“Then we must both go into obscurity. Perhaps we can live over in Brittany, in some out-of-the-way place, and learn to forget. But I said ‘we.’ No, dear, you could never forget. You are young and have your life before you—you must marry, child, and be a happy wife. I could never take you over to France to one of those deadly-dull little towns where life is only existence, and thoughts of the past become an obsession. No.”
“But I want to help you, dad,” she said, crossing to him and stroking his grey brow with her hand.
“I know, darling. I know,” he muttered. “You may be able to—one day. But—but to-night don’t let us discuss this painful subject further. I feel—well, I can’t bear it. Good-night!” And raising his bearded face, he kissed her, patting her upon the shoulder as he did so.
Reluctantly she withdrew, for he was insistent that she should retire.
Then, when she had gone, he drew several long, deep breaths—part of his Yogi training—and locking up the sheaf of accounts and the pass-books, he switched off the light and ascended the wide, handsome stairs to his room.
By the irony of fate the man who had built that magnificent town mansion in Park Lane, and had sold it to Purcell Sandys, had afterwards stood in the dock at the Old Bailey and had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for a gigantic fraud.
The position of Purcell Sandys was certainly a very serious one. Honest, upright, and straight-spoken, he had, from small beginnings, attained greatness in the financial world, until the name of the firm was one to conjure with in the money markets of Europe. But he was ever a man of honour. During the war he saw the way open to make a profit of five millions sterling by dealing with Germany through a certain source in South America.
The proposition was put to him on the day of the air-raid on Brixton. He heard the sleek agent of the enemy, and smoked a good cigar as he listened. Then he rose from his chair, and said:
“Look here! I’m an Englishman! Get out! There’s the door. And if you don’t get out of England in twelve hours you’ll find yourself arrested. Get out!”
And even while the caller was in the room he crossed to the telephone and rang up “M.O.5” at the War Office.