2
Sally was considerably startled. Everybody travels nowadays, of
course, and there is nothing really remarkable in finding a man in
America whom you had supposed to be in Europe: but nevertheless she was
conscious of a dream-like sensation, as though the clock had been turned
back and a chapter of her life reopened which she had thought closed for
ever.
"Mr. Carmyle!" she cried.
If Sally had been constantly in Bruce Carmyle's thoughts since they had
parted on the Paris express, Mr. Carmyle had been very little in
Sally's--so little, indeed, that she had had to search her memory for a
moment before she identified him.
"We're always meeting on trains, aren't we?" she went on, her composure
returning. "I never expected to see you in America."
"I came over."
Sally was tempted to reply that she gathered that, but a sudden
embarrassment curbed her tongue. She had just remembered that at their
last meeting she had been abominably rude to this man. She was never
rude to anyone, without subsequent remorse. She contented herself with a
tame "Yes."
"Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, "it is a good many years since I have taken a
real holiday. My doctor seemed to think I was a trifle run down. It
seemed a good opportunity to visit America. Everybody," said Mr. Carmyle
oracularly, endeavouring, as he had often done since his ship had left
England, to persuade himself that his object in making the trip had not
been merely to renew his acquaintance with Sally, "everybody ought to
visit America at least once. It is part of one's education."
"And what are your impressions of our glorious country?" said Sally
rallying.
Mr. Carmyle seemed glad of the opportunity of lecturing on an impersonal
subject. He, too, though his face had shown no trace of it, had been
embarrassed in the opening stages of the conversation. The sound of his
voice restored him.
"I have been visiting Chicago," he said after a brief travelogue.
"Oh!"
"A wonderful city."
"I've never seen it. I've come from Detroit."
"Yes, I heard you were in Detroit."
Sally's eyes opened.
"You heard I was in Detroit? Good gracious! How?"
"I--ah--called at your New York address and made inquiries," said Mr.
Carmyle a little awkwardly.
"But how did you know where I lived?"
"My cousin--er--Lancelot told me."
Sally was silent for a moment. She had much the same feeling that comes
to the man in the detective story who realizes that he is being
shadowed. Even if this almost complete stranger had not actually come
to America in direct pursuit of her, there was no disguising the fact
that he evidently found her an object of considerable interest. It was
a compliment, but Sally was not at all sure that she liked it. Bruce
Carmyle meant nothing to her, and it was rather disturbing to find that
she was apparently of great importance to him. She seized on the mention
of Ginger as a lever for diverting the conversation from its present too
intimate course.
"How is Mr. Kemp?" she asked.
Mr. Carmyle's dark face seemed to become a trifle darker.
"We have had no news of him," he said shortly.
"No news? How do you mean? You speak as though he had disappeared."
"He has disappeared!"
"Good heavens! When?"
"Shortly after I saw you last."
"Disappeared!"
Mr. Carmyle frowned. Sally, watching him, found her antipathy stirring
again. There was something about this man which she had disliked
instinctively from the first, a sort of hardness.
"But where has he gone to?"
"I don't know." Mr. Carmyle frowned again. The subject of Ginger was
plainly a sore one. "And I don't want to know," he went on heatedly, a
dull flush rising in the cheeks which Sally was sure he had to shave
twice a day. "I don't care to know. The Family have washed their hands
of him. For the future he may look after himself as best he can. I
believe he is off his head."
Sally's rebellious temper was well ablaze now, but she fought it down.
She would dearly have loved to give battle to Mr. Carmyle--it was odd,
she felt, how she seemed to have constituted herself Ginger's champion
and protector--but she perceived that, if she wished, as she did, to
hear more of her red-headed friend, he must be humoured and
conciliated.
"But what happened? What was all the trouble about?"
Mr. Carmyle's eyebrows met.
"He--insulted his uncle. His uncle Donald. He insulted him--grossly.
The one man in the world he should have made a point of--er--"
"Keeping in with?"
"Yes. His future depended upon him."
"But what did he do?" cried Sally, trying hard to keep a thoroughly
reprehensible joy out of her voice.
"I have heard no details. My uncle is reticent as to what actually took
place. He invited Lancelot to dinner to discuss his plans, and it
appears that Lancelot--defied him. Defied him! He was rude and
insulting. My uncle refuses to have anything more to do with him.
Apparently the young fool managed to win some money at the tables at
Roville, and this seems to have turned his head completely. My uncle
insists that he is mad. I agree with him. Since the night of that dinner
nothing has been heard of Lancelot."
Mr. Carmyle broke off to brood once more, and before Sally could speak
the impressive bulk of Fillmore loomed up in the aisle beside them.
Explanations seemed to Fillmore to be in order. He cast a questioning
glance at the mysterious stranger, who, in addition to being in
conversation with his sister, had collared his seat.
"Oh, hullo, Fill," said Sally. "Fillmore, this is Mr. Carmyle. We met
abroad. My brother Fillmore, Mr. Carmyle."
Proper introduction having been thus effected, Fillmore approved of Mr.
Carmyle. His air of being someone in particular appealed to him.
"Strange you meeting again like this," he said affably.
The porter, who had been making up berths along the car, was now
hovering expectantly in the offing.
"You two had better go into the smoking room," suggested Sally. "I'm
going to bed."
She wanted to be alone, to think. Mr. Carmyle's tale of a roused and
revolting Ginger had stirred her.
The two men went off to the smoking-room, and Sally found an empty seat
and sat down to wait for her berth to be made up. She was aglow with a
curious exhilaration. So Ginger had taken her advice! Excellent Ginger!
She felt proud of him. She also had that feeling of complacency,
amounting almost to sinful pride, which comes to those who give advice
and find it acted upon. She had the emotions of a creator. After all,
had she not created this new Ginger? It was she who had stirred him up.
It was she who had unleashed him. She had changed him from a meek
dependent of the Family to a ravening creature, who went about the place
insulting uncles.
It was a feat, there was no denying it. It was something attempted,
something done: and by all the rules laid down by the poet it should,
therefore, have earned a night's repose. Yet, Sally, jolted by the
train, which towards the small hours seemed to be trying out some new
buck-and-wing steps of its own invention, slept ill, and presently, as
she lay awake, there came to her bedside the Spectre of Doubt, gaunt and
questioning. Had she, after all, wrought so well? Had she been wise in
tampering with this young man's life?
"What about it?" said the Spectre of Doubt.
