“Certainly,” answered his son. “I can reach Liverpool a little before midnight I think, and if in the meantime you, Miss Fitzmaurice, will write to your father, it will help on matters greatly. Please say I will go to the same hotel that he is at, so that I shall be ready for a talk with him as early as he likes to-morrow morning. And if,” now addressing Mr Payne, “I find, as I quite expect, that things are already satisfactorily in train—” He glanced at me as he spoke, and I replied to the tacit inquiry.
“Yes,” I said, “I am sure you will find them so. My father is not one to let the grass grow under his feet in a case like this; he is too Irish!” and I smiled. “Very likely you will find that he has had the deposition—is that the word?—formally taken, and that what will fall to your share more directly will be deciding how to act towards the other side.”
“I,” said Mr Payne, “will hold myself in readiness to go down to Millflowers at a moment’s notice from you, Clarence. Perhaps it would be best for us to meet there?”
“Just what I was going to say,” replied his son. “Poor Caryll, it is to be hoped, is not in quite such a critical state as—as the new actor in the scene, but still I own to feeling desperately anxious, most unprofessionally excited,” and he smiled, “to see the thing through for the ‘Grim House’ people!”
“Is that what you call the place?” said his father. “Humph! Not a bad idea!”
“It did not originate with me,” said Clarence.
“And certainly not with me,” I said half-laughingly. “It seems to have been the local name of the place for ever so long.”
Mr Payne glanced at me. I could feel that he was—I beg pardon of his kind memory even now, dear good man, for my disrespect—I could feel that he was dying of curiosity to learn how much I know of Millflowers and its neighbourhood, and I had a slightly mischievous satisfaction in keeping him in the dark. It was a sort of tit-for-tat; for after all, my own eagerness to hear the whole story could not but be greater than his, already in possession as he was of the main facts. And as I surreptitiously peeped from behind the drawing-room curtains at the father and son, as they walked down the street together, talking eagerly, I did wish I could hear what they were saying to each other!
But I had no time to spare for any useless conjectures of this kind. There was my father to write to, and my letter must be careful and well considered; and this done, there was my godmother’s still somewhat ruffled plumage to smoothe down, for she was not yet quite her most approving and delightful self to me. And I began to realise for almost the first time in my life that I was feeling very tired—overstrained, I think, and suffering from a sort of reaction from the too great consciousness of responsibility of the last few days.
My godmother’s instincts were as quick as her sympathy was sure. She met me as I was carrying my letter downstairs, to ask her if I might have it posted at once. I had a babyish feeling that it would be a relief to know it in the safe possession of her Majesty’s post-office, till it should reach its destination the next morning.