The Master Spirit

by Sir William Magnay

In his chambers Herriard threw off his wig and gown, and sat down to review the position; Alexia’s position, which was now, he told himself with joy, his own. He was impatient to claim his reward; not, indeed, reward, since his victory was its own recompense, but the fulfilment of Alexia’s implied promise, now that the dark cloud was driven away, that she would accept his love. But he could scarcely present himself before her just then; justifiable as his eagerness might be, it would not be decent. So that evening he must not go to Green Street; he must nurse his impatience: there was a busy night in the House of Commons, he would spend the hours there.

And Gastineau? The thought of his friend rose, for the first time during their acquaintance, uncomfortably to his mind. In the ordinary course he would have called at the hidden-away house in Mayfair first of all to report his victory. But to-day he could not bring himself to do it. He was conscious of a feeling, the extent of which he could not measure, which seemed to hold him back. There would be no pleasure, but distaste rather, in going to Gastineau’s that afternoon. Why? His friend was unsympathetic, they were at issue about the case: he had won it practically without Gastineau’s assistance, and he might feel a little awkwardly conscious on that score. The subject had been dropped between them; still, Herriard could hardly ignore the result, and had no wish to proclaim it. Gastineau’s was the acuter mind, the stronger will; he had taught Herriard almost everything by which he had profited, and had imparted—that by force of genius—the knack of success. To the younger man their relations were, and probably would always be, those of master and pupil: the stronger will, the greater determination would always stand over the weaker. It was, perhaps, the sign of a certain weakness in Herriard’s character that he shrank from meeting Gastineau that afternoon. A stronger man would have gone; Herriard kept telling himself that he ought not to make an exception on that of all days; and then he objected that he would not go because Gastineau had practically declared his belief in Alexia’s guilt. It would have been better for him, perhaps, had he gone; however, a certain self-consciousness and resentment kept him away, and thereby he forged a weapon against himself.

In an unsettled state of mind he set himself to gather up and put away the papers connected with the case. Among them was a note he had taken of Campion’s last words, his description of the man he had seen in the hansom. “I could swear,” it ran, “that he was the same man I saw jumping from the window at Vaux House when Captain Martindale was killed. A dark man, with a pale face and piercing eyes, clean-shaven, and with straight black hair worn rather long. He looked like a foreigner.”

So much Campion had told.

That was all. And the great question now remained, who was the man? The description was definite enough; nevertheless the police had come across no such person; they were completely at a loss now, for the suspect, so fully described, had absolutely vanished. Herriard feared that Scotland Yard might, when baffled, relax its efforts; to clear Countess Alexia, rather than to bring the unknown to justice, it was all-important to him that they should not.

He folded the note of Campion’s statement into his pocket-book, and, on his way to the House, called upon the Chief Commissioner, whom he knew, and urged him to keep his men up to the mark in the hunt, and this, the official readily assured him, should be done.

Next day Herriard received an invitation to dine that evening at Green Street; he accepted it with elation, in happy anticipation of the sealing of his betrothal. On his way he called at Gastineau’s.

Luckily there were several other matters to speak of before the awkward subject was touched upon. Herriard could not help noticing that his friend seemed strangely indifferent, giving points of advice and direction almost mechanically; over the whole consultation there was an air of unreality, of insincerity. This Herriard was inclined, somewhat, perhaps, against his acuter judgment, to put down to the other’s state of health. Presently he asked Gastineau if he were suffering.

“Oh, no; not particularly,” was the answer, given with an enigmatical smile, “I am as well as I can ever expect to be.” Then, with a swift change, “Where are you dining to-night?”

“At Green Street, with the von Rohnburgs,” Herriard answered, as casually as he could.