“Oxford’s impossible, anyhow.”
“Then, damn Oxford!... Lynwood, you must get out. I didn’t. Something interfered—never mind what. And now I know.... You must escape somehow.”
Then slowly John explained much that, even to Hartington, he had never spoken of before—how little money there was, and how little influence. He talked of his mother and of Mr. Alter.
“I believe Alter would help but I don’t like to ask him.”
“Why not—if you’re going into journalism?”
“I know; but, you see,” John said, with hesitation, “I think Alter was in love with my mother at one time. I’m not sure he doesn’t love her still. One can’t ask favours.”
They talked until near midnight, when John rose to go.
“Even if I do get out soon,” he said, “I have a horrible feeling that one doesn’t escape very far.” And, blind to Hartington’s questioning eyes, he went on, speaking a part of his thought. “The powers that encompass us are devilish strong: the Service, Fane-Herbert’s father, Ordith—all the ring. One doesn’t defy them easily. One gets caught again ... in the net.”
Hartington dragged from his shelf a book that John had never before seen in his hands. He opened it where an envelope marked a place.
“Read that—from the second verse—‘They all lie in wait.’”