Part 33 (2/2)
”Tell me all about it, old fellow,” said Gortre.
”Well, there isn't very much to tell, only when I came back from Palestine after all that excitement I felt quite lost and miserable.
Something seemed taken away out of one's life. Then there didn't seem much to do, and some of the old set looked me up and I have been racketing about town a good bit.”
”I thought you'd got over all that, Harold; because, putting it on no other grounds, you know the game is _not_ worth the candle.”
”So I had, Basil, before”--he swallowed something in his throat--”before _this_ happened. I didn't believe in it at first, of course, or, at least, not properly, when I got Hands's letter. But when I got out East--and you don't know and won't be able to understand how the East turns one's ideas upside down even at ordinary times--when I got out there and _saw_ what Hands had found, then everything seemed slipping away. Then the Commission came over and I was with them all and heard what they had to say. I know the whole private history of the thing from first to last. It made me quite hopeless--a terrible feeling--the sort of utter dreariness that Poe talks of that the man felt when he was riding up to the House of Usher. Of course, thousands of people must have felt just the same during the past weeks. But to have the one thing one leaned upon, the one hope that kept one straight in this life, the hope of another and happier one, cut suddenly out of one's consciousness! Is it any wonder that one has gone back to the old temptations? I don't think so, Basil.”
His voice dropped, an intense weariness showed in his face. His whole body seemed permeated by it, he seemed to sink together in his chair.
All the mental pain he had endured, all the physical languor of fast living, that terrible nausea of the soul which seizes so imperiously upon the vicious man who is still conscious of sin; all these flooded over him, possessed him, as he sat before his friend.
An enormous pity was in Basil's heart as he saw this concrete weakness and misery. He realised what he had only guessed at before or seen but dimly. He would not have believed this transformation possible; he had thought Harold stronger. But even as he pitied him he marvelled at the Power which had been able to keep the man pure and straight so long.
Even this horrid _debacle_ was but another, if indirect, testimony to the power of Faith.
And, secondly, as he listened to his friend's story, a deep anger, a righteous wrath as fierce as flame burned within him as he thought of the two men who, he was persuaded, had brought this ruin upon another.
In Spence he was able to see but a single case out of thousands which he knew must be similar to it. The evil pa.s.sions which lie in the hearts of all men had been loosened and unchained; they had sprung into furious activity, liberated by the appalling conspiracy of Schuabe and Llwellyn.
It is noticeable that there was by this time hardly any doubt in Gortre's mind as to the truth of his suspicions.
”I understand it all, old man,” he said, ”and you needn't tell me any more. I can sympathise with you. But I have much to tell you--news, or, at least, theories, which you will be astounded to hear. Listen carefully to me. I believe that just as you were the instrument of first bringing this news to public notice, so you and I are going to prove its falsity, to unearth the most wicked conspiracy in the world's history.
Pull yourself together and follow me with all your power. All hope is not yet gone.”
Basil saw, with some relief, the set and attentive face before him, a face more like the old Spence. But, as he began to tell his story, there flashed into his mind a sudden picture of the old Cornish woman in the train, and he marvelled at that greater faith as his eye fell upon the foul disorder of the room.
CHAPTER X
THE TRIUMPH OF SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN
In the large, open fireplaces of the Sheridan Club dining-room, logs of pine and cedar wood gave out a regular and well-diffused warmth.
Outside, the snow was still falling, and beyond the long windows, covered with their crimson curtains, the yellow air was full of soft and silent movement.
The extreme comfort of the lofty, panelled dining-room was accentuated a hundred-fold, to those entering it, by the chilly experience of the streets.
The electric lights burnt steadily in their silk shades, the gleams falling upon the elaborate table furniture in a thousand points of dancing light.
At one of the tables, laid for two people, Sir Robert Llwellyn was sitting. He was in evening dress, and his ma.s.sive face was closely scrutinising a printed list propped up against a wine-gla.s.s before him.
His expression was interested and intent. By his side was a sheet of the club note-paper, and from time to time he jotted down something upon it with a slender gold pencil.
The great archaeologist was ordering dinner for himself and a guest with much thought and care.
_Creme d'asperge a la Reine_
in his neat writing, the letters distinct from one another--almost like an inscription in Uncial Greek character, one might have fancied.
_Turbot a l'Amiral_ promised well; the plump, powerful fingers wrote it down.
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