CHAPTER XXXIII
On coming back the next afternoon from selecting the spot for Lovey’s grave there was a man in khaki on the train. When I got out at the Grand Central I saw another. In Fifth Avenue I saw another and another. They seemed to spring out of the ground, giving a new aspect to the streets. In the streets that shining thing I had noticed on landing was no longer to be seen. Silver peace had faded out, while in its place there was coming—coming by degrees—but coming—that spirit of strong resolve which is iron and gold.
Or perhaps I had better say that peace had taken refuge in my dingy little flat, where Lovey was lying on his bed in his Sunday clothes, with hands folded on his breast. Peace was in every line of the fragile figure; in the face there was peace satisfied—peace content—gentle, abiding, eternal.
Two days later a little company of us stood by his grave while Rufus Legrand read the ever-stirring words of the earth to earth. It was the old comradeship which Lovey himself would have liked—the fellowship of men who had fought the same fight as he, and were hoping to be faithful unto death like him—Christian, Straight, little Spender, Beady, Pyn, the wee bye Daisy, and one or two others. Cantyre alone had none of the dark memories—and yet the bright and blessed memories—that held the rest of us together; but Cantyre had his place.
We had driven out side by side in the same motor, as what the undertaker called chief mourners. I don’t remember that we uttered a word to each other till we got out at the grave.
It was Cantyre who said, then: “I want you to drive back with me, Frank. There’s somewhere I should like to take you.”
Reassured by his use of my name, I merely nodded, wondering what he meant.
I didn’t ask, however; nor did I ask when we were back in the motor again and on our way to town. I got my first hint as we began to descend the long avenue in which Sterling Barry had his house.