“Well,” he proceeded, “before the two halves of this pair of shears are unscrewed we may as well make one or two final cuts with them. I think we might get Mr. Congreve’s aquiline nose between them while they are yet in working condition. It is a pity you let him off to-day when he was delivered into your hand. But I suppose the affaire Rohnburg was responsible for that too. My dear Geoffrey, haven’t I told you that a man who would rise must keep his mind in divisions, and never allot more room than one of them to any one object? He must never allow the whole working to be thrown out of gear because one engine breaks down. Or, like a ship fitted with water-tight compartments, if one is pierced and flooded, his mind must still be buoyant and steerable. Yours seems now to be water-logged. Don’t be offended. I am going to inflict you with my maxims up to the end.”
Presently they parted: to all appearances not much worse friends than ever. Herriard promised to come again next day, and went off to call at Green Street. He had opened the street door when it occurred to him that it would be well for him to write a note of explanation to leave for Alexia in case he should not find her at home. Accordingly he shut the door again, and went into a little study on the ground floor which he had sometimes used for writing, when, perhaps, Gastineau had seemed tired, and he had not cared to bore him by staying in his room too long.
This room—it is as well to describe its situation in view of what happened—was approached through an arch, filled with a portière, from another and larger apartment which was fitted as a smoking-room, for, although Gastineau could have had little hope of using it himself, it was one of his fads and fancies to have his house perfectly appointed as a bachelor’s residence.
Herriard had passed into the inner room and sat down at the writing table, switching on a shaded electric lamp, for dusk had begun to fall and that room was always gloomy, shut in as it was and darkened by stained glass windows and sombre bookcases.
The short note was soon written. Herriard closed the envelope, looked at his watch, and then extinguished the lamp. It was somewhat earlier than he thought; he did not care to present himself at Green Street till dinner was well over. It would be as well to wait ten minutes longer. So he sat back in the writing chair and fell to reviewing his late interview with the man upstairs. It was an unspeakable relief to him that he had got over the awkward question, and had done so with as little unpleasantness as could have been expected. The disagreeable thought which overlay the whole delicate business was Gastineau’s disingenuous slander of Alexia. Had it been an honest expression of suspicion and doubt it would have been galling enough: being what it was, the outcome of spite, it had the natural effect of turning Herriard’s feelings of friendship and gratitude almost to loathing. Well, he thought, the separation is in train now; its completion is but a matter of days, or, at most, weeks. And then? He fell to wondering what Gastineau’s life would be. Would he find another friend, another partner? Very likely he would get hold of a second apt pupil and run him against his first. Would the new partner be primed to attack him as he himself had been forced to attack Congreve and other bêtes noires of Gastineau? Well, it could not be helped; let him be thankful that the questionable alliance had come to an end.
Then he thought how lonely Gastineau would be when his own daily visits were over: and he felt sorry, even for him, even for that restless, malicious spirit, cruelly, yet perhaps happily, fettered, yet so keen on working off his venom through the channel of another man’s self-interest. Could he be really sorry for him after what he had heard? Was not the man a danger? Had it not been for the best——
Suddenly the current of his thoughts was arrested, he could scarcely tell why. A moving presence near him, or an imperfectly realized sound, was responsible for the effect. Anyhow, Herriard straightened himself into a posture of attention and sat listening. The servant, Hencher, was out; Gastineau had told him that he should be alone in the house for some hours that evening. And yet here was—yes, the door stood open and he could have sworn that he had heard some one moving outside the room. He stood up and turned, waiting. Through the opening of the curtained archway he could see into the room beyond; the blind was not drawn down, and the light of a street lamp fell obliquely across the room. It was this dull stream of light that Herriard was watching; for an instant it had been intercepted as a dark shadow fell across it, then it streamed uninterruptedly again. Some one, something, was moving beyond the curtains; three steps would solve the mystery. For a moment Herriard hesitated; then he made a quick step forward. Only one. For beyond the screen of the portière the figure of a man appeared, moving quickly across the room until it was again hidden by the curtain on the other side. A man. Who was it? The back of the figure had been turned to him, and the light which shone into the room fell low, leaving the head in darkness. The passing of the figure had not broken the dead silence; was it really a human being, or an hallucination seen by Herriard’s excited brain, or—a supernatural visitation? These three possibilities flashed through Herriard’s mind as he stood dumbfounded for the moment. He held his breath to listen more acutely. A slight sound came from the outer room, a sound as of some small object being moved or laid down, and Herriard told himself that the apparition was scarcely supernatural. Then, before the watcher could further resolve the question, the open space was darkened again, and the mysterious figure stood between him and the light. Herriard was about to move forward, when the impulse changed, and involuntarily he drew back until he was half hidden by the angle of a bookcase by which he stood. A strange sensation which he could not define seemed to hold him there, without the power or the will to move, staring intently at the man’s figure which now seemed to be coming towards him.
Breathlessly, Herriard waited till the mysterious visitor should have advanced so far out of the obscurity that his face could be seen. In another moment the revelation came.
The man had approached the opening between the rooms; his hand was on the curtain; he pulled it aside a little, as though glancing into the study. As he turned his face, the light just brought it into clear visibility. With a shock the truth came to Herriard. The man before him was Gastineau.