He was surprised to find how remote the Mill House lay from other habitations. Between it and Wentfield station, once Wentfield village was passed, there were only a few lonely farms; but to the south there was an absolutely uninhabited tract of fen traversed by the road running past the front gate of the Mill House. The Mill House was duly marked on the map; with a little blue line showing the millrace which Desmond traced to its junction with one of the broad dykes intersecting Morstead Fen. The only inhabited house to the south of the Bellward villa appeared to be a lonely public house situated on the far edge of the fen, a couple of hundred yards away from the road. It was called “The Dyke Inn.”
One afternoon—it was the fifth day after Desmond’s arrival at Bellward’s—Mr. Crook announced that this was to be his last visit.
“I go abroad to-night, Mr. Bellward,” he said (he always insisted on addressing Desmond by his assumed name), “a little job o’ work in Switzerland; at Berne, to be precise. Urgent, you might call it, and really, sir, you’ve made so much progress that I think I can safely leave you. And I was to say that you will be able to go out very soon now.”
“Good!” exclaimed Desmond, rubbing his hands together. “And you think I’ll do, Crook, eh?”
Crook rubbed his nose meditatively.
“I’ll be quite frank with you, Mr. Bellward,” he said: “With a superficial acquaintance, even with an intimate friend, if he’s as unobservant as most people are, you’ll pass muster. But I shouldn’t like to guarantee anything if you were to meet, say, Mrs. Bellward, if the gentleman has got a wife, or his mother. Keep out of a strong light; don’t show your profile more than you can help, and remember that a woman is a heap more observant than a man.
“That’s my advice to you, sir. And now I’ll take my leave! You won’t want that tow beard any more after to-day.”
That night Desmond slept well and did not awake until the sunshine was streaming in between the Venetian blinds in his bedroom. He felt keen and vigorous, and he had an odd feeling that something was going to happen to him that day.
It was a delicious morning, the air as balmy as spring. As he brushed his hair in front of the window, Desmond saw the peewits running about in the sunshine on the fields by the road. He made an excellent breakfast and then, lighting a pipe, opened the Times which lay folded by his plate.
He turned first, as was his daily habit, to the casualty list. There it was! Under the names of the “Killed in Action,” he read: “Okewood, Major D. J. P.,” followed by the name of his regiment. It gave him an odd little shock, though he had looked for the announcement every day; but the feeling of surprise was quickly followed by one of relief. That brief line in the casualty list meant the severing of all the old ties until he had hunted down his quarry.