It is strange how instantaneously such complexities present themselves with convincing power. Though the knowledge lay latent in my mind, I am sure now I was aware that I should never set eyes upon Sir Spofforth, in life or death, again.
He rose up slowly. “Don’t be long, my dear,” he said to Esther. “I shall not wait up for you. Good night, Herman. Good night, Arnold.” He passed the door and began to ascend the stairs. He turned. “Arnold!” he began. “No, never mind. I will tell you tomorrow.”
He never told me. He was gone, and we three went downstairs, out of the house, and crossed the garden toward the Institute, whose squat form blocked the view of the road. Croydon, in the distance, hummed like a huge dynamo. The Bear dipped slantingly above; the wind was shaking down the fading petals of the rambler roses. I remember the picture more vividly than I perceived it then; the intense darkness, the white lights of the distant town, the yellow lamp glow on the short grass, cut off squarely by the window-sash and trisected by the window-bars. Lazaroff led the way, walking a little distance in front of us, toward the annex, a building just completed, in which was the new freezing-plant, with our few guinea-pigs, and the monkeys that had been bought recently, out of our own money, for the great experiment. He drew a key from his pocket and began fumbling with the lock. Esther stopped in the shadows at my side.
“He asked me to marry him,” she said. “I told him never—never! That was the word I used. I used to think that I could care for him, Arnold, but in that instant I knew—yes, I knew my heart.”
I knew mine too, and I took her in my arms in the shadow of the Institute. She lifted her mouth to mine. All the while Lazaroff was fumbling with the lock. Yet I am sure he was aware, by virtue of that intuition which tells us all vital things.
When he had opened the door he turned a switch, and the interior leaped into view round twenty points of light that pierced the shadows.
“Come in, Arnold,” he said, turning to me—and I thought there was blood on his lip. “I will lead, and you and Miss Esther can follow me. Don’t be alarmed, Miss Esther, if you hear the monkeys screaming. They grow lonely at night.”
“Poor little things! How dreadful!” Esther said.
“We shall not keep them here very long,” Lazaroff answered in extenuation. He stooped over a cane chair and picked up a warm shawl. “You will need to put this about you,” he continued, standing back and leaving me to adjust it about Esther’s shoulders.
So he had planned to bring her here; his subtle mind had foreseen even this detail. He left nothing to the unexpected. He lived up to his principles.