“By Jove!” I said. “They are about to let him out! I never thought of that.”
Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large.
“You didn’t suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?”
At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of the two streets. Then some vehicles following each other in quick succession hid from my sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in her hat. She was walking slowly; and it might have been caution or reluctance. While listening to Fyne I stared hard past his shoulder trying to catch sight of her again. He was going on with positive heat, the rags of his solemnity dropping off him at every second sentence.
That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. Of course the girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose with her theory of innocence she found it difficult. But she must have been thinking of it day and night. What to do with him? Where to go? How to keep body and soul together? He had never made any friends. The only relations were the atrocious East-end cousins. We know what they were. Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she turned in an unjust and prejudiced world. And to look at him helplessly she felt would be too much for her.
I won’t say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. This complete knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide road, so hard that I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep voice indignantly.
“I don’t blame the girl,” he was saying. “He is infatuated with her. Anybody can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on him I can’t understand. She said “Yes” to him only for the sake of that fatuous, swindling father of hers. It’s perfectly plain if one thinks it over a moment. One needn’t even think of it. We have it under her own hand. In that letter to my wife she says she has acted unscrupulously. She has owned up, then, for what else can it mean, I should like to know. And so they are to be married before that old idiot comes out . . . He will be surprised,” commented Fyne suddenly in a strangely malignant tone. “He shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony. Very pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law means to turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It’s extremely pleasant to think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three against the world—and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that doesn’t care twopence for him.”
The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me as though he had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite as wonderful. And he kept it up, too.
“Luckily there are some advantages in the—the profession of a sailor. As long as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles from here, I don’t mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old party will say. He will have another surprise. They mean to drag him along with them on board the ship straight away. Rescue work. Just think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all . . . ”
He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the “son of the poet” as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now. His unspoken thought must have gone on “and uncle of my girls.” I suspect that he had been roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the resentment gave a tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those men of sober fancy, when anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are very thorough. “Just think!” he cried. “The three of them crowded into a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that astonished old jail-bird!”