ELLA BENNETT was cooking the dinner when her father came in, depositing his heavy camera on the floor of the sitting-room, but carrying, as was usual, his grip to the bedroom. She heard the closing of the cupboard door and the turning of the lock, but had long ceased to wonder why he invariably kept his bag locked in that cupboard. He was looking very tired and old; there were deeper lines under his eyes, and the pallor of his cheeks was even more pronounced.
“Did you have a good time, father?” she asked. It was the invariable question, and invariably John Bennett made no other reply than a nod.
“I nearly lost my camera this morning—forgot it,” he said. “It was quite a success—taking the camera away with me—but I must get used to remembering that I have it. I found a stretch of country full of wild fowl, and got some really good pictures. Round about Horsham my opportunities are limited, and I think I shall take the machine with me wherever I go.”
He seated himself in the old chair by the fireplace and was filling his pipe slowly.
“I saw Elk on the platform at King’s Cross,” he said. “I suppose he was looking for somebody.”
“What time did you leave where you were?” she asked.
“Last night,” he replied briefly, but did not volunteer any further information about his movements.
She was in and out of the kitchen, laying the table, and she did not speak to him on the matter which was near her heart, until he had drawn up his chair, and then:
“I had a letter from Ray this morning, father,” she said. It was the first time she had mentioned the boy’s name since that night of horrible memories at Heron’s Club.
“Yes?” he answered, without looking up from his plate.