An extreme, almost nauseous distaste filled him at the thought of knocking for admission, of confronting Ada, possibly even Sheila, in the cold echoing gloom of the detestable porch; of meeting the first wild, almost metallic, flash of recognition. He swept softly down again, and paused at the open gate. Once before the voices of the night had called him: they would not summon him forever in vain. He raised his eyes again towards the window. Who were these visitors met together to drum the alien out? He narrowed his lids and smiled up at the vacuous unfriendly house. Then wheeling, on a sudden impulse he groped his way down the gravel path that led into the garden. As he had left it, the long white window was ajar.
With extreme caution he pushed it noiselessly up, and climbed in, and stood listening again in the black passage on the other side. When he had fully recovered his breath, and the knocking of his heart was stilled, he trod on softly, till turning the corner he came in sight of the kitchen door. It was now narrowly open, just enough, perhaps, to admit a cat; and as he softly approached, looking steadily in, he could see Ada sitting at the empty table, beneath the single whistling chandelier, in her black dress and black straw hat. She was reading apparently; but her back was turned to him and he could not distinguish her arm beyond the elbow. Then almost in an instant he discovered, as, drawn up and unstirring he gazed on, that she was not reading, but had covertly and instantaneously raised her eyes from the print on the table beneath, and was transfixedly listening too. He turned his eyes away and waited. When again he peered in she had apparently bent once more over her magazine, and he stole on.
One by one, with a thin remote exultation in his progress, he mounted the kitchen stairs, and with each deliberate and groping step the voices above him became more clearly audible. At last, in the darkness of the hall, but faintly stirred by the gleam of lamplight from the chink of the dining-room door, he stood on the threshold of the drawing-room door and could hear with varying distinctness what those friendly voices were so absorbedly discussing. His ear seemed as exquisite as some contrivance of science, registering passively the least sound, the faintest syllable, and like it, in no sense meddling with the thought that speech conveyed. He simply stood listening, fixed and motionless, like some uncouth statue in the leafy hollow of a garden, stony, unspeculating.
‘Oh, but you either refuse to believe, Bettie, or you won’t understand that it’s far worse than that.’ Sheila seemed to be upbraiding, or at least reasoning with, the last speaker. ‘Ask Mr Danton—he actually saw him.’
‘“Saw him,”’ repeated a thick, still voice. ‘He stood there, in that very doorway, Mrs Lovat, and positively railed at me. He stood there and streamed out all the names he could lay his tongue to. I wasn’t—unfriendly to the poor beggar. When Bethany let me into it I thought it was simply—I did indeed, Mrs Lawford—a monstrous exaggeration. Flatly, I didn’t believe it; shall I say that? But when I stood face to face with him, I could have taken my oath that that was no more poor old Arthur Lawford than—well, I won’t repeat what particular word occurred to me. But there,’ the corpulent shrug was almost audible, ‘we all know what old Bethany is. A sterling old chap, mind you, so far as mere character is concerned; the right man in the right place; but as gullible and as soft-hearted as a tom-tit. I’ve said all this before, I know, Mrs Lawford, and been properly snubbed for my pains. But if I had been Bethany I’d have sifted the whole story at the beginning, the moment he put his foot into the house. Look at that Tichborne fellow—went for months and months, just picking up one day what he floored old Hawkins—wasn’t it?—with the next. But of course,’ he added gloomily, ‘now that’s all too late. He’s moaned himself into a tolerably tight corner. I’d just like to see, though, a British jury comparing this claimant with his photograph, ‘pon my word I would. Where would he be then, do you think?’
‘But my dear Mr Danton,’ went on the clear, languid voice Lawford had heard break so light-heartedly into laughter, ‘you don’t mean to tell me that a woman doesn’t know her own husband when she sees him—or, for the matter of that, when she doesn’t see him? If Tom came home from a ramble as handsome as Apollo to-morrow, I’d recognise him at the very first blush—literally! He’d go nuzzling off to get his slippers, or complain that the lamps had been smoking, or hunt the house down for last week’s paper. Oh, besides, Tom’s Tom—and there’s an end of it.’
‘That’s precisely what I think, Mrs Lovat; one is saturated with one’s personality, as it were.’
‘You see, that’s just it! That’s just exactly every woman’s husband all over; he is saturated with his personality. Bravo, Mr Craik!’
‘Good Lord,’ said Danton softly. ‘I don’t deny it!’
‘But that,’ broke in Sheila crisply—‘that’s just precisely what I asked you all to come in for. It’s because I know now, apart altogether from the mere evidence, that—that he is Arthur. Mind, I don’t say I ever really doubted. I was only so utterly shocked, I suppose. I positively put posers to him; but his memory was perfect in spite of the shock which would have killed a—a more sensitive nature.’ She had risen, it seemed, and was moving with all her splendid impressiveness of silk and presence across the general line of vision. But the hall was dark and still; her eyes were dimmed with light. Lawford could survey her there unmoved.