Chapter FOUR: I

MIZZI was there on the platform--a calm, exquisite Mizzi, who seemed to have grown more serene than ever during the five years since I had last seen her. "I knew you would come," she said, pressing my hand, and the accent was better--oh, _much_ better. She led me out of the station without saying a word except to hope that I had had a good journey. Then, in the station-yard, she gave the porter a few business-like directions about my hand-luggage, and find imperiously prevented me from summoning a cab. I soon saw the reason why. It came in the form of a smart motor equipage to seat six or eight passengers and emblazoned in gold letters on a blue background, "Hotel London." "You see," said Mizzi, as the chauffeur opened the door for us, "I haf got my omnibus...." Not till we were speeding along the sunlit boulevard did she mention Terry. And then she whispered: "Ever since I sent my telegraph I haf been wondering whether you will be angry.

"Why?"

She said: "I sent it because--because I felt I _must_ send it. But you--when you see him--you may think I haf brought you here on--what you call it?--a fool's errand?"

"But why?"

The car swerved round a corner and she almost fell into my arms. "When you see him," she said, "you may say to me, 'He iss not ill at all....' But--we cannot talk about it here.... In a few moments you will haf breakfast with me, and I will explain everything."

"But surely--if we go to your place--Terry will see us?"

"No. He does not know you are coming. You must tell him that you haf come here on some business.... And also, he will be at hiss work by now--he goes very early in the morning."

"He's well enough to go to work, then?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and answered: "That iss what I thought you would say. I am sure you will be very angry with me.... But wait--wait till I haf explained...."

II

The car turned into the Laudon Gasse, but it was not the familiar apartment-house that confronted me when, a moment later, I stepped out on to the pavement. It was the "Hotel London," with a frontage of eighty feet, and an electric sign over the entrance. And also there was an uniformed porter to attend to my luggage, a bureau, an Aufzug fur Personen, a Gastzimmer, and a notice declaring "English Spoken Here: On Parle Français; Si Parla Italiano...." Mizzi could see my astonishment as I penetrated further into such colossal metamorphosis; and I could see her pride. She said, almost apologetically: "It iss a very good hotel. Ass good ass the Bristol, but not so expensif.... My mother--did you know?--died two years ago, and the last thing she said wass to warn me not to do all this because it would not pay.... But--I do it--all the same--and it _does_ pay...."

Five minutes later we were sitting together in her comfortably furnished sitting-room, with an English breakfast of ham-and-eggs before us. And she was trying to tell me why she had sent me that telegram.

He _was_ ill, she said, whether I thought so or not. His going to work really _proved_ that he was ill, because the hours he spent at the laboratories were absurd. He practically lived there. He went very early in the mornings and came back very late at nights, and he had grown very quiet and silent, hardly speaking a word even when he met her, which wasn't very often. He had been overworking for years, but lately he had been more than overworking. She was sure he was on the verge of a breakdown. There had been a doctor staying at the hotel--a German nerve specialist--and his opinion, formed merely from observation of Terry during the few seconds of a lift-journey, had been sufficiently disquieting. "And then once--but that wass many weeks ago--he wass ill when he came in at night, and he began to say things to himself in a very strange way. I would think he wass drunken, but he does not drink.... He talked about hiss work, and you, and somebody named Helen.... Who iss this Helen? Do you know?"

I wonder if the shock of that sent me pale suddenly. She seemed to notice something in my face, anyway, for she went on, gazing at me intently: "I wondered if this Helen wass a lady in England whom he had known a long time ago...."

She paused, and then, as if accepting the fact that there were things I could tell her, but wouldn't, went on: "So you see why I sent for you. I am afraid for him--I am afraid of what will happen. You must take him away--to England--anywhere--anywhere where he cannot work.... Otherwise--I do not like to think of what will happen."

"When can I see him?" I asked.

She said: "He will come back here to-night--probably very late--and you must tell him then, and persuade him, and not go away till he hass given in...." She leaned forward across the table towards me and suddenly laid her cool hand on mine. "Oh, I know it will not be easy for you--I know it iss like trying to move a rock ... but...." An atom of calmness left her as she continued: "I can do nothing. I haf tried, but it iss no use. He takes no notice of me now.... Oh, I know how I haf deranged you--you leave your work in London and come all the way here thinking he iss ill, and then you find he iss not ill as you expect--I know you think I ought not to haf sent this telegraph for you--but I--_I_ am glad you haf come--because you can help him. Oh, you _must_ help him--you _must_ take him away where he cannot work. He iss _worth_ helping--he iss worth anything that can be done--_you_ know that, don't you?"

I nodded, and she suddenly began to cry. "It iss stupid of me," she said, wiping her eyes. "I did not think I should be so stupid.... But after seven years, I like him very much. I did not ever meet any man--except him--whom I could marry...."

So that was it.

I thought of that afternoon, years before, when Helen had made a similar confession across the table at Rumpelmayer's. But Helen, of course, had told me differently; she had been excited, ecstatic; whereas Mizzi was calm and a little sad. What was it in Terry that could so attract them both--Helen the brilliant, pleasure-loving woman who was still, in so many ways, a girl; and Mizzi, the calm, business-like girl who was almost more than a woman?

And then I remembered how, on my former visit to Vienna, I had jocularly suggested to him that he should marry Mizzi.... Well, why not? If only he loved her a little, it wouldn't be at all a bad match. She on her side had love for him, brains, energy, and a flourishing business of her own. Hadn't he once told me that she was "the sort of woman he could stand, anyway"? ... Supposing they were to marry? The idea curiously attracted me.... Terry as a hotel-proprietor--but no, of course; Mizzi would always be that; she wouldn't be such a fool as to let him have anything to do with the business. He would plod along with his research-work, and she would look after him and see that he didn't overwork, and on fine Sundays she would positively compel him to go with her to the Semmering.... And I should spend my annual holidays at the Hotel London and take the pair of them to all the theatres and operas.... Delightful vision!

I said, marvelling at her: "And yet, although you feel like that about him, you want me to take him back with me to England?"

And she answered: "Yes, if it iss the best for him. I want anything to happen that iss the best for him...."

III

We did not talk for long because she had so much business to attend to. But she had said enough--enough for anger, if there had ever been any--to melt into compassion.

The day was very hot, and I was very sleepy after the long journey. I didn't go out of doors except to send a reassuring telegram to Roebuck; most of the time I spent dozing in an armchair in the cool lounge. Towards the red-gold dusk I fell asleep, and it was Terry who waked me. I was startled, because I hadn't expected him to arrive so soon. Mizzi must have prepared him about me, for _his_ surprise, though obvious, was restrained. "How are you?" he began with an odd sort of calmness. "Mizzi says you're over here on business."

Mizzi had evidently done her work well, which was fortunate in view of my sleepily dazed condition. I could only stagger to my feet and shake his hand and reply: "Oh, I'm fairly fit, I'm glad to say. How are you?"

And then I really saw him. Till then the bright glow of the sunset through the windows and the cloudiness of disturbed sleep had made me stare vaguely without seeing anything at all. But the movement out of the chair gave me sight, and as soon as I saw, I was almost dazed again. For he was _different_. Of course, after five years, he was bound to be different, but somehow the difference was different. It wasn't that he looked particularly ill (though he certainly didn't look well); it was just that he had a look in him of somebody else--somebody whom I had never seen before. Perhaps if I had met him then for the first time, I shouldn't have been in the least alarmed; I should have thought it was all perfectly natural--the blue eyes like sharpened swords, the short-cropped hair with its earliest streaks of iron-grey, the pale, lined cheeks, and the shoulders with their hint of a stoop.... Good God! And he was hardly thirty! He looked fifty to me as I saw him that night. He looked a genius, a poet, a madman, an eastern seer--anything and anybody except the Terry I had known.

Only his voice and mannerisms were the same. He still spoke with an air of reluctance. He still half-smiled. "Extraordinary," he said, "that you should arrive to-day. Really extraordinary...."

"Why?"

"Because to-day"--and he suddenly seemed to grow excited--"I can't explain it to you--not in detail.... But it means--almost certainly it means--success in the work I am busy on--success after all these years--after so many disappointments."

I congratulated him (though I was still too dazed to do anything with much show of fervour), and then he began a slow cross-examination. How long was I staying? Had Mizzi given me a good room? Was my business likely to occupy all or most of the time? I answered as well as I could, and then, with astonishing calmness, he said: "Don't you think that, in the circumstances, I deserve a holiday?"

He went on, before amazement gave me a chance of replying: "Well, I'm going to take one, anyhow. I'm going to take a week--at least a week. And you can combine business with pleasure and come with me. We'll go to Buda by one of the Danube steamers. You wanted to do that trip the last time you were here, didn't you? ... I think the boat leaves about eight to-morrow morning--Mizzi will tell us. And then, after our jaunt, you can go back to London and I can come back here and get to work again."

It would have been positively comic but for the wildness of his eyes and the hectic colour that had suddenly flooded his cheeks. There was I, wondering how on earth to persuade him to take a holiday; and then, before I had even time to begin, he was actually suggesting one himself.... "Look here," I exclaimed rather bewilderedly. And then, very uneloquently, I put it to him that a few days in Buda wasn't my idea of a holiday for him, and that what he needed was a far longer one--months, in fact. Why couldn't he put work on one side for a while and accompany me back to England?

I knew from the way he shook his head that it wasn't the slightest use attempting to persuade him. There was nothing in England for him, he said. He didn't care if he never saw England again. Besides, he couldn't put his work on one side for months at a time--the idea was unthinkable. He could spare a week at most--as a concession to me and in celebration of the success he had achieved--and then he must go back again to the laboratories. Because he had achieved _something_ wasn't any reason for resting on his oars; the _something_ was only a fraction of what was to be achieved in due course.... He exclaimed, with a curious ecstasy in his voice: "I'm wonderfully happy--just wonderfully.... There comes a time when you turn a sort of corner in life, and see all the road behind you that you have traveled. And to look round and see _that_, if you've slacked, is the most miserable sight on earth--but if you _haven't_ slacked--if you've really done anything--it's _great_--it makes you feel"--he laughed and ended up: "that you deserve a short holiday, at any rate."

So (continuing) it must be Buda. The river-trip was very enjoyable, and he was sure we should both have a fine time. Mizzi would tell us of a good hotel in Buda....

We had dinner in his room and talked afterwards until late, and I don't think I ever remember him so garrulous. Yes, garrulous. But he wouldn't, for all that, tell me what his success that day had been. He kept throwing out obscure hints--as if the guarding of the secret obsessed and worried him. Once I mentioned the word "cancer," but he shrugged his shoulders rather excitedly and told me to guess that, or anything else, if I liked. It wasn't _he_ who insisted on secrecy, he said, but Karelsky, and of course he was under obligation to obey Karelsky's rule.... The whole matter seemed to me just slightly childish, for if he couldn't tell me anything of importance, why didn't he change the subject? But he didn't; perhaps he couldn't. He kept reverting to it at every pause in the conversation; he kept assuring me that his work had made him wonderfully happy; there was nothing, he said, in the whole world so wonderful as doing what was worth doing. All that sort of talk rather surprised me; it reminded me of a revivalist's rhapsody on the joys of salvation. I'm not sneering--don't think that. It's just that I couldn't have imagined him saying some of the things he did say. He _was_ different--mightily different.

IV

We went to Buda-Pesth.

When I think of all that happened as a result of our going, the question occurs to me: What _drove_ us there? That we _were_ driven, by some kind of ironical fate, is a tempting theory if only because of the numerous reasons against going which were either ignored or overridden. I don't know even now why in the end I agreed to it. I positively loathed the thought of getting up early in the morning and, after two days and two nights of travel, embarking on a third day. Besides, I had left my work to visit a sick friend, not a friend who cheerfully invited me to go on holiday with him. Terry, of course, wasn't to know that. He thought I had come to Vienna on business, and as I had vaguely assured him that the business could be transacted at any time, the main avenue of argument against the Buda trip was closed to me. All I could say was that I was tired after the journey, to which he replied that nothing could be more suitable for a tired traveller than a whole day on a river-steamer. "Besides," he added, "I know how keen you were to see Buda the last time you were here." (That was true enough.) "And--to tell you the truth--I have never quite forgiven myself for not going with you then. It was selfish of me...."

What could I say or do after that? When I told Mizzi we were going she was both astonished and pleased. "And he suggested it himself?" she said, as she wrote me out the address of a hotel in Pesth. "That iss _so_ good--and you are evidently such a big influence to him." (I think she was wrong there, whatever it was that she meant.) "But, of course, one week--it iss _nothing_. It iss when you are with him in Buda that you must persuade him again.... I think you know how to do it--oh, I am so glad that I sent for you!"

So we went on board the paddle-boat at the Praterkai the next morning. It was one of those dim preludes to a hot summer's day, when the sun climbs slowly through opaque mists, and the heat seems first of all to rise up like an exhalation from the earth. As the boat chugged its way downstream the air was deliciously cool and fragrant, and there was something indescribably drowsy in the mist-hung panorama of fields and homesteads. Terry sat with me on the top deck, and during the greater part of the journey I was busy making up my mind about him. I think it was his extraordinary buoyancy that was most disquieting, and that made me realize, in the end, that Mizzi hadn't brought me on a fool's errand. He was _too_ exuberant; _too_ talkative. Again, as on the evening before, the things he said were the things I couldn't have believed he would ever say. He told me, for example (and without being asked), that he had done with women. He liked Mizzi because there was no nonsense about her, because she never tried to "play the woman game" with him. Not that it would affect him if she did, except that he would think less of her.

I asked him if he ever heard from Helen, and he replied, almost triumphantly: "Never. Never since that last letter that I didn't answer."

I told him that she had taken to spending most of her time out of England, and he interrupted, with his triumph fading into mere excitement: "I don't want to hear about her. I tell you--haven't I already told you?--that I've cut myself adrift from all that part of my life? It's gone--it's almost forgotten--and now, with this far more wonderful happiness, I don't want to have anything to do with it--even in memory...." And he added, unnecessarily, that he had changed during those years that I had not seen him.

It was then that I suggested that he should marry Mizzi. Rather to my astonishment he didn't indignantly protest, or even repeat his assurance that he had done with women. He said merely: "It's a hundred to one she wouldn't want me. And, in any case, it seems a pity to interrupt our friendship."

He said that sincerely, mind--without the slightest trace of cynicism.

V

I see now, as I think of it, that gold day of June, with the rippling Danube under the breeze, and the sunshine glinting on the towers and windows of Bratislava. I see the mists lifting towards midday, and the ebb of humanity from the scorching decks to the _Speisesaal_, where the wide-open windows are only an arm's length over the water. Everywhere, like a seething tropical incense, is the tang of paprika; paprika flavouring the soup: paprika stuffed with rice as an entrée; a slice of paprika with the veal and a wedge with dessert; rust-brown paprika pepper in all the cruets; golden Magyar wine and paprika--polyglot chatter and flashing gold-filled teeth and paprika--Heavens, what a meal--a strident C Major symphony of a meal.... And then the beat of the engines suddenly hushed, and the boat gliding against some wayside landing-place where all the local folk are gathered--red-bloused, yellow-bloused peasant women and a _gendarmerie_ in blue.... Swift and magical interlude--with the brown-skinned men, waist-naked, rowing in the river, and the boatmen half-singing as they haul in the gangway--"_Achtung_--_Achtung_...." Then off again into midstream, chug-chugging under the porcelain blaze of the afternoon....

But at last, with tropic swiftness, the sun sinks low and dusk falls; it is the grey Danube, and then the black Danube, with the forests rolling down to the far edge of it. And the tang of paprika, lulled for a while, is spreading and deepening again, until the boat is almost hushed with it--as if the ghosts of all the lunches and dinners that have ever been served on board have come back to haunt.... It is intolerable and unforgettable, with the waiters slinking round and the bald heads, glistening with sweat, and the clink of glasses, and the lights of Pesth already aglow in the southern sky, and Terry lingering over his coffee and telling me how pitiable it would be to interrupt his friendship with Mizzi by marrying her....

All that comes back to me now, as I write, more clearly than I could ever have believed.

VI

We reached Pesth at seven o'clock, and drove to the hotel that Mizzi had recommended--the Andrassy. There we booked rooms, and thence, half an hour later, strolled out into the cool and flower-scented streets. The city was living, enchanted--the pavements thronged, and all the cafés noisy with speech and laughter. At one of them, as we passed, a couple were just leaving, and we eagerly took their places, squirming our way amidst the shrubs and marble-topped tables. Terry had coffee and I a bottle of Tokay, and the orchestra (one fiddle and a piano) played very languorously Toselli's _Serenade_. It was the sort of night when you never dream of asking what time it is--when life seems to rush at you full-tilt and bring the tears to your eyes (or perhaps it is only the wine that does that; one never knows.) And then suddenly, as I was lighting an immense cigar, I saw a man approaching whose face I vaguely recollected; he evidently knew me as well, for he smiled and held out his hand with great cordiality.... Ah, I remembered--his name was Bentley. I didn't know him at all well, and I daresay if he had seen me in a London restaurant he wouldn't have bothered to introduce himself at all. But Buda-Pesth was different, and my single meeting with him at one of the Englehart parties in Eaton Square gave him ample excuse for affability.

I introduced him to Terry, and he sat down and accepted a cigar. He was pleasant enough company, though no doubt he was better pleased to see us than we were to see him. He was in an English firm of electrical engineers, he told us, and had been sent out to some God-damned spot in the middle of Transylvania to see what was wrong with some equally God-damned turbine. And the God-damned job had taken three weeks, and as he didn't know a word of the God-damned language he had had what might be termed a perfectly God-damned time. But he was on his way back now, thank heaven, and would continue the journey by the Orient Express that evening. "Awfully jolly meeting you in a place like this, eh? Damn it all, it's decent to hear my own voice again, let alone yours. But you're not the only English folks I have seen in this city. There were an interesting couple at the hotel where I stayed overnight--the Andrassy."

"Our hotel," I interpolated, and he went on: "Oh, well, then, you're almost bound to meet them. I didn't--I was only there for a few hours, and the chap was with his wife--very _en famille_ sort of thing, don't you know--and besides, I only knew him by sight. But I believe you once told me he was a great pal of yours--Geoffrey Severn, the lawyer johnny...."

I remember saying, very calmly: "Really? How extraordinary! And his wife as well, you say?"

And Bentley's casual reply: "Yes.... Damned pretty woman, too...."

VII

Heaven knows how I got rid of the fellow after that. Perhaps I was discourteous; perhaps he thought I had been suddenly taken ill; more likely, of course, he assumed that I was merely drunk. And perhaps I was. I don't remember what I said to him, or what he said to me either; all I know is that, drunk or not, by the time he had gone, I had reached a very definite decision, and that was that, whatever happened, Terry and I must avoid a meeting with the Severns.

Terry was silent--had been silent, indeed, ever since Bentley's intrusion. As soon as we were alone together I leaned across the table and put the matter to him as carefully as I could. (The orchestra, I remember, struck up with feverish inaccuracy the overture to _Ruy Blas_.) We had better, I said, to avoid any possible unpleasantness, change our hotel. We could cancel the booking if we hurried, and get rooms somewhere else. It was the wisest thing to do, as he would realize if he thought about it. "After all, you can see how awkward the meeting _might_ be, can't you?" The trouble was, of course, that I didn't want to tell him the chief reason for the awkwardness--my own seven-years' estrangement from Helen.

I argued for a quarter of an hour at least, and then, inferring from his silence that he was wholly or partly in agreement, I suggested returning to the hotel. He nodded, and I paid the bill. Not till we were outside on the pavement did he speak, and then he said quietly: "_You_ can change hotels if you like, but _I_ shan't."

And he was adamant. It was as hopeless to attempt to persuade him to leave the Andrassy as it had been to persuade him to come for a holiday to London. He just set his teeth and held firm. He wasn't going to alter _any_ of his arrangements--not for her, or Severn, or anybody else. _He_ wasn't afraid of a meeting. What had happened to him before couldn't happen to him again--he was proof against it. And he wasn't going to run away and hide as if he had anything to fear.

I pointed out that it wasn't a question of running away, but merely of avoiding possible unpleasantness. He had put an end to the correspondence between them by not answering her letters--would _that_ make a reunion very easy? But he said: "I don't care whether it's easy or not. If she goes out of her way to meet me, that's her affair, not mine. _I_ shan't make a scene, I promise you. But I won't, whatever's going to happen, skulk round the corner to some other place." He added, apologetically: "I hate to get my own way against your wishes, but I'm afraid you'll have to put up with it for once."

And that was so. I had to put up with it. I had to put up with his determination to have supper in the public dining-room of the Andrassy merely because "we're going to do exactly what we should have done." I couldn't make him budge an inch by persuasion, but I guessed that where argument failed altogether, guile might slightly succeed. Accordingly, when we reached the hotel I piloted him into an alcove of the _gastzimmer_, whence we could see the rest of the room without being too prominently on view ourselves. That was something, at any rate.

I don't think either of us enjoyed the supper very much. Terry was silent most of the time, and I found it hard to keep going a one-sided conversation. I kept looking at the swing-doors that led into the vestibule, looking at the Pesthians remorselessly picking their gold-filled teeth with fibre tooth-picks, looking at the tables as they filled and emptied; and at first hoping, and then, as time passed, even believing that the Severns must be dining elsewhere that night. It was already long past eight o'clock, and the room was getting emptier. The strain of waiting stamped its features indelibly on my memory; I can picture now its rather showy magnificence--panelled walls and gilt-and-white cornice, and so on--and, by way of contrast lower down, a wavy green smear of insecticide running all round the walls just above the floor. I remember that while the waiter was taking our order a large blue-black cockroach crawled sedately from under the table and disappeared into a hole near the skirting-board.

A quarter to nine, and still there was no sign of the Severns. And then, just when I was about to suggest leaving the table, I saw a couple of waiters detach themselves from the serving and rush to hold open the doors with an obsequiousness that seemed to indicate the approach of at least an heir-apparent of a Balkan principality.

But no ... it was Severn.

Severn, in an exquisitely summery lounge-suit, Severn laughing and talking and gesticulating with that queer, panther-like litheness that marked him out from all other men in the world....

But the really odd thing was that the woman who was with him wasn't Helen.

VIII

The two walked to a table at the further end of the room. It was a specially reserved table, decorated with a mass of cut flowers and laid with an assortment of cutlery and wine-glasses that suggested a banquet rather than a meal. Waiters positively surrounded them as they took their seats, and by extraordinary good fortune Severn's back was towards me, while his companion was gazing straight in my direction across his shoulder. She was certainly, as Bentley had assured me, a damned pretty woman.... But, as I said before, the odd thing--yes, the _very_ odd thing--was that she wasn't Helen.

We were, I think, as much relieved as surprised, for the moment. I whispered across to Terry: "Severn has just come, but Helen isn't with him. Can you see them? ... It's some woman whose face I don't seem to recognize."

And he replied, quite calmly: "Neither do I. I can see them in the mirror.... What language is it they're speaking?"

We tried to listen, but it wasn't very easy. Terry was certain it wasn't German, and I thought it wasn't French or Italian or Spanish. "Probably," I said, "it's Hungarian--though it's rather an odd language for him to know. And the woman, maybe, is some Magyar countess, if there are such things.... Severn _does_ know everybody everywhere, doesn't he?"

For several minutes he didn't answer. Then, with a rather impatient gesture, he said: "I think we've finished. Let's go for a walk before bedtime." So we rose and walked to the doors, and by an especial miracle on our behalf, Severn didn't look round. But the woman was watching us, and with her creamy elbows on the table and a cocktail held languorously to her lips, she looked as exotically lovely as any woman I had ever seen. Severn had good taste.

We went out into the fragrant night-smelling streets, crossed the suspension-bridge over the Danube, and climbed the hill into the old town of Buda. Seeing Severn, after the prolonged tension of expecting to see him, had been almost an anti-climax; indeed, when I thought about it, a meeting with him wouldn't be at all a bad idea provided that Helen wasn't with him. There was no doubt that the rest of our stay in Pesth would be the brighter for his company and conversation. I almost hoped we _should_ meet him. And as for the woman, perhaps she would be worth meeting as well.... All these and other thoughts wandered idly through my mind as we strolled about the quiet streets of Buda. It was a Hans Andersen town, with fairy palaces and terraces and castles all hanging precipitously over the moonlit ribbon of the Danube; and for some reason the quiet loveliness of it made me think of Mizzi and of the almost perfect ending there would be to all Terry's difficulties if only he could grow to love her. I even said to him, as we were descending the hill on the way back to the hotel: "Wouldn't it have been jolly if we could have brought Mizzi here with us?"

He looked at me in a way that told me that his thoughts were very far indeed away from Mizzi.

"She could never leave her hotel," he replied, and that, in his mind, was the end of her.

IX

Two hours later I was in bed and asleep, and three hours later I cautiously opened my bedroom door to see Terry standing, fully dressed and very pale, in the corridor. We had been given adjacent rooms on the top floor--furthest from the cockroaches--and I had been very tired and sleepy. Heaven knows how long he had been knocking before I was awakened. "You've not been to bed yet?" I exclaimed dazedly; and he said: "It's not late--not much after one o'clock. Can I come in?"

Of course he could. I switched on the central light and closed the door after him. "I hope you haven't been knocking for hours," I told him. "But, as a matter of fact, I'm about as sleepy as I've ever been in my life...." That was a hint, and when he didn't take it, I went on: "Is everything all right?"

Then immediately I could see that everything _wasn't_ all right. He sat down on a chair and clenched his hands between his knees. "I--I think perhaps--I oughtn't to have wakened you," he said at length.

"Oh, not at all--if you want my help in any way. You don't look very well, and I'm glad you came.... What's the matter?"

He didn't, or else he couldn't, tell me for a few moments. I lit a cigarette and made myself as comfortable as I could; I guessed that whatever he had to say would take some time. And then at last he began, heavily: "I've been down to the bureau."

"The hotel bureau?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"I wanted to .... You see .... I had an idea...." He stopped, as if grappling with some central impossibility. Then he made another beginning. "The clerk knows German--of course--and we had a talk."

"Yes?"

"A long talk. About Severn ... and that woman with him...."

And then it all came out torrentially. "The clerk didn't know he was English. They came here last week--from Belgrade--rolling in money--took the best rooms in the place.... And he--the clerk--showed me the names in the register--not Severn, but some French name--with an address in Paris.... And of course--you see what I mean--they're staying here together--Monsieur and Madame, it says in the register--there's absolutely no doubt about it.... So that...." And he shrugged his shoulders to indicate the inexpressible.

X

Perhaps a seasoned man of the world would have jumped to the incriminating conclusion the moment he had seen them. The idea had, as a matter of fact, occurred to me, though I had at first managed to dismiss it as something that was no concern of mine. Terry's statement convinced me absolutely, yet an almost self-protective instinct made me dispute it. I remember sitting on the bed and propounding a marvellous theory that the man we had seen wasn't Severn at all, but his double--some innocent Parisian whose _bona-fides_, if inquiry were made, would be found perfectly correct. After all, Bentley had distinctly stated that he hadn't _met_ him; he had only _seen_ him, just as we had. And even we hadn't heard him speak a word of English.... All this, for some curious reason, I expounded to Terry as if I meant it, and after a long pause he squashed it utterly by saying that the handwriting in the register was Severn's beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Even then I went on laboriously arguing. Subconsciously, perhaps, I was gaining time to think. "A mere signature," I remember saying, absurdly, "proves nothing." And I made some vague and platitudinous remark about the necessity of having overwhelming evidence before drawing conclusions.

And then there came a long silence, a silence full of small sounds and murmurs--the creak of a floorboard somewhere, the scutter of a beetle, the distant--the very distant--shouting of late revellers. I was certain--_certain_ that the man was Severn, and that what Terry had said was all perfectly true; yet the certainty was outweighed in my mind by the far more momentous revelation that Terry was ill, and that his staring eyes and the hard drive of his breathing could only point in one ominous direction. He was, as Mizzi had said, on the verge of a breakdown. What he wanted was rest and sleep and freedom from work and worry, and he wasn't getting any of it. What an irony that we had come to Buda-Pesth for a holiday! ... He _must_ sleep anyway.... I took him by the arm and said, as firmly and calmly as I could: "Look here, Terry, there's nothing to be gained by arguing this out at one o'clock in the morning. We don't actually know for certain that the man is Severn, and even if we did we could do nothing. So go to bed and try to sleep, and then in the morning maybe----"

But he shook himself free and walked across the room to the window. "Moonlight," he muttered; pulling aside the paper blind. He stared hard for a moment at the pavements below, and then, swinging round suddenly, exclaimed: "You say that if we _did_ know for certain, we could do nothing?"

"Nothing at all, I assure you, and that's why it's all the more important that we shouldn't discuss it at this hour. So come now...."

Again I led him towards the door, and this time, without further protest, he allowed me to pilot him along the corridor to the door of his own room. He was muttering to himself, as I bade him good-night: "Do nothing.... That's what you say ... just nothing ... nothing at all...."

XI

I oughtn't to have left him. I can see now that I oughtn't, but I had an idea then that if he were left alone he would go to sleep. Not, of course, immediately; I didn't do that myself. I lay awake, I think, for two hours or more, smoking cigarette after cigarette and pondering. But it wasn't Severn who occupied the centre of the stage. Perhaps it was odd that his personal affairs stirred me so little; but then, I had always felt that he was incalculable. There was hardly a thing in the world, good or bad, that I would ever have swore that he wouldn't or couldn't do. I don't mean to assert that I wasn't surprised to find him running off with another woman; I _was_ surprised, but, if you know what I mean, I wasn't surprised to be surprised.

What mattered most was Terry's health. His great need was for rest and tranquillity of mind, and it was very evident that neither was to be obtained in Buda-Pesth. We must leave it, therefore; and I fell asleep with that decision firmly fixed in my mind. I think I must have slept heavily, for I remember nothing till I opened my eyes to see Terry in my room again, still fully dressed. It was past dawn, for the window, as he pulled the blind away from it, threw a ghostly spotlight over his head and shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't intend to wake you."

I stammered some sort of enquiry, and he answered:

"I only came in to see if you _were_ awake. You left your door unlocked.... Shall we go downstairs and have breakfast?"

"What time is it?"

"Past six."

"Isn't that too early?"

"Not in this country."

"All right, then." I agreed the more readily because it began to occur to me that the earlier the breakfast the less the chance of meeting Severn.

He told me while I washed and dressed that he hadn't been able to sleep a wink, and that the only interesting things had been a couple of cockroaches on his window-ledge. He said, with what was to me the most horrible casualness: "I lifted one chap up to have a look at him. He was much bigger than the English or even the Viennese kind, and had lots more joints in his antennæ. It was odd to see him squirming all over my hand in search of his mate...."

He was very pale, but also very calm.

XII

Half-an-hour later we were breakfasting and discussing, not my decision, but his. That's the way things usually happened. To waiters and cabmen and hotel-porters he always gave a wonderful display of submission to my wishes, but the larger affairs of life he decided for himself. Nor was there ever much hope of persuading him when once he had made up his mind. He told me once that I argued too cleverly; and that he always mistrusted cleverness in argument.

But that breakfast discussion didn't give me even the chance of being clever. He began by telling me, with a terrible sort of earnestness, that he had been thinking all night about Severn. (In the same tone and with the same look might a Methodist preacher have said that he had been wrestling all night with God.) "And--it seems to me--that to say--to be content to say--that we can do _nothing_--is cowardly. We _must_ do _something_--we must _help_--if we can."

"Certainly, if we _can_. But how can _we_?"

That also he had pondered over. "First of all," he said, with a slow earnestness that went over me like a steam-roller, "we must have a talk with Severn."

"Good God!" I muttered under my breath. For it was diabolical, almost, the way he had planned everything during that night of sleeplessness. Six hours before, just after his interview with the hotel-clerk, he had been wild and excited; but now he was calm--deadly calm. And I don't know which condition made him look more ill. It was, anyhow, a sombre and unnerving calmness, and it somehow took the courage out of me. I found that I couldn't think clearly in the face of it, much less talk clearly; my mind was overburdened by the knowledge that he was ill. All I could say, when I had to say something, was that Severn's private affairs, however scandalous, were none of our business, and that we had better keep out of them. After all, what could we do? Talking to him wouldn't be much use. "As soon as he cares to tell us to mind our own business, we shall have to slink off. Don't you see?"

"I don't think _I_ should slink off," he said, quietly, "if he told me to mind my own business."

"Then what would you do? What _could_ you do, anyway?"

And he answered, between almost closed lips: "I know what I--what we--are _going_ to do. We're going to make him go back to Helen."

It was the first time her name had been mentioned, and it seemed to give us both a shock to hear it, as if, until then, she had been outside the question--unrealised and unthought-of. Somehow, also, it took away an atom of his calmness, and made me better able to oppose him. For, frankly, the thought of buttonholing Severn and commanding him to return to his wife appalled me; I suppose I wasn't ever meant to be either a judge or a missionary. I couldn't do it. I said: "It's no good, Terry--there are some things I won't agree to, and that's one of them. It isn't that I don't sympathize with what you feel--it's just that it seems to me so--so absurd to suppose that we can achieve anything.... Damn it all, if you or I were cad enough to run off with some woman, do you think we'd welcome a lecture from an outsider about it?"

He said quietly: "It might be the thing we needed most of all."

"You can bet Severn won't need it, anyhow."

"Very well, then, if we fail, we fail. But that's no reason against trying, is it?"

"_I'm_ not going to try.... I'm sorry, but I mean it."

"All right then. I'll try on my own."

"Really--I'm sorry--but----"

He smiled. "I don't mind a bit," he answered. "Besides, it may be easier for me than for you. You see, I haven't got your limitations. I don't care about good taste, or what's 'done' in such matters. I just do what I feel I _must_ do."

That rather stung me. I said that to me, at any rate, it was perfectly obvious that he was thinking of Helen. Not that there was anything unworthy in that; but it came oddly from one who had not long before been boasting that he had put all that side of his life away from him and didn't want to be even reminded of it. "If you have put it away from you," I said, "why don't you keep it away from you? Why are you so keen to plunge back into the midst of it on the slightest excuse?"

Once again the mention of Helen's name had made him less calm. He told me eagerly that he _had_ put it all away from him, but that wouldn't and oughtn't to stop him from helping friends he had known in the past. He said, with eyes burning sharply: "I tell you--in case you're thinking what isn't true--I tell you--I haven't any affection--_that_ sort of affection--for her.... Do you believe me?"

"I believe you're speaking sincerely."

He ignored the innuendo. "I'm not thinking of Helen alone," he went on. "Or of Severn.... In a way, they're old enough to do what they like, whatever it is. But ... I'll tell you something about myself--years ago. In those days--just before I came out here--I wanted Helen--you understand?--I _wanted_ her. And I'd have done anything to get her, but for--one thing.... Of course I'm not defending myself--there ought to have been a hundred reasons to stop me, but in fact there was only that one.... It would have been caddish and ungrateful to Severn, but _that_ wasn't the reason. And it wasn't--just morality.... It was ... it was ... _this_ ... I felt I could put up with Severn's reproaches and the world's reproaches ... I could stand everything except--except the thought of June--June growing up and wondering why her mother had left home, and then--some day--guessing or being told or finding out--the reason.... I couldn't stand _that_...." He made an effort to gain completer control of himself, and then, only half-succeeding, continued: "I gave up what _I_ wanted for _her_ sake, and now--after that--I'm damned if I'll see another man destroy it all! He _shan't_! You say I can do nothing! You don't know what I can do. Neither do I. But I know what I _can't_ do--I can't stand by and see things happening as they are happening I tell you I can't--I _can't_--and I _won't_!"

The longest speech, I think, he had ever made in his life, and he was pale and trembling after it. He broke off sharply and stared round at the swing-doors; and no wonder, for at that moment Severn was entering, and with him, lovely to the eye, was this other woman....

XIII

It looked as if a scene was inevitable. Terry's hands gripped the sides of the table and the colour came flooding into his face; he looked like some wild animal about to spring. And meanwhile, breaking into the uneasy silence, came the sound of Severn's voice, smooth and exquisite in a language I didn't recognize, much less understand. He was obviously making some witticism, and the woman answered him by a tinkling little chime of laughter. The very loveliness of it and of her was like a goad. And then, just when I was beginning to wonder if it would be possible to manœuvre Terry out of the room without a disturbance, Severn looked round and saw us.

As an exhibition of _sang-froid_ I have never in my life seen anything to equal what happened then. Severn and the woman hadn't quite reached their table when he saw us, and immediately, with a few swift words and gestures, he changed his direction and came over to us, bringing the woman with him. Not a muscle of his face or an inflexion of his voice betrayed the slightest embarrassment. "My dear Hilton, to think of finding _you_ here!" He shook hands with me cordially. "And Terry as well--how _are_ you both?" Somehow or other he had got hold of Terry's hand and had shaken it. "On business here, are you? Or is it pleasure? Or both? ... Well, really, things _do_ happen, don't they?" (Decidedly they did, I thought.) "Of course you will breakfast with me. You have had breakfast? Then you will have some more coffee, at any rate, at my table ... I insist.... And I must introduce my friend--doubtless her name will be familiar to you--Madame Lydia Danopoulos, the _danseuse_--quite one of the most fascinating ladies in this half of Europe.... She doesn't speak English or German, but just a little French, I think...." He addressed a few rapid words to her, amongst which I could recognize our names, and she favoured us with a graceful but rather distant bow.

A minute later we were all sitting together at Severn's table. The whole thing had happened so quickly that I could hardly realize what it was that _had_ happened; and that, I suppose, was Severn's method, as successful with us as it usually was with the most hostile police-court witness. But to have reduced Terry in a moment from the highest pitch of excitement to a calm level of slightly sullen taciturnity was more than a method; it was a miracle.

But now, when I look back upon that extraordinary breakfast-party, it seems to me that it was nothing but a miracle altogether--or rather, perhaps, an infinite series of miracles. Imagine, if you can, a long and brilliant monologue, punctuated by staccato translations into modern Greek and consequent bursts of silvery feminine laughter. Imagine me sitting there making a few interjectory remarks from time to time, and Terry sitting there making no remarks at all, and the waiters hovering round us and wondering (very possibly) why we hadn't made ourselves known to one another on the previous evening.... But the really marvellous thing was that Severn's improvisation wasn't only brilliant and witty; it was also very subtly and dangerously reassuring. More than once I caught myself wondering whether Terry and I hadn't made a thundering mistake. The man's whole attitude was so frank and disarming; he told us exactly how he had met Madame Danopoulos at Bukarest, and how her company had considerably relieved the tedium of the Pan-Balkan Conference, at which he had had the misfortune to be the representative of His Britannic Majesty. Madame had been on her way to Buda-Pesth, and he, after the Conference, had promised to visit some Embassy friends at Warsaw; so what more natural than that they should share together the dust and heat of a midsummer journey? It was sheer luck, he added, that he had seen us, for otherwise his departure for Warsaw that morning would have removed the happy opportunity....

Terry, as I have said, was speechless. Not till Severn rose from his chair did he utter a word, and then, very calmly and deliberately, he said: "I would like to speak to you, if you don't mind ... alone.... Can you spare a few minutes?"

Severn seemed quite genuinely surprised. "Why, of course," he replied. "But why alone? Surely you don't mind Hilton----"

"I want _you_ to be alone," said Terry.

"But--surely--if Madame, who knows no English, will excuse us----"

"No, no. It must be alone--if you don't mind. And not here."

Severn glanced at him curiously and then answered after a pause: "As you wish, then. But my train is at ten, remember. Shall we say half-an-hour from now--in the lounge?"

And so it was arranged.