For the thousandth time he reflected upon that curious and startling incident which he had seen with his own eyes in Cromwell Road, and of the inexplicable discovery he had made. He had not met Rolfe. That he should keep away from him was, in itself, suspicious. Without a doubt he knew the truth.
Max wondered whether Charlie had told his sister anything—whether he had told her the truth, and the reason of her determination not to speak was not to incriminate him. He knew in what strong affection she held her brother—how she always tried to shield his faults and magnify his virtues. Yet was it not only what might be very naturally supposed that she would do? Charlie was always very good to her. To him, she owed practically everything.
And so he pondered, smoking in silence while the band played and the after-dinner idlers gossiped and flirted on that dimly-lit lawn. He pondered when later on he took her to Oxford Street by the “tube,” and saw her to the corner of the street in which Cunnington’s barracks were situated, and he pondered as he drove along Piccadilly to the Traveller’s to have a final drink before going home.
Next morning, about eleven, he was in his pleasant bachelor sitting-room in Dover Street going over some accounts from his factor up in Scotland, when the door opened and Charlie Rolfe entered, exclaiming in his usual hearty way:
“Hulloa, Max, old chap, how are you?”
Barclay looked up in utter surprise. The visit was entirely unexpected, and so intimate a friend was Rolfe that he always entered unannounced.
In a moment, however, he recovered himself.
“Why, Charlie,” he exclaimed, motioning him to a low easy-chair on the other side of the fireplace, “you’re quite a stranger. Where have you been all this long time?”
“Oh! I thought you knew through Marion. I’ve been up in Glasgow. Had a lot of worries at the works—labour trouble and all that sort of thing,” he replied. “Those Scotch workmen are utterly incorrigible, but I must say that it’s due to agitators from our side of the border.”
“Yes; I saw something in the papers the other day about an impending strike. Have a cigar?” and he pushed the box towards his friend.