Vavasor also maintained another little establishment

It cannot perhaps fairly be said that George Vavasor was an inhospitable man, seeing that it was his custom to entertain his friends occasionally at Greenwich, Richmond or such places; and he would now and again have a friend to dine with him at his club. But he never gave breakfasts, dinners, or suppers under his own roof. During a short period of his wine-selling career, at which time he had occupied handsome rooms over his place of business in New Burlington Street, he had presided at certain feasts given to customers or expectant customers by the firm; but he had not found this employment to be to his taste, and had soon relinquished it to one of the other partners. Since that he had lived in lodgings in Cecil Street — down at the bottom of that retired nook, near to the river and away from the Strand. Here he had simply two rooms on the first floor, and hither his friends came to him very rarely. They came very rarely on any account. A stray man might now and then pass an hour with him here; but on such occasions the chances were that the visit had some reference, near or distant, to affairs of business. Eating or drinking there was never any to be found here by the most intimate of his allies. His lodgings were his private retreat, and they were so private that but few of his friends knew where he lived.
And had it been possible he would have wished that no one should have known his whereabouts, I am not aware that he had any special reason for this peculiarity, or that there was anything about his mode of life that required hiding; but he was a man who had always lived as though secrecy in certain matters might at any time become useful to him. He had a mode of dressing himself when he went out at night that made it almost impossible that any one should recognize him. The people at his lodgings did not even know that he had relatives, and his nearest relatives hardly knew that he had lodgings. Even Kate had never been at the rooms in Cecil Street, and addressed all her letters to his place of business or his club. He was a man who would bear no inquiry into himself. If he had been out of view for a month, and his friends asked him where he had been, he always answered the question falsely, or left it unanswered. There are many men of whom everybody knows all about all their belongings — as to whom everybody knows where they live, whither they go, what is their means, and how they spend it. But there are others of whom no man knows anything, and George Vavasor was such a one. For myself I like the open babbler the best. Babbling may be a weakness, but to my thinking mystery is a vice.
Vavasor also maintained another little establishment, down in Oxfordshire; but the two establishments did not even know of each other’s existence. There was a third, too, very closely hidden from the world’s eye, which shall be nameless; but of the establishment in Oxfordshire he did sometimes speak, in very humble words, among his friends. When he found himself among hunting men, he would speak of his two nags at Roebury, saying that he had never yet been able to mount a regular hunting stable, and that he supposed he never would; but that there were at Roebury two indifferent beasts of his if any one chose to buy them. And men very often did buy Vavasor’s horses. When he was on them they always went well and sold themselves readily. And though he thus spoke of two, and perhaps did not keep more during the summer, he always seemed to have horses enough when he was down in the country. No one ever knew George Vavasor not to hunt because he was short of stuff. And here, at Roebury, he kept a trusty servant, an ancient groom with two little bushy grey eyes which looked as though they could see through a stable door. Many were the long whisperings which George and Bat Smithers carried on at the stable door, in the very back depth of the yard attached to the hunting inn at Roebury. Bat regarded his master as a man wholly devoted to horses, but often wondered why he was not more regular in his sojournings in Oxfordshire. Of any other portion of his master’s life Bat knew nothing. Bat could give the address of his master’s club in London, but he could give no other address.

There had been a pretence of fishing

There had been a pretence of fishing, but no fish had been caught. It was soon found that such an amusement would interfere with the ladies’ dresses, and the affairs had become too serious to allow of any trivial interruption. “I really think, Mr Cheesacre,” an anxious mother had said, “that you’d better give it up. The water off the nasty cord has got all over Maria’s dress, already.” Maria made a faint protest that it did not signify in the least; but the fishing was given up — not without an inward feeling on the part of Mr Cheesacre that if Maria chose to come out with him in his boat, having been invited especially to fish, she ought to have put up with the natural results. “There are people who like to take everything and never like to give anything,” he said to Kate afterwards, as he was walking up with her to the picnic dinner. But he was unreasonable and unjust. The girls had graced his party with their best hats and freshest muslins, not that they might see him catch a mackerel, but that they might flirt and dance to the best advantage. “You can’t suppose that any girl will like to be drenched with sea-water when she has taken so much trouble with her starch,” said Kate. “Then she shouldn’t come fishing,” said Mr Cheesacre. “I hate such airs.”
But when they arrived at the old boat, Mrs Greenow shone forth pre-eminently as the mistress of the occasion, altogether overshadowing Mr Cheesacre by the extent of her authority. There was a little contest for supremacy between them, invisible to the eyes of the multitude; but Mr Cheesacre in such a matter had not a chance against Mrs Greenow. I am disposed to think that she would have reigned even though she had not contributed the eatables; but with that point in her favour, she was able to make herself supreme. Jeannette, too, was her servant, which was a great thing. Mr Cheesacre soon gave way; and though he bustled about and was conspicuous, he bustled about in obedience to orders received, and became a head servant. Captain Bellfield also made himself useful, but he drove Mr Cheesacre into paroxysms of suppressed anger by giving directions, and by having those directions obeyed. A man to whom he had lent twenty pounds the day before yesterday, and who had not contributed so much as a bottle of champagne!
“We’re to dine at four, and now it’s half past three,” said Mrs Greenow, addressing herself to the multitude.
“Yes, we’ll dine at four,” said Mr Cheesacre. “And as for the music, I’ve ordered it to be here punctual at half past five. We’re to have three horns, cymbals, triangle, and a drum.”“And now suppose we begin to unpack,” said Captain Bellfield. “Half the fun is in arranging the things.”
“Wine is a ticklish thing to handle, and there’s my man there to manage it.”
“It’s odd if I don’t know more about wine than the boots from the hotel,” said Bellfield. This allusion to the boots almost cowed Mr Cheesacre, and made him turn away, leaving Bellfield with the widow.
There was a great unpacking, during which Captain Bellfield and Mrs Greenow constantly had their heads in the same hamper. I by no means intend to insinuate that there was anything wrong in this. People engaged together in unpacking pies and cold chickens must have their heads in the same hamper. But a great intimacy was thereby produced, and the widow seemed to have laid aside altogether that prejudice of hers with reference to the washerwoman. There was a long table placed on the sand, sheltered by the upturned boat from the land side, but open towards the sea, and over this, supported on poles, there was an awning. Upon the whole the arrangement was not an uncomfortable one for people who had selected so very uncomfortable a dining-room as the sand of the sea-shore. Much was certainly due to Mr Cheesacre for the expenditure he had incurred — and something perhaps to Captain Bellfield for his ingenuity in having suggested it.

Yarmouth is not a happy place for a picnic

Yarmouth is not a happy place for a picnic. A picnic should be held among green things. Green turf is absolutely an essential. There should be trees, broken ground, small paths, thickets, and hidden recesses. There should, if possible, be rocks, old timber, moss, and brambles. There should certainly be hills and dales — on a small scale, and, above all, there should be running water. There should be no expanse. Jones should not be able to see all Greene’s movements, nor should Augusta always have her eye upon her sister Jane. But the spot chosen for Mr Cheesacre’s picnic at Yarmouth had none of the virtues above described. It was on the sea-shore. Nothing was visible from the site but sand and sea. There were no trees there and nothing green — neither was there any running water. But there was a long, dry, flat strand; there was an old boat half turned over, under which it was proposed to dine; and in addition to this, benches, boards, and some amount of canvas for shelter were provided by the liberality of Mr Cheesacre. Therefore it was called Mr Cheesacre’s picnic.
But it was to be a marine picnic, and therefore the essential attributes of other picnics were not required. The idea had come from some boating expeditions, in which mackerel had been caught, and during which food had been eaten, not altogether comfortably, in the boats. Then a thought had suggested itself to Captain Bellfield that they might land and eat their food, and his friend Mr Cheesacre had promised his substantial aid. A lady had surmised that Ormesby sands would be the very place for dancing in the cool of the evening. They might “dance on the sand,” she said, “and yet no footing seen.” And so the thing had progressed, and the picnic been inaugurated.
It was Mr Cheesacre’s picnic undoubtedly. Mr Cheesacre was to supply the boats, the wine, the cigars, the music, and the carpenter’s work necessary for the turning of the old boat into a banqueting saloon. But Mrs Greenow had promised to provide the eatables, and enjoyed as much of the éclat as the master of the festival. She had known Mr Cheesacre now for ten days and was quite intimate with him. He was a stout, florid man, of about forty-five, a bachelor, apparently much attached to ladies’ society, bearing no sign of age except that he was rather bald, and that grey hairs had mixed themselves with his whiskers, very fond of his farming, and yet somewhat ashamed of it when he found himself in what he considered to be polite circles. And he was, moreover, a little inclined to seek the honour which comes from a well-filled and liberally-opened purse. He liked to give a man a dinner and then to boast of the dinner he had given. He was very proud when he could talk of having mounted, for a day’s hunting, any man who might be supposed to be of higher rank than himself. “I had Grimsby with me the other day — the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwick, you know. Blessed if he didn’t stake my bay mare. But what matters? I mounted him again the next day just the same.” Some people thought he was soft, for it was very well known throughout Norfolk that young Grimsby would take a mount wherever he could get it. In these days Mrs Greenow had become intimate with Mr Cheesacre, and had already learned that he was the undoubted owner of his own acres.
“It wouldn’t do for me,” she had said to him, “to be putting myself forward, as if I were giving a party myself, or anything of that sort — would it now?”
“Well, perhaps not. But you might come with us.”
“So I will, Mr Cheesacre, for that dear girl’s sake. I should never forgive myself if I debarred her from all the pleasures of youth, because of my sorrows. I need hardly say that at such a time as this nothing of that sort can give me any pleasure.”
“I suppose not,” said Mr Cheesacre, with a solemn look.

I think you are very wrong

“You don’t mean to say that you’ve walked from King Street,” said Alice, doing as she was desired.
“Indeed I do — every step of the way. Cabs are so ruinous, It’s a most unfortunate thing; they always say it’s just over the two miles here. I don’t believe a word of it, because I’m only a little more than the half-hour walking it; and those men will say anything. But how can I prove it, you know?”
“I really think it’s too far for you to walk when it’s so warm.”
“But what can I do, my dear? I must come, when I’ve specially come up to London to see you. I shall have a cab back again, because it’ll be hotter then, and dear Lady Midlothian has promised to send her carriage at three to take me to the concert. I do so wish you’d go, Alice.”
“It’s out of the question, aunt. The idea of my going in that way at the last moment, without any invitation!”
“It wouldn’t be without an invitation, Alice. The marchioness has said to me over and over again how glad she would be to see you, if I would bring you.”
“Why doesn’t she come and call if she is so anxious to know me?”
“My dear, you’ve no right to expect it; you haven’t indeed. She never calls even on me.”
“I know I’ve no right, and I don’t expect it, and I don’t want it. But neither has she a right to suppose that, under such circumstances, I shall go to her house. You might as well give it up, aunt. Cart-ropes wouldn’t drag me there.”
“I think you are very wrong — particularly under your present circumstances. A young woman that is going to be married, as you are — ”
“As I am — perhaps.”
“That’s nonsense, Alice. Of course you are; and for his sake you are bound to cultivate any advantages that naturally belong to you. As to Lady Midlothian or the marchioness coming to call on you here in your father’s house, after all that has passed, you really have no right to look for it.”
“And I don’t look for it.”
“That sort of people are not expected to call. If you’ll think of it, how could they do it with all the demands they have on their time?”
“My dear aunt, I wouldn’t interfere with their time for worlds.”
“Nobody can say of me, I’m sure, that I run after great people or rich people. It does happen that some of the nearest relations I have — indeed I may say the nearest relations — are people of high rank; and I do not see that I’m bound to turn away from my own flesh and blood because of that, particularly when they are always so anxious to keep up the connexion.”
“I was only speaking of myself, aunt. It is very different with you. You have known them all your life.”
“And how are you to know them if you won’t begin? Lady Midlothian said to me only yesterday that she was glad to hear that you were going to be married so respectably, and then — ”
“Upon my word I’m very much obliged to her ladyship. I wonder whether she considered that she married respectably when she took Lord Midlothian?”
Now Lady Midlothian had been unfortunate in her marriage, having united herself to a man of bad character, who had used her ill, and from whom she had now been for some years separated. Alice might have spared her allusion to this misfortune when speaking of the countess to the cousin who was so fond of her, but she was angered by the application of that odious word respectable to her own prospects; and perhaps the more angered as she was somewhat inclined to feel that the epithet did suit her own position. Her engagement, she had sometimes told herself, was very respectable, and had as often told herself that it lacked other attractions which it should have possessed. She was not quite pleased with herself in having accepted John Grey — or rather perhaps was not satisfied with herself in having loved him. In her many thoughts on the subject, she always admitted to herself that she had accepted him simply because she loved him — that she had given her quick assent to his quick proposal simply because he had won her heart. But she was sometimes almost angry with herself that she had permitted her heart to be thus easily taken from her, and had rebuked herself for her girlish facility. But the marriage would be at any rate respectable. Mr Grey was a man of high character, of good though moderate means; he was, too, well educated, of good birth, a gentleman, and a man of talent. No one could deny that the marriage would be highly respectable, and her father had been more than satisfied. Why Miss Vavasor herself was not quite satisfied will, I hope, in time make itself appear. In the meanwhile it can be understood that Lady Midlothian’s praise would gall her.

Men, and women too, letting go to the multiplicity of things

    He said nothing. He took opium. The children said he had stained hisbeard yellow with it. Perhaps. What was obvious to her was that thepoor man was unhappy, came to them every year as an escape; and yetevery year she felt the same thing; he did not trust her. She said, "I amgoing to the town. Shall I get you stamps, paper, tobacco?" and she felthim wince. He did not trust her. It was his wife's doing. She rememberedthat iniquity of his wife's towards him, which had made her turn to steeland adamant there, in the horrible little room in St John's Wood, whenwith her own eyes she had seen that odious woman turn him out of thehouse. He was unkempt; he dropped things on his coat; he had the tiresomenessof an old man with nothing in the world to do; and she turnedhim out of the room. She said, in her odious way, "Now, Mrs Ramsayand I want to have a little talk together," and Mrs Ramsay could see, as ifbefore her eyes, the innumerable miseries of his life. Had he moneyenough to buy tobacco? Did he have to ask her for it? half a crown?
　　eighteenpence? Oh, she could not bear to think of the little indignitiesshe made him suffer. And always now (why, she could not guess, exceptthat it came probably from that woman somehow) he shrank from her.
　　He never told her anything. But what more could she have done? Therewas a sunny room given up to him. The children were good to him.
　　Never did she show a sign of not wanting him. She went out of her wayindeed to be friendly. Do you want stamps, do you want tobacco? Here'sa book you might like and so on. And after all—after all (here insensiblyshe drew herself together, physically, the sense of her own beauty becoming,as it did so seldom, present to her) after all, she had not generallyany difficulty in making people like her; for instance, George Manning;Mr Wallace; famous as they were, they would come to her of anevening, quietly, and talk alone over her fire. She bore about with her,she could not help knowing it, the torch of her beauty; she carried it erectinto any room that she entered; and after all, veil it as she might, andshrink from the monotony of bearing that it imposed on her, her beauty was apparent. She had been admired. She had been loved. She hadentered rooms where mourners sat. Tears had flown in her presence.
　　Men, and women too, letting go to the multiplicity of things, had allowedthemselves with her the relief of simplicity. It injured her that heshould shrink. It hurt her. And yet not cleanly, not rightly. That waswhat she minded, coming as it did on top of her discontent with her husband;the sense she had now when Mr Carmichael shuffled past, justnodding to her question, with a book beneath his arm, in his yellow slippers,that she was suspected; and that all this desire of hers to give, tohelp, was vanity. For her own self-satisfaction was it that she wished soinstinctively to help, to give, that people might say of her, "O Mrs Ram-say! dear Mrs Ramsay… Mrs Ramsay, of course!" and need her and sendfor her and admire her? Was it not secretly this that she wanted, andtherefore when Mr Carmichael shrank away from her, as he did at thismoment, making off to some corner where he did acrostics endlessly, shedid not feel merely snubbed back in her instinct, but made aware of thepettiness of some part of her, and of human relations, how flawed theyare, how despicable, how self-seeking, at their best. Shabby and wornout, and not presumably (her cheeks were hollow, her hair was white)any longer a sight that filled the eyes with joy, she had better devote hermind to the story of the Fisherman and his Wife and so pacify thatbundle of sensitiveness (none of her children was as sensitive as he was),her son James.
　　"The man's heart grew heavy," she read aloud, "and he would not go.

He found himself, next, slipping northward between the glazed walls of the Subway

He stood at the corner of Wall Street, looking up and down its hot summer perspective. He noticed the swirls of dust in the cracks of the pavement, the rubbish in the gutters, the ceaseless stream of perspiring faces that poured by under tilted hats.
He found himself, next, slipping northward between the glazed walls of the Subway, another languid crowd in the seats about him and the nasal yelp of the stations ringing through the car like some repeated ritual wail. The blindness within him seemed to have intensified his physical perceptions, his sensitiveness to the heat, the noise, the smells of the dishevelled midsummer city; but combined with the acuter perception of these offenses was a complete indifference to them, as though he were some vivisected animal deprived of the power of discrimination.
Now he had turned into Waverly Place, and was walking westward toward Washington Square. At the corner he pulled himself up, saying half-aloud: "The office--I ought to be at the office." He drew out his watch and stared at it blankly. What the devil had he taken it out for? He had to go through a laborious process of readjustment to find out what it had to say.... Twelve o'clock.... Should he turn back to the office? It seemed easier to cross the square, go up the steps of the old house and slip his key into the door....
The house was empty. His mother, a few days previously, had departed with Mr. Dagonet for their usual two months on the Maine coast, where Ralph was to join them with his boy.... The blinds were all drawn down, and the freshness and silence of the marble-paved hall laid soothing hands on him.... He said to himself: "I'll jump into a cab presently, and go and lunch at the club--" He laid down his hat and stick and climbed the carpetless stairs to his room. When he entered it he had the shock of feeling himself in a strange place: it did not seem like anything he had ever seen before. Then, one by one, all the old stale usual things in it confronted him, and he longed with a sick intensity to be in a place that was really strange.
"How on earth can I go on living here?" he wondered.
A careless servant had left the outer shutters open, and the sun was beating on the window-panes. Ralph pushed open the windows, shut the shutters, and wandered toward his arm-chair. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead: the temperature of the room reminded him of the heat under the ilexes of the Sienese villa where he and Undine had sat through a long July afternoon. He saw her before him, leaning against the tree-trunk in her white dress, limpid and inscrutable.... "We were made one at Opake, Nebraska...." Had she been thinking of it that afternoon at Siena, he wondered? Did she ever think of it at all?... It was she who had asked Moffatt to dine. She had said: "Father brought him home one day at Apex.... I don't remember ever having seen him since"--and the man she spoke of had had her in his arms ... and perhaps it was really all she remembered!

At the door of the hotel he ran across the Prince of Teutoburg'saide-de-camp

　　Again and again he fancied he had established a truce with thepast: had come to terms--the terms of defeat and failure withthat bright enemy called happiness. And, in truth, he hadreached the point of definitely knowing that he could neverreturn to the kind of life that he and Susy had embarked on. Ithad been the tragedy, of their relation that loving her rousedin him ideals she could never satisfy. He had fallen in lovewith her because she was, like himself, amused, unprejudiced anddisenchanted; and he could not go on loving her unless sheceased to be all these things. From that circle there was noissue, and in it he desperately revolved.
　　If he had not heard such persistent rumours of her re-marriageto Lord Altringham he might have tried to see her again; but,aware of the danger and the hopelessness of a meeting, he was,on the whole, glad to have a reason for avoiding it. Such, atleast, he honestly supposed to be his state of mind until hefound himself, as on this occasion, free to follow out histhought to its end. That end, invariably, was Susy; not thebundle of qualities and defects into which his critical spirithad tried to sort her out, but the soft blur of identity, ofpersonality, of eyes, hair, mouth, laugh, tricks of speech andgesture, that were all so solely and profoundly her own, and yetso mysteriously independent of what she might do, say, think, incrucial circumstances. He remembered her once saying to him:
　　"After all, you were right when you wanted me to be yourmistress," and the indignant stare of incredulity with which hehad answered her. Yet in these hours it was the palpable imageof her that clung closest, till, as invariably happened, hisvision came full circle, and feeling her on his breast he wantedher also in his soul.
　　Well--such all-encompassing loves were the rarest of humanexperiences; he smiled at his presumption in wanting no other.
　　Wearily he turned, and tramped homeward through the wintertwilight ....
　　At the door of the hotel he ran across the Prince of Teutoburg'saide-de-camp. They had not met for some days, and Nick had avague feeling that if the Prince's matrimonial designs tookdefinite shape he himself was not likely, after all, to be theirchosen exponent. He had surprised, now and then, a certaindistrustful coldness under the Princess Mother's cordial glance,and had concluded that she perhaps suspected him of being anobstacle to her son's aspirations. He had no idea of playingthat part, but was not sorry to appear to; for he was sincerelyattached to Coral Hicks, and hoped for her a more human fatethan that of becoming Prince Anastasius's consort.
　　This evening, however, he was struck by the beaming alacrity ofthe aide-de-camp's greeting. Whatever cloud had hung betweenthem had lifted: the Teutoburg clan, for one reason or another,no longer feared or distrusted him. The change was conveyed ina mere hand-pressure, a brief exchange of words, for the aide-de-camp was hastening after a well-known dowager of the oldRoman world, whom he helped into a large coronetted broughamwhich looked as if it had been extracted, for some ceremonialpurpose, from a museum of historic vehicles. And in an instantit flashed on Lansing that this lady had been the person chosento lay the Prince's offer at Miss Hicks's feet.
　　The discovery piqued him; and instead of making straight for hisown room he went up to Mrs. Hicks's drawing-room.
　　The room was empty, but traces of elaborate tea pervaded it, andan immense bouquet of stiff roses lay on the centre table. Ashe turned away, Eldorada Tooker, flushed and tear-stained,abruptly entered.
　　"Oh, Mr. Lansing--we were looking everywhere for you.""Looking for me?""Yes. Coral especially ... she wants to see you. She wants youto come to her own sitting-room."She led him across the ante-chamber and down the passage to theseparate suite which Miss Hicks inhabited. On the thresholdEldorada gasped out emotionally: "You'll find her lookinglovely--" and jerked away with a sob as he entered.

They walked down the stone stairs

"Thanks," said van Heerden, pocketing the ticket, "it is of no use to me now, for I cannot wait. I gather that you have not disclosed the fact that this ticket is in your possession."
"Lower your voice!" he hissed menacingly. "I gather as much because Beale knew the ticket would not be in my possession now. If he only knew, if he only had a hint of its existence, I fear my scheme would fail. As it is, it will succeed. And now," he said with a smile, "time is short and your preparations must be of the briefest. I will save you the trouble of asking questions by telling you that I am going to take you along with me. I certainly cannot afford to leave you. Get your coat."
With a shrug she walked past him to the bedroom and he followed.
There was no tremor in her voice and she felt remarkably self-possessed.
"I am not asking out of idle curiosity, but I want to know whether I ought to take a bag."
She carried the little attache case back to the sitting-room.
"You have no objection to my taking a little light reading-matter?" she asked contemptuously. "I am afraid you are not a very entertaining companion, Dr. van Heerden."
"Excellent girl," said van Heerden cheerfully. "Take anything you like."
She slipped a book from the shelf and nearly betrayed herself by an involuntary exclamation as she felt its weight.
"You are not very original in your methods," she said, "this is the second time you have spirited me off."
"The gaols of England, as your new-found friend Milsom will tell you, are filled with criminals who departed from the beaten tracks," said van Heerden. "Walk out into the corridor and turn to the right. I will be close behind you. A little way along you will discover a narrow passage which leads to the service staircase. Go down that. I am sure you believe me when I say that I will kill you if you attempt to make any signal or scream or appeal for help."
She did not answer. It was because of this knowledge and this fear, which was part of her youthful equipment--for violent death is a very terrible prospect to the young and the healthy--that she obeyed him at all.
They walked down the stone stairs, through an untidy, low-roofed lobby, redolent of cooking food, into the street, without challenge and without attracting undue notice.
Van Heerden's car was waiting at the end of the street, and she thought she recognized the chauffeur as Bridgers.
"Once more we ride together," said van Heerden gaily, "and what will be the end of this adventure for you depends entirely upon your loyalty--what are you opening your bag for?" he asked, peering in the dark.
"I am looking for a handkerchief," said Oliva. "I am afraid I am going to cry!"
He settled himself back in the corner of the car with a sigh of resignation, accepting her explanation--sarcasm was wholly wasted on van Heerden.
"Well, gentlemen," said Milsom, "I don't think there's anything more I can tell you. What are you going to do with me?"
"I'll take the responsibility of not executing the warrant," said McNorton. "You will accompany one of my men to his home to-night and you will be under police supervision."
"That's no new experience," said Milsom, "there's only one piece of advice I want to give you."
"Don't underrate van Heerden. You have no conception of his nerve. There isn't a man of us here," he said, "whose insurance rate wouldn't go up to ninety per cent. if van Heerden decided to get him. I don't profess that I can help you to explain his strange conduct to-day. I can only outline the psychology of it, but how and where he has hidden his code and what circumstances prevent its recovery, is known only to van Heerden."
He nodded to the little group, and accompanied by McNorton left the room.

And then the strange unaccountable fact dawned on her

He disappeared into his own flat and presently came out holding an electric torch. He snapped back the lock, put the key in his pocket and then, to her amazement, he slipped a short-barrelled revolver from his hip-pocket.
With his foot he pushed open the door and she watched him vanish into the gloomy interior.
Presently came his voice, sharp and menacing:
A voice jabbered something excitedly and then she heard Mr. Beale speak.
"Is your light working?--you can come in, I have him in the dining-room."
She stepped into the bath-room, the shilling dropped through the aperture, the screw grated as she turned it and the lights sprang to life.
In one corner of the room was a man, a white-faced, sickly looking man with a head too big for his body. His hands were above his head, his lower lip trembled in terror.
Mr. Beale was searching him with thoroughness and rapidity.
"No gun, all right, put your hands down. Now turn out your pockets."
The man said something in a language which the girl could not understand, and Mr. Beale replied in the same tongue. He put the contents, first of one pocket then of the other, upon the table, and the girl watched the proceedings with open eyes.
"Hello, what's this?"
Beale picked up a card. Thereon was scribbled a figure which might have been 6 or 4.
"I see," said Beale, "now the other pocket--you understand English, my friend?"
Stupidly the man obeyed. A leather pocket-case came from an inside pocket and this Beale opened.
Therein was a small packet which resembled the familiar wrapper of a seidlitz powder. Beale spoke sharply in a language which the girl realized was German, and the man shook his head. He said something which sounded like "No good," several times.
"I'm going to leave you here alone for awhile," said Beale, "my friend and I are going downstairs together--I shall not be long."
They went out of the flat together, the little man with the big head protesting, and she heard their footsteps descending the stairs. Presently Beale came up alone and walked into the sitting-room. And then the strange unaccountable fact dawned on her--he was perfectly sober.
His eyes were clear, his lips firm, and the fair hair whose tendencies to bedragglement had emphasized his disgrace was brushed back over his head. He looked at her so earnestly that she grew embarrassed.
"Miss Cresswell," he said quietly. "I am going to ask you to do me a great favour."
"If it is one that I can grant, you may be sure that I will," she smiled, and he nodded.
"I shall not ask you to do anything that is impossible in spite of the humorist's view of women," he said. "I merely want you to tell nobody about what has happened to-night."
"Nobody?" she looked at him in astonishment. "But the doctor----"
"Not even the doctor," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I ask you this as a special favour--word of honour?"
"I promise," she said. "I'm to tell nobody about that horrid man from whom you so kindly saved me----"
"Understand this, Miss Cresswell, please," he said: "I don't want you to be under any misapprehension about that 'horrid man'--he was just as scared as you, and he would not have harmed you. I have been waiting for him all the evening."
"In the doctor's flat," he said calmly, "you see, the doctor and I are deadly rivals. We are rival scientists, and I was waiting for the hairy man to steal a march on him."
"But, but--how did you get in."

I don't say I can clear myself altogether

'Did I?' replied she, looking seriously up; 'I was not aware of it. If I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had done you. Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of that; it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike with me, they are neither of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.'
She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued silent.
'Would you be very glad,' resumed she, 'to find that you were mistaken in your conclusions?'
'I don't say I can clear myself altogether,' said she, speaking low and fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with excitement, - 'but would you be glad to discover I was better than you think me?'
'Anything that could in the least degree tend to restore my former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would be only too gladly, too eagerly received!' Her cheeks burned, and her whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She did not speak, but flew to her desk, and snatching thence what seemed a thick album or manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and thrust the rest into my hand, saying, 'You needn't read it all; but take it home with you,' and hurried from the room. But when I had left the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and called me back. It was only to say, - 'Bring it back when you have read it; and don't breathe a word of what it tells you to any living being. I trust to your honour.'
Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned away. I saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her face with her hands. Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch that rendered it necessary to seek relief in tears.
Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I hurried home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having first provided myself with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yet - then, shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate no interruption; and sitting down before the table, opened out my prize and delivered myself up to its perusal - first hastily turning over the leaves and snatching a sentence here and there, and then setting myself steadily to read it through.
I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course, peruse it with half the interest that I did, I know you would not be satisfied with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall have the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of merely temporary interest to the writer, or such as would serve to encumber the story rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhat abruptly, thus - but we will reserve its commencement for another chapter.

She baby-stepped over to the far end of the bed

Part of the emergency kit Milo and Rick hadgotten me last Christmas. Tire changing kit, flares, orange Day-Glo roadmarkers, blankets, bottled water.
Rick taking me aside and confiding, “I’d have picked a nice sweater, but acooler head prevailed.”
Milo’s voice bellowing from the corner of their living room: “Haberdasherydon’t cut it when you’re stranded out on some isolated road with no lights andwolves and God knows what other toothy carnivores are aiming their beady littlepredator eyes at your anatomy, just waiting to—”
“Then why didn’t we get him a gun, Milo?”
“Next year. Some day you’ll thank me, Alex. You’re welcome in advance.”

I hooked up the pump and got to work.
When I was finished, Robin said, “The way you handled it—just enough todefuse the situation and no one got hurt. Classy.”
She took my face in her hands and kissed me hard.
We found a deli on Washington Boulevard, bought more takeout than we needed,drove back to Beverly Glen.
Robin walked into the house as if she lived there, entered the kitchen andset the table. We made it halfway through the food.

When she got out of bed, the movement woke me. Sweaty nap but my eyes weredry.
Through half-closed lids, I watched her slip on my ratty yellow robe and padaround the bedroom. Touching the tops of chairs and tables. Pausing by thedresser. Righting a framed print.
At the window, she drew back one side of the silk curtains she’d designed.She put her face against the glass, peered out at the foothills.
I said, “Pretty night.”
“The view,” she said without turning. “Still unobstructed.”
“Looks like it’s going to stay that way. Bob had his lower acre surveyed andit’s definitely unfit for construction.”
“Bob the Neighbor,” she said. “How’s he doing?”
“When he’s in town, he seems well.”
“Second home in Tahiti,” she said.
“Main home in Tahiti. Nothing likeinherited wealth.”
“That’s good news—about the view. I was hoping for that when I oriented theroom that way.” She let the curtain drop. Smoothed the pleats. “I did a decentjob with this place. Like living here?”
“Not as much as I used to.”
She cinched the robe tighter, half faced me. Her hair was wild, her lipsslightly swollen. Faraway eyes.
“I thought it might be strange,” she said. “Coming back. It’s less strangethan I would’ve predicted.”
“It’s your place, too,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
“I mean it.”
She baby-stepped over to the far end of the bed, played with the edges ofthe comforter. “You haven’t thought that through.”
I hadn’t. “Sure I have. Many a long night.”
She shrugged.
“The place echoes, Robin.”
“It always did. We were aiming for great acoustics.”
“It can be musical,” I said. “Or not.”
She pulled at the comforter, squared the seam with the edge of the mattress.“You do all right by yourself.”
“Says who?”
“You’ve always been self-contained.”
“Like hell.” My voice was harsh.
She looked up at me.
I said, “Come back. Keep the studio if you need privacy, but live here.”
She tugged at the comforter some more. Her mouth twisted into a shape Icouldn’t read. Loosening the robe, she let it fall to the floor, reconsidered,picked it up, folded it neatly over a chair. The organized mind of someone whoworks with power tools.
Fluffing her hair, she got back in bed.
“No pressure, just think about it,” I said.
“It’s a lot to digest.”
“You’re a tough kid.”
“Like hell.” Pressing her flank to mine, she laced her fingers and placedthem over her belly.
I drew the covers over us.
“That’s better, thanks,” she said.
Neither of us moved.