With his gloved hands buried in the pockets of his thick coat, the war-correspondent wandered along the crowded pavement of the Strand, rubbing shoulders with beggar and genius indifferently.
He was not a man much given to useless reflections or observations upon matters climatic, and so absorbed was he in his thoughts that he would have been profoundly surprised to learn that a biting east wind was withering up humanity. He looked into the shops, and presently became really interested in a display of rifles exposed in the unpretending window of a small establishment.
It is strange how the sight of those tools or instruments with which we have at one time worked for our living affects us. The present writer has seen an old soldier handle a bayonet in a curious reflective way which could not be misunderstood. The ancient warrior’s face, in some subtle sense, became hardened, and his manner changed. I myself grasp a rope differently from men who have never trodden a moss-grown deck, and the curve of the hard strands within my fingers tells a tale of its own, and brings back, suddenly, ineffaceable pictures of the great seas.
Theodore Trist stood still before the upright burnished barrels which the poet has likened to organ-pipes, and to his mind there came the memory of their music, and the roar of traffic round him was almost merged into the grand, deep voice of cannon. It is in the midst of death that men realize fully the glorious gift of life, and those who have known the delirious joy of battle—have once tasted, as it were, the cup of life’s greatest emotion—are aware that nothing but a battlefield can bring that maddening taste to their lips again.
This contemplative man breathed harder and deeper as his eyes rested on lock and barrel, and for some time he stood hearing nothing round him, seeing nothing but the instruments of death.
“Yes,” he murmured as he turned away at length. “I must go to the Russian war. One more campaign, and then … then who knows?”
X
A Problem
Brenda left Mrs. Wylie at eleven o’clock, merely walking away from the door of Suffolk Mansions without wrap or luggage. She did not know whether she was being watched or no, but her plans were so simple, and yet so cunning, that the question gave her little trouble. Detection was impossible. Trist had seen to that, and his strategy had been the subject of some subdued laughter the night before, because Brenda complained that she felt like an army. He had unconsciously dictated to her, in his soft, suggestive way, and so complete were his instructions, so abject the obedience demanded, that there was some cause for her laughing dissatisfaction. With intelligence, education, experience, reading, and money it is no difficult matter to evade the closest watcher, and Trist was not at all afraid of such means as lay at Captain Huston’s disposal for tracing the hiding-place of his wife.
When Mrs. Wylie found herself left alone, she proceeded placidly to await further events. She was convinced that, sooner or later, the husband of her protégée would appear. Whether this questionable honour would be conferred with bluster and righteous indignation, or with abject self-abuse, remained to be seen. Neither prospect appeared to have the power of ruffling the lady’s serene humour. The morning newspaper received its usual attention, and subsequently there were some new books to be cut and glanced at. Lunch had already been ordered—lunch for two, and something rather nice, because Theo Trist had invited himself to partake of the lone widow’s hospitality.
In her small way, Mrs. Wylie was likely to pass an eventful day, but the thought of it in nowise took away her interest in December’s Temple Bar. She was one of those happy and lovable women who are not in the habit of adding to their grievances by anticipating them; for it is an undeniable fact that sorrows as well as joys are exaggerated by anticipation. Personally, I much prefer going out to get my hair cut as soon as ever I realize the necessity. It is a mistake to put off the operation, because the scissors seem to hang over one’s luxuriant locks with a fiendish click during the stilly hours.
About twelve o’clock there was a knock at the door which shut off Mrs. Wylie’s comfortable suite of rooms from the rest of the house.
“Ah!” murmured the occupant of the drawing-room. “Our violent friend. Twelve o’clock: I must get him out of the house before Theo arrives.”
She leant back and tapped the pages of her magazine pensively with an ivory paper-cutter, while her eyes rested on the door.
In the course of a few moments there was audible the sound of murmuring voices, followed shortly by footsteps.
The door was thrown open, and William Hicks made a graceful entrée, finished, as it were, by the delicately-tinted flower he carried in his gloved fingers.
Mrs. Wylie rose at once with a most reprehensively deceitful smile of welcome. She devoutly wished William Hicks in other parts as she offered her plump white hand to his grasp.
The artist, with passable dissimulation, glanced round the room. No sign or vestige of Brenda! The rose was deftly dropped into his hat and set aside. It had cost two shillings.
“Ah! Mrs. Wylie,” he exclaimed, “I was half afraid you would be out shopping. The wind is simply excruciating.”
“Then warm yourself at once. I am afraid I am alone.”
Hicks was, in his way, a bold man. He relied thoroughly upon a virtue of his own which he was pleased to call tact—others said its right name was “cheek.”
“Afraid!” he said reproachfully, and with an inquiring smile.
“Yes—the girls are out.”
He laughed in a pleasant deprecating way, and held his slim hands towards the fire.
“How absurd you are!” he said. “I merely ran in to ask if a lace
