“Yes,” she murmured, “I am sure of it.”
“And I suppose … I suppose we must do it. You and I, Brenda?”
It was a wonderful thing how these two knew Alice Huston. Her faults were never mentioned between them. The infinite charity with which each looked upon these faults was a mutual possession, unhinted at, half concealed. Brenda knew quite well what was written between the lines of his outspoken supposition, and replied to his unasked question with simple diplomacy.
“Yes—we must do it.”
Trist moved a little. He turned sideways, and glanced out of the window. His attitude was that of a man whose hands were in his pockets, but he was more than half a soldier—a creature morally and literally without pockets—and his hands hung at his sides.
“It is a … a pretty strong combination.”
She smiled, and changed colour so slightly that he no doubt failed to see it.
“Yes,” she answered cheerfully. “It succeeded once before. But Mrs. Wylie is not quite herself yet, Theo! That is why I don’t want her to have any trouble in this matter. We have no right to seek her aid.”
The last words might easily have passed unheeded, but Brenda felt, even as she spoke them, that they contained another meaning; moreover, she recognised by his sudden silence that Trist was wondering whether this second suggestion had been intended. Uneasily she raised her eyes to his face. He was looking down at her gravely, and for some seconds their glances met.
If an excuse to seek Mrs. Wylie’s assistance was hard to find, much more so was it open to question respecting Trist’s spontaneous help. Why should he offer it? By what right could she accept it? And while they looked into each other’s eyes, these two wondered over those small questions. There was a reason—the best reason of all—namely, that the offer was as spontaneous and natural as the acceptance of it. But why—why this spontaneity? Perhaps they both knew. Perhaps she suspected, and suspected wrongly. Perhaps neither knew definitely.
At last she turned her head, and naturally her glance was directed downwards into Piccadilly.
“There they are,” she whispered hurriedly, “looking into the jeweller’s shop opposite. What are we to do, Theo?”
He almost forestalled her question, so rapid was his answer. There was no hesitation, no shirking of responsibility. She had simply asked him, and simply he replied.
“Go,” he said, “and throw some things into a bag. I will stay here and watch him. When the bag is ready, leave it in the passage and come back here. I will take it, go down, and take her straight away.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders.
There was a momentary hesitation on the girl’s part. She perceived a terrible flaw in Trist’s plan, and he divined her thoughts.
“It will be all right,” he whispered. “No one knows that I am in England. I will telegraph tonight, and you can join her tomorrow. You … can trust me, Brenda.”
There was a faint smile of confidence on her face as she turned away and hurried from the room.
Although her light footsteps were almost inaudible, the slight frôlement of her dress seemed to rouse the stupefied man on the low chair near the fire. Perhaps there was in the rhythm of her movements some subtle resemblance to the movements of his wife. He raised his head and appeared to listen in an apathetic way, but presently his chin dropped heavily again upon his breast, and the dull eyes lost all light of intelligence.
Trist turned away and looked out of the window. The two ladies were still lingering near the jeweller’s shop. Alice Huston appeared to be pointing out to her companion some specially attractive ornament, and Mrs. Wylie was obeying with a patient smile.
The war-correspondent smiled in a peculiar way, which might well have expressed some bitterness, had he been the sort of man to speak or think bitterly of anyone. The whole picture was so absurdly characteristic, even to the small details—such as Mrs. Wylie’s good-natured patience, scarce concealing her utter lack of interest in the jewellery, and Alice Huston’s eyes glittering with reflex of the cold gleam of diamonds; for there is a light that comes into the eyes of some women at the mere mention of precious stones.
While he was watching them the ladies turned and crossed the street, coming towards him. He stepped back from the window in case one of them should raise her eyes, and at the same moment Brenda entered the room.
She glanced towards Huston, who was rousing himself from the torpor which had followed his maltreatment at Trist’s hands, and which was doubtless partly due to the drink-sodden condition of his mind and body.
“All I want,” whispered the war-correspondent, following her glance, “is three minutes’ start from that man.”
“You had better go!” she answered anxiously below her breath.
“Yes; they are on the stairs … but … tell me, Brenda, promise me on your honour, that he did not hurt you.”
“I promise you,” she said, with a faint smile.
Then he left her.
VI
Trist Acts on His Own Responsibility
As Mrs. Wylie made her way slowly and peacefully up the broad stairs, she suddenly found herself face to face with the man whom she had last seen in the still Arctic dawn, bearing the body of her dead husband down over the rocks towards her. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but nothing more. The next instant she was holding out her gloved hand to greet him. But even she—practised, gifted woman of the world as she was—could not meet him with a smile. In gravity they had parted, gravely they now met again. He was not quite the same as other men to Mrs. Wylie, for there was the remembrance of an indefinite semi-bantering agreement made months before, while the sunshine of
