Part 12 (1/2)
'It's a book I shall not throw away,' she went on, 'because the man who wrote it is a great friend of mine, and I have everything he has ever written. So, as I shall keep it, I want it to remind me that you and I grew to know each other better on this voyage.'
It occurred to the veteran that while this was complimentary to himself it was not altogether promising for Lus.h.i.+ngton, who was the old friend in question. A woman who loves a man does not usually ask another to write a line in that man's book. Griggs set the point of the pencil on the fly-leaf as if he were going to write; but then he hesitated, looked up, glanced at Margaret, and at last leaned back in the seat, as if in deep thought.
'I didn't mean to give you so much trouble,' Margaret said, still smiling. 'I thought it must be so easy for a famous author like you to write half-a-dozen words!'
'A ”sentiment” you mean!' Griggs laughed rather contemptuously, and then was grave again.
'No!' Margaret said, a little disappointed. 'You did not understand me. Don't write anything at all. Give me back the book.'
She held out her hand for it; but as if he had just made up his mind, he put his pencil to the paper again, and wrote four words in a small clear hand. She leaned forwards a little to see what he was writing.
'You know enough Latin to read that,' he said, as he gave the book back to her.
She read the words aloud, with a puzzled expression.
'”Credo in resurrectionem mortuorum.”' She looked at him for some explanation.
'Yes,' he said, answering her unspoken question. '”I believe in the resurrection of the dead.”'
'It means something especial to you--is that it?'
'Yes.' His eyes were very sad again as they met hers.
'My voice?' she asked. 'Some one--who sang like me? Who died?'
'Long before you were born,' he answered gently.
There was another little pause before she spoke again, for she was touched.
'Thank you,' she said. 'Thank you for writing that.'
CHAPTER V
Mr. Van Torp arrived in London alone, with one small valise, for he had sent his man with his luggage to the place in Derbys.h.i.+re. At Euston a porter got him a hansom, and he bargained with the cabman to take him and his valise to the Temple for eighteenpence, a sum which, he explained, allowed sixpence for the valise, as the distance could not by any means be made out to be more than two miles.
Such close economy was to be expected from a millionaire, travelling incognito; what was more surprising was that, when the cab stopped before a door in Hare Court and Mr. Van Torp received his valise from the roof of the vehicle, he gave the man half-a-crown, and said it was 'all right.'
'Now, my man,' he observed, 'you've not only got an extra s.h.i.+lling, to which you had no claim whatever, but you've had the pleasure of a surprise which you could not have bought for that money.'
The cabman grinned as he touched his hat and drove away, and Mr. Van Torp took his valise in one hand and his umbrella in the other and went up the dark stairs. He went up four flights without stopping to take breath, and without so much as glancing at any of the names painted in white letters on the small black boards beside the doors on the right and left of each landing.
The fourth floor was the last, and though the name on the left had evidently been there a number of years, for the white lettering was of the tint of a yellow fog, it was still quite clear and legible.
MR.I. BAMBERGER.
That was the name, but the millionaire did not look at it any more than he had looked at the others lower down. He knew them all by heart. He dropped his valise, took a small key from his pocket, opened the door, picked up his valise again, and, as neither hand was free, he shut the door with his heel as he pa.s.sed in, and it slammed behind him, sending dismal echoes down the empty staircase.
The entry was almost quite dark, for it was past six o'clock in the afternoon, late in March, and the sky was overcast; but there was still light enough to see in the large room on the left into which Mr.
Van Torp carried his things.