‘But the devil, or a devil? Isn’t there a distinction?’ inquired Mrs Lovat.
‘It’s in the Bible, Bettie, over and over again. It was quite a common thing in the Middle Ages; I think I’m right in saying that, am I not, Mr Craik?’ Mr Craik must have solemnly nodded or abundantly looked his unwilling affirmation. ‘And what has been,’ continued Sheila temperately, ‘I suppose may be again.’
‘When the fellow began raving at me the other night,’ began Danton huskily, as if out of an unfathomable pit of reflection, ‘among other things he said that I haven’t any wish to remember was that I was a sceptic. And Bethany said ditto to it. I don’t mind being called a sceptic: why, I said myself Mrs Lovat was a sceptic just now! But when it comes to “devils,” Mrs Lawford—I may be convinced about the other, but “devils”! Well, I’ve been in the City nearly twenty-five years, and it’s my impression human nature can raise all the devils we shall ever need. And another thing,’ he added, as if inspired, and with an immensely intelligent blink, ‘is it just precisely that word in the Revised Version—eh, Craik?’
‘I’ll certainly look it up, Danton. But I take it that Mrs Lawford is not so much insisting on the word, as on the—the manifestation. And I’m bound to confess that the Society for Psychical Research, which has among its members quite eminent and entirely trustworthy men of science—I am bound to admit they have some very curious stories to tell. The old idea was, you know, that there are seventy-two princely devils, and as many as seven million—er—commoners. It may very well sound quaint to our ears, Mrs Lovat; but there it is. But whether that has any bearing on—on what you were saying, Danton, I can’t say. Perhaps Mrs Lawford will throw a little more light on the subject when she tells us on what precise facts her—her distressing theory is based.’
Lawford had soundlessly stolen a pace or two nearer, and by stooping forward a little he could, each in turn, scrutinise the little intent company sitting over his story around the lamp at the further end of the table; squatting like little children with their twigs and pins, fishing for wonders on the brink of the unknown.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Lovat was saying, ‘I quite agree, Mr Craik. Seventy-two princes, and no princesses. Oh, these masculine prejudices! But do throw a little more modern light on the subject, Sheila.’
‘I mean this,’ said Sheila firmly. ‘When I went in for the last time to say good-bye—and of course it was at his own wish that I did leave him; and precisely why he wished it is now unhappily only too apparent—I had brought him some money from the bank—fifty pounds, I think; yes, fifty pounds. And quite by the merest chance I glanced down, in passing, at a book he had apparently been reading, a book which he seemed very anxious to conceal with his hand. Arthur is not a great reader, though I believe he studied a little before we were married, and—well, I detest anything like subterfuge, and I said it out without thinking, “Why, you’re reading French, Arthur!” He turned deathly white but made no answer.’
‘And can’t you even confide to us the title, Sheila?’ sighed Mrs Lovat reproachfully.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Sheila; ‘you shall make as much fun of the thing as you like, Bettie, when I’ve finished. I don’t know why, but that peculiar, stealthy look haunted me. “Why French?” I kept asking myself. “Why French?” Arthur hasn’t opened a French book for years. He doesn’t even approve of the entente. His argument was that we ought to be friends with the Germans because they are more hostile. Never mind. When Ada came back the next evening and said he was out, I came the following morning—by myself—and knocked. No one answered, and I let myself in. His bed had not been slept in. There were candles and matches all over the house—one even burnt nearly to the stick on the floor in the corner of the drawing-room. I suppose it was foolish, but I was alone, and just that, somehow, horrified me. It seemed to point to such a peculiar state of mind. I hesitated; what was the use of looking further? Yet something seemed to say to me—and it was surely providential—“Go downstairs!” And there in the breakfast-room the first thing I saw on the table was this book—a dingy, ragged, bleared, patched-up, oh, a horrible, a loathsome little book (and I have read bits too here and there); and beside it was my own little school dictionary, my own child’s——’ She looked up sharply. ‘What was that? Did anybody call?’
‘Nobody I heard,’ said Danton, staring stonily round.