The Secret of the Tower. Anthony Hope

      “A tiring day, my dear Hector, very tiring. I’ve transacted a lot of business. But never mind that, it will keep. What of your doings?”

      Having sat the old man in the big chair by the fire, Beaumaroy sauntered across to the door of the Tower, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he returned to the fire and, standing in front of it, gave a lively and detailed account of his visit to Old Place.

      “They appear to be pleasant people, very pleasant. I should like to know them, if it was not desirable for me to live an entirely secluded life.” Mr. Saffron’s speech was very distinct and clean cut, rather rapid, high in tone but not disagreeable. “You make pure fun of this Miss Wall, as you do of so many things, Hector, but—” he smiled up at Beaumaroy—“inquisitiveness is not our favorite sin just now!”

      “She’s so indiscriminately inquisitive that it’s a thousand to one against her really finding out anything of importance, sir.” Beaumaroy sometimes addressed his employer as “Mr. Saffron,” but much more commonly he used the respectful “sir.” “I think I’m equal to putting Miss Delia Wall off.”

      “Still she noticed our weekly journeys!”

      “Half Inkston goes to town every day, sir, and the rest three times, twice, or once a week. I called her particular attention to the bag, and told her it was for books from Mudie’s!”

      “Positive statements like that are a mistake.” Mr. Saffron spoke with a sudden sharpness, in pointed rebuke. “If I form a right idea of that woman, she’s quite capable of going to Mudie’s to ask about us.”

      “By Jove, you’re right, sir, and I was wrong. We’d better go and take out a subscription tomorrow; she’ll hardly go so far as to ask the date we started it.”

      “Yes, let that be done. And, remember, no unnecessary talk.” His tone grew milder, as though he were mollified by Beaumaroy’s ready submission to his reproof. “We have some places to call at to-morrow, have we?”

      “They said they’d have some useful addresses ready for us, sir. I’m afraid, though, that we’re exhausting the most obvious resources.”

      “Still, I hope for a few more good consignments. I suppose you remain confident that the Sergeant has no suspicions as regards that particular aspect of the matter?”

      “I’m sure of it, up to the present. Of course there might be an accident, but with him and Mrs. Wiles both off the premises at night, it’s hardly likely; and I never let the bag out of my sight while it’s in the room with them, hardly out of my hand.”

      “I should like to trust him, but it’s hardly fair to put such a strain on his loyalty.”

      “Much safer not, sir, as long as we’re not driven to it. After all though, I believe the fellow is out to redeem his character, his isn’t an unblemished record.”

      “But the work, the physical labor, entailed on you, Hector!”

      “Make yourself easy about that, sir. I’m as strong as a horse. The work’s good for me. Remember I’ve had four years’ service.”

      Mr. Saffron smiled pensively. “It would have been funny if we’d met over there! You and I!”

      “It would, sir,” laughed Beaumaroy. “But that could hardly have happened without some very curious accident.”

      The old man harked back. “Yes, a few more good consignments, and we can think in earnest of your start.” He was warming his hands, thin yellowish hands, at the fire now, and his gaze was directed into it. Looking down on him, Beaumaroy allowed a smile to appear on his lips, a queer smile, which seemed to be compounded of affection, pity, and amusement.

      “The difficulties there remain considerable for the present,” he remarked.

      “They must be overcome.” Once again the old man’s voice became sharp and even dictatorial.

      “They shall be, sir, depend on it.” Beaumaroy’s air was suddenly confident, almost braggart. Mr. Saffron nodded approvingly. “But, anyhow, I can’t very well start till favorable news comes from—”

      “Hush!” There was a knock on the door.

      “Mrs. Wiles, to lay the table, I suppose.”

      “Yes! Come in!” He added hastily to Beaumaroy, in an undertone. “Yes, we must wait for that.”

      Mrs. Wiles entered as he spoke. She was a colorless, negative kind of a woman, fair, fat, flabby, and forty or thereabouts. She had been the ill-used slave of a local carpenter, now deceased by reason of over-drinking; her nature was to be the slave of the nearest male creature, not from affection (her affections were anemic) but rather, as it seemed, from an instinctive desire to shuffle off from herself any responsibility. But, at all events, she was entirely free from Miss Delia Wall’s proclivity.

      Mr. Saffron rose. “I’ll go and wash my hands. We’ll dine just as we are, Hector.” Beaumaroy opened the door for him; he acknowledged the attention with a little nod, and passed out to the staircase in the narrow passage. Beaumaroy appeared to consider himself absolved from any preparation, for he returned to the big chair and, sinking into it, lit another cigarette. Meanwhile Mrs. Wiles laid the table, and presently Sergeant Hooper appeared with a bottle of golden-tinted wine.

      “That, at least, is the real stuff,” thought Beaumaroy as he eyed it in pleasurable anticipation. “Where the dear old man got it, I don’t know; but in itself it’s almost worth all the racket.”

      And really, in its present stages, so far as its present developments went, the “racket” pleased him. It amused his active brain, besides (as he had said to Mr. Saffron) exercising his active body, though certainly in a rather grotesque and bizarre fashion. The attraction of it went deeper than that. It appealed to some of those tendencies and impulses of his character which had earned such heavy censure from Major-General Punnit and had produced so grave an expression on Captain Alec’s handsome face without, however, being, even in that officer’s exacting judgment, disgraceful. And, finally, there was the lure of unexplored possibilities, not only material and external, but psychological not only touching what others might do or what might happen to them, but raising also speculation as to what he might do, or what might happen to him at his own hands; for example, how far he would flout authority, defy the usual, and deny the accepted. The love of rebellion, of making foolish the wisdom of the wise, of hampering the orderly and inexorable treatment of people just as, according to the best modern lights, they ought to be treated, this lawless love was strong in Beaumaroy. Not as a principle; it was the stronger for being an instinct, a wayward instinct that might carry him, he scarce knew where.

      Mr. Saffron came back, greeted again by Beaumaroy’s courtly bow and Hooper’s vaguely reminiscent but slovenly military salute. The pair sat down to a homely beefsteak; but the golden tinted wine gurgled into their glasses. But, before they fell to, there was a little incident. A sudden, but fierce, anger seized old Mr. Saffron. In his harshest tones he rapped out at the Sergeant, “My knife! You careless scoundrel, you haven’t given me my knife!”

      Beaumaroy sprang to his feet with a muttered exclamation: “It’s all my fault, sir. I forgot to give it to Hooper. I always lock it up when I go out.” He went to a little oak sideboard and unlocked a drawer, then came back to Mr. Saffron’s side. “Here it is, and I humbly apologize.”

      “Very good! very good!” said the old man testily, as he took the implement.

      “Ain’t anybody going to apologize to me?” asked Hooper, scowling.

      “Oh, get out, Sergeant!” said Beaumaroy good-naturedly. “We can’t bother about your finer feelings.” He glanced anxiously at Mr. Saffron. “All right now, aren’t you, sir?” he inquired.

      Mr. Saffron drank his glass of wine. “I am perhaps too sensitive to any kind of inattention; but it’s not wholly unnatural in my position, Hector.”

      “We