“By-the-bye,” I said, almost before the curtain had fallen, “some parts of this play remind me a little of a story in real life you told me something of. And you half promised to tell me more some day.”
I spoke and felt eagerly, for a strange idea had struck me—curiously enough as it may seem to any one unaccustomed to meditate on the vagaries of our brains and memories—for the first time. Was there not a certain amount of resemblance not only between the plot gradually unfolding before us, but between Rupert’s real story, little though I had heard of it, and the real mystery with which I had come in contact, though of the facts connected with it I knew scarcely more?
My companion was flattered by my recollection of his confidences. But yet I saw that he looked a little uncomfortable.
“I know what you are referring to,” he replied. “But—I haven’t anything more to tell you, and I am afraid I can never hope to work up what I know so as to make any practical use of it. They are thinking after all,” he went on a little shamefacedly, “now that I am so much stronger, of my going into my father’s firm—under Clarence of course—and the mere fact of my being in it would bar the way to my benefiting as a writer by any of the strange complications lawyers come across in their work.”
I understood and appreciated his reticence, though it by no means tended—rather the other way indeed—to make an end of the idea that had suggested itself to me.
“It really does seem,” I reflected, as I turned my attention again to the stage, “as if the Grim House business was fated to haunt me! This very play, and the coming across Rupert again, which has recalled his story!—no! it is no use my trying to put it away for good, I wonder how that poor Mr Caryll Grey is?” for, as I said, I had heard nothing more from Isabel on the subject since I had been in London.
Notwithstanding these preoccupations of mind, I thoroughly enjoyed my evening, which Rupert and his mother were pleased and gratified to hear.
“Now,” said Mrs Payne, as we alighted at their own door, “you must get to bed as quickly as possible, my dear! I know it is not very late, but I don’t want you to go back to Lady Bretton looking any less well for your two or three days with us. In the first place, however, come into the dining-room, where we shall find sandwiches or something of the kind,” and she led the way thither, I following.
To my surprise, as she entered, she gave a little cry, not of alarm, but of astonishment and pleasure.
“My dear boy,” she exclaimed, “so you have got back to-night after all! Miss Fitzmaurice,” and she turned to me, “this is my eldest son, Clarence; we did not expect him home till to-morrow.”