Somerset supposed him to allude to the castle competition?
‘Yes,’ said Havill. ‘Her proposed undertaking brought out some adverse criticism till it was known that she intended to have more than one architectural opinion. An excellent stroke of hers to disarm criticism. You saw the second letter in the morning papers?’
‘No,’ said the other.
‘The writer states that he has discovered that the competent advice of two architects is to be taken, and withdraws his accusations.’
Somerset said nothing for a minute. ‘Have you been supplied with the necessary data for your drawings?’ he asked, showing by the question the track his thoughts had taken.
Havill said that he had. ‘But possibly not so completely as you have,’ he added, again smiling fiercely. Somerset did not quite like the insinuation, and the two speakers parted, the younger going towards the musicians, who had now begun to fill the air with their strains from the embowered enclosure of a drooping ash. When he got back to the marquees they were quite crowded, and the guests began to pour out upon the grass, the toilets of the ladies presenting a brilliant spectacle – here being coloured dresses with white devices, there white dresses with coloured devices, and yonder transparent dresses with no device at all. A lavender haze hung in the air, the trees were as still as those of a submarine forest; while the sun, in colour like a brass plaque, had a hairy outline in the livid sky.
After watching awhile some young people who were so madly devoted to lawn-tennis that they set about it like day-labourers at the moment of their arrival, he turned and saw approaching a graceful figure in cream-coloured hues, whose gloves lost themselves beneath her lace ruffles, even when she lifted her hand to make firm the blue flower at her breast, and whose hair hung under her hat in great knots so well compacted that the sun gilded the convexity of each knot like a ball.
‘You seem to be alone,’ said Paula, who had at last escaped from the duty of receiving guests.
‘I don’t know many people.’
‘Yes: I thought of that while I was in the drawing-room. But I could not get out before. I am now no longer a responsible being: Mrs. Goodman is mistress for the remainder of the day. Will you be introduced to anybody? Whom would you like to know?’
‘I am not particularly unhappy in my solitude.’
‘But you must be made to know a few.’
‘Very well – I submit readily.’
She looked away from him, and while he was observing upon her cheek the moving shadow of leaves cast by the declining sun, she said, ‘O, there is my aunt,’ and beckoned with her parasol to that lady, who approached in the comparatively youthful guise of a grey silk dress that whistled at every touch.
Paula left them together, and Mrs. Goodman then made him acquainted with a few of the best people, describing what they were in a whisper before they came up, among them being the Radical member for Markton, who had succeeded to the seat rendered vacant by the death of Paula’s father. While talking to this gentleman on the proposed enlargement of the castle, Somerset raised his eyes and hand towards the walls, the better to point out his meaning; in so doing he saw a face in the square of darkness formed by one of the open windows, the effect being that of a highlight portrait by Vandyck or Rembrandt.
It was his assistant Dare, leaning on the window-sill of the studio, as he smoked his cigarette and surveyed the gay groups promenading beneath.
After holding a chattering conversation with some ladies from a neighbouring country seat who had known his father in bygone years, and handing them ices and strawberries till they were satisfied, he found an opportunity of leaving the grounds, wishing to learn what progress Dare had made in the survey of the castle.
Dare was still in the studio when he entered. Somerset informed the youth that there was no necessity for his working later that day, unless to please himself, and proceeded to inspect Dare’s achievements thus far. To his vexation Dare had not plotted three dimensions during the previous two days. This was not the first time that Dare, either from incompetence or indolence, had shown his inutility as a house-surveyor and draughtsman.
‘Mr. Dare,’ said Somerset, ‘I fear you don’t suit me well enough to make it necessary that you should stay after this week.’
Dare removed the cigarette from his lips and bowed. ‘If I don’t suit, the sooner I go the better; why wait the week?’ he said.
‘Well, that’s as you like.’
Somerset drew the inkstand towards him, wrote out a cheque for Dare’s services, and handed it across the table.
‘I’ll not trouble you to-morrow,’ said Dare, seeing that the payment included the week in advance.
‘Very well,’ replied Somerset. ‘Please lock the door when you leave.’ Shaking hands with Dare and wishing him well, he left the room and descended to the lawn below.
There he contrived to get near Miss Power again, and inquired of her for Miss De Stancy.
‘O! did you not know?’ said Paula; ‘her father is unwell, and she preferred staying with him this afternoon.’
‘I hoped he might have been here.’
‘O no; he never comes out of his house to any party of this sort; it excites him, and he must not be excited.’
‘Poor Sir William!’ muttered Somerset.
‘No,’ said Paula, ‘he is grand and historical.’
‘That is hardly an orthodox notion for a Puritan,’ said Somerset mischievously.
‘I am not a Puritan,’ insisted Paula.
The day turned to dusk, and the guests began going in relays to the dining-hall. When Somerset had taken in two or three ladies to whom he had been presented, and attended to their wants, which occupied him three-quarters of an hour, he returned again to the large tent, with a view to finding Paula and taking his leave. It was now brilliantly lighted up, and the musicians, who during daylight had been invisible behind the ash-tree, were ensconced at one end with their harps and violins. It reminded him that there was to be dancing. The tent had in the meantime half filled with a new set of young people who had come expressly for that pastime. Behind the girls gathered numbers of newly arrived young men with low shoulders and diminutive moustaches, who were evidently prepared for once to sacrifice themselves as partners.
Somerset felt something of a thrill at the sight. He was an infrequent dancer, and particularly unprepared for dancing at present; but to dance once with Paula Power he would give a year of his life. He looked round; but she was nowhere to be seen. The first set began; old and middle-aged people gathered from the different rooms to look on at the gyrations of their children, but Paula did not appear. When another dance or two had progressed, and an increase in the average age of the dancers was making itself perceptible, especially on the masculine side, Somerset was aroused by a whisper at his elbow —
‘You dance, I think? Miss Deverell is disengaged. She has not been asked once this evening.’ The speaker was Paula.
Somerset looked at Miss Deverell – a sallow lady with black twinkling eyes, yellow costume, and gay laugh, who had been there all the afternoon – and said something about having thought of going home.
‘Is that because I asked you to dance?’ she murmured. ‘There – she is appropriated.’ A young gentleman had at that moment approached the uninviting Miss Deverell, claimed her hand and led her off.
‘That’s right,’ said Somerset. ‘I ought to leave room for younger men.’
‘You need not say so. That bald-headed gentleman is forty-five. He does not think of younger men.’
‘Have YOU a dance to spare for me?’
Her face grew stealthily redder in the candle-light. ‘O! – I have no engagement at all – I have refused. I hardly feel at liberty to dance; it would be as well to leave that to my visitors.’
‘Why?’
‘My father, though he allowed me to be taught, never liked the idea of my dancing.’
‘Did he make you promise anything on the point?’
‘He said he was not in favour of such amusements – no more.’
‘I think you are not bound by that, on an informal occasion like the present.’
She was silent.
‘You will just once?’ said he.
Another silence. ‘If you like,’ she venturesomely answered at last.
Somerset closed the hand which was hanging by his side, and somehow hers was in it. The dance was nearly formed, and he led her forward. Several persons looked at them significantly, but he did not notice it then, and plunged into the maze.
Never had Mr. Somerset passed through such an experience before. Had he not felt her actual weight and warmth, he might have fancied the whole episode a figment of the imagination. It seemed as if those musicians had thrown a double sweetness into their notes on seeing the mistress of the castle in the dance, that a perfumed southern atmosphere had begun to pervade the marquee, and that human beings were shaking themselves free of all inconvenient gravitation.
Somerset’s feelings burst from his lips. ‘This is the happiest moment I have ever known,’ he said. ‘Do you know why?’
‘I think I saw a flash of lightning through the opening of the tent,’ said Paula, with roguish abruptness.
He did not press for an answer. Within a few minutes a long growl of thunder was heard. It was as if Jove could not refrain from testifying his jealousy of Somerset for taking this covetable woman so presumptuously in his arms.
The dance was over, and he had retired with Paula to the back of the tent, when another faint flash of lightning was visible through an opening. She lifted the canvas, and looked out, Somerset looking out behind her. Another dance was begun, and being on this account left out of notice, Somerset did not hasten to leave Paula’s side.
‘I think they begin to feel the heat,’ she said.
‘A little ventilation would do no harm.’ He flung back the tent door where he stood, and the light shone out upon the grass.
‘I must go to the drawing-room soon,’ she added. ‘They will begin to leave shortly.’
‘It is not late. The thunder-cloud has made it seem dark – see there; a line of pale yellow stretches along the horizon from west to north. That’s evening – not gone yet. Shall we go into the fresh air for a minute?’
She seemed to signify assent, and he stepped off the tent-floor upon the ground. She stepped off also.
The air out-of-doors had not cooled, and without definitely choosing a direction they found themselves approaching a little wooden tea-house that stood on the lawn a few yards off. Arrived here, they turned, and regarded the tent they had just left, and listened to the strains that came from within it.
‘I feel more at ease now,’ said Paula.
‘So do I,’ said Somerset.
‘I mean,’ she added in an undeceiving tone, ‘because I saw Mrs. Goodman enter the tent again just as we came out here; so I have no further responsibility.’
‘I meant something quite different. Try to guess what.’
She teasingly demurred, finally breaking the silence by saying, ‘The rain is come at last,’ as great drops began to fall upon the ground with a smack, like pellets of clay.
In a moment the storm poured down with sudden violence, and they drew further back into the summer-house. The side of the tent from which they had emerged still remained open, the rain streaming down between their eyes and the lighted interior of the marquee like a tissue of glass threads, the brilliant forms of the dancers passing and repassing behind the watery screen, as if they were people in an enchanted submarine palace.
‘How happy they are!’ said Paula. ‘They don’t even know that it is raining. I am so glad that my aunt had the tent lined; otherwise such a downpour would have gone clean through it.’
The thunder-storm showed no symptoms of abatement, and the music and dancing went on more merrily than ever.
‘We cannot go in,’ said Somerset. ‘And we cannot shout for umbrellas. We will stay till it is over, will we not?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if you care to. Ah!’
‘What is it?’
‘Only a big drop came upon my head.’
‘Let us stand further in.’
Her hand was hanging by her side, and Somerset’s was close by. He took it, and she did not draw it away. Thus they stood a long while, the rain hissing down upon the grass-plot, and not a soul being visible outside the dancing-tent save themselves.
‘May I call you Paula?’ asked he.
There was no answer.
‘May I?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, occasionally,’ she murmured.
‘Dear Paula! – may I call you that?’
‘O no – not yet.’
‘But you know I love you?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘And shall I love you always?’
‘If you wish to.’
‘And will you love me?’
Paula did not reply.
‘Will you, Paula?’ he repeated.
‘You may love me.’
‘But don’t you love me in return?’
‘I love you to love me.’
‘Won’t you say anything more explicit?’
‘I would rather not.’
Somerset emitted half a sigh: he wished she had been more demonstrative, yet felt that this passive way of assenting was as much as he could hope for. Had there been anything cold in her passivity he might have felt repressed; but her stillness suggested the stillness of motion imperceptible from its intensity.
‘We must go in,’ said she. ‘The rain is almost over, and there is no longer any excuse for this.’
Somerset bent his lips toward hers. ‘No,’ said the fair Puritan decisively.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Nobody ever has.’
‘But! – ’ expostulated Somerset.
‘To everything there is a season, and the season for this is not just now,’ she answered, walking away.
They crossed the wet and glistening lawn, stepped under the tent and parted. She vanished, he did not know whither; and, standing with his gaze fixed on the dancers, the young man waited, till, being in no mood to join them, he went slowly through the artificial passage lined with flowers, and entered the drawing room. Mrs. Goodman was there, bidding good-night to the early goers, and Paula was just behind her, apparently in her usual mood. His parting with her was quite formal, but that he did not mind, for her colour rose decidedly higher as he approached, and the light in her eyes was like the ray of a diamond.
When he reached the door he found that his brougham from the Quantock Arms, which had been waiting more than an hour, could not be heard of. That vagrancy of spirit which love induces would not permit him to wait; and, leaving word that the man was to follow him when he returned, he went past the glare of carriage-lamps ranked in the ward, and under the outer arch. The night was now clear and beautiful, and he strolled along his way full of mysterious elation till the vehicle overtook him, and he got in.
Up to this point Somerset’s progress in his suit had been, though incomplete, so uninterrupted, that he almost feared the good chance he enjoyed. How should it be in a mortal of his calibre to command success with such a sweet woman for long? He might, indeed, turn out to be one of the singular exceptions which are said to prove rules; but when fortune means to men most good, observes the bard, she looks upon them with a threatening eye. Somerset would even have been content that a little disapproval of his course should have occurred in some quarter, so as to make his wooing more like ordinary life. But Paula was not clearly won, and that was drawback sufficient. In these pleasing agonies and painful delights he passed the journey to Markton.
BOOK THE SECOND. DARE AND HAVILL
I
Young Dare sat thoughtfully at the window of the studio in which Somerset had left him, till the gay scene beneath became embrowned by the twilight, and the brilliant red stripes of the marquees, the bright sunshades, the many-tinted costumes of the ladies, were indistinguishable from the blacks and greys of the masculine contingent moving among them. He had occasionally glanced away from the outward prospect to study a small old volume that lay before him on the drawing-board. Near scrutiny revealed the book to bear the title ‘Moivre’s Doctrine of Chances.’
The evening had been so still that Dare had heard conversations from below with a clearness unsuspected by the speakers themselves; and among the dialogues which thus reached his ears was that between Somerset and Havill on their professional rivalry. When they parted, and Somerset had mingled with the throng, Havill went to a seat at a distance. Afterwards he rose, and walked away; but on the bench he had quitted there remained a small object resembling a book or leather case.
Dare put away the drawing-board and plotting-scales which he had kept before him during the evening as a reason for his presence at that post of espial, locked up the door, and went downstairs. Notwithstanding his dismissal by Somerset, he was so serene in countenance and easy in gait as to make it a fair conjecture that professional servitude, however profitable, was no necessity with him. The gloom now rendered it practicable for any unbidden guest to join Paula’s assemblage without criticism, and Dare walked boldly out upon the lawn. The crowd on the grass was rapidly diminishing; the tennis-players had relinquished sport; many people had gone in to dinner or supper; and many others, attracted by the cheerful radiance of the candles, were gathering in the large tent that had been lighted up for dancing.
Dare went to the garden-chair on which Havill had been seated, and found the article left behind to be a pocket-book. Whether because it was unclasped and fell open in his hand, or otherwise, he did not hesitate to examine the contents. Among a mass of architect’s customary memoranda occurred a draft of the letter abusing Paula as an iconoclast or Vandal by blood, which had appeared in the newspaper: the draft was so interlined and altered as to bear evidence of being the original conception of that ungentlemanly attack.
The lad read the letter, smiled, and strolled about the grounds, only met by an occasional pair of individuals of opposite sex in deep conversation, the state of whose emotions led them to prefer the evening shade to the publicity and glare of the tents and rooms. At last he observed the white waistcoat of the man he sought.
‘Mr. Havill, the architect, I believe?’ said Dare. ‘The author of most of the noteworthy buildings in this neighbourhood?’
Havill assented blandly.
‘I have long wished for the pleasure of your acquaintance, and now an accident helps me to make it. This pocket-book, I think, is yours?’
Havill clapped his hand to his pocket, examined the book Dare held out to him, and took it with thanks. ‘I see I am speaking to the artist, archaeologist, Gothic photographer – Mr. Dare.’
‘Professor Dare.’
‘Professor? Pardon me, I should not have guessed it – so young as you are.’
‘Well, it is merely ornamental; and in truth, I drop the title in England, particularly under present circumstances.’
‘Ah – they are peculiar, perhaps? Ah, I remember. I have heard that you are assisting a gentleman in preparing a design in opposition to mine – a design – ’
‘“That he is not competent to prepare himself,” you were perhaps going to add?’
‘Not precisely that.’
‘You could hardly be blamed for such words. However, you are mistaken. I did assist him to gain a little further insight into the working of architectural plans; but our views on art are antagonistic, and I assist him no more. Mr. Havill, it must be very provoking to a well-established professional man to have a rival sprung at him in a grand undertaking which he had a right to expect as his own.’
Professional sympathy is often accepted from those whose condolence on any domestic matter would be considered intrusive. Havill walked up and down beside Dare for a few moments in silence, and at last showed that the words had told, by saying: ‘Every one may have his opinion. Had I been a stranger to the Power family, the case would have been different; but having been specially elected by the lady’s father as a competent adviser in such matters, and then to be degraded to the position of a mere competitor, it wounds me to the quick – ’
‘Both in purse and in person, like the ill-used hostess of the Garter.’
‘A lady to whom I have been a staunch friend,’ continued Havill, not heeding the interruption.
At that moment sounds seemed to come from Dare which bore a remarkable resemblance to the words, ‘Ho, ho, Havill!’ It was hardly credible, and yet, could he be mistaken? Havill turned. Dare’s eye was twisted comically upward.
‘What does that mean?’ said Havill coldly, and with some amazement.
‘Ho, ho, Havill! “Staunch friend” is good – especially after “an iconoclast and Vandal by blood” – “monstrosity in the form of a Greek temple,” and so on, eh!’
‘Sir, you have the advantage of me. Perhaps you allude to that anonymous letter?’
‘O-ho, Havill!’ repeated the boy-man, turning his eyes yet further towards the zenith. ‘To an outsider such conduct would be natural; but to a friend who finds your pocket-book, and looks into it before returning it, and kindly removes a leaf bearing the draft of a letter which might injure you if discovered there, and carefully conceals it in his own pocket – why, such conduct is unkind!’ Dare held up the abstracted leaf.
Havill trembled. ‘I can explain,’ he began.
‘It is not necessary: we are friends,’ said Dare assuringly.
Havill looked as if he would like to snatch the leaf away, but altering his mind, he said grimly: ‘Well, I take you at your word: we are friends. That letter was concocted before I knew of the competition: it was during my first disgust, when I believed myself entirely supplanted.’
‘I am not in the least surprised. But if she knew YOU to be the writer!’
‘I should be ruined as far as this competition is concerned,’ said Havill carelessly. ‘Had I known I was to be invited to compete, I should not have written it, of course. To be supplanted is hard; and thereby hangs a tale.’
‘Another tale? You astonish me.’
‘Then you have not heard the scandal, though everybody is talking about it.’
‘A scandal implies indecorum.’
‘Well, ‘tis indecorous. Her infatuated partiality for him is patent to the eyes of a child; a man she has only known a few weeks, and one who obtained admission to her house in the most irregular manner! Had she a watchful friend beside her, instead of that moonstruck Mrs. Goodman, she would be cautioned against bestowing her favours on the first adventurer who appears at her door. It is a pity, a great pity!’
‘O, there is love-making in the wind?’ said Dare slowly. ‘That alters the case for me. But it is not proved?’
‘It can easily be proved.’
‘I wish it were, or disproved.’
‘You have only to come this way to clear up all doubts.’
Havill took the lad towards the tent, from which the strains of a waltz now proceeded, and on whose sides flitting shadows told of the progress of the dance. The companions looked in. The rosy silk lining of the marquee, and the numerous coronas of wax lights, formed a canopy to a radiant scene which, for two at least of those who composed it, was an intoxicating one. Paula and Somerset were dancing together.
‘That proves nothing,’ said Dare.
‘Look at their rapt faces, and say if it does not,’ sneered Havill.
Dare objected to a judgment based on looks alone.
‘Very well – time will show,’ said the architect, dropping the tent-curtain… ‘Good God! a girl worth fifty thousand and more a year to throw herself away upon a fellow like that – she ought to be whipped.’
‘Time must NOT show!’ said Dare.
‘You speak with emphasis.’
‘I have reason. I would give something to be sure on this point, one way or the other. Let us wait till the dance is over, and observe them more carefully. Horensagen ist halb gelogen! Hearsay is half lies.’
Sheet-lightnings increased in the northern sky, followed by thunder like the indistinct noise of a battle. Havill and Dare retired to the trees. When the dance ended Somerset and his partner emerged from the tent, and slowly moved towards the tea-house. Divining their goal Dare seized Havill’s arm; and the two worthies entered the building unseen, by first passing round behind it. They seated themselves in the back part of the interior, where darkness prevailed.
As before related, Paula and Somerset came and stood within the door. When the rain increased they drew themselves further inward, their forms being distinctly outlined to the gaze of those lurking behind by the light from the tent beyond. But the hiss of the falling rain and the lowness of their tones prevented their words from being heard.
‘I wish myself out of this!’ breathed Havill to Dare, as he buttoned his coat over his white waistcoat. ‘I told you it was true, but you wouldn’t believe. I wouldn’t she should catch me here eavesdropping for the world!’
‘Courage, Man Friday,’ said his cooler comrade.
Paula and her lover backed yet further, till the hem of her skirt touched Havill’s feet. Their attitudes were sufficient to prove their relations to the most obstinate Didymus who should have witnessed them. Tender emotions seemed to pervade the summer-house like an aroma. The calm ecstasy of the condition of at least one of them was not without a coercive effect upon the two invidious spectators, so that they must need have remained passive had they come there to disturb or annoy. The serenity of Paula was even more impressive than the hushed ardour of Somerset: she did not satisfy curiosity as Somerset satisfied it; she piqued it. Poor Somerset had reached a perfectly intelligible depth – one which had a single blissful way out of it, and nine calamitous ones; but Paula remained an enigma all through the scene.
The rain ceased, and the pair moved away. The enchantment worked by their presence vanished, the details of the meeting settled down in the watchers’ minds, and their tongues were loosened. Dare, turning to Havill, said, ‘Thank you; you have done me a timely turn to-day.’
‘What! had you hopes that way?’ asked Havill satirically.
‘I! The woman that interests my heart has yet to be born,’ said Dare, with a steely coldness strange in such a juvenile, and yet almost convincing. ‘But though I have not personal hopes, I have an objection to this courtship. Now I think we may as well fraternize, the situation being what it is?’
‘What is the situation?’
‘He is in your way as her architect; he is in my way as her lover: we don’t want to hurt him, but we wish him clean out of the neighbourhood.’
‘I’ll go as far as that,’ said Havill.
‘I have come here at some trouble to myself, merely to observe: I find I ought to stay to act.’
‘If you were myself, a married man with people dependent on him, who has had a professional certainty turned to a miserably remote contingency by these events, you might say you ought to act; but what conceivable difference it can make to you who it is the young lady takes to her heart and home, I fail to understand.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you – this much at least. I want to keep the place vacant for another man.’
‘The place?’
‘The place of husband to Miss Power, and proprietor of that castle and domain.’
‘That’s a scheme with a vengeance. Who is the man?’
‘It is my secret at present.’
‘Certainly.’ Havill drew a deep breath, and dropped into a tone of depression. ‘Well, scheme as you will, there will be small advantage to me,’ he murmured. ‘The castle commission is as good as gone, and a bill for two hundred pounds falls due next week.’
‘Cheer up, heart! My position, if you only knew it, has ten times the difficulties of yours, since this disagreeable discovery. Let us consider if we can assist each other. The competition drawings are to be sent in – when?’
‘In something over six weeks – a fortnight before she returns from the Scilly Isles, for which place she leaves here in a few days.’
‘O, she goes away – that’s better. Our lover will be working here at his drawings, and she not present.’
‘Exactly. Perhaps she is a little ashamed of the intimacy.’
‘And if your design is considered best by the committee, he will have no further reason for staying, assuming that they are not definitely engaged to marry by that time?’
‘I suppose so,’ murmured Havill discontentedly. ‘The conditions, as sent to me, state that the designs are to be adjudicated on by three members of the Institute called in for the purpose; so that she may return, and have seemed to show no favour.’
‘Then it amounts to this: your design MUST be best. It must combine the excellences of your invention with the excellences of his. Meanwhile a coolness should be made to arise between her and him: and as there would be no artistic reason for his presence here after the verdict is pronounced, he would perforce hie back to town. Do you see?’
‘I see the ingenuity of the plan, but I also see two insurmountable obstacles to it. The first is, I cannot add the excellences of his design to mine without knowing what those excellences are, which he will of course keep a secret. Second, it will not be easy to promote a coolness between such hot ones as they.’
‘You make a mistake. It is only he who is so ardent. She is only lukewarm. If we had any spirit, a bargain would be struck between us: you would appropriate his design; I should cause the coolness.’
‘How could I appropriate his design?’
‘By copying it, I suppose.’
‘Copying it?’
‘By going into his studio and looking it over.’
Havill turned to Dare, and stared. ‘By George, you don’t stick at trifles, young man. You don’t suppose I would go into a man’s rooms and steal his inventions like that?’
‘I scarcely suppose you would,’ said Dare indifferently, as he rose.
‘And if I were to,’ said Havill curiously, ‘how is the coolness to be caused?’
‘By the second man.’
‘Who is to produce him?’
‘Her Majesty’s Government.’
Havill looked meditatively at his companion, and shook his head. ‘In these idle suppositions we have been assuming conduct which would be quite against my principles as an honest man.’
II
A few days after the party at Stancy Castle, Dare was walking down the High Street of Markton, a cigarette between his lips and a silver-topped cane in his hand. His eye fell upon a brass plate on an opposite door, bearing the name of Mr. Havill, Architect. He crossed over, and rang the office bell.