“Between six and seven yesterday morning.” This time Thrush did not move a muscle of his face; it only lit up like a Chinese lantern, and again he was quick to quench the inner flame; but now the coincidence was complete. Coincidences, however, had nothing to say to the A. V. M. system, neither was Eugene Thrush the man to jump to wild conclusions on the strength of one. He asked whether the boy was very fond of shooting in the holidays, as though that might have accounted for the dream, but his father was not aware that he had ever smelt powder in his life. He little dreamt what Thrush was driving at! The tone of subsequent inquiries concerning Mrs. Upton’s health (already mentioned as the great reason for keeping the affair as long as possible a secret) sounded purely compassionate to an ear unconsciously aching for compassion.
“Then that accounts for it,” said Thrush, when he had heard the whole sad story. There was the faintest ring of disappointment in his tone. “What do you mean?”
“That anybody as ill as that, more particularly a lady, is naturally fanciful, I’m afraid.”
“Then you think it a mere delusion, after all?”
“My dear Mr. Upton, it would be presumption to express an opinion either way. I only say, don’t think too much about that dream. And since you won’t keep me company in my cups, we may as well rejoin the faithful Mullins.”
They ran into Mullins, as it happened, in Glasshouse Street, and Mr. Upton for one would not have recognised him as the same being. His sepulchral face was alight with news—it was the transformation of the undertaker’s mute into the wedding guest. And yet he had only one box of the d’Auvergne Cigarettes to show for his evening’s work, and that chemist had declared it was the first he had sold for weeks.
Thrush ordered his man upstairs, and took his late guest’s hand as soon as ever he dared.
“You need a good night’s rest, my dear sir, and it’s no use climbing to my masthead for nothing. Mullins and I will do best if you don’t mind leaving us to ourselves for the night; but first thing tomorrow morning I shall be at your service again, and I hope there will be some progress to report.”
Mullins was waiting for him with all the lights on, his solemn face still more strikingly illuminated.
“Look at this, sir, look at this! These are the d’Auvergne Cigarettes!”