“There was a woman once, Victor,” he said, “who nearly made mincemeat of my life. She could have done it if she liked—and she wasn’t the sort who spares. She died—thank God! You see I know something about it.”
They walked out arm in arm, and not a word passed between them till they reached the street. Then Holderness called a hansom.
“I feel like steak,” he declared. “Entre-côte with potatoes, maître d’hôtel. Somehow I feel particularly like steak. We will chuck Soho and dine at the Café Royal.”
They talked mostly of Henwood and his work. Holderness spoke of it as successful, but the man himself was weakly. The strain of holding his difficult audience night after night had begun to tell on him. Macheson’s help would be invaluable. There was a complete school of night classes running in connexion with the work, and also a library. “You can guess where the money came from for those,” he added, smiling. “On the women’s side there was only the cookery, and the care of the children. All very imperfect, but with the making of great things about it.”
They went into the Café proper for their coffee, sitting at a marble-topped table, and Holderness called for dominoes. But they had scarcely begun their game before Macheson started from his seat, and without a word of explanation strode towards the door. He was just in time to stop the egress of the man whom he had seen slip from his seat and try to leave the place.
“Look here,” he said, touching him on the shoulder. “I want to talk to you.”
The man made no further attempt at escape. He was very shabby and thin, but Macheson had recognized him at once. It was the man who had come stealing down the lane from Thorpe on that memorable night—the man for whose escape from justice he was responsible.
“My friend won’t interfere with us,” Macheson said, leading him back to their seats. “Sit down here.”
The man sat down quietly. Holderness took up a paper.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I shan’t listen.”