FullReads

The message he had read in the firelight–the brief line which this man had written–was the only answer he could find to these doubts. It seemed to point to something–some pulsing warmth–which could not have been kindled from nothing. And again the memory of a woman’s tears would come upon him, spurring him to fresh effort. Surely the man for whom she was breaking her heart could not be wholly evil, nor yet wholly callous! Somewhere behind those steely blue eyes, there must dwell some answer to the riddle. It might be that Cynthia would find it, though he failed. But he shrank, with an aversion inexpressible, from letting her try, so deeply rooted had his conviction become that her cherished girlish fancy was no more than the misty gold of dreams.

Yet for her sake he persevered–for the sake of those precious tears that had so wrung his heart he would do that which he had set out to do, notwithstanding the utmost discouragement. An insoluble enigma the man might be to him, but he would not for that turn back from the task that he had undertaken. West should have his chance in spite of it.

They were riding together over the crisp turf of the park one frosty morning in November, when Babbacombe turned quietly to his companion, pointing to the chimneys of a house half-hidden by trees, ahead of them.

“I want to go over that place,” he said. “It is standing empty, and probably needs repairs.”

West received the announcement with a brief nod. He never betrayed interest in anything.

“Shall I hold your animal?” he suggested, as they reached the gate that led into the little garden.

“No. Come in with me, won’t you? We can hitch the bridles to the post.”

They went in together through a rustling litter of dead leaves. The house was low, and thatched–a picturesque dwelling of no great size.

Babbacombe led the way within, and they went from room to room, he with note-book in hand, jotting down the various details necessary to make the place into a comfortable habitation.

“I daresay you can help me with this if you will,” he said presently. “I shall turn some workmen on to it next week. Perhaps you will keep an eye on them for me, decide on the decorations, and so forth. It is my agent’s house, you know.”

“Where is your agent?” asked West abruptly.

Babbacombe smiled a little. “At the present moment–I have no agent. That is what keeps me so busy. I hope to have one before long.”

West strolled to a window and opened it, leaning his arms upon the sill.

He seemed about to relapse into one of his interminable silences when Babbacombe, standing behind him, said quietly, “I am going to offer the post to you.”

“To me?” West wheeled suddenly, even with vehemence. “What for?” he demanded sharply.

Babbacombe met his look, still faintly smiling. “For our mutual benefit,” he said. “I am convinced that you have ample ability for this sort of work, and if you will accept the post I shall be very pleased.”

He stopped at that, determined for once to make the man speak on his own initiative. West was looking straight at him, and there was a curious glitter in his eyes like the sparkle of ice in the sun.

When he spoke at length his speech, though curt, was not so rigorously emotionless as usual.

“Don’t you think,” he said, “that you have carried this tomfoolery of yours far enough?”

Babbacombe raised one eyebrow. “Meaning?” he questioned.

West enlightened him with most unusual vigour.

“Meaning that tomfoolery of this sort never pays. I know. I’ve done it myself in my time. If I were you, I should pull up and try some less expensive hobby than that of mending broken men. The pieces are always chipped and never stick, and the chances are that you’ll cut your fingers trying to make ’em. No, sir, I won’t be your agent! Find a man you can trust, and let me go to the devil!”