WHEN he left Green Street that night Herriard had become possessed of a conviction, vague yet positive, that the events of his life were moving swiftly towards a crisis. How near that crisis was and what shape it was about to take he little imagined. The problems before him were so acute and so perplexing that it was many hours before his brain, wearied with the struggle, let him sleep. The joy of his love, of his betrothal, was so mingled and interwoven with dark and troublesome thoughts, that only intermittently could he indulge it. One thing was certain. He must break with Gastineau. That disingenuous partnership could not continue. Apart from all idea of the fraud, for to live on the credit and success derived from another man’s brains now insistently presented itself to him as nothing less, it was now imperative that he should be his own master. The fortune to which he was giving a hostage must be an honest one, of that he was determined.
How Gastineau would take the question of their severance he could not be sure. The man was a contradiction, and his character forbade the idea of accurate forecast as to his actions. Anyhow the resolve had to be mooted and its reception faced, unpleasant task though it were, and the more so that on the surface it smacked of ingratitude.
That it should have been Gastineau of all men who had forced his unwelcome attentions upon Countess Alexia was a most deplorable coincidence, and with the hateful complications it suggested there mingled the harassing thought of the further deceit his knowledge of Gastineau’s existence forced upon him. There, however, he had the satisfactory excuse that his withholding of the fact would be for Alexia’s peace of mind; he might honourably conceal his knowledge till the disclosure of the secret was likely to have no ill effect; and indeed he was bound to secrecy by his solemn promise to Gastineau.
He fell to thinking of the man’s character, analyzing it by the light of what he had just heard, and told himself he could well imagine how unchivalrously ruthless Gastineau could be, how pitilessly he would work his resolve in a matter where his feelings were strongly touched. He could be, as Herriard had reason to know, tenaciously vindictive, malignant to a degree abnormal in human nature. Petty slights and discomfitures of the past were remembered and brought up again with a view to reprisal, for which, as has been seen, Herriard was the, often unwilling, instrument. He had, however, felt himself bound to fight Gastineau’s posthumous battles, to be the secret champion of the man who had so splendidly fulfilled his half of the contract, and indeed Gastineau, when arming his pupil for the conflicts, had always made very plausible excuses for the stinging aggressiveness of the attacks he was planning, and had a pleasant way of ornamenting with his wit what, divested of flourishes, amounted to little more than gratuitous bullying. That wit of his was the Matador’s cloak with which he covered the deadly sword of his invective. Happily for his own reputation Herriard, being a man of a character very different from his mentor’s, had been wont by a certain innate distinction and refinement of touch to soften the ugliness of the spite which underlay Gastineau’s methods and expressions. Still the animus was no less real to him, and in the present crisis was tinged by the disturbing consideration of what that resolute mind might be capable of working against his happiness and Alexia’s.
True, Gastineau in his present condition was to all intents powerless; but could a man with a brain so acute, so scheming, so restless, ever with safety be considered powerless for evil? Was not that extraordinary partnership, which had been established between them immediately Gastineau found he was to live, proof of what strange scheming he was capable? The whole situation was terribly disquieting, and Herriard found himself feverishly anxious for its solution.
Once or twice the strange report of Gastineau’s having been seen about and recognized came to his mind. It was the more curious to him in its coincidence with the real fact of the man’s being alive; but on the whole he attached little importance to it, being convinced it was merely a case of mistaken identity. There were plenty of stupid people walking the streets of London, all ready for a mystification; and, as Count Prosper had said, singular cases of resemblance were the experience of nearly every one. So Herriard let that pass without adding more than a momentary addition to his uneasiness.
The next day was a busy one for him in the Courts, and when they rose he had to hurry down to the House on an urgent whip to wait for an important division which promised to be very close. It was an annoying delay, seeing that he had made other plans for that afternoon. He naturally was eager to be with Alexia again, to make amends for the snatched wooing of the previous night; then there was Gastineau to see and the question of their severance to be determined.
But it was not until evening that Herriard found himself free to leave the House. It was then, being about the dinner hour, too late or too early to call on Alexia, so he drove to the outskirts of Mayfair, and then, as was his wont, dismissing the cab, walked to Gastineau’s.
His friend greeted him without a sign of the previous night’s animosity. It was with a smile only just tinged with cynicism that Gastineau inquired as to the result of his wooing.
“Well, Geof, is it settled?”
Herriard nodded. “I am sorry not to look for your congratulations, but I am accepted.”
Except by a curious contraction of the eyes, a tightening, as it were, of the muscles that govern the facial play, Gastineau’s face betrayed no feeling.
“You need not be so stand-offish about it, Geof,” he observed with a laugh. “It is extraordinary how, in affairs of the heart, men will resent all advice and comment on the most important event in their lives, even from their best friends. Now, please don’t get angry,” for Herriard had made an impatient movement; “do remember that, if I am a hopeless cripple, I can at least see as far into an affair of this sort, and a complex affair it is, as yourself. I have given you my advice, unfortunately it had to be unacceptable, and you have rejected it, voilà tout.”
“It sounded yesterday,” Herriard said, with a feeling of distaste at the reason which he knew underlay the other’s action, “less like advice than a threat.”
“A threat?” Gastineau drew back one side of his mouth in a patronizing smile of protest. “My dear fellow, you must be getting sensitive over this unfortunate affair. How should I threaten you?”
The wording of the question was vague, perhaps intentionally so. “That I cannot say,” Herriard returned shortly, still ruffled and not caring to thrash out the matter.
“No, I should think not,” Gastineau rejoined, with a little scornful laugh. “Don’t let us waste our time in talking nonsense. It is puerile. Now, tell me about your cases to-day.”
He dismissed and changed the subject with the peremptoriness of a schoolmaster dealing with a foolish pupil. Herriard rather welcomed the tone; it would facilitate the mooting of the important question he was there to settle.
He spoke shortly of the day’s cases: they had not been of great importance or complexity, and there was no reason for dwelling on them. Then their talk turned on the afternoon’s debate in the House. Gastineau questioned him minutely, as was sometimes his wont, about the speeches and the general conduct of the debate.
“Why on earth didn’t you speak?” he asked presently. There was a certain tartness in the tone of the question which to-day Herriard rather resented.
“I?” he replied. “I had nothing to say. I was not posted on the facts. Besides, they did not want me to get up.”
“Did not want you!” Gastineau echoed impatiently. “What had that to do with it? Your business,” he went on testily, “is to speak when it suits you, not when the Whips please. And as to not being posted in the facts, surely you could have gathered them from the opening speeches. The ineffable Congreve appears to have been in a particularly tight corner; there was your chance of giving the blatant ass a good kicking. But you missed it,” he added, in a tone of disgust.
“Congreve got it pretty hot from all sides, as it was.”
Gastineau made an exclamation of impatience. “Do you think he cared for that sort of basting? The hide of the superior person is thicker than any donkey’s. You must thrust through it and sting; mere drubbing is of no use. Who went for him?”
“Franklin and Hayland more particularly.”
“Pooh!” Gastineau returned contemptuously. “Do you think Congreve, who, after all, has some knowledge of men, cares for either of those? Poor old Franklin with his academical criticisms, and Hayland who is a snob at heart and quite ready to black Congreve’s boots to show that his antagonism is merely of party. And you, with this splendid opportunity to your hand, were content to leave Congreve’s trouncing to those feeble exponents of the art of taking the shine out of aristocratic frauds and weaklings. Upon my word, Geoffrey Herriard, I begin to despair of you.”
The opening for which Herriard was waiting had presented itself.
“In that case,” he returned quietly, “it would be better that our partnership should end.”
Gastineau shot a searching glance at him. “You think so?”
His fathoming, and yet unfathomable, manner was disconcerting, but Herriard stood to his point. “We seem to have been out of agreement lately,” he said.
“In one matter.”
“A very important one—to me, at least.”
Gastineau gave a little nod, and then a sneering smile spread over his pale face. “You mean you feel you can run alone,” he suggested, “that you can get on without me?”
The tone was so cutting that it forced Herriard to reply warmly. “That is very far from being the reason. I am sorry that you should impute such a motive to me.”
Gastineau laughed, still sneering. “I don’t know that I should blame you,” he said. “When a man feels his feet, the arm that has kept him up in deep water becomes an encumbrance.”
“You are utterly mistaken in the motive of my suggestion,” Herriard protested. “You have no cause to charge me with such rank ingratitude as that would be. The fact that I owe every step of my position to you makes me very unwilling to propose that we should work together no longer. Yet for some time past I have felt that our partnership must come to an end.”
“I can hardly offer any effective objection,” Gastineau replied, still with the suggestion of a little quiet scorn. “I am in your hands.” There was a subtle touch of irony in the words. “But even now you have not given me any adequate reason for the step, and it seems to me that I have at least a moral right to expect one.”
The whole reason could scarcely be given, and the half seemed absurdly weak and inadequate. Still Herriard tried to make the most of it. “The reason,” he answered, “is surely obvious. Our difference of opinion respecting the woman who is to be my wife.”
Gastineau gave a shrug and a laugh. “May difference of opinion—— You are taking the expression of mine very seriously, my dear Geof.”
“Can I do otherwise?”
“You might stop short at Quixotism.”
“Quixotism!” Herriard echoed. “How can we work together on the old footing with my knowledge that in your eyes my wife is a perjured murderess?”
Gastineau smiled deprecatingly. “Scarcely so bad as that.”
“Something very like it. Your opinion is that the Countess Alexia killed Martindale; venially, if not with malice aforethought; and has denied on oath all knowledge of how he came by his death.”
Contrary, perhaps, to Herriard’s expectation, Gastineau made no attempt to deny or even soften the expression of his judgment. “And so,” he said, with a reversion to his more languid manner, “you think that our eventful connection should come to an end?”
“I think it must,” Herriard answered, glad to bring the disagreeable subject to finality.
“Very well.” Then, with his peculiar smile, “But not to-day. You are not married yet. Who knows what may not happen before the wedding-day to modify my disturbing opinion? The real culprit may turn up. I hope you are searching for him; for, if I may say so without adding to my offence, the late verdict leaves something to be desired.”
“I know that,” Herriard assented gloomily.
Gastineau nodded to emphasize the necessity.
“Well,” he proceeded, “before the two halves of this pair of shears are unscrewed we may as well make one or two final cuts with them. I think we might get Mr. Congreve’s aquiline nose between them while they are yet in working condition. It is a pity you let him off to-day when he was delivered into your hand. But I suppose the affaire Rohnburg was responsible for that too. My dear Geoffrey, haven’t I told you that a man who would rise must keep his mind in divisions, and never allot more room than one of them to any one object? He must never allow the whole working to be thrown out of gear because one engine breaks down. Or, like a ship fitted with water-tight compartments, if one is pierced and flooded, his mind must still be buoyant and steerable. Yours seems now to be water-logged. Don’t be offended. I am going to inflict you with my maxims up to the end.”
Presently they parted: to all appearances not much worse friends than ever. Herriard promised to come again next day, and went off to call at Green Street. He had opened the street door when it occurred to him that it would be well for him to write a note of explanation to leave for Alexia in case he should not find her at home. Accordingly he shut the door again, and went into a little study on the ground floor which he had sometimes used for writing, when, perhaps, Gastineau had seemed tired, and he had not cared to bore him by staying in his room too long.
This room—it is as well to describe its situation in view of what happened—was approached through an arch, filled with a portière, from another and larger apartment which was fitted as a smoking-room, for, although Gastineau could have had little hope of using it himself, it was one of his fads and fancies to have his house perfectly appointed as a bachelor’s residence.
Herriard had passed into the inner room and sat down at the writing table, switching on a shaded electric lamp, for dusk had begun to fall and that room was always gloomy, shut in as it was and darkened by stained glass windows and sombre bookcases.
The short note was soon written. Herriard closed the envelope, looked at his watch, and then extinguished the lamp. It was somewhat earlier than he thought; he did not care to present himself at Green Street till dinner was well over. It would be as well to wait ten minutes longer. So he sat back in the writing chair and fell to reviewing his late interview with the man upstairs. It was an unspeakable relief to him that he had got over the awkward question, and had done so with as little unpleasantness as could have been expected. The disagreeable thought which overlay the whole delicate business was Gastineau’s disingenuous slander of Alexia. Had it been an honest expression of suspicion and doubt it would have been galling enough: being what it was, the outcome of spite, it had the natural effect of turning Herriard’s feelings of friendship and gratitude almost to loathing. Well, he thought, the separation is in train now; its completion is but a matter of days, or, at most, weeks. And then? He fell to wondering what Gastineau’s life would be. Would he find another friend, another partner? Very likely he would get hold of a second apt pupil and run him against his first. Would the new partner be primed to attack him as he himself had been forced to attack Congreve and other bêtes noires of Gastineau? Well, it could not be helped; let him be thankful that the questionable alliance had come to an end.
Then he thought how lonely Gastineau would be when his own daily visits were over: and he felt sorry, even for him, even for that restless, malicious spirit, cruelly, yet perhaps happily, fettered, yet so keen on working off his venom through the channel of another man’s self-interest. Could he be really sorry for him after what he had heard? Was not the man a danger? Had it not been for the best——
Suddenly the current of his thoughts was arrested, he could scarcely tell why. A moving presence near him, or an imperfectly realized sound, was responsible for the effect. Anyhow, Herriard straightened himself into a posture of attention and sat listening. The servant, Hencher, was out; Gastineau had told him that he should be alone in the house for some hours that evening. And yet here was—yes, the door stood open and he could have sworn that he had heard some one moving outside the room. He stood up and turned, waiting. Through the opening of the curtained archway he could see into the room beyond; the blind was not drawn down, and the light of a street lamp fell obliquely across the room. It was this dull stream of light that Herriard was watching; for an instant it had been intercepted as a dark shadow fell across it, then it streamed uninterruptedly again. Some one, something, was moving beyond the curtains; three steps would solve the mystery. For a moment Herriard hesitated; then he made a quick step forward. Only one. For beyond the screen of the portière the figure of a man appeared, moving quickly across the room until it was again hidden by the curtain on the other side. A man. Who was it? The back of the figure had been turned to him, and the light which shone into the room fell low, leaving the head in darkness. The passing of the figure had not broken the dead silence; was it really a human being, or an hallucination seen by Herriard’s excited brain, or—a supernatural visitation? These three possibilities flashed through Herriard’s mind as he stood dumbfounded for the moment. He held his breath to listen more acutely. A slight sound came from the outer room, a sound as of some small object being moved or laid down, and Herriard told himself that the apparition was scarcely supernatural. Then, before the watcher could further resolve the question, the open space was darkened again, and the mysterious figure stood between him and the light. Herriard was about to move forward, when the impulse changed, and involuntarily he drew back until he was half hidden by the angle of a bookcase by which he stood. A strange sensation which he could not define seemed to hold him there, without the power or the will to move, staring intently at the man’s figure which now seemed to be coming towards him.
Breathlessly, Herriard waited till the mysterious visitor should have advanced so far out of the obscurity that his face could be seen. In another moment the revelation came.
The man had approached the opening between the rooms; his hand was on the curtain; he pulled it aside a little, as though glancing into the study. As he turned his face, the light just brought it into clear visibility. With a shock the truth came to Herriard. The man before him was Gastineau.