“What’s his game, Bill?” demanded Arkwright. “You must know—from—what’s the correct term—information received.”
I declared my ignorance. “Bathurst has not told me his destination—and what’s more, I haven’t asked him. I told Jack just now I knew nothing of his movements or intentions—for to-day! He has, of course, confided one or two matters to me during the past few days. I think, perhaps, I’ve helped him a bit—once or twice.”
I spoke with a sense of pride.
“Well, I for one, wish him success,” cut in Jack Considine, crisply. “Gerry Prescott was one of the best. A thunderin’ good all-round sportsman, and we can ill afford to lose him. I tell you I’m more than sorry that he’s gone—there are plenty of fellows the world could have spared before Gerry Prescott! I know we shall miss him in the ‘House.’”
This outburst of Jack’s startled me somewhat, and I noticed Helen Arkwright and her husband look at him curiously.
Sir Charles himself, also seemed a trifle taken aback.
“Seems to me we have to wait till we’re dead—to be thoroughly appreciated,” I put in.
“Something like that, Bill,” said Mary. “I’ve noticed that.”
She rose and went into the garden. To me she had grown more lovely than ever, during the past few days. The blow that had befallen Considine Manor, and the sorrow that it had brought in its train, seemed to have invested Mary with a serener beauty. It was almost as though the charming winsomeness of the maid had merged into the more steadfast beauty of the woman. The sadness and sorrow had hastened the hand of Time. It was borne upon me at that moment, that Life to me meant Mary Considine, and I determined to put into active form a resolution that had been but a thought to me for many months past.
I found her in the garden.