Charles Rex | Page 4

fault."
"Milord, I have not murdered him," the manager protested with nervous
vehemence. "I have only punished him. I have not hurt him. I have
done him good."

"Oh!" said Saltash, and looked down at the small, trembling figure in
the corner. "It's medicine, is it? But a bit strong for a child of that size. I
should try a milder dose next time."
Antonio laughed harshly. "The next time, milord, I shall take
him--so--and wring his neck!" His laugh became a snarl as he turned.
"Get up now, you--you son of a pig, and go back to your work!"
"Easy! Easy!" said Saltash, with a smile. "We don't talk to the English
like that, Antonio,--not even the smallest and weakest of them. Let's
have a look at this specimen--with your permission!" He bent over the
huddled figure. "Hold up your head, boy! Let me see you!"
There was no movement to obey, and he laid a hand upon the quivering
shoulder and felt it shrink away convulsively.
"I believe you've damaged him," he said, bending lower. "Here,
Tommy! Hold up your head! Don't be afraid! It's a friend."
But the narrow figure only sank down a little lower under his hand.
"His name is Toby," said Antonio with acidity. "A dog's name, milord,
and it fits him well. He is what you would call a lazy hound."
Saltash paid not the slightest attention to him. He was bending low, his
dark face in shadow.
"Don't be afraid!" he said again. "No one is going to hurt you. Come
along! Let's look at you!"
His hold tightened upon the shrinking form. He began to lift it up.
And then suddenly there came a sharp struggle between his hands as
lacking in science as the fight of a wild animal for freedom, and as
effectual. With a gasping effort the boy wrenched himself free and was
gone. He went like a streak of lightning, and the two men were left
facing one another.
"What a slippery little devil!" commented Saltash.

"Yes," said Antonio vindictively, "a devil indeed, milord! And I will
have no more of him. I will have no more. I hope he will starve!"
"How awfully nice of you, Antonio!" said Saltash lightly. "Being the
end of the season, he probably will."
Antonio smacked his red lips with relish. "Ah, probably! Probably!" he
said.

CHAPTER II
ADIEU
It was growing late and the _fête_ was in full swing when Saltash
sauntered down again under the cypress-trees to the water's edge. The
sea was breaking with a murmurous splashing; it was a night for
dreams.
In the flower-decked bandstand an orchestra of stringed instruments
was playing very softly--fairy-music that seemed to fill the world with
magic to the brim. It was like a drug to the senses, alluring, intoxicating,
maddeningly sweet.
Saltash wandered along with his face to the water on which a myriad
coloured lights rocked and swam. And still his features wore that
monkeyish look of unrest, of discontent and quizzical irony oddly
mingled. He felt the lure, but it was not strong enough. Its influence
had lost its potency.
He need not have been alone. He had left the hotel with friends, but he
had drifted away from them in the crowd. One of them--a girl--had
sought somewhat palpably to keep him near her, and he had responded
with some show of ardour for a time, and then something about her had
struck a note of discord within him and the glamour had faded.
"Little fool!" he murmured to himself. "She'd give me her heart to
break if I'd have it."

And then he laughed in sheer ridicule of his own jaded senses. He
recognized the indifference of satiety. An easy conquest no longer
attracted him.
He began to stroll towards the quay, loitering here and there as if to
give to Fates a chance to keep him if they would. Yes, Sheila Melrose
was a little idiot. Why couldn't she realize that she was but one of the
hundreds with whom he flirted day by day? She was nothing to him but
a pastime--a toy to amuse his wayward mood. He had outgrown his
earlier propensity to break his toys when he had done with them. The
sight of a broken toy revolted him now.
He was impatiently aware that the girl was watching him from the
midst of the shifting crowd. What did she expect, he asked himself
irritably? She knew him. She knew his reputation. Did she imagine
herself the sort of woman to hold a man of his stamp for more than the
passing moment? Save for his title and estates, was he worth the
holding?
A group of laughing Italian girls with kerchiefs on their heads
surrounded him suddenly and he became the centre