Mr. Cecil gave a plump, polite little bow.
“Pray do, Mr. Stanier,” he said.
“My father wants a copy of the register of his marriage,” he said, “and he asked me to copy it out for him. The marriage was performed at the British Consulate, and if you would be so good as to let me copy it and witness it for me, I should be so grateful. May I call on you in the morning about it? It will save trouble, he thinks, on his death, if among his papers there is an attested copy.”
“A pleasure,” said Mr. Cecil.
“You are too kind. And you will do me one further kindness? I am going back to Capri to-morrow for another fortnight, and it would be so good of you if you would tell me of a decent hotel where I can pass the night. I shall not be able, I am afraid, to catch the early boat, with this business of the copying to do, for it leaves, does it not, at nine, and the Consulate will not be open by then.”
Colin was at full speed now; his running feet had indeed left the ground, and he was in the air. But he was already stiffened and taut, so to speak, for the plunge; he had made all preparation, and fully anticipated a successful dividing of the waters. For he had already made himself quite charming to Mr. Cecil, and attributed his lingering on the platform as much to the pleasure of a sociable ten minutes with him as to the honour done to his father.
“But I will not hear of you staying at a hotel,” said Mr. Cecil, “if I can persuade you to pass the night at my flat. It adjoins the Consulate offices, and is close to where the Capri boat lies. Indeed, if you wish to catch the early boat, we can no doubt manage that little business of yours to-night. It will take only a few minutes.”
Colin suffered himself to be persuaded, and they drove back to the Consulate. Office hours were already over, and presently Mr. Cecil led the way into the archive-room, where, no doubt, Colin’s search would be rewarded. But there had come in for him a couple of telegrams delivered after the clerks had gone, and he went to his desk in the adjoining room to answer these, leaving the boy with the volume containing the year of his father’s marriage. The month, so said Colin, was not known to him. His father had told him, but he had forgotten—a few minutes’ search, however, would doubtless remedy that.
So Mr. Cecil, leaving an official form with him on which to copy the entry, fussed away into the next room, and Colin instantly opened the volume. The year was 1893, and the month, as he very well knew, was March.... There it was on March the first, and he ran his eye down to the next entry. Marriages at the Naples Consulate apparently were not frequent, and the next was dated April the fourth.
Colin had already his pen in hand to make the copy, and it remained poised there a moment. There was nothing more necessary than to insert one figure before the single numeral, and the thing would be done. It remained after that only to insert a similar “three” in the letter which his mother had written to Salvatore announcing her marriage. On this hot evening the ink would dry as soon as it touched the page. And yet he paused, his brain beginning to bubble with some notion better yet, more inspired, more magically apt....