“Get my address book.”
She was a systematic woman, and entered without fail the location even of chance acquaintances who might be of no value to her. She ran her thumb down the index till it stopped at D; the last entry on the crowded page was “Peter Dawlish.”
“Give me an envelope, please, and my fountain pen; and take this letter to the post—no, bring my little typewriter.”
The obedient Mrs. Hobbs carried the tiny machine, which was a replica of Anita’s, and laid it on the invalid’s lap. Greta inserted the envelope, typed the address, and while the instrument was being removed, inserted the torn sheet of paper and licked down the flap of the envelope.
“Go to the General Post Office—you’d better take a bus each way—and post this. If anybody asks you whether you’ve posted a letter for me, you’re to say no.”
It was not the first time Mrs. Hobbs had received similar instructions.
The houses in Severall Street are not equipped with letter-boxes, and postmen have learnt by experience that inserting letters under doors which are backed by coarse fibre mats is a difficult and sometimes an impossible proposition.
Peter heard the heavy rat-tat of the postman, and, going downstairs, opened the door.
“Dawlish?” asked the postman.
“That is my name,” said Peter, in surprise. He took the letter and closed the door. Had he followed the practice of Severall Street and its people, which is never to go to the door without making a scrutiny up and down the street, he could not have failed to see Leslie on her way home.
His first thought was that it was a letter from her, but when he brought it to the light of his room, he saw that it was typewritten and had been posted in the City. He opened the envelope and took out a sheet of typewriting paper. It was discoloured, and one corner had been torn off. He looked at the date and had a mild shock.
“.”
1916! And yet (as he saw) it had been posted that afternoon. There were just three or four lines, the last of which stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Only dimly did he comprehend the significance of the fragment.
“Dear Jane,
“Druze has found a very good home for your son in a middle-class family. There are no other children. He will be well cared for. And—”
Scribbled below in pencil, and almost indecipherable, were the words: “Martha’s servant.”
He must have read the letter a dozen times before he understood.
“Jane’s son—Jane’s little son.” He came to his feet slowly, his limbs trembling, the paper swimming before his eyes.
Jane’s son—his son! The consciousness of fatherhood momentarily overwhelmed him. Jane had had a child. He had never dreamt—somewhere in the world was a little boy, fatherless—his little boy! He grew hot at the thought. And then, in a frenzy of impatience, he took up his coat, struggled into it, and, not stopping to extinguish the lamp, ran down the stairs and out of the house.
The bus that carried him to Piccadilly seemed to crawl. He got down at a traffic block at Bond Street, half walked, half ran, into Berkeley Street, and came at last to the dark portals of Lady Raytham’s house. It was past ten. She might be out. But he would wait for her—all night if necessary. He hated her at that moment, and there was jealousy behind the hate. He hated her for not telling him, for excluding him from the knowledge and inspiration of their gift. Perhaps he was being brought up as Raytham’s child, to call him “father.” Peter grew insanely furious at the thought.
To the new butler who opened the door all callers were as yet strange; Peter seemed no stranger than others, and he was met civilly.
“What name shall I tell her ladyship?” he asked.
“Mr. Peter,” said Peter, after thought.
He was shown into the small drawing-room, and paced up and down like a caged animal until he heard the door open and, turning, met face to face, for the first time in eight years, the woman of The Adventure.
She was pale but very calm and sure of herself as she closed the door behind her. For a while they stood, looking at one another. She had matured, grown more beautiful; the old graceful carriage was unchanged; the enticing lines of her had come to a greater perfection. He had grown older, she thought; was much more of a man than when she had known him before. His face had formed; resolution and strength and a balance that had been missing; in his eyes she read something that chilled her.
“You wish to see me—Peter?” she asked.
He nodded.
He was trembling; feared to speak lest his voice betrayed him.
“What is it you wish to see me about?”
“I want my child.” His voice was low; the words seemed to choke him, so that he ended on a cough.
“You want—your child?”
She shook her head so slightly that if he had not been watching her closely the gesture would have escaped him.
“Will you tell me what you mean?”
She was fencing. She wanted time to take all this in. He had shocked her very badly.
“Why pretend, Jane? You know what I want, and what I mean. Where is our child?”
She passed her hand wearily across her eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said. She made no attempt to evade the question, accepted his knowledge, startling as it was. “I don’t know. Is it worth while knowing? He is very happy. I did what was best, Peter. I told nobody. When I went to Reno—”
“You have divorced me?”
She did
