CHAPTER XV
SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES
Sangster heard of Cynthia Farrow's death late that night.
He was walking up Fleet Street when he ran into a man he knew—a man whom Jimmy knew also; he stopped and caught him by his buttonhole.
"I say, have you heard—awful thing, isn't it?"
Sangster stared.
"Heard! Heard what?"
"About Cynthia Farrow. Had a frightful accident—in Mortlake's car."
Sangster's eyes woke to interest.
"Badly hurt?" he asked briefly.
"Dead!"
"My God!" There was a moment of tragic silence. "Dead!" said Sangster again. He could not believe it; his face was very pale. "Dead!" he said again. His thoughts flew to Jimmy Challoner. "Are you sure?" he asked urgently. "There's no mistake—you're quite sure?"
"Sure! Man alive, it's in all the papers! They've all got hold of a different story, of course; some say she never recovered consciousness, and others——" He lowered his voice. "I happen to know that she did," he added confidentially. "She sent for Challoner, and he was with her when she died."
"Challoner—Jimmy Challoner!" Sangster repeated his friend's name dully. The one shocked thought of his heart was "Christine."
"I always knew she really liked him," the other man went on complacently. "If he'd had Mortlake's money——" He shrugged his shoulders significantly.
Sangster waited to hear no more; he went straight to Jimmy's hotel. It was late then—nearly eleven. The hall porter said in reply to his inquiry that Mr. and Mrs. Challoner had both been in all the evening, he thought, and were still in; he looked at Sangster's agitated face curiously.
"Was you wishing to see Mr. Challoner, sir?"
"No—oh, no. I only thought—you need not tell him that I called." He went away wretchedly; he wondered if Christine knew—and if so, what she must be thinking.
He never slept all night. He was on the 'phone to Jimmy long before breakfast; he was infinitely relieved to hear Jimmy's voice.
"Hallo—yes, I'm all right, thanks. Want to see me? Well——"
There was a pause here. Sangster waited in a fever of impatience.
After a moment:
"I'll meet you for lunch, if you like. . . . No, can't before. . . .
What do you say? Christine? Oh, yes—yes, thanks; she's very well."
There was another pause. "One o'clock, then."
Jimmy rang off.
Sangster felt easier as he sat down to his breakfast. Jimmy's voice had sounded fairly normal, if a little constrained; and it was not such a very long time till one o'clock, when he would hear all there was to hear.
He forced himself to work all the morning. He did not even glance at a paper; he knew they would be full of Cynthia Farrow's accident and tragic death; he dreaded lest there might be some inadvertent allusion made to Jimmy. He was still hoping that Christine would never know that Jimmy had been sent for; he rightly guessed that if she heard it would mean a long farewell to any hope of happiness in her married life.
Jealousy—bitter jealousy; that was what had been rending her heart, he knew. He stopped writing; he took up a pencil, and absently began scribbling on his blotter.
If Cynthia were out of the way, there was no reason why, in time, Jimmy and his wife should not be perfectly happy. He hoped with all his heart that they would be; he would have given a great deal to have seen Christine smiling and radiant once more, as she had been that night when they all had supper at Marino's.
He sighed heavily; he looked at the lines he had been so absently scribbling.
Christine—Christine—Christine. Nothing but her name. It stared up at him in all shapes and sizes from the blotter. Sangster flushed dully; he tore the sheet of paper free, and tossed it into the fire. What was he dreaming about? Where were his thoughts?
He had arranged to meet Jimmy at the same little restaurant where yesterday he had taken Christine to lunch. He was there a quarter of an hour before the appointed time.
When Jimmy arrived Sangster glanced at him anxiously. He was very pale; his eyes looked defiant; there was a hard fold to his lips.
"Hallo!" he said laconically; he sat down opposite to Sangster. "I don't want any lunch; you fire away."
He seemed to avoid Sangster's eyes; there was a little awkward silence.
"How's the wife?" Sangster asked nervously.
Jimmy laughed mirthlessly.
"She's left me; she says she'll never live with me again."
"Left you!"
"Yes. . . . Oh, don't look so scandalised, man! I saw her off from Euston myself; it was all outwardly quite a friendly arrangement. She's gone down to Upton House; she's going to have a friend of hers to stay with her for a time—a Miss Leighton——" He paused, and went on heavily: "Of course, you've heard about—about——"
"Yes——"
"Well—well, they sent for me. It was too late! She—she was dead when I got there; but Christine found out somehow—I don't know how. I give you my word of honour I meant to have told her; but—she wouldn't believe anything I said. . . . We—we had a row last night; I dare say it was my fault. I was upset, of course——"
"Of course."
"And this morning I tried to apologise. I asked her to overlook everything that had happened, and—and start again." Jimmy laughed dully. "I—well, I believe she hates the sight of me."
Jimmy caught his breath hard on the memory of the burning hatred that had looked at him from Christine's beautiful brown eyes.
"It's quite for the best—this arrangement. Don't think I'm blaming her—I'm not; perhaps if she'd been a little older—if she'd known a little more about the world—she'd have been more tolerant; I don't know. Anyway, she's gone." He raised his humiliated eyes to Sangster's distressed face.
"She will forgive you. She's hurt now, of course; but later on . . ."
Jimmy shook his head.
"She's made me promise to keep away from her for six months. I had no option—she thinks the worst of me, naturally. She thinks that I—I cared for—for Cynthia—right up to the end. . . . I didn't." He stopped, choking. "She's dead—don't let's talk about it," he added.
Sangster had hardly touched his lunch; he sat smoking fast and furiously.
"Six months is a long time," he said at last.
"Yes—it's only a polite way of saying she never wants to see me again; and I don't blame her."
"That's absurd; she's too fond of you."
Jimmy hunched his shoulders.
"That's what I tried to flatter myself; but I know better now. She—she wouldn't even shake hands with me when I said 'good-bye' to her at Euston." There was a little silence. The thoughts of both men flew to Christine as she had been when she first came to London; so happy—so radiantly happy.
And Jimmy could look farther back still; could see her as she had been in the old days at Upton House when she had been his first love. Jimmy gave a great sigh.
"What a damnable hash-up, eh?" he said.
"It'll all come right—I'm certain it will."
Jimmy looked at him affectionately.
"Dear old optimist!" He struck a match and lit the cigarette which had been hanging listlessly between his lips. "I suppose—if you'd run down and have a look at her now and then," he said awkwardly. "She likes you—and you could let me know if she's all right."
"If you don't think she would consider it an intrusion."
"I am sure she wouldn't; and you'll like Upton House." Jimmy's voice was dreamily reminiscent. "It's to be sold later on, you know; but for the present Christine will live there. . . . It would be a real kindness if you would run down now and then, old chap."
"I will, of course, if you're sure——"
"I'm quite sure. Christine likes you."
"Very well."
Sangster kept his eyes downbent; somehow he could not meet Jimmy's just then.
"And you—what are you going to do?" he asked presently.
"I shall go back to my old rooms for a time, and take Costin with me; he'll be pleased, anyway, with the new arrangement. It was really funny the way he tried to congratulate me when I told him I was going to be married——" He broke off, remembering that afternoon, and the way Cynthia had come into the room as they were talking.
He would never see her again; never meet the seductive pleading of her eyes any more; never hear her laughing voice calling to him, "Jimmy dear."
The thought was intolerable. He moved restlessly in his chair; the sweat broke out on his forehead.
"My God! it seems impossible that she's dead," he said hoarsely.
Sangster did not look up.
There was a long pause.
"She was in Mortlake's car, you know," said Jimmy again, disjointedly.
Sangster nodded.
"He'll be shockingly cut-up," said Jimmy again. "I hated the chap; but he was really fond of her."
"Yes." Jimmy's cigarette had gone out again, and he relit it absently.
"Christine will never believe that it hasn't broken my heart," he said in a queer voice.
No answer.
"You won't believe it either?" he said.
The eyes of the two men met; Jimmy flushed scarlet.
"It's the truth," he said. "I think, ever since I knew that she—that she had tried to get rid of me——" He stopped painfully. "It makes me wonder if I ever—ever really, you know."
"We all make mistakes—bad mistakes," said Sangster kindly.
Jimmy smiled a little.
"You old philosopher . . . I don't believe you've ever cared a hang for a woman in all your life."
"Oh, yes I have." Sangster's eyes were staring past Jimmy, down the little room.
"Really?" Jimmy was faintly incredulous. "Who was she—wouldn't she have you?"
"I never asked her, and she is married now—to another man."
"A decent fellow?"
There was a little silence, then:
"I think he'll turn out all right," said Sangster quietly. "I hope so."