Part 53 (1/2)

Then, when the boy had gone, he read again the telegram he had received:

”_Have received letter from Frank; can probably discover address if I come to town. Can you put me up to-night?_--JACK KIRKBY, Barham.”

He pondered it a minute or so. Then he finished his note to Hamilton's, but it was with a distracted manner. Then for several minutes he walked up and down his rooms with his hands in his jacket-pockets, thinking very deeply. He was reflecting how remarkable it was that he should hear of Frank again just at this time, and was wondering what the next move of Providence would be.

The rest of d.i.c.k's day was very characteristic of him; and considering my other personages in this story and their occupations, I take a dramatic sort of pleasure in writing it down.

He went out to lunch with a distinguished lady of his acquaintance--whose name I forbear to give; she was not less than seventy years old, and the two sat talking scandal about all their friends till nearly four o'clock. The Talgarth affair, even, was discussed in all its possible lights, and d.i.c.k was quite open about his own part in the matter. He knew this old lady very well, and she knew him very well. She was as shrewd as possible and extremely experienced, and had helped d.i.c.k enormously in various intricacies and troubles of the past; and he, on the other hand, as a well-informed bachelor, was of almost equal service to her. She was just the least bit in the world losing touch with things (at seventy you cannot do everything), and d.i.c.k helped to keep her in touch. He lunched with her at least once a week when they were both in town.

At four he went to the Bath Club, ordered tea and toast and cigarettes, and sat out, with his hat over his eyes, on the balcony, watching the swimmers. There was a boy of sixteen who dived with surprising skill, and d.i.c.k took the greatest possible pleasure in observing him. There was also a stout man of his acquaintance whose ambition it had been for months to cross the bath by means of the swinging rings, and this person, too, afforded him hardly less pleasure, as he always had to let go at the fourth ring, if not the third, whence he plunged into the water with a sound that, curiously enough, was more resonant than sibilant.

At six, after looking through all the ill.u.s.trated papers, he went out to get his coat, and was presently in the thick of a heated argument with a member of the committee on the subject of the new carpet in the front hall. It was not fit, said d.i.c.k (searching for hyperboles), for even the drawing-room of the ”Cecil.”

This argument made him a little later than he had intended, and, as he came up in the lift, the attendant informed him, in the pa.s.sionless manner proper to such people, that the Mr. Kirkby who had been mentioned had arrived and was waiting for him in his rooms.

(III)

Shortly before midnight d.i.c.k attempted to sum up the situation. They had talked about Frank practically without ceasing, since d.i.c.k's man had set coffee on the table at nine o'clock, and both had learned new facts.

”Well, then, wire to go down to this man, Parham-Carter,” said d.i.c.k, ”the first thing after breakfast to-morrow. Do you know anything about the Eton Mission?”

”No. One used to have a collection for it each half, you know, in the houses.”

”How do we go?”

”Oh! railway from Broad Street. I've looked it up. Victoria Park's the station.”

d.i.c.k drew two or three draughts of smoke from his cigar-b.u.t.t, and laid it down in a small silver tray at his elbow. (The tray was a gift from the old lady he had lunched with to-day.)

”All you've told me is extraordinarily interesting,” he said. ”It really was to get away this girl that he's stopped so long?”

”I expect that's what he tells himself--that's the handle, so to speak.

But it's chiefly a sort of obstinacy. He said he would go on the roads, and so he's gone.”

”I rather like that, you know,” said d.i.c.k.

Jack snorted a little.

”Oh, it's better than saying a thing and not doing it. But why say it?”

”Oh! one must do something,” said d.i.c.k. ”At least, some people seem to think so. And I rather envy them, you know. I'm afraid I don't.”

”Don't what?”

”Don't do anything. Unless you can call this sort of thing doing something.” He waved his hand vaguely round his perfectly arranged room.

Jack said nothing. He was inclined to be a little strenuous himself in some ways, and he had always been conscious of a faint annoyance with d.i.c.k's extreme leisureliness.

”I see you agree,” went on d.i.c.k. ”Well, we must see what can be done.”