“And your daughter—Miss Noreen?”
Cardinegh swallowed with difficulty. His unsteady fingers fumbled at the place where a man in the field carries a bit of ordnance. The ghost of a smile shook itself out on his face.
“Don’t think I am sorry,” he said. “I joggled the seats of the mighty. It was a life’s work. I’ve got my joy for it. It’s not what I expected—but it’s done. I can’t see the good of it clear as I did—but it’s done. Only I wanted to look it in the face like the old Jerry Cardinegh might have done—not sick, shaking, and half-drunk. I should have done it when the little house in Cheer Street only meant to me a sweet resting-place between wars. I burned out before the end, my son.”
“But Noreen——”
“In the name of God, don’t drive that home again! She’ll never know what the forty know. She’s provided for. I have had my day—thanks to you. They’ll let me clear from England. I’m accustomed to take short-notice trips, and to stay long. She will hear—as she always feared some time to hear—oh, typhoid in Madagascar, a junk murder up the Yangtse—potted somewhere!... Blessed little Noreen. In tears she told me what had happened to you at the Armory. Think how I felt, son. She loves you, Routledge. What—what I’ve done doesn’t affect her value—in your eyes?”
“Jerry, how did you get away with this thing in India?”
“Nobody knows but me. I suppose I’d better tell you. Before my last short trip home, there was a rumor of fighting in Afghanistan. You remember, eight or nine British correspondents gathered there, including you and me. Cantrell and I were rather close; and old Abduraman, I think, trusted me more than any of the others, on account of my age and service. He was an insatiable listener, and a perfect, an improved, double-action pump. I think it was one of the elements of his greatness—the wily old diplomat.
“Any way, I was closeted with him many times. You would come in at night after studying the strategic points of that devil’s land; no doubt, from Kabul to the Pass. For once in my life, I was content with office work. I mean Abduraman’s court and his thoughts. Then, too, I was much with Cantrell, who was a sort of secret-service chief in that district, as you well understand. From time to time the different agents would come in for a night—the men who do the dirty work for England.”
Cardinegh’s eyes blazed again. With a few admirable sentences, Routledge steadied him and regained the continuity....
“It was a still night, hot as hell,” Cardinegh went on. “Kabul can be hot when the winds die down from the mountains—but you were there that night. You know. I was in Cantrell’s house. Three of the Nameless who serve England with their lives, and are satisfied with a cipher message or a whispered word of praise from some head of department——”