It was Campton’s dearest wish that George should stay where he was; he knew his peace of mind would vanish the moment his son was out of sight. But he suspected that George would soon weary of staff-work, or of any form of soldiering at the rear, and try for the trenches if he left Paris; whereas, in Paris, Madge Talkett might hold him—as she had meant his father to see.
The first thing, then, was to make sure of a job at the War Office.
Campton turned and tossed like a sick man on the hard bed of his problem. To plan, to scheme, to plot and circumvent—nothing was more hateful to him, there was nothing in which he was less skilled. If only he dared to consult Adele Anthony! But Adele was still incorrigibly warlike, and her having been in George’s secret while his parents were excluded from it left no doubt as to the side on which her influence would bear. She loved the boy, Campton sometimes thought, even more passionately than his mother did; but—how did the old song go?—she loved honour, or her queer conception of it, more. Ponder as he would, he could not picture her, even now, lifting a finger to keep George back.
Campton struggled all the morning with these questions. After lunch he pocketed Mrs. Talkett’s moneybag and carried it to the Palais Royal, where he discovered Harvey Mayhew in confabulation with Mme. Beausite, who still trailed her ineffectual beauty about the office. The painter thought he detected a faint embarrassment in the glance with which they both greeted him.
“Hallo, Campton! Looking for our good friend Boylston? He’s off duty this afternoon, Mme. Beausite tells me; as he is pretty often in these days, I’ve noticed,” Mr. Mayhew sardonically added. “In fact, the office has rather been left to run itself lately—eh? Of course our good Miss Anthony is absorbed with her refugees—gives us but a divided allegiance. And Boylston—well, young men, young men! Of course it’s been a weary pull for him. By the way, my dear fellow,” Mr. Mayhew continued, as Campton appeared about to turn away, “I called at Mrs. Talkett’s just now to ask for the money from the concert—a good round sum, I hear it is—and she told me she’d given it to you. Have you brought it with you? If so, Mme. Beausite here would take charge of it——”
Mme. Beausite turned her great resigned eyes on the painter. “Mr. Campton knows I’m very careful. I will lock it up till his friend’s return. Now that Mr. Boylston is so much away I very often have such responsibilities.”
Campton’s eyes returned her glance; but he did not waver. “Thanks so much; but as the sum is rather large it seems to me the bank’s the proper place. Will you please tell Boylston I’ve deposited it?”
Mr. Mayhew’s benevolent pink turned to an angry red. For a moment Campton thought he was about to say something foolish. But he merely bent his head stiffly, muttered a vague phrase about “irregular proceedings,” and returned to his seat by Mme. Beausite’s desk.
As for Campton, his words had decided his course: he would take the money at once to Bullard and Brant’s and seize the occasion to see the banker. Mr. Brant was the only person with whom, at this particular juncture, he cared to talk of George.