development of Lord Ingleby’s return, he anticipated finding her gently acquiescent; eagerly ready to resume again the duties of wifehood; with no thought of herself, but filled with anxious desire in all things to please the man who, with his whims and fancies, his foibles and ideas, had for nine Instead of this charming personification of unselfish, inconsequent, tender femininity, the doctor found himself confronted by a calm cold woman, with hard unseeing eyes; a woman in whom something had died; and dying, had slain all the best and truest in her womanhood. “Another man,” was the prompt conclusion at which the doctor arrived; and this conclusion, coupled with the exigency of his own pressing engagements, brought him without preamble, very promptly to the point. “Lady Ingleby,” he said, “a cruel and heartless wrong has been done you by a despicable scoundrel, for whom no retribution would be too severe.” “I am perfectly aware of that,” replied Lady Ingleby, calmly; “but I fail to understand, Sir Deryck, why you should consider it necessary to come down here in order to discuss it.” This most unexpected reply for a moment completely nonplussed the doctor. But rapid mental adjustment formed an important part of his professional equipment. “I fear we are speaking at cross-purposes,” he said, gently. “Forgive me, if I appear to have trespassed upon a subject of which I have no knowledge whatever. I am referring to the telegram received by you yesterday, which led you to suppose the report of Lord Ingleby’s death was a mistake, and that he might shortly be returning home.” “My husband is alive,” said Lady Ingleby. “He has telegraphed to me from Cairo, and I expect him back very soon.” For answer, Deryck Brand drew from his pocket-book two telegrams. “I am bound to tell you at once, dear Lady Ingleby,” he said, “that you have been cruelly deceived. The message from Cairo was a heartless fraud, designed in order to obtain money. Billy Cathcart had reason to suspect its genuineness, and brought it to me. I cabled at once to Cairo, with this result.” He laid two telegrams on the table before her. “The first is a copy of one we sent yesterday to a detective out there. The second I received three hours ago. No one—not even Billy—has heard of its arrival. I have brought it immediately to you.” Lady Ingleby slowly lifted the paper containing the first message. She read it in silence. Watch Cook’s bank and arrest man personating Lord Ingleby who will call for draft of money. Cable particulars promptly. The doctor observed her closely as she laid Former valet of Lord Ingleby’s arrested. Confesses to despatch of fraudulent telegram. Cable instructions. Lady Ingleby folded both papers and laid them on the table beside her. The calm impassivity of the white face had undergone no change. “It must have been Walker,” she said. “Michael always considered him a scamp and shifty; but I delighted in him, because he played the banjo quite excellently, and was so useful at parish entertainments. Michael took him abroad; but had to dismiss him on landing. He wrote and told me the fact, but gave no reasons. Poor Walker! I do not wish him punished, because I know Michael would think it was largely my own fault for putting banjo-playing before character. If Walker had written me a begging letter, I should most likely have sent him the money. I have a fatal habit of believing in people, and of wanting everybody to be happy.” Then, as if these last words recalled a momentarily forgotten wound, the stony apathy returned to voice and face. “If Michael is not coming back,” said Lady Ingleby, “I am indeed alone.” The doctor rose, and stood looking down upon her, perplexed and sorrowful. “Is there not some one who should be told immediately of this change of affairs, Lady Ingleby?” he asked, gravely. “No one,” she replied, emphatically. “There is nobody whom it concerns intimately, excepting myself. And not many know of the arrival of yesterday’s news. I wrote to Jane, and I suppose the boys told it at Overdene. If by any chance it gets into the papers, we must send a contradiction; but no explanation, please. I dislike the publication of wrong doing. It only leads to imitation and repetition. Beside, even a poor worm of a valet should be shielded if possible from public execration. We could not explain the extenuating circumstances.” “I do not suppose the news has become “Yes,” replied Lady Ingleby. “Ah, that reminds me, I must stop operations in the shrubbery and plantation. There is no object in little Peter having a grave, when his master has none.” This was absolutely unintelligible to the doctor; but at such times he never asked unnecessary questions, for his own enlightenment. “So after all, Sir Deryck,” added Lady Ingleby, “Peter was right.” “Yes,” said the doctor, “little Peter was not mistaken.” “Had I remembered him, I might have doubted the telegram,” remarked Lady Ingleby. “What can have aroused Billy’s suspicions?” “Like Peter,” said the doctor, “Billy had, from the first, felt very sure. Do not mention to him that I told you the doubts originated with him. He is a sensitive lad, and the whole thing has greatly distressed him.” “Dear Billy,” said Lady Ingleby. The doctor glanced at the clock, and buttoned his coat. He had one minute to spare. “My friend,” he said, “a second time I have come as the bearer of evil tidings.” “Not evil,” replied Myra, in a tone of hopeless sadness. “This is not a world to which we could possibly desire the return of one we love.” “There is nothing wrong with the world,” said the doctor. “Our individual heaven or hell is brought about by our own actions.” “Or by the actions of others,” amended Lady Ingleby, bitterly. “Or by the actions of others,” agreed the doctor. “But, even then, we cannot be completely happy, unless we are true to our best selves; nor wholly miserable, unless to our own ideals we become false. I fear I must be off; but I do not like leaving you thus alone.” Lady Ingleby glanced at the clock, rose, and gave him her hand. “You have been more than kind, Sir Deryck, in coming to me yourself. I shall never forget it. And I am expecting Jane Champion—Dalmain, I mean; why do one’s friends get married?—any minute. She is coming direct from town; the phaeton has gone to the station to meet her.” “Good,” said the doctor, and clasped her hand with the strong silent sympathy of a man who, desiring to help, yet realises himself in the presence of a grief he is powerless either to understand or to assuage. “Good—very good,” he said, as he stepped into the motor, remarking to the chauffeur: “We have nine minutes; and if we miss the train, I must ask you to run me up to town.” And he said it a third time, even more emphatically, when he had recovered from his surprise at that which he saw as the motor flew down the avenue. For, after passing Lady Ingleby’s phaeton returning from the station empty excepting for a travelling coat and alligator bag left upon the seat, he saw the Honourable Mrs. Dalmain walking slowly “Evidently—the man,” thought the doctor. “Well, I am glad Jane has him in tow. Poor souls! Providence has placed them in wise hands. If faithful counsel and honest plain-speaking can avail them anything, they will undoubtedly receive both, from our good Jane.” Providence also arranged that the London express was one minute late, and the doctor caught it. Whereat the chauffeur rejoiced; for he was “walking out” with Her ladyship’s maid, whose evening off it chanced to be. The all-important events of life are apt to hang upon the happenings of one minute. |
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