Part 6 (1/2)

”To-morrow, of course, the 13th.”

”Well, they're coming this evening by the 7.2.”

I looked over his shoulder; it _was_ the 12th undoubtedly. ”And mother and father aren't coming till the 9.30,” I sighed; ”I wish they were going to be here in time for dinner to entertain Mr. Marriott; he's sure to be eccentric--clever people always are.”

”Yes,” agreed Gerald, ”he'll talk miles above our heads; but never mind, there'll be old Jack.”

Cook and I next discussed the menu. I rather thought curry should figure in it, as Mr. Marriott came from India; but cook overruled me, saying it was ”such nasty hot stuff for this weather, and English curry wouldn't be like Indian curry either.”

When everything was in readiness for our guests Gerald and I went to the Prescotts', who were giving the tournament.

We had some splendid games, and Gerald was still playing in an exciting match when I found that the Marriotts' train was nearly due. Of course he couldn't leave off, so I said that I would meet them and take them home; we only lived about a quarter of a mile from the station, and generally walked.

I couldn't find my racquet for some time, and consequently had a race with the train, which luckily ended in a dead heat, for I reached the platform just as it steamed in.

The few pa.s.sengers quickly dispersed, but there was no sign of Jack; a tall, elderly man, wrapped in a thick overcoat, in spite of the hot evening, stood forlornly alone. I was just wondering if he could be Jack's father when he came up to me and said, ”Are you Margaret?”

”Yes,” I answered.

”I have often heard my boy speak of you,” he said, looking extremely miserable.

[Sidenote: Jack does not Come]

”But isn't he coming?” I cried.

He replied ”No” in such a hopeless voice and sighed so heavily that I was beginning to feel positively depressed, when he changed the subject by informing me that his bag had been left behind but was coming on by a later train, so, giving instructions for it to be sent up directly it arrived, I piloted him out of the station.

I had expected him to be eccentric, but he certainly was the oddest man I had ever met; he seemed perfectly obsessed by the loss of his bag, and would talk of nothing else, though I was longing to know why Jack hadn't come. The absence of his dress clothes seemed to worry him intensely. In vain I told him that we need not change for dinner; he said he must, and wouldn't be comforted.

”How is Jack?” I asked at last; ”why didn't he come with you?”

He looked at me for a moment with an expression of the deepest grief, and then said quietly, ”Jack is dead.”

”_Dead?_” I almost shouted. ”Jack dead! You can't mean it!”

But he only repeated sadly, ”Jack is dead,” and walked on.

It seemed incredible; Jack, whom we had seen a few weeks before so full of life and vigour, Jack, who had ridden with us, played tennis, and been the leading spirit at our rat hunts, it was too horrible to think of!

I felt quite stunned, but the sight of the poor old man who had lost his only child roused me.

”I am more sorry than I can say,” I ventured; ”it must be a terrible blow to you.”

”Thank you,” he said; ”you, who knew him well, can realise it more than any one; but it was all for the best--I felt that when I did it.”

”Did what?” I inquired, thinking that he was straying from the point.

”When I shot him through the head,” he replied laconically, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

If he had suddenly pointed a pistol at _my_ head I could not have been more astonished; I was absolutely petrified with horror, for the thought flashed into my brain that Jack's father must be mad!